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m-ayo-o · 11 months ago

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2: who do you think you are, to give orders as you please?

m.list pt. 1 puppy visits u at work gn reader x sub toji cw: public toy use, anal play wc: 3k

Your phone has been vibrating in your pocket all morning. It’s him. You know it’s him.

zzt zzt - another text.

zzt zzt - one more.

You should really turn the damn thing off.

zzzzzt zzzzzt zzzzzt - he’s ringing you - zzzzt, zzz–

“Hey, sweet thing. I’m a little busy right now.”

You decide to answer the phone in front of the board of directors you summoned for a meeting. You are the CEO, after all, you can do whatever you want.

“Need to see you. Today.”

“How demanding,” you comment, lowering your voice a little.

There’s a momentary silence on the other end of the phone while your directors start murmuring and tittering; probably discussing something mundane like which secretary they’re fucking.

“Please. Let me see you.”

A little devilish smirk crosses your face, with plans ever so evil and cunning starting to simmer.

“Ok. Come visit me at work, in say–” you hold the phone with your shoulder and tug up the sleeve of your jacket, bringing your watch into view, “an hour and a half.”

You hope this dreary meeting will be concluded before then.

“Oh and Toji,” you stop him before hanging up, “don’t wear anything special. Just your usual shitty clothes.”

You shove your phone away and get on with the tedious meeting, your thoughts straying from the uninspired, bland conversation your directors are providing.

Your thoughts stray, imagining what you did to your play thing last time; how you strapped him up, how you made him beg... you can't wait to see him again.

But the meeting drags on and on– you recline back in the leather chair, tapping at your watch and starting to yawn, when you realise it’s nearly time.

You lift your heavy eyes from the swathes of paperwork you’re sifting through, finding a familiar large figure on the other side of the office through the glass panes of the meeting room.

He’s here.

You catch a glimpse of your secretary trying to usher him away, but he persists. You see his lips moving, starting to point to where he can see you in the meeting room.

She can’t exactly escort him out of the building. And he’s clearly on his best behaviour, being too polite to call security– you audibly snort at the image.

As if they could handle him.

You notice the way her eyes flit about when he gets closer to her. He bends down and brushes her shoulder, easily getting her all flustered and awkward.

She guides him to the tall glass panel of the door, knocking almost inaudibly before entering to whisper in your ear that someone is here to visit, and that she can ask him to leave if you’d prefer.

“Leave? Oh no, he’s right on time. Send him in.”

So she leaves, and he enters.

In those shabby, loose pants, his trademark slutty t-shirt that exposes his entire upper body, and the strong odour he carries in with him.

To you, the sight of him is exciting, his smell almost… arousing.

But for your colleagues, the experience is quite overwhelming. They’re not used to seeing such men in their day to day lives. You notice them staring a little before you decide to break the silence.

“This is Toji.”

No further explanation.

You stand and approach the man, smoothing out the creases of your immaculate suit, and place a hand on his arm.

“Let’s take a break. Coffee in ten?”

You receive nods and positive murmurs as they gawk, watching you two step out of the meeting room.

Needless to say, their topic of debate is going to revolve around your likely relationship, how huge he is… and what on earth you’re doing inviting a man like him to a place like this.

You lead Toji, who is looking uncharacteristically self-conscious, to your private office.

You don’t exactly blame him, with your employees starting to stare and whisper. And they’re all dressed to the nines– you pay them well enough to afford luxurious work attire, so you demand that to be the standard in your office. And the dress code is stringent, down to the finer details such as accessories, hair and makeup. You once fired a woman for turning up wearing foundation a shade off her natural skin tone. You didn’t think it was too harsh– in this industry it’s good to keep people on their toes.

However, it’s all getting a bit much for Toji, making him feel cheap, dirty, and terribly out of place.

You can tell by his awkward glances and the way he appears to be swallowing down his pride with each nervous gulp.

When you’re behind the closed door of your office he seems to relax a little; the tension fades from his shoulders and his expression slackens again.

Not yet, Toji.

You press him against the thick wood of your office door, your hand splayed over the muscular expanse of his stomach.

“What was so important, that you had to visit me at work, pup?”

He feels an incredible rush through his chest, from hearing the pet name alone. He really is pathetic.

“Just– needed to see you.”

You watch him clench and unclench his jaw, looking away from your eyes.

“Come to whore yourself out again?”

There’s a chip in the steel of his exterior that he’s trying to hold up. But to you, that steel may as well be ice.

You could shatter him. You could melt him. With a touch.

And where your hand is pressing on his abs is starting to heat up nicely.

“I– I–”

The way you quirk your eyebrow up at him brings his gaze back down to your face.

“I need you.”

There it is.

“Hm,” a little smile plays on your lips.

Yes, and I need you too.

But you’ll never admit it; the way his need fuels your desire is almost embarrassing.

But you’ve never had anyone like him… under your control. So you’re not exactly going to let go if all it takes is an unnoticeable percentage of your earnings to keep him in check.

“Come,” you pinch at the black material of his shirt, tugging him closer to your broad, wooden desk.

“Here,” you place him facing the desk, “down.”

He bends, looking somewhat reluctant, until your hand snakes up the muscles of his back to provide a little encouragement.

“That’s it.” He plants his massive hands on the wood, lowering his body slowly, until you’ve got his ass pushing out and his chest resting on the expensive wood.

“Now,” you trace a hand up his spine, settling in his black strands, “we’re going for coffee with my useless directors in– five minutes.”

Oh, how time flies when you’re having fun.

“I’m afraid that means I’ll have to rush this next part ever so slightly.”

You keep one hand in his hair, ensuring his face remains pressed against the wood, reaching the other into your desk drawer.

You retrieve two items, place them on the side, and start moving your hand down his back again, reaching the waistband of those baggy pants.

You tug them off with his boxers, making him flinch a little as his bare ass is exposed.

“Stay still.”

The next sensation he gets is cool, wet and…

“Ghh– ah! Here? Really?”

He feels your lubed up fingers sliding over the tight ring of his ass. You push and press and work the muscle till he lets you in with a moan. You slide in and out, teasing out those little gasps that you love, then add another finger.

“Hmm,” you hum with pleasure, watching him settle into the rhythm, just before you pull out and wipe yourself clean– using his shirt, “I think you’re ready now.”

You select the next item, wetting it with lube and inserting it into his perfectly prepped hole.

“Ahhh, ahh–” it’s bigger than your fingers. But he can take it.

You push it in nice and deep, then pull away.

“Time for coffee.”

“Y-you’re just gonna– leave that inside?”

“Yes? Is that an issue?” You quip, patting your hands dry of the harsh, alcohol filled hand sanitiser.

He struggles with the realisation for a second, then pushes his heavy body off your desk and tugs his pants up.

⋆

Coffee is going well. Your subordinates are trying to dodge around the dark haired, proverbial elephant in the room, but their eyes still linger over him. He shifts and fidgets in the too small chair, feeling uncomfortable from their staring once again.

Or maybe it’s the toy you shoved up his ass? You couldn’t care less. Either way, this is incredibly amusing.

You watch him try to answer their occasional questions, not returning much in the way of conversation himself.

“So, you work in the city, uh…” your CTO trails off.

“Toji. Yeah, I work here.”

He’s working right now.

“And what exactly… do you do?”

He pauses, his green eyes darting up and down the woman’s face.

“For work?” She presses.

“I’m, uh–”

I’m a filthy whore.

I kill people for money.

I’ll do anything for money.

“I’m a– ah! a, a driver.”

The woman gives him an odd look, before rejoining the conversation with her colleagues.

You’re just quietly observing, tapping on your phone and leaning back with your legs crossed, watching the situation unfold.

Toji gets up, excusing himself. He doesn’t know what to do.

“Where are– mm, the bathrooms?” He asks you quietly.

You give him a smirk and point in their direction before returning to your phone.

He gets into the private cubicle, pulls down his pants and spreads his cheeks– trying to feel what you put inside him.

zzzzzzzzzzz

He can hear the quiet buzzing noise in the stillness of the bathroom.

ZZZZZZZZZZ

The intensity suddenly increases.

Ding

His phone lights up in his pocket– but that’s the least of his worries.

His fingers press into the tight ring of his ass– he can feel it now, buzzing through his core and igniting that erogenous zone deep in his tummy.

“Ugh, uuuh–”

He struggles and prods around back there, incidentally adding to his pleasure, before he huffs in defeat. His fingers are just too thick and clumsy, he can’t even get the thing out.

He stands in the cubicle, feeling the pleasure start to spread to his cock.

“Fuck,” he lets out an erotic sigh, looking down at the swell in his pants.

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

The buzzing is relentless. He leans his body up against the panel of the cubicle in a desperate attempt to cool himself down.

He pulls his phone from his pocket.

don’t you dare take that out. come back and finish your coffee, pup.

He groans and readjusts his pants. Surely he can handle this, right?

⋆

Wrong.

Not ten minutes into his return, with the hubbub of the break room dampening the sound of the vibrator, your puppy is turning into a massive horny mess.

You bet his shorts are getting sticky by now.

His big hands rest crossed over his lap, his thighs pressed together in an attempt to hide his huge bulge.

“nhh–” he lets little sighs slip his lips. They’re barely audible. But to you, those sounds are music to your ears.

He’s slowly getting louder as you dial up the intensity. He’s biting his lip, his eyelids starting to flutter closed from the pleasure, and you watch that pink tint cover his cheekbones.

You notice his hips start to twitch as he swallows and gulps, fidgeting around helplessly. He looks like he’s going to break out in a sweat, and all you can do is sit and admire the scene.

You flick and toy with the intensity of the remote controlled vibrator with your phone. It’s quite clever, really, allowing you to give him undulating pulses of pleasure, making his hips wiggle with that dumb expression on his face, all without touching him.

He tries to hide it, nodding stiffly when anyone speaks to him.

But you keep playing, switching to sharp jolts now, making him jump and squirm in the chair. Then you bring it down, slow and steady, building him up again.

His hips start to twitch and he looks directly at you, his eyes flying wide with the shock of his impending orgasm. He shakes his head, desperately urging you to stop before he cums himself in front of your employees.

But where would be the fun in that?

You kick it up a notch and watch his eyes roll back. He barely stifles a groan, his hand flying up to slap over his mouth, startling your colleagues.

“Nhg- mhh-” he breathes heavily and presses his eyes closed for a moment. But he should know by now, you’re relentless. So you watch him stare at you in disbelief as the toy just keeps pulsing.

You torture him for a while, then round up your coffee break, dismissing your colleagues and leading him back to your office.

“Come on, pup. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

⋆

In the privacy of your office, you push him up against the door and start tugging down his pants and boxers. He tries to hide his face from the sheer embarrassment of shooting his load without being touched… from anal stimulation alone. Before you, he never knew he could do that.

But he can and he will.

Every time, without fail.

And the sight of the sticky, wet mess in his pants is starting to effect you.

He’s getting the better of you.

Day by day, it’s getting worse… your infatuation with his body is going to be the death of you. Or bankrupt you, at best.

You’ve tugged his sweats down over his muscly thighs and you’re starting to kneel on the floor below him.

His cock is still pretty swollen– you know he’s a shower, but with this girth, you can tell he’s still semi-hard.

“Sure came a lot, didn’t you?”

His beefy hands clench and tremor on the cold wood– you left the vibrator on a low setting while you inspect his cock.

He nods carefully. He doesn’t want to encourage you anymore. He dreads the overstimulation but for that, he will get a bonus.

The white liquid coats his shaft– it had nowhere else to go. So it lies slick over his skin, dripping back down to his balls. And his boxers could barely contain it.

You pull at the fabric until you’re getting him to step completely out of his clothes. You hold up his boxers in your hand and admire the mess.

“So wet. Almost came through your sweats, didn’t you?”

He winces a little– it was close. When he felt the cum spurting out his tip he just closed his eyes and hoped that no one else could see it. He felt it pouring all over his boxers. It was so wet and dirty that if he sat there for a moment longer it would’ve seeped through the sweatpants as well.

“That would’ve been embarrassing.”

You shake your head and gaze at the drippy mess of his cock.

“Aren’t you so glad I brought you back here?”

You look up at him now, pressing him to answer.

He nods rigidly.

He can do better.

With his boxers in your hand, you bring the material up to his cock and wrap it around the sticky member. You don’t want to get your hands dirty.

“You know what grateful puppies say to their owners, don’t you?”

You start wiping his cock up and down, holding him tight through the black material.

He’s pressed so close to the wooden door, trying to edge back, trying to reject the pleasure, but his cock is filling up again and you’ve got him under your thumb one more time.

And he knows you’re going to regale him with how humiliating it must’ve been to ejaculate in public. You’re going to jerk him off through his underwear, using his own cum as lube.

And he’s going to thank you for it.

“What do you say?”

Your hand is gliding up his thick cock that’s about to burst again, maintaining eye contact with him the whole time, asking him how much he enjoyed being pleasured in front of your employees.

“Th-thank you–” he chokes it out and your eyes light up.

His whole body is yours. His mouth is yours. You can make him say whatever you want.

“D-do it again– again, I– want them to watch–”

But your puppy is getting ahead of himself.

You wipe his cock clean and remove your hand.

His hands jolt away from the door, desperately needing to wrap around himself to get out another milky load.

“Wait.”

He whines and his hands dig into his thighs.

You watch his cock bounce with his pulse. You want him to cum like this.

You use your phone to slide the vibrator setting up until an intense buzzing can be heard in your office. It’s vibrating against the wood, sounding through his tight muscles.

His thighs start to shake and he groans, his eyebrows knitting together with that beautiful pleasured look, his hands clenching around nothing.

“Ngh– I– I– ‘m mm– ughh–”

He can barely get any words out.

You stand up now, tracing a hand over his abs as they tense, his hips rutting wildly into the air.

“Good boy, you can cum now~”

“Th-thank you—thanggyouu—”

And you peer down his body and watch his cock erupt one more time.

It’s like a fucking fountain. You really do wonder about his stamina sometimes. But you don’t question it, just keeping your eyes fixed on the drooling cum, slick and hot, the buck of his hips slowing until the liquid comes out in little dribbles, once again, making a huge mess of himself.

And the wooden floor of your office.

“Bend over.”

He’s barely had a second to recover.

“On your knees.”

You deliver a harsh slap to his ass.

“Make a mess of my office, you clean it up.”

Once he’s done and finally clean, he fidgets about and mentions taking the vibrator out.

“Keep it.”

You wonder how far the connection will last from your phone.

And you send him on his way with another hefty payment along with promises to fulfil his fantasy.

He tried to backtrack, but you heard him.

He wants them to watch.

toji | chapters m.list

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk smut #gn reader #toji imagine #toji fushiguro #fushiguro toji #sub toji #jjk fanfic #toji x reader

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moonsandmobilityaids-inactive · 3 months ago

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Bruises

Pairings: Poly!marauders x disabled!reader Summary: Sirius notices a bruise. You hadn't known it was there. Warnings: Chronic illness, bruising, Series Masterlist

The bed is a cocoon of warmth, the sheets cool against your bare legs. You're curled within them, one of Remus's oversized sweaters swathing your upper body, the sleeves draped over your fingers. Your favourite pair of underwear, the soft cotton ones, hug your hips just right, providing a sense of security and comfort.

A fire crackles in the hearth, the scent of burning wood mingling with the faint aroma of old parchment from the books stacked on your desk. The heat radiates across the room, caressing the walls and chasing away the chill that clings to the stone. Snowflakes drift past the window, blurring the landscape beyond into a white abyss. It's inhospitable, unwelcoming—a far cry from the sanctuary of your quarters.

The boys insisted they needed some air after being cooped up all week. They bundled up, their breath fogging as they ventured into the cold. You watched from the window, pressed against the pane as you sent them off with a smile and a kiss blown into the wind. They would return with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, but for now, they were small specks disappearing into the snowfall.

Your eyelids flutter closed, not fully asleep but on the cusp of succumbing to the lullaby of the flames. The crackle of logs is a steady rhythm, the heartbeat of your hideaway. Your knees draw up closer to your chest, the sweater bunching around your waist like a second blanket. The charm bracelet encircles your wrist, the metal cool against your skin. Every so often, a warmth pulsates from it, vibrating ever so slightly.

It's a silent communication, a beacon connecting you to James, Remus, and Sirius. Even in the biting frost, even as the snow piles high and visibility wanes, they think of you. Their concern weaves through every gust of wind, every snowflake that settles on the ground outside.

There's the quiet creak of a door, and you know who it is even before their footsteps echo softly across the room. There's a distinct chill to the air around them, a testament to the wintry weather outside that has likely left their cheeks flushed and hair damp with melting snow. The bed dips slightly under the weight of one of them—James, by the sound of his light, eager steps—and you can't help but lean into the warmth he brings.

"Hey, sweetheart," James murmurs, his hand coming up to brush gently over your hair. His voice is soft, tentative, as though afraid to shatter the peace of the moment. "How're you feeling?"

"Mm," you groan, the words catching in your throat as you struggle to pull yourself back from the brink of sleep. The world beyond your closed eyelids is enticing, filled with the promise of rest and relief from pain, but it's also cold and distant, a stark contrast to the warmth seeping into your bones from the presence of your friends. You want to respond, to assure them that you're alright, but consciousness is a slippery thing, always just out of reach.

Then, without warning, there's a different touch against your skin, colder and more insistent than James's. You jerk away with a gasp, your eyes flying open to find Sirius grinning at you, his fingers still tucked under the hem of your jumper. "Fucking hell, Sirius! Your hands are freezing!"

His laugh is rich and unapologetic, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he presses a quick kiss to your forehead. "Missed you," he murmurs, voice low and resonant. "Just wanted to feel your warmth."

"With those icicles you call fingers?" you grumble, though there's no real heat to your words. You move slightly, making room for him as Remus approaches, perching on the edge of the bed.

"I made him wear gloves," Remus offers, rubbing his hands together to generate some heat. A small smile plays on his lips as he adds, "Guess they weren't enough."

James' lips brush against yours, a fleeting contact that sends a spark of warmth coursing through your veins. "We haven't been gone long," he murmurs, his fingers tracing a lock of hair back from your face. The tenderness in his touch is almost tangible. "Did you miss us?"

The corners of your mouth lift in an unbidden smile as you glance down at the charms—each one a testament to their thoughtfulness. "Immensely. You were on my mind."

Remus moves closer, his hands finding your calves beneath the blanket. His touch is gentle, soothing, as he massages the tired muscles. "And how are you feeling, love? No swelling today?"

You shrug noncommittally, rolling onto your back and stretching out your legs. "A bit earlier, but it wasn't too bad. I've mostly been here, staying warm and comfortable."

Sirius, ever the restless one, shifts closer to your side. His hand slips under your jumper once more, the coldness now replaced with a warmth that seeps into your skin. He traces absent patterns along your side, light and soothing, until his fingers freeze over your hip.

"What's this?" he asks, his voice barely more than a breath, laced with an edge of concern.

You blink, pushing yourself up on your elbows to look at him. "What's what?"

James picks up on Sirius's change in tone and leans over, lifting the hem of your sweater. His brow furrows as he takes in the sight of your hip, where the waistband of your underwear rests snugly. There, along the elastic line that hugs the crease of your thigh, blooms a dark bruise.

"What the—how did this happen?" James's voice is half-whisper, laced with worry. He barely touches the discoloured patch, as though afraid it might burst beneath his fingertips.

Remus leans in, a frown creasing his forehead as he takes in the sight. "That looks painful," he murmurs, eyes never leaving the bruise. "How long has it been there?"

You follow their gazes, surprise flickering across your face when you see the extent of the discolouration. You hadn't known it was bruised, only that it had felt tender and swollen at times during the day. Nothing out of the ordinary, you had thought.

"I didn't know it bruised," you admit, your voice a quiet confession amidst the tension. Your hand instinctively moves to touch the mark, but stops mid-air, fingers curling into a loose fist. "It was just swollen earlier... I guess the elastic from my knickers pressed too hard."

Sirius's touch is gentle as he traces the edges of the bruise, but you can sense the underlying concern in his careful movements. "Why didn't you say anything?" he murmurs, his tone soft yet laden with worry.

You sigh, pushing yourself up onto your elbows. "It’s really not a big deal; swelling sometimes turns into bruising if something's too tight."

James shifts closer to you, his hand coming to rest on your thigh, a silent show of support. "We've never seen you bruise from it before," he says softly, his gaze never leaving the mark. "You should've told us."

A ghost of a smile tugs at your lips, but it's more weary than amused. "I didn't think it mattered."

Remus' brow furrows, his fingers tracing the edge of your underwear as he gently shifts it aside for a better look. The bruise is an angry purple, a testament to pressure applied over time. "How often does this occur?"

"Only occasionally," you assure them, "when there's too much swelling or if something's too tight when I am swollen. I have bruise balm that helps."

Sirius leans forward, pressing a soft kiss just above the bruise. His breath is warm against your skin, and you can almost imagine the pain melting away under his touch. "This looks like it hurts."

"It can," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. You shift slightly, the pillows rustling against your back. "But it's manageable. I'm okay."

James looks at you, his brow furrowed with concern. "You're not okay if you're bruising from swelling like this." His words hang in the air, heavy and laden with unspoken worry.

A sigh slips past your lips, the weight of their gazes pressing down on you. "It's not just bruising," you say, your eyes finding theirs. "Sometimes, if I swell too much, too quickly... my skin can tear a bit."

The words hang in the air, heavy and foreboding. The movements of the boys cease as they process this new information. It's something they've never considered, couldn't have imagined.

"Tear?" Remus echoes, his voice barely above a whisper. He looks almost pained by the admission, brown eyes dark with worry. "But where does..."

You understand what he's asking without him needing to finish, and there's a strange sense of vulnerability that washes over you. They've seen your body countless times, but this—this is different. This is a reality they haven't faced before, one you've quietly borne on your own. You pull at the hem of your sweater, suddenly conscious of the fabric against your skin, of the invisible lines that mar your body beneath it.

"Sometimes, it happens on my breasts or stomach," you admit softly, your gaze falling to your hands. "If the swelling gets too bad, my skin can't keep up, and it... rips a little. I just have to wait for it to heal."

Sirius’s eyes flicker with concern, taking in the information like he's committing each word to memory. He sits up straighter, leaning towards you as if to bridge the physical gap between you.

"You never told us that," Sirius says, his voice low with worry.

You shrug, a slight movement that does little to ease the tension in the room. "You've seen me naked almost every day for the last two months, I wasn't hiding it or anything. It just hasn't happened since we got together. There just hasn't been a reason to mention it."

James's gaze is intent, trying to work out the details of a picture he can't fully comprehend. His thumb still traces circles on your thigh, an absent gesture that anchors him to this moment.

"Nothing helps with the swelling?" he asks, voice low.

You shake your head, strands of hair tumbling over your eyes. "No, nothing works. I've tried everything over the years—potions, spells, Muggle medicine." You pause, meeting his gaze with weary resignation. "All I can do is wait for it to pass."

Remus's hand is steady on your other leg, his touch light as if afraid to cause more harm. "And the tearing... what do you use for that?"

"For the bigger tears, I have self-adhesive bandages, but the small ones are too many and spread out to cover," you explain, each word painting a picture none of them wish to see. "It doesn't happen often, though. It's more when I swell too quickly for my skin to keep up. Bruising is more common."

Sirius's forehead rests against your hip, where the bruise blooms like a dark flower. His voice is barely a whisper. "We don't like the idea of you going through this alone."

"I’m not alone," you remind them gently, a lump forming in your throat. "I have all of you. But some things... I've learned to handle by myself."

James's hand tightens on your thigh, grip firm yet careful. "You don't have to do that anymore, sweetheart."

A soft smile tugs at the corners of your lips, your fingers threading through James's messy hair. He leans into the touch, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. "I know," you whisper back, but there's a heaviness in your tone. "But this is one of those things. It's not something any of you can fix, you know?"

Remus looks thoughtful, still worried. "But we can help you deal with it, love. If the swelling is too much, or if you're in pain... we can be here for you. You don't have to hide it from us."

"I'm not hiding it," you say again, voice barely above a whisper. "It's just... normal for me."

"Well, then it's about time we made it our normal too," Sirius says quietly, pressing a soft kiss to your hipbone, close but not touching the tender bruise. "No more dealing with this alone, alright?"

You laugh, a quiet, breathy sound that fades into the plush pillows beneath you. "Alright. I'll let you know next time." You glance at them, half-expecting them to change their minds, but their expressions only grow more resolute. "Happy now?"

"Very," James replies, his voice a low hum of warmth. He leans in, his lips finding yours with a gentleness that belies the strength behind them. "We want to know all of you, love. Every part."

"And take care of you," Remus adds, his hand resting on your bare thigh, grounding and steady. "We love you, and that means being here for all of it—even the stuff you've been managing on your own."

Your heart tugs at their words, warmth blooming in your chest as you let out a soft sigh. "I love you too."

James's smile widens, and he leans in to press another kiss to your forehead, lingering for a moment before pulling back. "Good," he murmurs, reaching for the jar of bruise balm you keep on your bedside table. "Let's get this on you, then we can all settle in for a bit. Sound okay?"

Sirius's hand shoots up from beside you. "I volunteer for cuddle duty."

Laughter bubbles up within you, lightening the heaviness that has settled around your heart. You can't help the small smile that tugs at your lips, even as you try to suppress it. "I'm pretty sure there's enough of me to go around."

Remus's eyes crinkle with warmth as he reaches out, his touch feather-light against your cheek. "Always, love," he murmurs, and the endearment is like a balm spreading through you, soothing the raw edges of your fear.

The fire crackles softly in the hearth, its warm glow bathing the room in a comforting light. The air feels heavy with unspoken promises of protection and care, wrapping around you like a cocoon. As you sink back into the plush blankets, surrounded by the three boys who have come to mean so much, you allow yourself to believe—even if just for this moment—that you are safe.

You know they can't fix everything. They can't erase the past or promise a future free of pain. But right now, their presence is enough. It's more than enough—it's everything.

#Poly!marauders x reader #poly!marauders x you #Sirius black x reader #Sirius black x you #remus lupin x reader #remus lupin x you #james potter x you #james potter x reader #marauders era #marauders au #marauders fanfic

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cutesyscreenname · 2 years ago

Text

A Cowboy Like Me : Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Series summary:

I've had some tricks up my sleeve

Takes one to know one

You're a cowboy like me

Javier Peña is a playboy, sleeping his way across Bogotá, never settling down. And he's used to being the only one. What happens when he meets his match? A friendly challenge between friends couldn't hurt, could it? Unless that friend is you...

Chapter Summary:

Javi is your friend, your coworker, your neighbor and a royal pain in your ass. He always thinks he has the upper hand but he doesn't know you have a little secret.

Pairing: Javi Peña x f reader

Rating: 18+ minors DNI

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: language, allusions to sex, drinking alcohol/being drunk, not much really

Notes: This is my first fic, I actually started another one but this Javi idea snuck into my head and we'll here we are. I just kept thinking, what if Javi was down bad for a fem reader who is as much of a slut as he is? A little turning of the tables? And what happens when they finally collide 👀 I don't have a concrete plan for how things end up where they're going so bear with me. I hope you enjoy it!

Playlist:

Rain assaulted the panes of your bedroom window seemingly from nowhere, a blitz attack to break through the standoff between humidity and air pressure. If it wasn’t so frenzied it would feel like a release.

You couldn’t take your usual leisurely stroll to the office this morning, considering the current weather. You silently thank the DEA’s preference for efficiency and budgeting as your corner apartment was sandwiched between those of your fellow agents, Murphy across the hall and Peña to your right.

Your appreciative mood sours when you get no answer from Steve Murphy’s door, realizing he likely had left already to afford his wife the same respite you were seeking from the rain and drive her to work at the clinic. You knew Peña would still be home, the catch was you didn’t know if his (very noisy) overnight guest would still be lingering this morning. Maybe it was just the expected awkwardness of meeting a coworker’s hook up or perhaps it was having to stifle the urge to look at them with pity when they practically purred to him “call me, Javi baby” as they carried their heels down the apartment staircase; either way you didn’t exactly enjoy meeting his conquests.

Preparing for whatever scene lurked behind his door that it was still too early in the morning to witness, you rapped three times on the wood beneath the peep hole. The tension in your shoulders subsided when, as soon as your hand pulled away, there he was in the threshold fully dressed and seeming to be on his way as well.

“Buenas, chiquita. Looking for a ride?” his small smirk and the spark in his eye letting you know he was expecting you.

“I don’t know, Peña, did you tire yourself out giving someone else a ride last night? Your friend sounded so grateful."

"Oh I’ve got plenty of energy, muñeca. You looking for a different kind of ride?” He stepped what would appear, to the layman, uncomfortably close to you but you don’t waver. It’s all a part of the game.

“En tus sueños, Javi,” you almost whisper before turning on your heel and bolting down the stairs as you yell behind you. “Last one to the car buys coffee!”

“Mocosa…” he mutters to himself, following behind you. He slides two fingers into the pocket of his button down shirt to find nothing there. You lifted his smokes before bolting to the car.

He sighs and shakes his head when he slides into the driver seat of his car that you’ve already let yourself into, both of you drenched just from the sprint to the vehicle. You think you catch his eyes gliding over your soaked blouse but quickly decide it’s more likely a glare of annoyance at your early morning antics. Javier didn't see you that way.

“You sure about that energy, Peña? Better hit the coffee shop post haste.” You tip the pack of smokes toward him in an offer, as though it’s yours, a lit cigarette already dangling lazily from your lips, a small smile tugging at one corner of your mouth.

Javi plucks the whole pack from your fingers and lets out a low chuckle, lighting one for himself before slipping them back into his shirt pocket.

“Fine, pendeja. The first round tonight is on you, though.”

And this is the way it was between you, a never ending game of wit and sarcasm, playing chicken and skirting the edges of propriety. Always in jest, always reigned in long before invisible lines were crossed, made easier by Steve playing mother hen to the two of you.

Always just a stupid game.

Sliding into the curved booth that evening at your favorite watering hole, you finally took what felt l like the first full breath of the day since stepping into the agency this morning. The moment your toe touched the speckled tile you and Javier’s easy expressions turned to grimaces at the mountains of paper work on each of your desks.

“Settle in, kids,” Steve grumbled from behind his own paper piles, “we’re gonna be here a while. I made coffee.” Endless stacks of red tape redundancies and dead end phone tips had your neck sore, eyes strained, and a dull ache settling between your temples.

You take a deep, cleansing breath as the time worn cushion gives way to your form and the dim lighting offers reprieve to your tired eyes. This is just what you needed after today.

“First round on you, kid, don’t forget.” Javi chides as he observes you sinking into the booth, Steve taking a seat next to you.

“Tell you what, Peña. I’m not moving for at least 20 minutes so why don’t you be a lamb and go grab those for us?” you say. It’s a statement, not a request and he rolls his eyes as you slide a few crumpled bills to him at the end of the table. “Quick like a bunny, sweetheart, or I won’t tip ya.”

Steve does nothing to hold back his laughter at his partner’s expense and Javi sends the both of you a death glare before snatching the cash and walking away to the bar.

“You sure know how to ruffle his feathers, man.” Murphy shakes his head lightly and chuckles, lighting a cigarette.

“Ah it’s too easy, he’s such a delicate flower.” Your eyes drift shut as you take another deep breath, enjoying the soft upholstery beneath you and inhaling the pleasant mix of liquor, leather, and smoke that permeates the small bar.

“Maybe more than you know.” Steve mutters quietly. You couldn't even be sure you were meant to hear it until you crack an eye open and see him looking at you with an expression that’s almost…solemn.

You open your mouth to ask what the hell he means by that but the words die on your tongue as Javi reappears, three whiskeys in hand and confusion painted across his strong features.

“Damn, Murphy, I leave for two minutes and she hurt your feelings already?” he throws a conspiratorial wink at you and slides into the booth on your other side.

The blonde agent’s face softens and he recovers from the moment so quickly you think you must have imagined it.

“Ah you know I’m sensitive, Javi. And this one’s just so damn feisty.”

“Yeah she is.” Javi pinches your cheek and you swat him away.

“Hey man I was napping!”

“Ah, ah, ah, cariño, I need my wing man awake.”

“Oh so I’m just dead weight?” Steve gasps, feigning offense.

“Second string, Murphy. I’m the MVP.” You jest, taking a generous sip of the amber liquid in your glass.

“Well now you’ve both hurt my feelings.” He pouts while you and Javi snicker.

The truth was, Javi didn’t need a wing man. Women seemed to clamor for a chance to fall into his bed; a never ending parade of Bogotá’s finest ladies rotating in and out of his apartment, keeping you awake with their…appreciation. It annoyed you endlessly, your precious sleep stolen as you lie awake thinking there’s no way he’s THAT good.

This is why you never brought your own conquests home. Why deal with the intrusion of your space, the prying eyes of your nosy partners, and the inevitable task of shooing them off? No reason to when you could simply whisper ‘lets go back to yours’ and get a night away from Javi’s theatrics before sneaking off to work early and slipping into the fresh shirt from your desk before Thing 1 and Thing 2 arrive to the office.

While Javi’s reputation was public knowledge, your escapades remained confidential and you preferred it that way. It kept things easy between you and the two men that had become your closest friends, maintained the dynamic that worked so damn well. Not to mention, you didn’t need it to be broadcast around an agency of frustrated men that you were no stranger to a one night stand.

You don’t consider yourself a centerfold by any means, but you know you must have a certain allure from the way that you never had to go home alone if you so chose. No need to give cause for the DEA bachelor’s club to start making pit stops at your desk to ask the time and look for files that don't exist.

You liked your little secret night life anyway, always one to keep your cards close to your chest, but after a couple more whiskeys (and a shot of tequila somewhere in between) your lips become looser.

“You know the more you two drink the more you start soundin’ like me.” Steve teases from his spot in the booth. As the alcohol warmed your cheeks and loosened your vocal chords, you and Javi both let your Texas drawls slide thickly over your words like honey from a road side stand.

“Hey now-“ Javi starts, but you cut him off.

A little more sauced than your cohort, and somehow even spunkier than you usually are, you point your finger at Steve with purpose. “Look it here, pal, we don’t sound nothin’ alike. Texas is a whooole different ball game. Did Tennessee used to be it's own country? Hmm? I didn’t think so.” You said with determination and a slight slur, ending an argument you were having with no one.

“I reckon she’s right.” The brunette man slung his arm around your shoulders in solidarity. Steve raised his eyebrows and smirked at the spectacle of drunken Texas pride before him, entertained by his friends that were much more inebriated than he was.

“Should we tell him?” Javi whispers to you loud enough for anyone to hear.

“Well bless his little heart, he don’t know?” You don’t know either, but you can see that it’s a part of the bit so you’re going to play along anyway.

Javi takes a dramatic breath before looking at the other man solemnly, “I didn’t wanna offend you, bud, but…”

He steals a glance at you and throws another wink your way, “turns out everything’s bigger in Texas.” Javi waggles his brows suggestively and you dissolve into a fit of giggles together.

“That’s what they say, isn’t it?” Steve leans back in his seat and sips the beer he’d switched to earlier in the night.

“Oh it’s what they ALL say, I hear ‘em every time I try to sleep at my place.” Both of the men next to you shoot you a surprised look, wondering what would come out of your mouth next.

“That can’t be true, I don’t have a guest every night,” Javier offers, “gotta sleep occasionally.” He's quipping back, playing the game as usual, but you’re just getting started.

“Well, seems like. I guess your nights off are just the ones when I’m not home, Casanova.” You tease, casually taking another pull of your drink that was mostly melted ice now.

“Not home?” Steve looks at you with his head cocked. “What’re you doin', playing secret agent without us? Girl’s out to catch Escobar all on her lonesome.”

“Nah, nah, naaaah. I’m doin’- like Javi does,” you stumble over your words, “entertaining my companions. He’s a cowboy. Like me.”

You miss the way that Javi’s jaw nearly hits the floor, unable to control his expression with the liquor coursing in his veins. Steve doesn’t, though.

“Well I’ll be damned, chica, who woulda thought it.” Steve laughs, still keeping a steady eye on his partner’s reactions.

Javier didn't expect you to be celibate, and maybe it was bit archaic to assume, but he never imagined you to get around like he did. And he really didn’t want to. Pushing the imagery from his mind, Javi set aside his shock and the little antagonistic twinkle forming in his eye has Steve standing up to try and wrangle you both home before something stupid falls out of his friend’s mouth. But it’s too late.

Neither of you are moving to follow him and before Steve can start his rounds of ‘its getting late’ and ‘let’s call it a night’ Javi pipes up.

“I don’t fuckin believe you, cariño.” He takes a thoughtful drag from the cigarette between his plush lips before tapping it on the edge of the ashtray. After a brief but pregnant pause he continues. “In fact I think you’re home every night. Ear pressed to my fuckin wall, apparently.”

Anger bubbles up hot and sudden in your chest. He was still playing, still jesting. So why did red suddenly paint your complexion and creep over your field of vision? This cocky bastard. Pendejo. You’ll be damned if Javi gets the last word here, especially if that last word insinuates that you sit like a sad puppy next to your shared wall eavesdropping on his sex life.

You lean in close to the man, catching the musk of cologne and sweat radiating from his warm body. His shirt is unbuttoned into a deep v, skin glistening from the humidity and the alcohol. Javi watches as your pupils expand just so, the slightest shade of blush blooming across your cheeks.

Doubling down, you poke his exposed chest with two fingers. He shivers and you think it must be your hands, cold from wrapping around your low ball glass.

“I’ll prove it to you.” You reach up to pat his cheek before leaning back into the booth with resolve. “After this next drink.”

When you stand to cross the room and falter it’s Javi’s strong hands that fly to your waist to steady you. A burning sensation flutters beneath your skin where he holds you in place. It feels like a leather car seat on a summer's day back home. The sear of the supple material, jarring at first on the skin that peeks out from cut off shorts, soon absorbs and melts into you, sweet like sunshine, until you have to peel yourself away at your destination. Like you have to peel away now from his grip.

Seeing his opportunity Steve takes your hand and begins ushering the two of you out towards his car. Javi, seeing that his ride is leaving, gives in as well.

“Come on, sweetheart. We can have another drink when we get home. Tell Connie all about your secret love life, how’s that sound?” your friend coos to you in an effort to put you in the car willingly.

“Steve - I fucking love your wife.” You manage as you all but fall into the back seat behind where Javi already sits in the passenger.

“Same here, kid. ‘swhy I married her.”

Before Murphy can even choose a radio station a faint snore floats up from the backseat, your eyes glued shut as sleep takes you. The men stay silent on the drive home.

Let me know if you wanna be tagged for this series, I'm starting a list ☺️☺️

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angry-geese · 1 year ago

Text

Cardinal Copia x Reader

Warnings: not osha compliant//nsfw. fluff and smut; oral (cunnilingus), overstimulation, afab reader. use of petnames (ex. my love)

synopsis: copia and the reader decide to spend a morning in :) i just wanted an excuse to write smut tbh

word count: 3.5k

Rain from the previous night has carried well into this morning, and shows little signs of stopping. Dawn is bleak and gray as it crests upon the horizon. In your state—stuck between the waking world, and sleep—you reach out for him, finding the bed beside you cold. The little villa Copia calls home lies empty, save for you, and the constant tick tick tick of the clock on the wall.

Despite his absence, you’re in no rush to get up. On a Saturday morning, there’s little more to do than basic chores, or lazing around the house. Maybe you’ll catch up on some reading, or perhaps some leftover paperwork—Sister Imperator seems to love her paperwork. Perhaps you could start with the sweeping, or dishes, but both tasks sound especially dull. Staying in bed sounds like a preferable option.

Outside, the incoming storm has rendered the sky dark, and the cobblestone path shiny. Fat droplets of water race down the window pane, spilling into the rocks below. Clouds are low enough that the tops of trees are obscured. Somewhere, not too far off, the abbey’s bells ring out, signaling the hour. Nine O’Clock. Various siblings will be gathering for mass soon; an optional ritual which only the most devoted—or those with nothing better to do—will attend. Copia will most likely be there. Certainly Sister Imperator will be.

When the door to the bedroom finally cracks open, the most movement you’ve made is that of rolling onto your side. The bed dips under his weight as he sits. A hand smooths over your hair, tucking a stray lock behind your ear.

It’s about that point in which you roll over to face him. Copia’s red cassock is replaced with a much more casual button down, and trousers. Black, although some red stitching is visible as he rolls up his sleeve. A nice touch.

“I didn't mean to wake you,” he says, “I’m sorry.”

“You didn't.” You say. “I’ve been awake.”

The yawn that leaves you seems to say otherwise. You scoot back a bit on the bed, and he sits, tugging his pillow away from the headboard. Copia sighs, running a hand through his slicked-back hair. He doesn't seem to quite know what to do with his hands as they switch between laying limply at his sides, and fiddling with the top-most button of his shirt.

You reach out to him, and he takes your hand, only to be pulled back to bed by you. A soft “oof” leaves him as his head hits the pillow, mere inches from yours.

“You’re back early today,” you say, “was there no meeting?”

“Terzo was terribly late,” he says, “and Sister had other important matters to attend to.”

“So you skipped work? How scandalous…” you say flatly.

Copia makes a show of rolling his eyes, though a small smile tugs at his lips. “Says the one still in bed. Isn’t it nearly ten?”

“Does our dark lord not revel in sloth?” You ask.

In reality, you have kitchen duty this week, and you’re dreading it greatly.

In theory, you could use your position so close to someone in the upper clergy to your favor. Little things like job assignments, roommates, special meals. Names could be swapped, tabled tipped in your odds. You know better than to do such a thing. Sister Imperator’s ire isn't something you want to earn, and she is aware of most things in the abbey.

Copia must not find it within himself to argue with you. And though his eyes are closed, you know very well he’s awake. You move closer to him, seeking the warmth of another body. He accepts you openly, allowing you into the space directly against him. You lean forward to kiss him—just a quick peck on the cheek. Copia catches you on your way back, pulling you in for a proper kiss. The taste of coffee lingers on his lips.

“Is there any left?” You ask. “Coffee, I mean.”

When his eyes open, a look of guilt is visible within them. “I’ll make more.” He says.

And though you wish to stay in bed just a little while longer, you trail after Copia. The hallway leads directly into a small, but cozy living room. Shelves are stacked floor to ceiling with books, some old, some new. More wood goes into the fire, and the kettle is set on the stove to boil. The remnants of last night’s tea remain on the coffee table, aside half-read books, and video game controllers. You make yourself comfortable on the couch, shifting pillows and blankets to make room for yourself. Copia settles onto the couch beside you not long after, fishing the TV remote out from between two pillows. At this hour of the morning, nothing interesting is going to be on cable; shopping channels and reruns of game shows are the only programs available.

“What a dreary morning,” you comment, resting your head in your hands.

“I like the rain.” Copia says.

It was his timidness, and devotion to his work that first caught your attention; the passing glances in the hall, the looks that lasted slightly longer than they should have. By all accounts—his upbringing, his way of life—Copia should be a different kind of man. Sleazy. Lecherous. Rough around the edges. Someone who takes more than he needs, and does so greedily. But behind his strange exterior lies a timid, sweet man. A strange tenderness is behind each of his actions.

You never would have realized it if it weren't for Terzo’s scheming nature. Maybe one day you should thank him.

This rare, quiet moment is interrupted by the whistling of the kettle. Copia hops up to attend it, returning later with two mugs. Before, you never were much of a fan of coffee, but countless late nights and early mornings in the clergy gave you a new appreciation for it.

“How do you take yours?” Copia asks, although he already knows the answer.

“Sugar and cream if you have it,” you say.

He does.

Maybe a minute passes before he returns to the living room, carrying a mug in each hand. He settles back onto the couch, and when the opportunity to sprawl out presents itself, you take it, laying your legs across his lap. One of his hands trails along the curve of your leg. The other finds the remote, mindlessly flipping through channels. Copia eventually settles on a cooking show, although neither of you are paying attention to it.

Moments like this are fleeting—something to be savored—and that adds to your reluctance to get up. His hand ghosts up the side of your calf in slow, repetitive motions. Soothing. The pads of his fingers are rough, but gentle. Copia’s attention turns from the TV, back to you. The corners of his lips twitch upwards in the slightest hint of a smile.

“What?” You ask quietly. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Who knew one little librarian would corrupt me so much,” he says.

That earns an eye roll, and a quiet laugh from you. “Me? Really?” You say.

“I used to be a pious man,” he says, “deeply devoted to my work and…”

“And I showed you there was more to life than work.” You say, and he nods.

What is the fun of the clergy if you can't relish in life’s luxuries? Much of your life was spent burying your own needs for the sake of others. Once you found a place you belong, and could truly, freely exist, you had years to make up for. A life to live freely and love fully.

Of course, Copia was born into this life. Perhaps he doesn't know the difference.

You tuck your legs back under you, leaning against his shoulder. Copia is quick to make room for you, looping an arm around your waist. His gaze falls to the bare curve of your legs. Nothing too scandalous. At least, not more scandalous than being found barely-clothed in his bed. Yet if you ask him, he’ll say something about appreciating the view regardless.

It’s a dangerous game you are playing, tangling your limbs with a member of the upper clergy. The various cardinals and papa’s are no stranger to casual relations. Casual sex, and one night stands come with the position. People love shiny, new things. They love to feel in power if only for a night. But to form a long term relationship—let alone one with the son of Sister Imperator—would be to put a target on one’s back. Not a great idea if you wish to fly under the radar.

Copia is not papa, and you will not be his prime mover.

This time, when he kisses you, there’s more of a need behind it. A set of warm hands find your cheeks—then your hair—pulling you impossibly close. The cardinal is typically a patient man, but today brings a strange desperation.

You can't help but wonder just what happened in the meeting this morning. Did Terzo say something to him?

When he pulls away, a line of saliva connects your lips to his. Warmth blooms in your chest, spreading out into your extremities. You pray he can't pick up on your racing heart. Probably not from such a distance, but the feeling of it beating within your chest is too much to ignore.

“Sister Imperator is less than pleased with how distracted I have been from my work,” he says.

So it was Imperator then?

“Was it not you that first distracted me from my work?” You ask, a coy smile spreading across your lips. “If my memory is correct, it was you who instigated that night at the library…”

If anyone is to blame for this, then it is Terzo. Without him, your little crush on the cardinal would have gone nowhere.

Copia separates himself from you just enough to slide off the couch, coming to rest upon his knees. “And who would I be to resist such sweet sin?” He asks.

Was it not the forbidden fruit that tastes most sweet?

He sits on his knees before you like a man bowed in prayer. Truly blasphemous. Your legs part just enough to give him room to settle between them. Copia moves slowly, achingly slowly. It’s not in his nature to be so direct; he’s testing the waters, waiting for you to make the first move.ands trail up your thighs before coming to rest on your hips, pushing up the hem of your—his—shirt. A small hum of approval leaves him as he realizes you have nothing on underneath.

A set of mismatched eyes meet yours, clouded with lust. His shoulders are hunched forwards slightly, head tilted down, gaze trained on you. An expectant look. From here, the once powerful cardinal looks vulnerable now.

If he ever asks, you’ll say you didn't plan this. Really, you didn't, but one has to be a little scheming to last within the clergy.

“What is it, Copia?”

He swallows hard. Your eyes follow his adam's apple as it bobs in his throat. “My love, I wish to taste you,” he says, voice low. “May I?”

“You may.”

He hooks his arms around your hips, pulling you closer to the edge of the couch—that draws a small gasp from you. Now, your legs hang mostly off the couch, coming to rest on his shoulders. Copia’s stubble is rough against your skin as he presses his lips against it, trailing kisses up your thigh. Three on the left, one on the right. Achingly slow. You don't think his movements are meant to be so—you truly think he’s trying to pace himself—but they all feel teasing in nature.

You wish for nothing more than to lean down and kiss him. To hold him gently in the same way he holds you. His tongue traces up your slit once before you can no longer contain yourself, and pull him close, hands guiding him by his hair. From him comes a small, muffled noise of approval.

Copia is a man who claims he is not skilled with his tongue, although that couldn't be further from the truth. He’s no stranger to your taste, your feel, the subtle movements of your body. He laps and sucks like a man starved for weeks, finally presented with a meal. A tongue devoted in total worship, for such reverence can only be that: worship. Moans spill past your lips and you do nothing to stop them. There’s no reason to be quiet in here, nobody is around to hear you. They only seem to make him more eager to please.

You’re reminded of a sermon from a few nights ago. Terzo led it. He would soon become intoxicated, but not before bestowing the crowd with a few words of wisdom:

Our pain, our pleasure…

One finger presses into you. Then another. Curling and pumping into you. The leg that’s no longer supported by his shoulder hangs loosely at your slide.

We devote ourselves to Him…

Sister Imperator looked about ready to strangle him once he started bringing up female orgasms. Maybe he had a point. Maybe Terzo was just alluding to what was going to happen at the afterparty.

The nails on Copia’s free hand dig into your skin. Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to leave little crescent shaped marks. It’s enough to bring your attention back to him, and his mismatched eyes.

A low noise rumbles up from his chest as your grip tightens on his hair. Your own release comes upon you sooner than intended. Copia seems to notice it before you do, continuing to lap at your poor, sensitive clit. You can only writhe helplessly before him as he works you up to—and through—your release. Even then, he is unrelenting, continuing to work you over with his tongue; a mix of lust, pride, and gluttony in their most primal forms.

When Copia does finally pull away, his chin glistens in the low light of the room. You’ve done quite a good job at messing up his hair. It sticks out at strange angles now, and is only slightly fixed when he runs a hand through it. Something in Italian spills past his lips, although you can’t tell if it’s a prayer, or a curse. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, moving to sit beside you on the couch.

Once your shirt comes off, you’re left bare before him, nipples stiffening when exposed to open air. Copia takes you in greedlily, admiring the curves of your body. The angles. The softness of it—you—all. His reverence is a form of worship in its own right. He must be painfully hard now—the bulge in his trousers is a telltale sign of that. Copia palms himself through them, before you lean in to take charge, straddling his lap. Off comes his shirt, a task that takes both of you to complete, your hands fumbling for buttons in unison. His neatly tailored slacks are the next to go, leaving him in nothing but his boxers. Your discarded clothes go into a pile on the floor, tossed aside carelessly.

If the circumstances were any different, you’d go through the effort of finding a condom. Today you don't, though, it’s not for a lack of abundance. You wish to feel him in his entirety; limbs tangled, bodies becoming one. Like a pair of horny newlyweds, you’re all over each other. The first kiss he gives you is soft—gentle—but grows more needy as your hands brush across his erection. He lifts his hips just enough for you to tug down his boxers, freeing his hardened cock. Copia must be painfully hard now, yet he still tries to contain himself.

Copia leans back just enough for you to straddle his lap, and you do so, with your thighs on either side of his. The redness on his cheeks has now spread to his chest, and the tips of his ears. His breathing has evened out now. His lips find your neck, but not in a kiss—no, he’s savoring your closeness. His hands find your hips, and yours find his chest, guiding you as you lower yourself onto his hardened cock. There’s a slight sting as you do so—a stretch—although it’s the kind of pain that inevitably feels good. The two of you just fit together so perfectly, you can't help but think.

The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the air, combined with a mix of gasps, and moans. Copia’s hands wander up and down the length of your body, finding your hips, thighs, breasts, but never resting in one spot for very long. Your arms wrap around his neck, wrapping around them as you try to find purchase against his body. The couch creaks in protest underneath the two of you. Quiet, nonsensical words of praise spill past his lips, only muffled further when his face is shoved against your breasts. Copia doesn't seem to mind.

“Beautiful—” he huffs, “you’re so beautiful.”

You’d say it back if you could form any words. And he truly is; skin flushed, and slightly shiny with sweat. The veins in his hands are more prominent now—you’ve always had a thing for his hands. The feeling of them around your neck, or down your body. Gloved or not. Taking one of his hands in yours, you bring it to your lips, wrapping them around his pointer and middle finger. He still tastes of you.

Copia’s breath catches in his throat—the muscles in his thighs tense—all telltale signs that he’s going to cum. His nails dig into your hips hard enough to leave little crescent shaped indents. Maybe they’ll bruise. Maybe not. And when he finally cums, he cums hard, spilling into your unprotected womb.

Your second orgasm isn't far off, and you’re still oversensitive from the first. You’re content to chase your own release, grinding down against him. Copia helps you along with his thumb, toying messily with the bundle of nerves. Broken strands of sentences spill through you, and Copia seems to take that as high praise of his work. It comes upon you all at once, like a wave rolling over you, pulling you under and spitting you out wrong. Your thighs are a mess of his cum, and your own. The couch is certainly a mess.

Once again, you feel his stubble against your neck as he presses a kiss to it. Then your cheek, then your forehead. A hand smooths over your hair as your head falls into the crook of his neck.

It’s another moment before you remove yourself from him. If you had any say in the matter, you’d stay like this for the rest of the day. Copia guides you onto the cushion beside him, taking a moment to admire his work; the red nail marks, flushed skin, and cum seeping down your thighs.

“Eh, sorry my love,” he says, and you assume he’s referring to the mess.

“It’s okay,” you say, “it’s not my couch anyway.”

Copia groans as he stands, heading for the kitchen. When he returns, he has a washcloth in his hands. Patting the inner part of your thigh, he motions for you to lay back. Copia takes great care to clean your thighs, dragging the cloth across them. The damn cloth is slightly cold against your skin, although the chill feels nice. An ache has settled into your hips from the events of the morning. Nothing that some ibuprofen won't fix.

“Maybe we should do that in Terzo’s office,” you say, and you swear you feel him twitch beside you, “teach him to miss a meeting…”

“Unfortunately, I think this is something that happens in his office often,” Copia sats, “not much work gets done in there regardless.”

That draws a small laugh from you. You can believe it. You’ve never been to one yourself, but you’ve heard stories of the afterparties Terzo throws. Calling them extravagant is putting it lightly.

Sleepy, and sated, you curl up in the space beside him, and the arm of the couch. The warmth of his body, combined with the smell of his cologne threaten to lull you to sleep. Your body seems to associate him with safety, and as such, staying awake becomes a challenge. You sip from your now-cold coffee, turning your attention back to the TV. Outside, the rain grows heavier, tapping against the windowpane. Fog leaves the outside world in a hazy, dreamlike state. You know at some point in time you’ll have to get up and begin your daily chores. For now, you’re content to stay by Copia’s side.

“I guess the rain isn't so bad,” you say.

“Is that so?” He asks.

A small hum leaves you—a nonverbal confirmation. Maybe the rain isn't so bad. Maybe it was Copia who taught you to like it.

#not osha compliant #cardinal copia x reader #copia x reader #totally forgot to post this here last night #whoops lol #cross posted on ao3 #editing this somehow took longer than writing it #if i do end up writing more for ghost then ill probably make a masterlist but for now ill jsut link this in my pinned post

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still-not-over-transformers · 2 years ago

Text

“Strictly Professional”

(Knockout x Reader-insert)

Takes place after the events of Season 1 Episode 11: Speed Metal. An event that left Knockout without his driver-side door.

“Do you know how difficult that is to replace!?”

(Y/N) were bored. Painfully bored. Looking outside a mahogany-lined window pane, you had a stunning unobscured view of the sunset. The rolling hills were a lush green, and the sunset painted the sky gradient hues of gold, crimson, and lavender bordered by a tree-line comprised of spruce, pine, and cedar. It was a gorgeous view you had seen again, and again, and…. Again. (Y/N) sighed. Growing up in a stunning villa in upper New York state had its perks, but despite being able to do whatever you wanted you never seemed entertained. You see, money can buy a lot of things: houses, luxury cars, private jets, trips around the world, etc. But it could never seem to stop the ever-constant boredom you often experienced as nothing was ever unexpected. As if something else was missing.

*BUZZ*

You looked at your phone to see a reminder you had set for the Exotic Car Show you were attending that evening. You were mostly ready as it was, just touching up your makeup a bit. Then you grabbed your phone and clutch purse before making your way down the spiral staircase to the front doors. You had chosen to dawn an elegant but edgy silver dress with an asymmetrical hem and a single sleeve on the right arm. Your footwear of choice were classic black heels, but with a reasonable pump-height so you didn’t break your ankles. The doors were held open by your family butlers, as you made your way to the curb of the driveway at the front of your family villa.

Your family’s wealth came from a combination of significant shares in various luxury-brand car manufacturers; your father being on the board of directors for Mercedes, and your mother the Logistics Manager also for Mercedes. Obviously the same workplace is how your parents met. Throughout your life, your parents had given you the world, albeit requiring you to maintain a job. So you work alongside your mother as her assistant. For the past month, your mother had been off who knows where in Europe on a business retreat. While you had been invited, you knew it would be nothing but hanging around other snooty rich business-types whom were always dull company. Also, why were rich guys always old and/or ugly?

Your chauffeur was waiting with the car door open. You entered the vehicle and soon you were off to the car expo. On the drive, you had been reading up on the potential reveals and demos that might be at the event. You were primarily excited about the exotic vehicle demos, as you had an appreciation of exotic cars. The horsepower, design, curvatures of the body frame, were nothing short of thrilling.

As your ride pulled up to the event, you exited the vehicle as your chauffeur assisted you. You acknowledged the chauffeur curtly, before entering the event space. There were a few minor celebrities taking photo ops; some wannabe playboys posing near their cars with groupies and models; and then the actual cars themselves scattered about a massive lot. Each vehicle had an attendant to provide information as well as prevent unwanted touching of the cars. You passed a silver Bugatti Chiron, a brand new Corvette Stingray, luxury Jaguar and Cadillac models… But something else caught your eye. A glint of red made you turn and approach a vehicle off to the side.

As you got closer you saw a stunning bright scarlet Aston Martin One-77 with white highlights. You couldn’t deny that this was a sexy-ass car. “Damn…” (Y/N) muttered. You approached the luxury vehicle and drank in its sleek form, the curvature of the design, the stunning richness of the paint job. As you walked around the car, you were jarred at the realization that the driver-side door was completely gone. “What the fuck happened to you?” (Y/N) exclaimed, “Who in their right mind wouldn’t have replaced that by now?” Come to think of it, it was odd that this one car in-particular lacked an attendant which all other cars had present.

With the missing door, the temptation to climb inside was intense. The one thing her family wasn’t big on spending money on were cars. Your parents thought that spending money on lavish vehicles was an unnecessary expense. Fucking ironic. Even if you couldn’t have it, you were going to briefly experience the thrill of having such a stunning vehicle. You climbed into the driver’s seat and drank in the elaborate console, the impeccably clean interior, it even smelled brand new. You gently ran your hands over the steering wheel, imagining what it would feel like to drive it. As you indulged yourself for a moment longer, suddenly you found that the seatbelt was latched around you. “What the fuck? …When did i…?” (Y/N) said in confusion.

Before you knew it, the car shifted into gear and peeled out from its spot. Multiple attendees of the event panicked and flung themselves out of the way. (Y/N) shrieked once before desperately pumping the brakes, but to no avail. When you tried to move the gear shift into neutral, you found that it didn’t budge at all. After a few minutes of sheer terror and panic, you were no longer at the exotic vehicle venue, but instead on the outskirts of the city in a maze of alleyways. As the vehicle finally came to a stop, you heard strange sounds akin to shifting parts and an electronic sound. Before you knew it you were aloft in the air. In the hand of a giant robot who was giving you a highly-offended glare. You were frozen. You struggled to comprehend the situation, wondering if you might have lost your mind.

“Humans have no sense of respect! It’s bad enough that I’m missing a part, but now you decide it’s a bright idea to climb into a vehicle you don’t know” the Decepticon exclaimed. It talked (Y/N) thought. Knockout looked down at the tiny human in his grasp, “I hope you enjoyed the brief joy ride, but I think now I’ll punish you for daring to touch me.” With his free servo, Knockout’s servo transforms into a buzzsaw. You begin to panic, squirming briefly in the grip of the large metal hand around your waist before pausing. “WAIT! WAIT A SECOND AND I CAN HELP YOU!” (Y/N) shouted. The Decepticon raised an optic ridge and paused, “Oh? And how could an insignificant human as yourself possibly help me?” You took a deep breath to compose yourself, clearing your throat before speaking further. “I can replace your missing door. I have resources.”

Knockout was clearly interested in where this was going, as he had been having a nightmare trying to replace that door. “Go on…” You continued, “My job is literally ordering supplies and parts for luxury and exotic cars, I’m pretty sure I can order a replacement for you. Aston Martin One-77 right?” Knockout thought to himself for a moment, wondering when he would have such an opportunity to make himself whole again. The Decepticon turned his helm back towards the helpless human within his grip, “Correct. I see you do know your vehicles, human. If you can indeed supply me with the replacement part I require, I will hold off on exterminating you.”

(Y/N) breathed a sigh of relief, “I can make the call right away, if I would be allowed to reach my phone? And t-trust me, I’m not stupid enough to try to run in these heels.” “So now you make wise decisions. Very well.” Knockout chided before slowly lowering (Y/N) to the ground and releasing you. You briefly adjusted your dress and hair before opening your phone and making a call. You didn’t attempt any funny business, and reached out to one of your business contacts at Aston Martin Works. After a brief amount of small talk, you ordered the part and arranged its delivery. As you ended the phone call, you returned your gaze to the massive robot before you. “Alright I had the part ordered for you. And With express shipping.”

Knockout looked down at you, surprised you hadn’t soiled yourself as most humans would have by now. “And how am I supposed to receive this part? For all I know, if I let you out of my sight you’ll disappear and I’ll be left high and dry” he mused. Finding your confidence you replied to him calmly, “The part will be shipped to my home address at 11am sharp tomorrow. To prove I’m good for it, you can drive me home so you’ll know where to knock if I’m lying.” The Decepticon scientist was taken aback by this human. Giving up her home address so willingly confounded him. Knockout could easily decimate her and her entire home, yet this human was so willing to cooperate despite her best interest. “…You are a very strange human. You do understand I will squash you if you’re lying?” He placed a servo on his hip sassily. You watched his mannerisms and couldn’t help but grin slightly, he was so sassy.

“You are a giant transforming robot with a buzzsaw hand, and I’m not an idiot. I’ll keep my word. Besides, you’ll know exactly where I am since you’ll be taking me home. And stop calling me ‘human’ my name is (Y/N)” you smirked. Knockout raised an optic ridge, albeit impressed with this strange human. “Very well… but touch anything and I will crush you” he said before transforming back into vehicle-form. You took a pause before climbing into the driver’s seat, being careful not to touch anything. As the engine starts, you had expected the same aggressive driving as your previous abduction. To your surprise, the drive was fast but smooth. You tried to avoid speaking as much as possible, not wanting to push your luck, so instead you thought. You thought about the events prior to your encounter and pinched yourself to make sure you weren’t dreaming. It could’ve been worse to be honest. You could’ve been kidnapped by an ugly white pedophile van. At least you were taken by a sexy Aston Martin.

After what felt like brief moments, your captor arrived at the gates of your family estate. You punched in the security code in the keypad and the gates opened. Knockout pulled up to the front doors and parked. As you tried to exit the vehicle, the seatbelt wouldn’t unlatch and you looked back. “Remember, I’ll be close-by until our deal is seen through” Knockout hummed. You paused, “You sure are untrusting for a robot. I don’t have a car of my own so no worries on me going anywhere.” With that, the seatbelt released and you were able to make it inside of your home. As you climbed the staircase towards your room, you couldn’t help but clutch her chest. You felt a surge of adrenaline and you knew it wasn’t fear. No, this felt more like butterflies… You went into your room and immediately climbed into your bed. As your eyelids felt heavy, your only thoughts were of the intoxicating voice replaying in your mind. Until you fell asleep….

You felt slightly groggy as you awoke the next morning. Slowly as you climbed out of bed you remembered the last night’s events. Just to be sure you hadn’t dreamt it, you rushed to your window to look at the driveway. Sure enough, you saw the red and white Aston Martin parked there. A brief double-honk was audible, and you realized the robot could see you from the window. Your phone buzzed and as you opened it, you saw a security notification from the gates. You approved access and a delivery vehicle made its way up the driveway and delivered the part you had ordered. You made your way outside and signed for the delivery and the delivery employees carefully loaded the part into the Knockout’s trunk. As soon as the delivery men had departed from the property, you approached the driver’s side door and leaned forwards, “Looks like I came through on my promise. Think that makes us square?”

Knockout hesitated briefly before replying, “We shall see. After all you are technically a loose end, knowing of my existence and all. We will see if you’re worth more alive than dead.” As you lingered a moment longer, you couldn’t help but ask a question that had been burning within, “Just in case you do decide to continue doing business with me, may I at least know your name?” Dead silence was the initial response and it lingered in the air for what felt like an eternity. “You may address me as Knockout.” With that, Knockout revved his engine and quickly drove down the driveway and onto the main road. As he gained more distance between himself and the villa, Knockout questioned what he was to do about this human. He could’ve just killed her and be done with it, after all he did have the part he had needed. But a part of him didn’t want to end this odd human. He brushed it off as a start to a strictly professional relationship, and a potential supplier if he needed any more replacement parts in the future.

A couple months later….

After your first encounter with Knockout, you felt reinvigorated. That fateful encounter provided you with more excitement and adrenaline than you had ever experienced. After you had provided Knockout with the spare part, you were certain you would never lay eyes upon that robot again. To your surprise, you would have many more encounters with him. Apparently there were other giant robots whom Knockout would get into battles with, and would result in him needing replacement parts. With each encounter, you found yourself enjoying his company more and more. Finding both yourself and him to be fellow automobile enthusiasts. Your conversations even included some witty banter and jokes here and there. More than anything else, you found that your heart fluttered every time you laid eyes on him. You weren’t quite sure why, but nonetheless you enjoyed being around Knockout.

It was a Thursday afternoon and you had met with Knockout at your villa to provide another spare part, as Knockout had lost a side-view mirror in a scuffle with what you knew as “Autobots.” You had wanted to attempt a more friendly relationship with Knockout, but never wanted to risk it. Today was the day you decided to be bold. After all, you had sent the staff home early. You approached Knockout at the curb of your driveway, “You know, there is an International Auto Show being held in New York tomorrow night that will consist of the most expensive and luxurious vehicles from across the planet. I’ve got a ticket, but I’m afraid I’m short on a stunning ride to show up with.”

Knockout transformed from his vehicle mode and towered over you. He raised his optic ridge, wondering what on earth she was getting at, “You do understand I’m a highly advanced cybernetic being, not a taxi service? Besides, our relationship is strictly… professional and exists because I’ve chosen not to squash you. Yet.” You nod your head as you watch his body language. “Mhm. Mhm. All true, except for the fact I don’t think you’d want to squash me. I think you’ve gotten fond of our “professional” relationship,” she uses air quotes and smirks. “That and I don’t think a vehicle enthusiast such as yourself would want to miss out on an exclusive reveal of new models before the rest of the planet. A shame you’ll squash me and never experience it,” she says with an open smirk.

Knockout turns towards (Y/N) and gives her a look, a servo on his hip in his sassy mannerism, “Now now, I didn’t say no. Honestly it would be embarrassing if you showed up in anything less stylish than yours truly.” You could feel your heart skip a beat as you tried to reply in a nonchalant manner, “So you’re saying yes? I guess it’s a date then. The event starts at 7, so we should get an early start since it’s an hour drive.”

Knockout chuckles briefly before replying, “I’ll be here at 7. Always best to be fashionably late.” He smirks before transforming, the shine from his polished chassis gleaming in the light of the setting sun. He dramatically peels out of the expansive and large driveway before leaving the property. As the Decepticon’s frame disappeared from view, (Y/N) sighed softly to herself, “Always so dramatic…”

As Knockout began his drive back to the pickup coordinated for the Nemesis, he couldn’t help but have his gaze linger at the quickly disappearing villa in his rear view mirror. Perhaps the relationship between him and this human was a bit more than… strictly professional.

⭐️

If you enjoyed this please give it a like. If you want a continuation, lemme know! ❤️

#transformersprime #transformers one shots #transformers #transformers prime #TFP #tfp knockout #knockout #transformers oneshot #transformers fanfiction #x reader #reader insert #transformersreaderinsert #transformers knockout #oneshot #knockout x reader

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blueberrypancakesworld · 2 years ago

Text

The first sounds

Warning : nightmare, blood, fluff, comfort, angst, slightly emotional

Summary : A dream haunts her. An initial desire transformed with the things of her mind becomes a bloody nightmare that pulls her into the depths. An encounter that will still be significant but when only the future knows. Before something is trusted to her and she experiences slight rejection.

Masterlist, next part

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It was dark around her. However, it was peaceful not scary for which she was very grateful. The darkness could be frightening. She was glad that it felt almost soothing. Like an old friend or acquaintance trying to protect her.

She clung around it and didn't seem to want to let it go. As if the darkness was afraid of losing her to something or someone.

Only when a wing beat could be heard in the distance did it break through the darkness like a broken pane and the darkness lay at her feet. She looked down and saw the small shadowy something. Her hand wanted to reach for the shards.

As she grabbed one, a pain appeared on her finger. Startled by the pain, she dropped the shard before she felt the sticky blood on her hand. Shaking slightly, she looked at her hand and the dark red blood envied her. It hurt slightly, but the wound seemed to stop bleeding.

Recovering from the shock, she took in her surroundings. Her eyes wandered through the new place. She knew it as in a distant memory she seemed to have known it so often. The castle around her was incredibly grand and elegant, as if from a distant century. It had meter high walls with candles in golden halos. The flames danced around the wick, flickering like an incantation.

The fire seemed to light their way as well as to guide them. The walls were covered with ornate pictures and paintings. Old paintings of rulers, residents, animals and forests. Painted with oil paints and lovingly decorated. They radiated beauty for eternity. She continued to walk down the hall and yet she felt watched.

She saw something flashing and went towards it. To her surprise, it was a mirror. It took up almost an entire wall. The reflective material itself was cradled by a silver flower-adorned fixture. The flowers flashed in the fire of the candles and almost seemed to dance. Astonished, she saw her own image in the mirror and a soft smile came to her lips.

Even though she would realize later that it was just another dream. A long red dress covering the floor behind her clung to her figure. In the darker environment, lit only by the candles, it seemed almost as if blood was clinging directly to her body.

She stepped closer to the tall mirror and turned. In doing so, she noticed the deep cutout on her back, which exposed it slightly. In general, a lot of tulle was gathered along the dress so that it almost looked like a flower. The sleeves wrapped around her upper arms before they widened and slightly fell down.

She thought she looked almost like a rose and she was the nectar that was in the flower of love waiting to be opened. She continued to look at herself in the mirror when out of nowhere the mirror glass began to move.

First it seemed to move only slightly like a chiming back and forth before it began to move in waves. What was confusing in the dream would be a distant memory after waking up. Uncertainty gripped her and hesitantly she reached out her hand to the moving mirror.

Her fingers touched the waves and it had a coldness about it that gave her shivers. She was so fixated on the mass that she flinched when she felt a hand on each of her shoulders. Something seemed to stop her from turning around. Whether it was the grip of the unknown person or the dream, she did not know. In her eyes was fear and anxiety, she was helpless and at the mercy of her own mind. The hands of the person laid on her shoulders, slightly exposed by the dress, before they slid down agonizingly slowly.

Her breath caught in fear, the fear of not knowing who was doing this to her.

His hands were ice cold as his left reached around her and placed it on her neck. His right embraced her wrist before he lifted his hand slightly and the wound was illuminated by the flames. ,, A wonderful symphony" she suddenly felt the unknown man say to her ear and it gave her goose bumps. But something in her seemed to recognize the voice. She was about to say the name when her right hand was taken back while the unknown's left held her by the neck in warning.

His fingers on the left were ice cold and exerted an almost dangerous pressure on her carotid artery. Underneath, her blood was flowing fast and fear was consuming her.

A surprised gasp escaped her which broke the silence as she felt the unknown man lay over her wound and greedily absorb every last drop of her blood.

,,You let yourself play so wonderfully," he purred, and in the corner of her eye she saw the bright blue eyes flash. She would recognize them anywhere, but suddenly her heart was beating too fast, ,,Michael?" the name came across her lips like a breath.

Then, in a moment when she thought he would let go of her, she felt a burning pain on her arm. She turned around and what she thought was Michael was a beast. A hybrid of bat, man and mist. The blood that had caused the wound began to wet her body and the ground. The lifeblood was already dripping from the razor-sharp claw. Peculiar.

It was not Michael, it seemed to be a beast from hell. The something hissed at her animalistically and before she could react the beast scaled her in the mirror.

Cold surrounded her as if someone had thrown her into river water or put her in an ice bath.

She opened her eyes but again saw only darkness. She tried to swim but it had soaked up the liquid and pulled her down. Her instinct to survive screamed at her to swim and she did. Desperate to reach the surface, she swam through the mass and in the darkness she seemed alone. Only when she thought it was over and she had run out of air did her hand break through the water.

With one last stroke she came out of the dark water and grasped something. As if everything had turned around at once, she was now standing on a building. Confused and yet grateful, she looked around and saw nothing but chaos. Below her the black sea above the bleeding stars shining into it.

A look down at herself made her realize that the beast had inflicted a deep wound on her arm, turning her dress a dripping red. But it did not hurt only the cold as if it was already dead pulled through her arm. The blood ran further and further out of the wound and yet it did not seem to be life-threatening.

She wanted to flee to the center of the building, but the abyss seemed to want to catch her. The further she ran to the rent the more distant it became and the abyss seemed to call for her. She let out a horrified scream as the beast in question, a huge misshapen bat dripping with blood, landed on the building opposite her.

It gave a shrill scream and its wings could have swept her off the building with one well-aimed blow. This was not Michael, she knew, this beast seemed to want only the blood on her. It wanted to murder, it wanted to kill. It didn't want to love her, or did it?

The abyss loomed behind her and what she thought was water made its way up to her in a viscous mass.

A flash of lightning flashed through the starry night and then she saw it. What seemed to be water was only blood. It stretched its long dripping arms towards her and wanted to pull her into the abyss. But where should she go straight into the mouth of the beasties. She could practically feel the sharp teeth and claws digging into her flesh and tearing her apart until her body broke.

She took another step back and could feel one foot already hovering over the abyss. Escape seemed impossible and her end sealed. The beast started to jump and the sharp flesh-tearing teeth appeared. Her gaze, however, went down to the abyss. With a last indefinable thought, she let herself fall backwards. She screamed, at least she thought she did, because there was no sound to be heard.

She was not the ruler of the air. The element let her fall and did not hold her. The dress fluttered wildly in the wind and again and again she reached into the void. In the air she had managed to turn from her back to her stomach and was now racing directly towards the blood. But there was a certain calm in it all. A symphony of chaos seemed to be playing and it would end with her drowning.

She was about to close her eyes and think of something soothing when she saw something rising from the blood. From the blood, a human silluete was gradually forming. Now her instinct had kicked in again and desperately she tried to hope somehow that this silluette would catch her. But when the silluette reached up to her, she knew it was over. Her hands clasped the silluette's in that moment she could see the blue again before the blood engulfed her as if it wanted to bind her to itself.

She felt herself being pulled into the water, she felt the cold hands on her. She could feel Michael again and allowed him to pull her down further. ,, The beautiful highlight of the piece " she heard his voice muffled. The last thing she saw before her lungs filled with blood was the silhouette of the bat.

And then she remembered what she had seen at night at the hospital window. A bat.

She jumped up and her eyes looked around her dark room. Her breath was fast and as if she was not sure whether she had not experienced reality, her hand went to her chest. But after several breaths she was convinced that she had no blood in her lungs. From her lungs, her fingers ran over her arm, but there were no deep wounds to be felt.

Her breathing slowly calmed down and she let go of her safe blanket. Hastily, still reeling from the fright of her dream, she flicked on her bedside lamp and illuminated her room. With a glance at her phone, she was reassured that she still had time. She had lucked out and had gotten the night shift, which is why she didn't have to work until the evening. But the fear that something could reappear in her dream made her feel uneasy. She sighed and thought about trying again.

It was early in the morning and maybe she would at least get some sleep. No sooner said than done, she turned off the light and crawled under the still warm blanket. She closed her eyes and tried to block out the noise of the city. But they also formed their own symphony and soon the driving of the cars had become a constant noise which hummed softly.

She opened her eyes for the second time and was clearly more sleepy. She stretched and yawned as she reached for her phone.

Relieved and pleased, she looked at her watch and saw that it was just after ten in the morning. But she still wanted to go shopping as well as to continue cleaning up or rearranging her apartment. She rose from her bed with a tired sigh and went to her kitchen. But when she wanted to make a coffee or at least tea as usual, she stopped in the middle of her movement. Although she had a kettle but what food and drink it looked bad.

Surrendering to her circumstances she dragged herself into her bathroom and took a shower. Although it was not a bathing mania, which she did not have, but against a shower was nothing to object. She took off her top and the short pants before she slipped under the shower. The warm water refreshed her and made her fortunately not further tired. After turning off the water she got out of the shower wrapped her hair in a towel and her body before she went into her small living room. There she went to her record player and put on her favorite symphnoie. For Elise by Beethoven.

After a short moment the classical sounds filled the apartment and she started to get dressed and blow dry her hair.

Turning off the music, she grabbed her cell phone and purse before heading out into the city. New York was almost overwhelming and almost too big for her to handle. She knew where she was, but she didn't want to stray too far from her apartment. In order not to get lost unnecessarily, she decided to go to the small supermarket around the corner before she tried something else. It didn't take her long to get her groceries and she only had to go to the checkout when she found the important coffee. Sighing and slightly annoyed, she turned around and looked for the beans. Luckily she found them, but the day did not seem merciful.

The mixture she always drank was on the top shelf and despite her normal height of about one meter seventy, only her fingertips could reach it. She avoided asking strangers something that bothered her, but she wanted to do it on her own. Again she stood on her tiptoes and got hold of the package. Since she drank a lot of coffee anyway because of her job, she grabbed the biggest and heaviest package. She was distracted, however, when a child ran screaming past her and she was about to dismiss it as annoying when only a few seconds later her mother ran up behind her. She didn't even seem to be interested in Y/n and bumped into her.

She then grabbed the coffee out of the flinch, which threatened to fall straight down on her. It probably wouldn't hurt, but who knows what else could happen. Since her gaze was still on the now disappeared mother, she did not notice how the coffee mixture was held and appeared lighter. ,, Are you alright?" came a soft voice that did not belong to Michael. Turning to the unknown man, she realized that he was not, as she had thought, a creepy old man or a would-be tease or a truant teenager.

Next to her, almost pressed against her body, stood a man who seemed to be like Michael in his thirties and smiled slightly shyly at her while in his eyes the worry still lay because he got no answer. He had pale almost sickly looking skin and short thick dark brown hair. His dark eyes resembled the beautiful hazel brown. Only when she looked down at him did confusion spread through her head and it ran at full speed. She was sure she had seen the man before. Not in a dream from somewhere else like a distant memory, as if she knew him and yet never had. Only when she looked down at him did her senses jump.

The man was leaning completely on one of the two crutches due to the effort of holding up the coffee. ,, Yes...wait, I'll do it," she said hastily after catching herself and taking the coffee from him. He quickly stood on his second crutch and briefly avoided eye contact. There seemed to be an awkward silence between them, but she didn't find the stranger annoying. ,,Thank you," she thanked him and elicited a winking smile from him. ,, Not at all, I was happy to do it," he said, seeming sure of himself.

,, Thank you again, I'll be going, thank you," she stammered as she noticed that she could almost feel the man against her. Although she could not feel the heartbeat, the man seemed to emanate a certain symphony.

Despite the fact that he seemed sickly, he had a charming attractive charisma. ,, I always like to save a woman in distress," he quipped, and this time Y/n gave him a farewell smile. Even though she regretted not asking him for his number, her heart belonged to Michael, didn't it?

Later, when she arrived at her apartment, she noticed one thing. The man's illness had a lot of similar symptoms to Michael's.

But until the erkentniss whom she had met there it would not take too long.

The day progressed quickly and in the early evening she made her way to the hospital where she met the shift changing nurse including Katrine. They had a brief exchange before Y/n went on her daily rounds, talking to patients, giving diagnoses and distributing medications. It was not until the middle of the night that she was given a break and found herself on the ward with Anna. Almost afraid of what to expect, she went to the room before opening it. The beeping of the machine was quiet and constant. She was asleep and yet looked so fragile.

She could only hope that Anna did not have a nightmare like herself. She put a stuffed animal in the girl's army and gave her a sad smile which she did not see. She sighed softly before leaving the room. As soon as she stepped out, she flinched imperceptibly as Michael stood in front of her on his crutches. ,, I thought you had quit. I haven't seen you all day. Where have you been?" he asked, and Y/n wondered if the doctor was even looking at the schedules for the shifts.

But something made her good mood break immediately. To her amorous ears it sounded like "I was looking for you" and that would mean he might be worried. But she immediately shook off this childish thought for her own sake. ,, I'm on night shift, so I've only been here for a few hours. Have you at least rested or should I buy you coffee now?" came the rhetorical question. Although she had to admit that Michael really seemed very exhausted.

A surprised expression appeared briefly on his face, apparently he had worked so much that he had not noticed his own tiredness. No, thanks," he mumbled as if trying to remember something before he pointed to a file under his arm.

With a raised eyebrow, Y/n took it and was about to open it when he put his hand on the piece of writing. ,, No, think of it as homework in your free time. I want your opinion on the patient's condition and what therapy you would use," he explained, and Y/n didn't quite know what to think. The last time she had been in school, she had really gotten excited about home. On the other hand, Michael confided in her something that spoke of trust. ,,Thank you, I'll take a look inside," she thanked him and resisted the urge to open the door.

Again Michael seemed to think and a short twitch went through his fingers. ,, No offense, but are you sure you don't want to take a break?" she asked, thinking that Michael looked worse than the mystery man. ,,Yeah, I'm fine, I have some personal stuff to attend to," he squeaked before turning and disappearing into the hospital before the sound of his crutches faded.

Her gaze went to the corner, but she listened to Michael and left it at that. So she put it in her locker and turned to the rest of her shift. It was now shortly before two o'clock and it would still take a few hours until the change was due.

She was just coming back from her rounds when she saw Martine. ,, Hey, how are you?" she asked, friendly and slightly exhausted. Martine turned to her with a stressed expression and sighed quickly. ,, Nothing too much to do, I still have to finish the reports for Anna. At the same time, I have a few calls to make and this has to be taken downstairs," she said before pointing to the blood samples. Y/n's eyes caught a glimpse of the blood and she happily realized that it would go to Michael. ,, How about I take this downstairs and you do your stuff and have a coffee?" she asked, giving the woman a smile.

Martine looked at her and hesitation was in her eyes before the sound of the phone stopped her. ,,Thank you" she said quickly before picking up the phone and starting to speak. Y/n grabbed the samples before heading for the elevators.

She could feel her nervousness, though she pushed it aside as she worked, but she couldn't help but feel her heart beating fast. With a pling, the doors opened and she stepped into the large hallways with large windows. She had never been in Michael's private lab before, but she was sure she would find it.

So she first walked the way she knew before she tried to orientate herself by signs or other things. She stopped when she heard something. Looking around, she tried to pick up the sound again. It seemed to be the hum of a machine.

Confused, she followed the sound before the cracked glass walls stretched out to her right. Her gaze went inside but saw nothing much as the lights were turned off. The large double door opened and she stepped inside, slightly disoriented. ,, Michael...are you there?" she asked cautiously, considering that he was asleep. She continued cautiously and felt her way forward.

The large laboratory was lit only by the many small lights. She dared to take another step and another until she bumped into something. Confused, she bent down and identified it as a syringe. Discomfort and fear rose in her. Fear for Michael. ,, Light the room completely!" she said quickly and was grateful that the system listened to her. But what spread out of the darkness in front of her made her drop her samples in fright.

The glass shattered and the blood spread on the floor before she ran to Michael who was lying on the floor. ,, Can you hear me?" she asked in a panic, trying to detect any outward signs of injury. She was about to ask what was going on when she noticed that his sleeve had been rolled up. Looking around, she found the cause and realized a number of things. He had forgotten to take his blood. But how could this happen? He was familiar with his illness all his life, he knew it better than anyone else and he just forgets?

She got up and took the untouched blood bag and the intravenous drip before hurrying back to Michael. ,, Stay with me and try to focus on me!" she admonished him and she felt herself getting anxious. She prepared everything before starting the blood transfusion. She knelt next to Michael with his head resting lightly on her legs.

Her fingers remained at his wrist to feel the heartbeat that constantly grew stronger with each drop of blood. When a murmur from Michael was heard, she leaned down slightly to him. ,, I would like... I would like to have the coffee now," came a weak and almost kicked away murmur from Michael, who seemed to think this was funny. Inevitably her lips twisted into a sad smile and to cover her eyes, wet with tears, she avoided his gaze.

She watched the dark blood run through the tube to the entrance where it disappeared into the pale sickly arm. She didn't know how long she had been there with Michael, but she didn't care. It could have been hours or even minutes. Her concern that something might happen to Michael was greater.

Only when the blood bag was empty and Michael returned to his normal appearance, did she help him sit up. ,, The chair, please," Michael said, still sounding weak, and he pointed to the black stool with wheels. Y/n pulled it up and offered Michael a hand. But something seemed to have happened, he just shook his head before he hoisted himself up on the stool and seemed to suppress a sigh.

She wanted to help him by removing the access, but when Michael pulled it out and threw it carelessly on the table, she saw that it was frustrated and angry. ,, Are you all right?" she asked the unnecessary question and shamed herself for it. Even a blind man would have seen that Michael looked affected. I've never been better," he said, turning in his chair away from her to his medical equipment and its associated procedures.

Not knowing what to do now, she began to pick up the pieces from the floor. But she was not at her best. The question of what had driven Michael to this carelessness had settled in her head. A soft hiss escaped her as she felt a tug on her finger.

The first drops of blood spurted out and wet her skin. She continued to pick up the pieces before throwing them into the trash. She was about to wipe away the blood when Morbius interrupted her. ,, Wait, come here," he said, and there was something in his voice that was unanswerable.

She stepped closer and Michael held out his hand to her. Like a defiant child, she hesitantly held out her finger and he shook his head with a smile. ,, You have to be careful, it's sharp," he playfully admonished her before looking for a band-aid from his drawers. She felt his hostile cold fingers apply the plaster and checked it briefly.

,, The same goes for you," she only admonished him and got an annoyed knowing look. ,, It looks like you'll have to get new samples...Martine won't like all this," he said and saw a slight panic in Y/n's eyes. ,, If you hurry up and bring me a coffee, it will be our secret," he suddenly said calmly and gently. And as if he had never touched her, his fingers stroked the band-aid one last time before Y/n started to move.

Shortly after she had opened the door she looked again at Michael who seemed to be back at his work. ,,Thank you Y/n" she heard the warm tone before she closed the door behind her.

#nightmare #blood #vampire bat #fluff #comfort #marvel cinematic universe #marvel #michael morbius #michael morbius x reader #morbius the living vampire #loxias #milo brown #matt smith #angst #little emotional #seizures #reader is female

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summer-fun-swim · 1 month ago

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The clock on the wall ticked steadily, marking the passage of time in the dimly lit living room. Outside, rain pattered against the window panes, creating a syncopated rhythm that filled the air with a sense of melancholic calm. The scent of damp earth wafted in through the slightly open window, mingling with that of the worn-out sofa, half formless from years of use. A flickering light from a nearby lamp threw soft shadows against the walls, where various posters of bands and sports icons lingered, remnants of youthful dreams.

In the center of this cozy disarray sat Jamie and his two best friends, Max and Ethan. At eighteen, they embodied the restless spirit of youth, a bond solidified over years of shared laughter, secrets, and their numerous adventures. Today, however, they found themselves bound by the dull weight of boredom, exacerbated by the relentless downpour tapping fervently at the glass.

“Man, this rain is such a drag,” Max sighed, his lanky frame slouched on the sofa. His clothes clung to him, a testament to the storm that had ambushed them earlier during their ill-conceived outing. He wore a once-light-blue t-shirt now transformed into a shade of gray, heavy with the weight of sopping wet fabric. Water dripped from his curly hair, pooling on the floor, a sign of their damp misadventure.

“Who knew a simple trip to the store would turn into a swim?” Ethan chuckled, pushing up his glasses that had slipped down his nose. He shivered slightly, the chill of the soaked hoodie he wore creeping under his skin. The faded navy of his hoodie had gained a darker hue, and its sleeves were dripping beads of water that rolled over his hands like tiny clear pearls. “I should’ve brought a towel.”

“Or maybe just an umbrella,” Jamie snorted, his grin widening. Unlike the others, Jamie took a darker path home, cutting through the park where the rain was more intense, leaving him starkly soaked. His jeans, once dark blue, were now an indigo that clung to his skin, showcasing every contour of his legs. The fabric was heavier than fabric should ever be, saturated and almost cumbersome, draping his slender frame in a slick cover.

“I’ll bet you guys are thinking of ways to make this less boring,” Max said, folding his arms across his chest. “Any ideas?”

“How about a shower?” Jamie suggested, raising an eyebrow.

“Fully clothed?” Ethan’s eyes twinkled with mischief, even as he removed his glasses and wiped the lenses with the hem of his hoodie.

“Why not? We’re already drenched. Might as well embrace it!” Jamie stood, shaking out his wet hair like a dog, sending droplets scattering across the room. His enthusiasm lit a spark, and before long, Max and Ethan joined him in laughter, moving toward the hallway.

The bathroom was tiny, barely accommodating the three boys. The shower faucet glistened, yielding promises of warmth and comfort. Jamie turned the water on, and as the steam began to rise, it created a mystical haze that enveloped them, contrasting sharply with the cold rain outside.

“Okay, on three!” Jamie declared, excitement blooming. “One… two… three!”

They all stepped into the cascading water together, their laughter mixing with the sound of rushing water. The sensation was liberating, surreal. The heat from the shower contrasted with the chilling rain that had soaked their clothes through and through.

“Dude! This is insane!” Max shouted over the spray, looking at himself as water streamed off his shoulders, the soaked t-shirt plastered against his skin. The tattoo on his upper arm, a faded emblem of a forgotten band, blurred against the wet backdrop of his artistry.

“Who knew a shower could be such a bonding experience?” Ethan added, glancing down at his soaked hoodie and white jeans, the fabric now so transparent that it accentuated the outline of his body beneath.

They all took turns joking about the ridiculousness of their situation. Jamie spun around in the water, feeling alive as it enveloped him, washing away the fatigue and boredom. He let the droplets slide off his face, laughing at the absurdity of being fully clothed in the shower.

“Remind me never to go outside again without checking the weather first,” Ethan said, the steam framing his glasses like a halo, his laughter ringing in the enclosed space. “You know this will go down in history as our most ridiculous adventure.”

“Definitely beats yesterday’s movie marathon,” Jamie grinned, flicking water at Ethan, who retaliated with an equally playful splash.

“Guys, let’s take a selfie!” Max exclaimed suddenly, fishing his phone from the pocket of his shorts, now dripping wet. “Proof for future embarrassments.”

“Are you serious?” Jamie was already laughing uncontrollably, the warmth of the shower merging with the warmth of their camaraderie. “Do it!”

Max didn’t hesitate, capturing the moment – three boys, fully dressed and soaked like sponges, in a tiny bathroom, bursting with laughter. The mischief in their eyes was evident, the shadows of the living room faded against their vitality.

When they finally stepped out of the shower, the warmth of the living room enveloped them like a blanket. They stood dripping and laughing, transforming the damp chaos into joy-filled moments that would linger in their memories for years to come.

Though they had entered the shower just three soaking-wet boys drowning in boredom, they emerged as something more – a trio united not just by friendship but by unbridled spontaneity. The rain continued its relentless cadence outside, but within the cozy embrace of the living room, the boys had created their own sun, blazing brilliantly in the midst of stormy skies.

“Let’s get dry and order some pizza!” Jamie called, as they stepped back into the living room, wearing smiles that rivaled the sunshine they hoped for outside. Laughter echoed as they walked toward the warmth, triumphant in their embrace of carefree moments that would define their youth forever. This day would be but another story, a beautiful intertwining of wet clothes and heartfelt connections.

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tbzhub · 1 year ago

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I Belong to You

Pairing: sneaky link!Lee Juyeon x afab!reader

Summary: Where you almost lose him to your stupid games

Warnings: MDNI, smut, a little angsty?? first setting is a restaurant so food is mentioned, reader is being a stupid, callous player, crass-ish language, hyunjae makes a statement that could be considered objectifying, honestly the men are talking like fuckboys (not juyeon ♥︎), oral (m. receiving), fingering, protected sex, brief mention of spit, brief hair pulling, light spanking, idk i blacked out

Rating / Genre: M, slice of life (?), situationship

WC: 8.6K

Artist Note: Thank you to everyone who held my hand through this as a beta reader or helping me when I got stuck. @wooahaeproductions @gyupremacy @littleroaes @the-boy-meets-evil I got this done despite being attacked by juyeon's hands, thank youuuuuu. i'll look for typos later, I don't want to look at this for at least 48 hours. goodbye, enjoy, happy birthday juyeon!

Tagged: @deoboyznet @everykebbie

m.list tag list

Juyeon saw you first. Even through a throng of people and the thick pane of glass that separates him from you, his eyes land on you in an instant. That was you, though– you had this naturally eye-catching presence. The outfit that you’re wearing only heightens your allure, and he is keen to check you out, looking you up and down even though he should be listening to the conversation that he is a part of.

It was the satin shirt that loosely clung to your body that pulled him in and made him slowly swallow in want as he continued to watch you walk up. The long-sleeved blouse was pinned closed by a single button in the middle, tastefully exposing and concealing parts of your body as the night air kissed your skin. A black mini skirt hugs your curves with the hem resting just above your upper thigh, highlighting the swell of your ass wonderfully. As you flounced towards the restaurant entrance, he could see the enticing glint and shimmer of the thin silver body chain that adorned your waist, only peeking through as the lower part of the satin top opened up more due to the slight breeze. His tongue ran across his bottom lip as he continued to watch you, Chanhee by your side, as you talked animatedly, using your hands in the cute way that you always do.

A wolf whistle pulls Juyeon’s mind and eyes away from you, Eric’s gaze following after his previous interest. “It’s like she comes out of the house just to torture you, huh? Coming to Sangyeon’s restaurant opening looking so fucking fuckable. She had to know that you’d be here.”

He shakes his head at the younger’s words. “Nah, I doubt it. She’s her own person, and I’m pretty sure I don’t cross her mind until it’s well after 10 p.m..” Juyeon admits, putting up a front of nonchalance.

He was bothered, though. This thing that you two had on the low? Not being able to call you his unless your body was underneath his own? Acting like nothing was going on between you when you were in group settings? Sometimes, it was annoying. All of his friends saw you as off-limits. Similar to how all of your friends saw him just as equally inaccessible. Still, you insisted on toying with him– regarding him as if he was just some guy. He liked to think he knew the truth, that you liked him more than you let on. He was the only guy whose number you had saved, and his name had a heart beside it for a reason.

Sunwoo cuts in, draping an arm around Eric’s shoulder. “What’s going on outside?” He questions, his head turning towards the glass facade, and then he nods. His attention goes back to Juyeon. “Who’s that guy walking up?”

You’d been talking to this dude over text off and on for over a month or two after matching on a shitty app that you only used when you sought out instant gratification. Truthfully, you didn’t think anything would come of it, offhandedly throwing the invite out like a bone for a dog– and he actually pulled up. He was cute enough. Tall and dressed well. For tonight, he would suffice. Chanhee nudges you conspiratorially as the space between you and your date shrinks. You wave him off with a self-assured smile, murmuring that you’ll catch him inside before hitting the man across you with one of your winning glances.

“Hey.”

There’s a seductive lilt in your voice while you stretch your arms out to welcome him with a hug. Your nostrils fill with the heavy scent of whatever cheap cologne he drenched himself in, causing you to smirk and let out a flirtatious giggle. You always found it so cute when you could tell a guy was pulling out all the stops to impress you.

“You look stunning.” You hear him compliment you in a low mumble as you pull away from the embrace, and your thank you is coated in sugary, sweet dalliance.

His eyes shamelessly travel up and down your figure as if he’s appreciating a Greek sculpture. Allowing him to check you out a little more, you shift your weight to one leg and rest a hand on your hip patiently.

“Whenever you finish, I have people I’d love to introduce you to.” Your banter is cheeky, contrasting your calm and placid facial expression as if he had little effect on you. Which, in all honesty, he didn’t.

Sangyeon’s take on a restaurant is unique. The second you step inside, it’s like you’re inside a bubble of luxury with a mix of whimsy. The low hum of chatter surrounding you dissipates as your eyes flit to the ceiling first, scanning across the large, elaborate, bright white neon sign hoisted above the patrons instead of traditional hospitality lighting. The characters pull you forward as you read the saying, craning your neck in order to catch the entire cliche food-related quote.

“Eat great food with even greater friends, huh?” Chanhee sidled up to you, popping back into your view, and you beamed back at him in response. “We should probably follow his instructions then, hm?” you reply through a giggle.

The man beside you looks around awkwardly, and your friend flashes you a knowing look with an astute smirk to match. “Hi, I’m Chanhee.” He says, stretching his arm out to the new guy who seems too absorbed in the lighting design overhead to pay him any mind. The two of you communicate wordlessly while Chanhee smoothly plays off being ignored by your date. A beat later, he announces that he needs to steal you away for a moment, and the man is left to stand alone in a room filled with people he doesn’t know.

You’re get brought to a far corner of the restaurant where glass panels with neon signs slotted between them separate the line of booths from one another. The specific sign behind Chanhee’s head is a kitschy illustration of a cat eating a bowl of noodles, and the cat’s ears perfectly align with his head.

“Sangyeon made this place very Instagrammable,” you observe with approval while scoping the restaurant out from this new angle.

Chanhee hums at your remark, looking around before his eyes fall back on you.

“Juyeon’s here.”

His words come out very frank, but you know he’s gearing up for a lecture. You meet his gaze, lips curling upward into a crooked smirk before you respond. “Oh yeah?”

“Oh yeah?” He mimics your voice perfectly. “Now you’re playing me like I’m on your roster.” He replies dryly with a short-lived chuckle.

“I mean, yeah. It makes sense that he’d be here—

He snips your sentence before you can bullshit further, eyes cutting towards the man you brought with you. “So why’d you bring some random ass guy as your date? Everyone knows about you and Juyeon. What the fuck?”

“There really is nothing to know. We aren’t anything aside from two people who’ve slept together on occasion—

Chanhee steams on, trampling over your words with a side-eyed glance. “And will continue to.”

You shrug, tongue darting out to wet your top lip. “Perhaps.” You smirk, and so does Chanhee.

“Probably tonight,” he counters, punctuating his message with a gesture towards Juyeon. It looked like he was coming your way, but his path curved, and you both watched him disappear toward the bar. You shrug, unbothered.

“Or tomorrow night.” You comment, meeting Chanhee’s gaze with pure mischief sparkling in your pretty eyes.

His smile twists to mirror your cheeky grin. The two of you dissolve into a fit of laughter, Chanhee slapping the table in his signature added effect. “Ooou, you really are a cold-blooded slut. Love that for you.”

“Learned from you,” you toss back with a giggle. “More importantly, though, we all came here to celebrate Sangyeon. It’s not every day that your friend opens a restaurant and hosts an exclusive dining experience with all your closest friends—

“And some random ass man.” Chanhee reminds you. He wouldn't be himself if he weren’t on your case.

You smile sweetly at your best friend. “You’re annoying. I can behave. Juyeon can behave. It’ll be fine.”

Your date sits beside you as you wait for your drink, droning on about his plans for the upcoming work week while you occasionally hum along in response. You couldn’t remember when you’d asked for this many details about his career path, but here he was, showering you with tech industry terms and company name drops. You were starting to wonder when someone proclaimed so intelligent would catch on to your lazy responses.

“Yeah, wow. That’s crazy. You’re so cool,” you say, giving off an extra bubbly vibe as you continue to stroke his ego.

A pretty cocktail gets slid your way finally, and you gingerly take a sip while you allow your date’s boring words to assault your ears. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Juyeon pass by, looking like a blur of sex appeal, but your eyes remain on your date. Even as he sits down on the free barstool beside you— even as the urge to check Juyeon out surges through your body… you listen to the random-ass tech man beside you.

“Can I get two beers?” You hear Juyeon ask, and his voice sounds so velvety smooth in your ears, but you don’t react, keeping your composure while nodding to your date.

“Mm, wow, that’s so interesting.” You say, eyes going wide as you bob your head. “I think it’s so cool that you have a job like that,” you add, throwing out another compliment as you alternate between replies.

“I mean— no, I don’t know anything about the field, but still, lots of people, letters, and numbers seem to be involved. It definitely sounds like a job. I also have a cool job whenever you want to hear about it.” You passive-aggressively state, taking another sip from your cocktail. This cocktail was giving you a better experience than your date and most likely tasted better, too.

You overhear Hyunjae and Juyeon talking, ears going supersonic as you pick their familiar voices out over the buzz of conversations encompassing the bar.

“What about her?”

“I’m good.” You hear Juyeon reply, and curiosity rises within your chest.

“You’re lying to yourself. When are you going to move on? All these people, and you're hung up on a chick that came with some wet blanket as her date. You’re going out sad. It’s hard to watch.”

Hyunjae’s words have your lips curling into a haughty smile that your date weirdly copies. “What?” He asks, and you blink in confusion. He boldly leans into you, whispering in your ear, and your senses get bombarded with his cologne. “You wanna get out of here?”

You can barely contain your disgust as you speak. The taste of his pungent fragrance lingers on your tongue as your tone goes sweeter and lighter to compensate for the way he’s just cemented, giving you the ick. “You know, I think I’d really like to stay for dinner. If you need to leave, though, don’t let me stop you.” He visually tenses and relaxes before your eyes. “You’re right. We should at least stay for dinner. This is your friend’s big night, right? I’ll find us some seats next to uh…

“Chanhee.” You disinterestedly finish for him, shifting on your barstool. “I’ll bring a round of drinks. Catch you in a bit.” Your attention is turned away from him before his presence leaves your personal space as the bartender saunters over to take your order.

Alone, you take a moment to look around the bar. Keeping with the theme, there's a neon sign on display behind the two bartenders. Pendant lights are scattered along the seating area, creating small, intimate sanctuaries every two barstools. You look up at the pendant between Juyeon and yourself before your eyes settle on his form. He looks as good as always, hair framing his forehead, and when he looks at you, your breath is stolen. Hyunjae must have walked off, and you won’t let your opportunity go to waste.

“You look nice.” You try to charm, sending a glowing smile his way.

“Don’t start.” He shuts you down, sounding curt.

“What? I’m just being nice. What happened to polite formalities?” Your glossy lips poke out into an exaggerated pout, and Juyeon rolls his eyes as if he’s troubled to even look at your face.

“That’s the thing, though. It starts with you being nice to me; then I have to be nice to you. Next thing I know, you’re cumming on my fingers in the backseat of my car. That’s our formality.” He holds your gaze, daring you to devise a counterpoint, but you don’t.

You shrug, lips spreading into an audacious smirk. “Sounds rather polite to me.” He gives you a look that lets you know you're running on thin ice, and you fold. “Don’t be mad at me, Ju.”

Juyeon downs the last few swigs of his beer before setting the brown glass bottle down on the counter and getting up. “What's there to be mad about? ‘s not like we’re together. Enjoy your night.”

The air surrounding the lengthy dining table buzzed with palpable energy as everyone sat together, waiting for the dinner to commence. Sangyeon makes a toast accompanied by a heartfelt speech from the head of the table, addressing his family and friends with gratitude. Juyeon half listens, raising his glass on cue when he sees your hand raise out of the corner of his eye. He puts the flute glass back down while casually sneaking another look. He’s putting more mental energy into not glancing your way than he’d like to let on, and still, he’s unsuccessful. It’s just that seeing you flanked by your date and Chanhee— the way you lean into your friend who whispers into your ear with a smirk splayed on his lips, the look your date gives you as you eagerly chat him up, your hand teasingly pushing the man’s chest while you laugh at something he’s said, the coy glance Chanhee gives you before you pick up your phone to continue some exclusive, silent conversation— pisses him off. The minor details compound on top of each other until envy grips his throat tight, and his lips slump into a frown for a hot second before Hyunjae pokes him in his ribs.

“Dude. Stop fucking looking.”

He opens his mouth to lie, to say he wasn’t looking at you, but there’s nothing to gain by lying to the older. His eyes rip away from your form while he picks up the glass of champagne in front of him. He downs the bubbly drink in one go, signaling for a server to bring him another when he’s placed the glass on the table.

“Chill out, hyung. Drinking and jealousy never mix well,” Eric warns, eyes round in concern as he places his hand on his friend’s shoulder, but Juyeon brushes his words off along with his hand while another drink gets placed before him.

“Leave it, Eric. This is y/n, we’re talking about. He’s a lost cause. We’d all be.” Sunwoo chimes in, and Hyunjae’s scoff is heard loud and clear. “I wouldn’t. Diversify your investments, and you don’t catch feelings.”

Sunwoo leans forward against the table, craning his neck to make eye contact with Hyunjae. “Investments? Are we talking about the stock market or women? You sound worse than y/n. Maybe you two belong to—

The glare Juyeon shoots the younger wires his mouth shut. Hyunjae shakes his head in amusement, directing his gaze to the lady in question before turning his regard back to his friend group, intent on clarifying his statement. “All I’m saying is, if you invest all of your time into one person, then no shit— you’re going to catch feelings. Look at Juyeon. All those late nights and early mornings add up. Now he’s hung up over someone that won’t commit because she’s too busy diversifying.” There’s a huge, boyish grin etched into his features as he drags out every syllable of his last word.

Eric nods as if he’s listening to a message from a prophet while Juyeon sighs in faux exasperation. “How’s the saying go? The bitchless, leading the bitchless?” he jokingly quizzes through a chuckle, reaching for his glass once more.

“Hey, Juyeon. Where’s your girl right now?” Hyunjae challenges him back, and their entire side of the table erupts into laughter.

There’s not much talking once the dinner starts, just the occasional praise for each new dish that graces everyone’s table setting. Aside from the murmurs and whispers, the sound that remains constant is the scraping and clatter of silverware against ceramic. A good dish could silence a room– that was the beauty of excellent food, and Sangyeon’s menu was no exception. You were too busy eating to chat, communicating through pointing at your plate, and humming in satisfaction as delightful flavors and spices lovingly embraced your tastebuds. The dish that you’re currently sharing with Chanhee was beginning to look sparse. Both of you kept picking up piece after piece of an appetizer you are confident will become a main attraction for future patrons. You notice that your date’s plate is already bare, causing you to pick up the small tasting menu that rests by your champagne flute with intrigue.

Scanning the embossed cardstock briefly, you hum in anticipation. “Guys, there’s so much more to come.” You note, trading the menu for your drink and taking a sip of the sparkling beverage. As you relax into your chair, your eyes casually gloss over Juyeon’s empty seat at the table. You must have been too engrossed in your food to notice him get up. Your head swivels towards the bar, and he’s not there either. Playing it off, you let your gaze fall to your phone and pull it into your grasp.

You were tactful in your approach– smoother and far less evident than Juyeon was about keeping tabs on you. You’d caught him staring at you a few times, but it’s not like you could call him out. Blowing his cover would indirectly force your hand; you were looking at him just as much as he was you.

“I’ll be right back,” you announce to no one in particular, pushing your chair back to search for a restroom.

The corridor where the restrooms reside is long and wide. You wander through the expanse of the hall slowly, eyes catching on the extravagant amount of decor mounted to the walls. If Sangyeon used an interior designer, this was the space where they decided to let go of their inhibitions. The deep navy blue paint color on the walls could only be seen in glimpses, peeking out around the array of mirrors and wall art that embellished the spacious aisle. Surprisingly enough, this area didn’t harbor a single neon sign.

You pause, looking at yourself in one of the many mirrors on the gallery wall. This particular mirror has a reflective chrome frame in an organic shape that reminds you of some of the inspo pictures you’d seen on your Pinterest feed. After messing with your hair, you reapply gloss to your lips and queue up your phone to take a picture for your story.

After snapping a few shots, you swipe through the pictures, making sure the aesthetic aligns with what you usually post. With a sultry pout on your lips, you lift your arm above your head to take another picture from a different angle— this one for your close friends. You’re so busy fiddling with the positioning (intent on using a mirror behind you to make it look like there’s an infinite number of your clones in the picture) that you overlook your small audience of one until after you’ve updated your stories.

There’s a hint of a smirk playing along Juyeon’s lips as he makes a show of pulling his phone out of his pocket.

“Hot,” he comments, eyes downcast while he swipes his finger across his phone’s screen. Your phone vibrates in your hand, and when you see the notification, you snort. “Wow. Fire emoji. Way to stand out amongst the crowd, Ju,” you praise, tonality laced with sarcasm.

Coming over and standing in front of Juyeon, you tilt your head back to meet his gaze. There’s a twinkle of longing in his eyes that you don’t fail to notice, and you pounce on it. Taking another step closer, you feel that comforting sheen of warmth caress your skin as you infiltrate his personal space. You’re close enough to kiss him— a tippy toe’s length away from erasing the gap that hangs between your lips. “Wanna come over tonight?”

“No.” He was being short with you again. Yet his following action contradicts the rejection he’s just doled out to you. His large hands feel you up, one smoothing over your skirt while the other grazes the exposed skin of your midriff. His fingers lazily dance along your skin and plucks at the chain circling your waist. “Please?” You ask, melting further into his grasp and the familiar comfort Juyeon’s hands provide. He shrugs, relinquishing you from his hold, and you watch him simmer with his thoughts.

There’s a rising commotion coming from the front of the restaurant, indicating what you can only assume is the next course coming out. Juyeon takes a step away from you, looking down the hallway briefly before redirecting his attention your way. “Seems like you’re already booked, and I’m not in the mood to share tonight.”

You sigh, ready to move past the matter. “I’m not going to sleep with him, Juyeon… there’s no second date for this guy.”

“Okay.” Juyeon pats your shoulder, movements stiff like he’d just finished speaking with an acquaintance he’d awkwardly ran into at the grocery store.

You’re unable to discern the message behind the impassive facial expression he regards you with. The pang of an emotion that you’re not accustomed to pierces through your chest as you watch him walk away without sparing you a second glance. Surrounded by the wall of mirrors and trendy art pieces, you start to question your decision-making skills. For a moment, you stand there wondering if you’ve taken things too far…

It feels like Juyeon is punishing you for the next few days, but the further you get away from the dinner party, the more you wonder if he’s ghosting you.

The pang that you felt that night doesn’t go away. As a week goes by, you become certain that this is what your body is going to feel like from now on— walking around with the ache of guilt in your chest. There’s also a weight of uneasiness that settles into your stomach that no amount of delusional positivity could subdue. The weight gets nearly unbearable when you reflect on how categorically wrong you are.

You text Juyeon twice asking to talk, and you reply to his stories a few times before it becomes glaringly obvious that he’s ignoring you.

Your message thread with him slips further down in your phone as more days blur past. Your interactions hit their peak with Juyeon’s occasional reaction to a picture you post— none of them are shots of yourself. Somehow, your brain blows this observation out of proportion, and you find a new sublevel to wallow in.

At the three-week mark, you begin to picture a life where Juyeon really doesn’t forgive you—one where he never responds to your texts nor answers video calls—forever fated to orbit each other cautiously at every mutual group hangout. A life where you don’t get to flirt with him at parties or climb into the backseat of his car at the end of the night. The agony of becoming an outsider to your connection with him until you’re seen as nothing more than a stranger, a friend of a friend. Then, eventually, you’ll wake up to a reality where you don’t know anything about him at all.

Chanhee’s diagnosis and solution to the matter is that “you’re lovesick and in need of dick.” For once in your friendship, you don’t try to argue against his take, but his phrasing leaves a lot to be desired.

Most of your idle time is spent thinking about Juyeon. You were debating with yourself over whether you should text him or not. Wondering what he’s up to and then checking his or his friend’s stories, looking for clues. Reflecting on just how deep your feelings are for him and how badly you’ve fucked up by being a noncommital little shit.

Currently standing in your kitchen, you watch a pot of water begin to simmer on your stovetop. Your chin rests in your hands while you count the tiny bubbles forming at the bottom of the pot, trying to keep your mind off of him. It’s not an easy feat, not when your kitchen is indirectly filled to the brim with memories of Juyeon.

When you first moved into your own apartment, you had a solid determination to teach yourself to cook, more so out of financial necessity. Takeout was beginning to look more like a luxury you couldn’t afford than an expense you could consistently maintain. This kitchen is where the lines between Juyeon and yourself began to blur. Though you haven’t done it in a while, there was a time when you’d video chat with him every time you’d attempt to cook dinner. In hindsight, maybe you should have been calling Sangyeon, but at the start of your friendship— before it had been unanimously determined that Juyeon was the worst cook of the group, he’d keep you company. You’d call him, and he’d give you moral support and amateur-level cooking advice.

There were times when the recipes were easy, and you’d spend time casually chatting with him about whatever came to your mind. Often, especially in the beginning stages, he watched you without judgment as you demanded pots of water to boil faster or whined about how badly you wanted to abort the mission to pick up fast food. Where Chanhee would surely enable you, Juyeon would gently push you forward. Thinking about it now, a rush of butterflies settles into your stomach, and a small smile turns your lips upwards at the corners.

Maybe you should call him.

The pot before you finally reaches a rolling boil as your mind drifts to the first time you made a meal good enough to share. It was the one time when Juyeon had been busy and couldn’t hold your hand through the process.

That evening was unexpected in a lot of ways. When you called him a second time on a whim, you didn’t think he’d answer. You didn’t intend to extend an invitation to him when you’d got him on the phone, excited to brag about your culinary accomplishment. You didn't expect him to accept your offer to come over and eat dinner with you. Nor did you anticipate said meal would get abandoned, lying perfectly plated and cold on your small dining table as the night developed in a way that neither of you could resist.

Your gaze cuts to the kitchen floor, and you shiver as the memory plays vividly. It’s as if you can feel Juyeon all over you again, and your body floods with warmth. Your grip on the wooden spoon in your hand grows tighter until your palm hurts. A few breaths later, the spoon clatters onto your countertop as you ditch it in favor of your phone, and your fingers seem to move on their own…

When you see yourself on the screen, your eyes widen in shock while you straighten the collar of the oversized sleep shirt you're wearing. Next, you frantically tame as many strands of your hair as you can— but Juyeon gives you no time at all. His face comes into view, and your arm freezes mid-air. If you had an ornate declaration to recite, it’s gone.

“Mm?”

Hearing his voice prompts you to blink slowly, eyelashes fluttering as your mind hard resets and your arm lowers. Juyeon stays quiet, shifting on his bed until his head rests in his palm. He watches you for some time before his eyebrows raise, fueled by impatience and curiosity.

Your voice edges on the side of pleading as you finally speak. “Can you come over?”

Juyeon hasn't seen this side of you before. His face relaxes into a smirk. “Why?” You turn off the stove and shuffle over to your sofa, tucking your foot under your butt as you mull over what the answer is to his question. “I— I want to talk to you about something.” His facial expression goes impassive again as he replies. “Okay. You have me now. I’m not coming over just to hear you say sorry.”

Usually, you’d have some flirty comeback, but as you look at Juyeon through the screen, the ache in your chest gets replaced with a deep yearning. It’s silent for a few beats as you swelter in the intensity of your emotions.

He refuses to budge, waiting for you with his lips pursed to conceal the smug look shaping his features. With a sigh, you concede. “Please? I am so sorry, Juyeon. What I did was rude as fuck. I want to apologize to you and much more. I’ve been thinking a lot, and I’ve realized some… things, and I’d like to talk to you about these realizations.” His eyes soften around the edges, and his lips rise into a sweet smile before his demeanor recomposes. If you blinked, you’d have missed the emotions that showed through in his gaze. “Why me? Isn’t that what Chanhee is for?”

This time, you chuckle, mimicking the endeared look he sends you through the screen. “Don’t make me do it over the phone, please? I’ll make it worth your while.” You hold your pinky up, “I promise.”

“Oh, yeah?” Juyeon asks, tone falling lower as he sits upright. You nod, and he disappears from your view for a moment or two, leaving you to stare at his ceiling fan. “Are you still gonna look like that when I get there?” His question catches you by surprise, nose scrunching in confusion. “I mean… yeah? I already showered.” He pops back into view with his bright smile filling nearly half of your phone’s screen. “Good. Be there in twenty.”

The call ends, and you look down at your clothes. Your shirt was actually one of Juyeon’s that he’d left behind ages ago. The fuzzy Hello Kitty shorts and the matching socks make you cringe, but you decide not to change. Nothing screams ‘I want to be in a committed relationship with you’ like childish pajamas.

Your motivation to cook is gone, swapped out for anticipation of Juyeon’s arrival. You make a weak attempt at straightening up your apartment to make the wait easier, aimlessly walking through your living room to pick up stray blankets and tote bags. Lighting a candle, you head back into the kitchen to put away the remnants of good intentions that linger on your countertop. Lukewarm water gets poured down the kitchen sink, and the stainless steel pot and wooden spoon get washed and put away. You pull out two glasses and fill them with water before leaning against the counter and taking a few sips.

Gears start to turn in your head, funneling your array of feelings into words and then sentences. Before long, you fully grasp what you’d like to tell Juyeon. You’ll start with another apology and then confidently segue into the rest. No games, no stalling— no vague responses, just honesty and transparency.

A knock at your door rouses the butterflies nestled in your stomach, and you practically skip towards the sound. When you see Juyeon standing in your doorway, a smile stretches along your lips. He’s dressed cozy in what seems to be fleece, plaid pajama bottoms, and a faded black tee that you’re sure never sees the light of day. His hair is as messy as yours. “Hey,” he says through a smile that causes you to break eye contact, a simper curving your lips. He did wonders to your heart, effortlessly claiming the organ without warning.

“Hey, there’s drinks on the coffee table,” you lamely reply as he crosses the threshold, closing your front door. Gentle hands cradle your face the moment you turn around, pulling you into a kiss. His lips found yours before you could properly reach the living room, the kiss turning heated instantaneously.

Once you start, it's hard not to fall under the love spell Juyeon’s lips cast. A contented sigh leaves you, and his tongue slips into your mouth at the opportunity. His hands pull away from your face to hold your waist, pulling your body flush to his as your arms loop around his neck. You allow yourself a few more moments, rolling your tongue against his. Sharing impassioned kisses. Every part of you missed him; it gets displayed in the way you go pliant in his hold. Finally, you're crowded by the signature scent of him. It’s his familiar warmth that blooms against your skin. His lips that meld perfectly with yours… So you savor making out with him like this after what feels like so long.

The trance you’d been put under breaks when you pull back to catch a breath. Juyeon barely gives you a second, fed by his own voracity, as he chases after your lips once more. You dodge, leaning back to look at him. “Wait— I wanted to talk. You’re distracting me.”

He shrugs and wets his kiss bitten lips before speaking. “So talk.” With that, he leans back in to kiss your neck, and you bite back a whimper. Trying to steel yourself, you take in a sharp inhale and promptly exhale. All the while, you feel Juyeon’s hands move, roving over your curves. “I’m sorry, Juyeon. I’ll never do that to you again.” It takes everything to keep your voice even, eyes falling closed as he glides his lips across your throat. “I know.” He comments, breath fanning over your skin, and you squirm where you stand.

“I…” you trail off as heat travels up your torso and goosebumps race up your skin.

Juyeon halts his movements, fingertips pressing indents into your ribs. “And?” He urges with a murmur, walking you backward towards your living room. You look up, meeting his gaze right as the back of your thighs touch the arm of your sofa. “I like you way too much to jeopardize what we have. I just want to be with you.” You declare your statement with confidence and a rapidly thudding heart.

“Uh-huh.” He leans in, smirking into another kiss that you reluctantly avoid.

“Juyeon! Ar-aren’t you going to respond to what I’m saying? Do you feel the same way?” You needed to know if Juyeon was hearing you. Needed to see if he wanted the same thing out of this as you. He chuckles, pulling his arm out from underneath your shirt to cup your face in his hand. There’s nothing but pure amusement radiating from the smile he graces you with. “I’ve been waiting for you to catch up. Seems like you did, right?”

“Oh. Y-yeah.” You reply, relieved. This time, when he dips his head low, you relax, letting your body handle the rest.

Juyeon’s hands are everywhere. Running along your inner thigh. Caressing your torso. Dipping beneath your elastic waistband. Your lips trace his jawline before you feel your shorts and panties yanked down. Cool air hits your bare skin, and a shiver ripples through your spine. You’re placed on top of the sofa’s armrest as he captures your lips again, tongue opening your mouth to him hotly. The kiss is galvanizing, making your legs fall open on their own volition. His hand promptly makes its home between your thighs, teasing you with a barely-there touch. You whine against his lips, stomach fluttering in anticipation of his wandering hand.

Juyeon pulls away from your mouth, looking at you with a lust-lidded gaze and a lazy smile. “What do you want right now?” voice dulcet while he asks, beginning to toy with the wetness that clings to your pussy. Your eyes trail down to his lower half, greedily tracing the outline of his dick. “Y-you,” the answer comes out of you quickly, tone rife with need.

Strings of your arousal keep you connected to the sofa and his long fingers. For a short moment, all you hear is your soft breathing and the salacious sounds of him playing with your pussy. The look Juyeon regards you with is one of intrigue and mirth. “Show me what you mean,” he offers, starting to rub your clit slowly with featherlight pressure. You playfully roll your eyes. Angling your hips, his hand stays motionless while you work for the friction that you so desperately crave. After a few half-hearted grinds, you realize he won’t make things easier for you.

The smirk Juyeon wears incites the brattiness that you reserve for moments like this. You look at him with pleading eyes, opening your mouth to complain, but damp fingers keep you silent. Your tongue swirls around the digits, and a satisfied hum dissolves within the small space between your bodies. “You want these, don’t you?” He asks, watching you taste yourself in earnest. You respond by spreading your legs wider, tilting your hips up in hopes that he won’t tease you even though you more than deserve it. Pulling his fingers away, he returns his hand to its former place with a sick grin curving his lips. “Words, baby. You gotta communicate.” He prompts through a soft murmur while his hand hovers over where you want him most.

Turning your head away from him, you pout as you try to hold on to your last few shreds of dignity. You mutter the words out quickly with an attitude, and Juyeon shakes his head in disappointment, grabbing your face with his free hand for added measure. “Look at me, baby. Ask nicely. You can do it.” He orders, fingers grazing through the tacky wetness that continues to pool towards your center.

“Yes, Juyeon. I missed you. Wanna cum on your fingers first. Please?” You plead, feeling your pride and dignity slip through your grasp and into his hands.

Slipping his arm around your waist, Juyeon presses a kiss to your lips. “You missed me?” He teases, pressing into you finally. “Is this what you thought about, hm? Realized you love my hands too much to lose me?” You let out a moan before shaking your head no in response. “Words.” He reminds you, sliding his fingers in and out of you slowly. “N-no. I– I thought about…” your train of thought derailed as Juyeon’s fingers arched and brushed against a spot you had neglected for nearly three weeks.

“Uh-uh. You thought about what?” He pries, not letting you off the hook as his hand moves against you. “How you never shut up,” you answer sarcastically, face contorting from the sparks of pleasure that play with your nerve endings.

“You’re lucky I like you,” he tosses back, forgoing punishing you to steal a kiss off your lips.

Your pussy is snug around the digits, juices collecting in Juyeon’s palm as he continues his ministrations. Eyes falling shut, a throaty moan passes your chest. You bring your hand up, grabbing a fistful of his shirt while you relish the delicious push and pull of his slender fingers. Your hips roll into his hand, meeting his thrusts as your muscles tense up.

Nobody else knew your body as well as he did. Juyeon’s movements are instinctual and precise, catching the cluster of nerves within you easily. He adds a third finger, and your head lolls forward. You can barely get his name out, the noun blending into a moan when it reaches the tip of your tongue. Before you can brace yourself for it, you’re cumming. It rips through you, right down to the ends of your nerves. You cry into his chest as the orgasm swallows you whole and strips you bare. Your grip on his shirt loosens, and your arms fall slack by your sides. His hold on you tightens, keeping you stable as he strokes your high along with the steady drag of his fingers.

Once you’ve had enough, you close your legs around his arm. You smile, caught in a daze, as you gradually return to your senses and regain strength in your limbs. “Happy?” He jokes with a cocky smile, and you nod in response. Sliding off the sofa, you lace your fingers through his as he leads toward your bedroom. With a last-minute thought, you reach out, swiping a glass of water off the coffee table just in case.

As you place the glass down on your nightstand, Juyeon pulls his clothes off and goes over to your bed. Your pussy throbs at the sight of him, cock hanging hard between his muscular thighs.

He watches you while you take your shirt off, running his tongue across his bottom lip. “C’mere,” he directs, giving you space to crawl in between his legs. You look him up and down, mouth watering as you settle down right in front of his cock. Wetting your lips, you press a kiss to his length. He rubs his head against the soft swell of your bottom lip before you open your mouth wider. “You know what to do.” He urges gently with eyes fixed on your lips.

Your tongue runs over the bead of precum that pools at his tip. You tease him deliberately as you wet his length. Dragging your tongue over his hard cock repeatedly while you watch his face scrunch up and his eyes close. When Juyeon’s had enough, he pushes your head down, and you eagerly oblige. Your lips close around the crown of his cock as you slide down his shaft before pulling off with a lewd pop. His hips buck up, chasing after the wet heat of your mouth as he pushes your head down again. You hum around him, buzzing with satisfaction as you sink onto him again.

A mix of spit and precum dribbles down your chin and hand as you work his dick. Tightening the softness of your mouth around him, your cheeks hollow, you pluck your first grunt out of Juyeon’s chest. Your eyes flit up, seeing his muscles go taut in anticipation as you glide down his length again. You keep your tongue flat against the underside of his cock with every bob of your head, and eventually, he gets noisy— just how you like him.

Fingers dig into your hair as Juyeon lets out a particularly shaky exhale. You’re pulled off of him before you could start choking on his cock. “Juyeon, I’m busy,” you huff, lips slick and swollen as you meet his gaze. His face and neck flushed, sweat clings to his forehead, and your eyes sparkle in delight. “Oooh, were you about to cum?” You coo, toeing a dangerous line as you pump his hardness slowly. “You missed me sucking your dick?” You teasingly add just as he forcefully pulls you into his lap.

“Shut up,” he murmurs, melding your lips together while you straddle his hips and reach into your nightstand for protection.

Placing the condom into Juyeon’s hand, you direct your attention to his neck. The crinkling of foil reaches your ears as you move your lips down his throat and along his collarbones. You sprinkle sweet kisses across his tanned skin until you feel his hands wrap around your waist, and you get deftly flipped onto your back.

Juyeon cages you between his toned arms, dipping his head down to place a heated kiss on your lips. Your arms make their way around his neck, pulling him closer to you as he drags his tongue across your bottom lip. You get lost in the depths of his mouth once more, exchanging sloppy kisses between pants and moans. His teeth sink into your lip, and warmth floods through your body. He feels stiff and heavy against your center, and your hips tilt upward in need. He takes the hint. Sitting upright, his hands go to rest on your knees before he pushes your thighs farther apart. He gathers as much saliva as he can inside his mouth before his lips part, and you watch as it slowly lands on your cunt— not that you need it. With his cock in his hand, he runs his length along the sticky, wet mess between your legs.

After what feels like a year's worth of teasing, Juyeon finally slips inside, and you moan at the fullness. “How do you need me, baby?” He asks, adjusting his hands to grip your thighs. You whimper, sinking your teeth into your lip while you stretch your legs into the air. “Harder,” you breathe out, looking up at him with pleading eyes. He lays into your request, moving his hips with precision. He fucks you slow but potent, hips banging into yours with every thrust. His hands wrap around your legs, using them as leverage as he shakes a cry out of your body. Your eyes flutter closed as desperate pleasure laps at your skin and sets your nerves on fire. You try to snake your hand down to your needy clit, but he catches your hand in his. Lacing his fingers through yours, he leans forward. Your arm gets pulled above your head as he hovers in front of your face. “Did your boyfriend say you could do that?”

Your face scrunches up, “Is this how we slap a title on us? With you scrambling my insides?” His lips stretch into a smirk, “Kind of fitting, if you ask me.” You roll your eyes, but the smile that curves your lips tells your true feelings. “Faster,” you instruct, and your legs get pushed back until your knees nearly touch your cheeks.

Juyeon’s hair dances on the edge of your forehead as he picks up the pace. “Fuck,” you moan. The word is so elongated coming from your mouth that you never finish it. You choke on a whine as he drives cock deeper, bullying the sensitive spot within you. All you can do is melt further into your bedsheets. The coil nestled in your stomach gets wound tight, your muscles contract, and your chest dramatically rises and falls. You tighten around him spasmodically as ragged, uneven breaths mix in the tight space between you two. Trying to form words, your lips curve around his name, but the only sound that comes out of your mouth is a depraved whimper. His grip on your hand loosens and slides down your arm towards your hips.

Before you can conceptualize what’s happening, you get flipped onto your stomach, and there’s stinging heat spreading across your ass cheek.

Juyeon smacks your ass again and again as moans flow out of you ceaselessly. He plunges back inside, throwing his full weight into his thrusts. His hand travels up your back and into your hair, curling his fingers around the strands and tugging hard. You gasp and pant, feeling every last breath inside of you being pulled cleanly out of your lungs. His firm chest meets your back as he tilts your head back, exposing your neck to him, and his lips attach to the bruised skin. Your fingers scramble for purchase, gripping the sheets tight as your greedy hole takes all that he offers you. You wanted him to move in. To quit his day job and dedicate his life to fucking you like this every single day. You needed to stay like this forever, pinned down with his cock tucked deep inside your pussy. A gargled version of his name passes your lips as you lazily meet his thrusts. “Oh, shit,” you rasp, tears pooling in your eyes while your senses are overloaded by his cock.

You hang on the precipice of an orgasm, skin growing hot as moan after moan hiccups out of your throat. Juyeon’s voice registers in your ears. “This is all I thought about that night. Fucking. You. In front. Of that stupid. Fucking. Dude.” He admits through gritted teeth, punctuating each word with harsh pounding. “You belong to me.” He adds, and you whine, loving this newfound possessiveness. “I belong to you,” you brainlessly repeat, voice muffled by your sheets.

He pulls out, switching your positions until you sit in his lap. “Say that again,” Juyeon orders, pulling you down onto his cock as your thighs press against his. “I belong to you,” you chant through a moan.

You let your hips roll, bouncing on his cock as you chase after another high. His hands map your curves, grabbing hold of your tits and pulling you close. His fingers dig into your supple skin, squeezing your breasts while he snaps his hips up. Your mouth opens up for him, fueled by your dire craving to cum.

His soft moans and gasps die on your tongue as you ride him, sliding up and down his length. You feel Juyeon’s hands travel down to your stomach. He holds you still, slamming into you with a devastatingly brutal pace, and your body starts to shut down. Your vision tunnels, and your sense of touch heightens. Sweat runs down your neck and chest in rivulets, and you shiver at the sensation. You feel every drag of his cock, stretching out your cunt and barreling towards your g-spot. Then you’re cumming, clenching around him hard while he ruts into you with rapidly disintegrating restraint, thrusts growing sloppy.

When you finally come down, Juyeon’s arm is looped around your waist, and you’re resting on his sweaty chest. “Are you going to make me leave now?” He asks, breathless, and you shoot him a bewildered glance. “Juyeon. After that? You deserve a key to my place,” you kid, with an airy laugh.

“All jokes aside, no. I don’t want you to leave. I want you to stay with me forever.” And you mean every word.

In the morning, you wake up to an empty bed, and your heart sinks into your heels. You blindly reach out for the glass of water left on your nightstand, but your hand touches the air. Sitting up, confused and viscerally heartbroken, you heave yourself out of bed and onto your feet. You drape your comforter around your naked body and pad out into the living room to grab yourself some water.

The sights before you quell your tender heart. “What are you doing?” You ask, eyeing Juyeon with a joyful smile. He’s wearing nothing but boxers, and it looks like he stole a pair of your socks, but you keep your reactions to these minor details close to your chest. “Making my girlfriend breakfast,” he says, keeping his eyes on the pan in front of him as he raises a glass of water for you to see.

You snort, but your heart squeezes behind your rib cage, “Since when can you cook?” You tease, coming around to lean against your counter and take the glass, eyes full of adoration as you stare at the man before you.

Your boyfriend.

#juyeon x reader #juyeon smut #the boyz x reader #the boyz smut #lee juyeon #tbz smut #tbz x reader #kvanity #deoboyznet

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cmsdesigns · 2 years ago

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Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: EILEEN FISHER Bone & Silver-Blue Window Pane Merino Wool Blend Sweater, XL ✨FLAW.

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gogmstuff · 3 years ago

Photo

1786 Lute Player by Johann Friedrich August Tischbein (location ?). From gallerix.ru/storeroom/473715524/N/3500/?navi=1252869518 2450X3258 @72 1.8Mj.

#1788 fashion #1780s fashion #Louis XVI fashion #Rococo fashion #Johann Friedrich August Tischbein #picture hat #feathered hat #paned upper sleeves #puffed upper sleeves #long tight lower sleeves #back-flared cuffs #neckline ruff

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fereldanwench · 3 years ago

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Soothing kisses for Goro and V

Thank you for sending this and sorry it took me so long to get to it! This ended up being one of those prompts that I couldn't stop running with, so the full thing is also on AO3. ♥

With a wince, Valerie shrugged her heavy leather coat down her aching shoulders. A fine laceration ran across her left bicep, a parting gift from the now-dead Militech guard who stumbled upon her downloading classified documents from a restricted terminal. The bleeding had slowed, but the lining of her coat chafed the thin scab and dragged a red smear down her arm.

Valerie frowned at the messy cut, although its faint sting didn't trouble her nearly as much as the deep throb that pounded across her upper back. Militech sentries liked their batons, apparently.

"I think Arasaka's mole is getting fed bad intel." Valerie stole a glance at Goro, following his nimble fingers as they unclasped the buttons on his blood-stained shirt. "Our timing was perfect. Security wasn't supposed to be in that sector for another 30 minutes."

She laid her coat on a sleek armchair near one of the many floor-length windows that lined their penthouse bedroom. Thin rivulets of acid rain streamed down the glass panes, enveloping Night City's midnight skyline in a subtle green mist.

"Yes." Goro pulled his shirt sleeves down his arms and crumpled the soiled fabric in his hands before discarding it in the nearby hamper. A quick peek at his bare torso told Valerie most of that blood was likely not his. "The agent has no doubt been made, as you say."

"At least we were able to get the data," Valerie said as she pulled an encased datashard out of her pants pocket.

She hobbled to the dresser, her right hip also cramped after a vicious encounter with a Militech bludgeon, and pressed her index finger to the security reader on the top drawer. Valerie placed the shard in the climate-controlled compartment for safe-keeping until it could be delivered to its Arasaka custodian.

As she closed and locked the drawer, Valerie caught her disheveled reflection in the wide mirror above the bureau. Her sapphire ponytail was tangled over her chest, and her skin was sticky with a sheen of sweat and flecks of blood. Grimacing, Valerie lifted her arms to peel off her clammy tank top and then tossed it into the laundry basket. She slowly twisted her waist, inspecting the blooms of pink and red across her shoulder and above her hip. They'd be fully mottled and purple within 24 hours.

Valerie joined Goro by the hamper and wriggled out of her pants as she assessed his injuries, or lack thereof. She guessed she got the brunt of the attack; he had been standing watch at the other end of the corridor--shitty, shitty intel--when the first Militech guard snuck up on Valerie, but he did fend off the backup. Her gaze roved over his abdomen, looking for any bruised or broken skin, but as she followed the soft contours of his muscles, she quickly realized he was mostly unmarred by their recent assignment.

Not that the conclusion entirely ceased her examination. Despite the ache in her back and onset of exhaustion, Valerie found herself admiring the fine, dark hairs that trailed down his midsection. When she glanced back at his handsome face, she was met with a smirk that lit up his warm eyes.

"I was checking for injuries." Valerie smiled, a little coy, and reached for his forearm, drawing him closer to her.

"You are very thorough." His smirk grew wider.

"I am," Valerie replied matter-of-factly. She pointed to his left thigh. "Your leg is bleeding."

Valerie rubbed the tip of her nose against his, and their lips met in a tender kiss. Goro brought his hand to her jaw, his palm barely caressing her skin until she deepened the embrace, a silent plea for him to touch her. As his thumb stroked her cheek, she skimmed her fingertips down his stomach, delighting in the way his muscles twitched under her hands.

That Goro Takemura was ticklishmight be her most prized piece of Arasaka intelligence.

"You are also bleeding," Goro murmured into her neck, his thumb hovering over the slash on her arm.

"We can take care of it after a shower." Valerie unknotted the red sash around his hips and unfastened the button on his trousers. "Would you like to join me?"

He whispered an enthusiastic affirmative against her ear, the raspy tremors of his voice drawing a shiver to her skin.

They finished undressing and dispensing their damp clothes in the laundry bin. Valerie raised her arms to loosen her ponytail, but her fatigued muscles immediately spasmed in protest and her breath caught as the dull pang erupted across her shoulders. Goro stepped behind her, his groin almost brushing against her bare ass, and his meticulous fingers unlooped her long hair from the band.

"Thank you," Valerie said softly.

"You are welcome," Goro replied and kissed the curve of her neck.

Valerie led them to their stately bathroom and turned on the shower while Goro untied his own hair. She reached her arm under the showerhead, testing the temperature before submerging herself under the flow of hot water and luxuriating in the light massage over her neck and shoulders. Valerie barely registered Goro joining her until he closed the glass door.

She shuffled across the coarse tile to let him rinse off and reached for her shampoo, but Goro grabbed the bottle before she could. He made a circular gesture with his finger, wordlessly bidding her turn around, before he poured a dab into his palm. More than happy to comply, Valerie tilted her head back, humming in appreciation as he massaged and lathered her scalp. Her eyelashes fluttered as she reveled in the impeccable pressure of his fingertips, firm yet gentle.

They took turns under the water and soaping up, scrubbing the blood and grime from each other, and then dried off with the thick white towels hanging by the shower. Wrapping it around his waist, Goro walked to the cabinets under the sink and retrieved a first aid kit. Valerie leaned against the countertop, wringing out her hair in her towel as he opened the container.

"Let me have your arm, please."

She laid the towel on the counter behind her and extended her left arm to Goro. He squeezed a dab of antibiotic ointment on the tip of his index finger and gingerly gripped her bicep just above the elbow. Valerie hissed quietly when the balm hit the cut, and Goro wrinkled his brow in a dubious expression.

"What?" Valerie asked with a soft laugh. "That shit always stings."

"You are more dramatic receiving simple treatment than getting injured." Goro shook his head.

"Did you just call medramatic?" Valerie snickered again as he finished applying the ointment.

"What is your expression?" He pulled out a pristine white bandage from the kit and smirked. "'If the shoe fits, wear it?'"

"Mhm, I have another one for you: the pot calling the kettle black."

Goro only smiled in response as he focused on meticulously binding the gauze around her arm. Valerie watched his elegant, chrome-lined fingers affix the sticky end of the dressing in place, and she beamed, almost giggling, when he finished by pressing his lips just above the bandage in a tender, soothing kiss. He looked up at her with his adoring brown eyes, and Valerie brushed back a few strands of damp hair from his forehead.

"Your turn," she said, holding out her hand for the antibiotic salve.

He hesitated, likely considering the probability of her just letting him do it himself, and placed the tube in her palm. Valerie leveraged her weight on her good leg and lowered to one knee. She pushed the towel aside and repeated the process on his thigh: first applying the ointment and then wrapping the bandage.

Each time her hand slipped between his legs, the downy heat radiating from his skin tempted her fingers to slide higher. Instead, she followed his lead again and kissed his thigh just above the gauze.

Goro offered his hand, helping her steady herself as she stood up. They hung up their damp towels, and Goro lightly touched the back of her shoulder.

"Would you like anything for this?"

"I think I left the analgesic gel by the bed." Valerie reached for his hand and brought his knuckles to her lips, lightly kissing them as she smiled. "I'll let you give me a massage after we get dressed."

"Truly an honor." His tone was dry, but the glint in his eyes suggested it just might be.

They returned to the bedroom and dressed for sleep, Goro in a pair of gray linen pants and Valerie only in simple black underwear. She grabbed a matching camisole but placed it on her nightstand and fetched the half-empty jar of painkiller balm from the top drawer.

"When's the drop-off tomorrow?" Valerie asked as she tossed the jar across the mattress to Goro.

"After dark." He caught it expertly with one hand.

"Oh, we can sleep in." Valerie slowly crawled onto the bed and settled in the center of the soft, silvery comforter.

"You never sleep in," Goro pointed out as he joined her, kneeling at her back.

"Maybe I just like the illusion of having choices," Valerie said wryly.

Goro slipped his fingers under her damp hair and swept the long strands over her shoulder, the blue locks falling over her bare breast. He unscrewed the lid on the jar and rubbed the salve between his palms, warming the ointment before he began working it into Valerie's sore muscles. Her neck went slack, and her eyes closed as his hands gliding across her shoulders alleviated the deep ache under her skin.

"I am sorry I was unable to reach you in time," Goro said as he turned his attention to the bruise above her hip.

Valerie's eyes fluttered open. She frowned.

"We were told the guards patrolled the north corridor, not the south. You were where you thought you were supposed to be." She reached behind her, rubbing his knee. "Don't apologize."

"You were hurt," Goro protested.

Valerie slowly rolled to her knees, shifting to look at him. She studied his beautiful face, his brown eyes warm and intense, his perfect brow knotted in self-doubt. Valerie tapped the thigh that also sustained a minor injury during their mission.

"We both were. And not even badly this time." Valerie raised her eyebrows in gentle admonishment. "It's the job."

Her hand trailed up his thigh to his stomach, her nails grazing the scar of an old bullet wound on his side.

"I don't like seeing you get hurt either. But you don't have to… You're not…." Valerie chewed on the inside of her cheek. "You're not a bodyguard anymore, Goro," she finished gently.

"Do you believe that is the only reason I wish to see you safe?" He asked in kind.

Valerie shook her head.

"I know it's not." She placed her hand on his chest, right below the Arasaka-stamped cybernetics. "But old habits die hard. Old regrets even harder."

Goro looked up at the high ceiling, considering her words, and Valerie moved her hand to his jaw, her thumb lightly stroking the stubble just above his cyberware. His gaze returned to hers, and she gave him a reassuring smile before kissing him. She pulled away gently and rested her forehead against his, reaching for his hands and intertwining their fingers.

"I wish you could know how safe you make me feel," Valerie whispered.

She opened her eyes and leaned back. Goro brought their locked hands to his lips and kissed her knuckles.

"That is good to hear," he said with his small smile.

Valerie smiled back and kissed him again before returning the cream to her nightstand. She pulled on the camisole, her shoulders now less painful after Goro's massage, and slipped her legs under the covers. Goro turned off the lights and joined her, wrapping his arm around her waist as he nestled on the pillows behind her.

"I mean it, you know," she murmured in a sleepy haze.

"I know, Valerie," Goro replied softly.

Only a few hours later, when the sun barely began to peek over Night City's neon horizon, Valerie stirred under the blankets, discreetly trying to slip out from under Goro's arm without disturbing him. Her efforts were in vain as she was met with gentle resistance.

"We are sleeping in, remember?" Goro murmured against her neck as he drew her closer to him.

#goro takemura #c: goro takemura #oc: valerie v powell #ship: goro x valerie #fic: goro x valerie #g: cyberpunk 2077 #mine: stories #this is extremely self-indulgent and honestly exactly what i needed after the shitshow that was just the first month of 2022 #no smut but they are naked for most of it so enjoy lmao

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failedintsave · 3 years ago

Note

🥶 for any couple you please! I'm terrible at picking ships for other people to write, lol (Gointothevvater)

[Send me an emoji and I'll write a drabble]

Picking a ship probably took longer than writing this haha. I didn't know what canon character ship you'd prefer so I tried my hand at some Ceelie x Pickles, hope you don't mind me borrowing your OC again, I adore her!

🥶- Cold

The multicolored swirl of oil skimmed the surface of gray puddles gathered in the gutter, dirty runoff washing from London's busy roadways even as the rain finally let up. Exhaust and petrichor filled the air outside the sold-out Hammersmith Odeon, but Pickles smothered the scent of either, lighting up another in a series of cigarettes and trying not to let the weather completely ruin the brand new red boots he wore. He hopped to the side, cursing as a bus pulled away from the curb, splashing filthy water onto the sidewalk next to him.

Ahead, laughter echoed off the concrete curve of the overpass as St. Cecilia rounded a corner, the sound like silver striking crystal stemware. Readjusting the hood of his sweatshirt to shield what was left of his melting hairspray, Pickles quickened his pace to catch her. He'd grabbed the jacket off the floor thinking it was his, but the length of the sleeves and the smell of perfume as he slipped it on told him otherwise.

"Tell me again why we couldn't jest get drunk in tha'hotel room? Why're ya draggin' me out in this creap?" He groused, turning sideways to dodge a man hustling past with an umbrella.

Snakes n Barrels' first global tour had taken them to a myriad of distant locales; from Tokyo to Toronto, Auckland to Amsterdam, they'd performed in every corner of the globe and burned down the house at every stop. Once, quite literally. He wasn't sure New Orleans would be hosting them again soon, but it had been one hell of a show and an even better after party. The French Quarter had certainly seen bigger disasters.

"Because," St. Cecilia called, spinning around to walk backwards so she could catch his eye. "I want a proper pint while we're here, and so should you!"

Truth be told, she always had his eye, from the first moment he'd seen her. Her honey brown gaze sparkled with amusement under shaggy, blonde bangs made slightly frizzy by the humidity. A coquettish grin curled lips painted purple, not by the late November chill, but with her favored lipstick. Pickles could almost feel their soft press on his palm, transferring the vibrant shade to his skin for the thousandth time before curtain call. It was fast becoming one of his favorite colors, second only to the lighter version that graced Ceelie's lips after he'd kissed most of it off.

She led him a few blocks further, through lingering mist and past shop fronts just beginning to adorn their windows for the Christmas season, stopping finally at a heavy wooden door. The lower half of the building was painted cream and trimmed in a deep green, the red brick of its upper story streaked with sooty marks and capped with decorative stone balusters. Square panes of lead glass flanked the door, obscuring the interior but for a warm yellow glow within. No signage named the building a pub but there was a murmur of voices and laughter beyond the walls.

"This should do."

"Thank Christ, I'm freezin' my nuts off." Pickles tugged at the hem of his hoodie, trying to cover his partially exposed midriff. He crowded in behind her as she reached for the door handle.

Rather than open it, St. Cecilia turned and placed her back against the wood, effectively blocking the entrance and quirking one dark brow at him.

"I thought the winters were terrible cold where you're from? Shouldn't you be used to it?"

"Jest cuz it's familiar don't mean I gahtta like it." He reached past her to open the door but she caught his hand, her slim fingers remarkably warm as she held his frozen digits.

"You poor thing. Alright, a quick round, then back in time to warm up." She pressed her lips to his fingertips, a mischievous sparkle glinting in her eyes as she gave one a tiny kitten lick. "The boys should be ready for soundcheck by the time we've finished, yeah?"

Pickles grinned crookedly in return. "Oh, I dunno. Might take me a while ta' thaw out after this lil' adventure."

"Not like we haven't made them wait before." Ceelie purred, dragging him inside by the hoodie's drawstrings. Even in a blizzard, that tone would always make Pickles melt.

#pickles the drummer #st. cecilia jameson #mtl oc #metalocalypse #idk what their ship name is but i think ive seen st.pickleson used? lol #thanks! 💜

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writer-ish · 4 years ago

Note

Hello there! 🙂 Could you please do number 10 from the "Touching" prompts, for Mason and the Detective please? 😊 Thanks!!

prompt: spooning at night pairing: mason x detective (grace bennett) word count: 2.4k | rating: T cw: panic attack, mention of trauma (book 1 related) author note: write a prompt less than 2k words challenge? failed. thank you @silma-words for the prompt! hope you like it. ☾☾ touching prompts

It had started with a light pattering of rain against the window panes.

Light rain is okay. Grace can handle light rain.

She doesn’t love it - especially not at night - but if it’s not torrential, if there’s no lightning or thunder, she can usually force herself to drink some tea, grab a book, and ignore it before falling into a restless sleep.

Light rain is okay.

The problem arises when, halfway through reading the same page for the fifth time, her tea already cold and missing only a sip or two, the rain picks up.

She gets up and pulls her curtains together tightly, but it doesn’t help. Even if she can’t see it, she can still hear it, the heavy slap of rain against the windows, steadily increasing in its ferocity.

Her hands begin to feel clammy and her breathing picks up.

You’re being so stupid, she tells herself, even as she feels deafened by the pounding of her own heart.

This visceral response to thunderstorms - rain, she reminds herself, it's just rain for now - is yet another fun side effect that has lingered since her encounter with Murphy all those months ago.

She tries not to dwell on those moments - the ones where she was certain she was going to die, the ones where she was dying - where the rain pounding on the roof of the warehouse, thunder splitting the sky, was the only discernible sound amidst the chaos.

But at home, alone, with only the rain and a tepid, useless cup of tea to keep her company, it’s difficult to think of anything else.

She paces a bit. Tries to get ready for bed. Lies down on top of the covers, hugging one of her decorative pillows close - the one that has a soft pink fabric designed to look like flower petals all over it, the one Mason hates probably the most - and the entire time the rain beats harder and harder against the few window panes in her small apartment until she feels like the glass might shatter from the force of it.

Her breath is coming in short, quick gasps now and no matter what she does, she can't get her heartrate to slow down. A numbness has begun to spread from her hands upward.

Am I having a heart attack? she wonders, semi-hysterically. Her chest feels tight, painfully so, but she can't tell if it's because of her breathing or not. The scar on her neck tingles sharply and her pulse feels like it might actually burst out from that spot.

At that moment, a clap of thunder reverberates through her walls.

Grace lets out a short scream and the pain in her chest intensifies.

Thunderstorms have been bad for her before, but never this bad.

Oh shit oh fuck, she thinks, it is a fucking heart attack. I'm having a fucking heart attack. Shit shit shit.

Her hands have gone completely cold, the tingling numbness persistent and all-consuming.

She staggers out of bed, black spots flashing in front of her eyes as her breathing worsens, all intakes and almost no exhales, while her sense of dread increases.

I'm going to die, she realizes in dawning horror. I'm going to die here, alone.

The thought is untenable. A collection of faces flashes before her eyes—Tina, her mom, Nate, the rest of Unit Bravo, Mason, Mason, Mason—

She staggers to her nightstand and grabs her phone, pressing the contact for the most recent number she'd called.

He answers on the first ring. “Hey, Gracie, we were just—“

“Nate,” she wheezes out, a sob caught in her throat.

She hears a clatter on the other end, maybe the sound of someone standing up abruptly. There’s a ruckus—voices clamouring.

“Gracie, what’s wrong?” Nate’s voice is urgent, inflected with a ribbon of steel that she barely registers as unusual. “Where are you?”

The voices behind him are getting louder.

“What’s happening?”

“What’s she saying?”

“What the fuck—”

“I’m—home,” she rasps, her heart feeling like it’s about to beat out of her chest. The room is spinning. “I don’t know—what—” What’s happening to me, she completes the thought in her mind, her ability to speak slowly dwindling.

“Something’s wrong with Grace,” she can hear Nate say to whoever he’s with. “I don’t think there's anyone else there, but something has happened—no, Mason, just wait—”

The phone clatters to the ground from Grace's numb fingers and she squeezes her eyes shut tightly as she sinks to the floor. The sound of Nate's voice coming from the receiver feels far away now. She's experiencing an odd sensation, like she's floating above her body, witnessing what's going on down below, and she wonders if that means she's dead.

Minutes pass, and suddenly there's a massive commotion at her front door. She startles, her whole body jerking in horror as she imagines the thunder and lightning from outside entering her home.

A dark figure suddenly appears in her bedroom doorway and swoops towards her and she lets out a pained gasp, her throat unable to emit anything louder than that.

"It's me," the figure says, its voice gruff and familiar, and she's so relieved she almost sobs. "It's me, sweetheart."

She feels herself being lifted up easily, gently, and cradled tight against a recognizable chest. Her heartrate decelerates ever so slightly, though her breathing is still ragged and short.

Mason carries her back to her bed, placing her down gently. His hair and his clothes are wet and the cold feel of his sleeve, the drops of water on her neck and arms, help as she settles.

She briefly registers the way he flings her pillows until each one smacks against the wall in a satisfying thwack of dismissal. When he goes to remove his other hand from her, she grips his arms tighter.

"No—" she wheezes, feeling the tears in her eyes spill over belatedly onto her cheeks.

"Hang on," he responds hoarsely, disentangling himself as he runs his hands over her arms, torso, legs, "I'm just checking you for—"

She shakes her head. "It's not that. I'm—okay." Not injured, she means, though she can't convey that to him because she can't control her breaths.

Her lungs begin to ache with the effort, her body trembling, although the overwhelming sense of dread, the certainty that this was the end, that has faded.

"Hey, hey, hey." He places his hand on her upper chest, his palm large and warm, a steady and comforting presence. "Just breathe."

She shakes her head, gulping air, the tears coming faster now. "Can't… can't."

"Hey." He leans forward looking at her intently and a sense of calm begins to permeate her body, starting from her head and working her way down. Her lungs expand fully for the first time in what feels like hours and she's able to release the entire breath in a motion that's not entirely shaky.

She grips his damp forearm tightly, his hand still resting on her chest as she takes a few other deep breaths. The feeling she had before, the lack of control, the fear, slowly fades until it's just a whisper of discomfort behind her eyes. Even the rain feels distant now; maybe it's passing.

"Is she okay?"

A new voice comes from the doorway, deep and resonant. Grace recognizes it immediately, even in her haze.

“Nate?” she asks, hoarsely.

“Yeah. Nate.” There's something odd in Mason's tone and Grace's eyes snap to his face. He's looking away, his expression indiscernible, but his thumb still strokes the bare skin under her collarbone gently.

Turning to the other agent in the doorway, he says, "She's okay. Tell the others. I got this."

Nate nods briefly, catching Grace's eyes with a warm smile, before turning and leaving the room. She can hear muffled conversation in the other room before the front door opens and then closes again.

She looks back at Mason. "You all came?"

He shrugs. "You called."

Her eyes well up again, her emotions too close to the surface to properly withstand the news that the entirety of Unit Bravo all came rushing to her at the first sign of any trouble.

Mason tsks, bringing his hand up to the base of her neck and applying the barest of pressure before removing it completely.

"Stop."

She closes her eyes and nods, lips quavering only slightly. She brings the heels of her hands up to her eyes and grinds them in, willing the emotions back as she continues to take deep, bracing breaths, in and out.

"What happened?" Mason asks softly after a moment.

Grace, heels of her hands still in her eye sockets, shrugs.

"I'm an idiot?" she offers, voice slightly watery.

He's silent and she can't even see his expression to determine whether or not he agrees.

The silence stretches and she recognizes that he's giving her time to sort through her feelings. Taking a few more deep breaths, she removes her hands from her eyes and looks at him, blinking until he's no longer blurry. He's sitting on the edge of her bed, one hand braced in the soft, quilted duvet, the other resting on his black jeans. His long sleeve tee is the same familiar deep red it usually is, his top buttons undone as though he'd dressed hastily. The crystal he always wears seems to glow with its own preternatural light, coming from within.

"It's the rain," she says finally, softly. "I can't…" She takes a deep breath. "I have a hard time when it's stormy out, ever since everything that happened with Murphy."

Mason stares at her assessingly, eyes narrowed in a grumpy concern that was so characteristic of him she wanted to cry again.

"It's probably rained over a dozen times since then," he says eventually, eyes still narrowed, the silver-grey highlighted by a thin sliver of moonlight peeking in through the blinds she hadn't managed to close all the way.

She nods, understanding what he's getting at. "I…have always found it difficult. But I can manage it by myself, usually." She sighs shakily. "This time was…different."

"Why?"

She shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe the news about the trappers. Maybe just stress, I—"

"No," he interrupts her, waving away her words. "Why do you manage it by yourself?"

"I—" She looks at him in surprise, unable to form an answer. Because I always have? Because I don't know how else to manage things? Because I don't want to bother you, when we haven't even defined what we are. Instead of saying any of that, she simply shrugs.

"Call Nate sooner next time." He gets up and stretches and her eyes are immediately drawn to the band of freckled, umber skin that is revealed as his shirt rides up. "Are you going to be okay?"

"Wait—" She looks at him perplexed. "You're not—staying?" His other words register suddenly. "And why would I call Nate?"

He shrugs, hands in his pockets as he looks down, a dark lock of hair tumbling over his eye.

Understanding dawns slowly. Nate had been the person she'd called when she'd been in the midst of—whatever that was.

She'd called him because he'd been at the top of her call list.

He was at the top of her call list, because earlier that day she'd had a research question and she'd called him to chat for a bit.

Nate is easy to talk to on the phone. Nate is easy to talk to, period.

Her and Mason, on the other hand—

Her and Mason communicate mainly in their silences.

Through touch, through knowing glances, through all the things they don't need to say. A quirk of an eyebrow or a smirk is all it takes sometimes for understanding to pass between them.

Phone calls aren't really in their repertoire. Grace isn't even sure he knows how to text.

She reaches out suddenly, grasping his hand, warm and rough between hers.

"Stay," she says quietly. "I want you here."

Not Nate, she clarifies in a way that she hopes he understands, her lips pressing together apologetically.

He narrows a glance at her, his expression softening almost unwillingly and in small increments.

With a quiet sigh, he allows her to pull him closer. She kneels on the bed and he looks down at her, hands cradling her jaw and his thumbs stroking her cheeks. He draws them over her eyelids, traces the sensitive skin under eyes, passes them gently over her lips.

“No more storms alone, got it?”

She nods. “I promise.” She places her hand over his heart and looks up at him.

He nods as well, briefly, understanding passing through them once more in the silence, as his eyes take in the room before meeting hers again.

"Let's get you to bed, yeah?"

She nods, suddenly feeling how overwhelmingly tired she actually is. Her whole body sags, sapped of whatever frenetic energy was fueling it before. Despite her exhaustion, she still takes note of how he made a bed reference with no innuendo whatsoever. Simply the soft, gruff tone she's come to understand as his concern.

Still, she can't help but joke, if only to ease the awkward-borne tension of their poorly defined relationship: "Sorry if I'm not up for the usual—"

"Shut it." He cuts her off swiftly, pinching her chin with his forefinger and middle finger gently. "I'm not in the mood for your nonsense."

She leans back to look up at him indignantly, only to feel her ire fade away as she sees the teasing smirk on his lips.

"Only sleeping," he confirms. "Come on."

He throws back her covers and she snuggles under, watching as he removes his boots and jeans before joining her.

Immediately, he yanks her towards him, the curve of her back and her bottom fitting perfectly into the concave line of his chest and thighs. She feels the hair on his legs tickling the backs of hers and she tucks her cold feet between his ankles.

He hisses at the feeling and she laughs softly, already yawning. She clutches his hand in hers and brings his arm, wrapped around her stomach, higher up her chest until she's cradling it against her, his knuckles skimming her chin. He smells clean, like soap and fresh tobacco, and it's a smell that is so uniquely Mason she can't help but sigh contentedly.

She feels him kiss the top of her head. "Sleep."

His low command puts her even more at ease as she feels herself sinking deeper into slumber.

The rain still patters against the window, picking up again in its intensity.

She snuggles deeper into Mason's embrace, revelling in the warmth of his skin and the comfort and security of his arms.

The storm doesn't bother her again that night.

☾ feel free to send me a prompt

tags: @utterlyinevitable , @ethansramsey , @otherworldlypresents , @aworldoffandoms , @raleighcarrera , @ejunkiet , @starrystarrytrouble , @terrm9 , @openheartthot , @octobereighth , @campsearchlight , @coldshrugs , @kelseaaa , @homeformyheart , @intothestrawberryjar , @magebastard , @kodysteach (if you don’t want to be tagged for twc, mason x detective, and/or prompts, please let me know!)

#the wayhaven chronicles #twc fanfic #mason x detective #twc prompts #twc mason #specialist agent mason #agent m #mason x grace #soft mason is soft #thank you for the prompt!#i really need to try and make these shorter #like damn #if I tagged you more than once I apologize

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demospectator · 3 years ago

Photo

Chinese merchant with his two children in Ross Alley of pre-1906 San Francisco Chinatown, c. 1902. Photograph attributed to Charles Weidner.

Two Fathers of Old Chinatown

In the late nineteenth century, a host of photographers flocked to San Francisco Chinatown to capture images of the pre -1906 neighborhood and particularly its children. Photos by Arnold Genthe of Chinatown’s children proved particularly popular, and many images by Genthe and others were sold to tourist postcard publishers.

Linking two separate images of the same family from Chinatown’s pre-1906 photographic record represents an extraordinary find. However, this Father’s Day brings a second pair of photographs of an individual working in a very different sector of old Chinatown’s economy than the father seen in the first set of photos.

The Merchant

The image of a Chinese father with his son and daughter in Ross Alley remains striking today. From the better tailoring of his jacket and style of hat, the father appears to be a merchant. He looks confidently into the camera lens with a half-smile, gripping his daughter’s left hand through the long sleeve of her tunic. The girl is flanked by his son who also looks directly at the photographer. A horse-drawn wagon can be seen behind the trio, making deliveries to the businesses in the alley in much the same manner as occurs in Ross Alley of this century. The image of a Chinese father and his children became well-known as a result of numerous printings as a postcard.

“An Alley in Chinatown, characteristic scene of many of the small thoroughfares in this section of San Francisco” c. 1902. Photograph attributed to a negative by Charles Weidner, postcard published by Britton & Rey, San Francisco (from the collection of Wong Yuen-Ming).

This Father’s Day, however, brings a fortuitous discovery in the form of a second photo of the same Chinese merchant and his children in a different Chinatown location (and perhaps by a different photographer).

Chinese merchant and his children. Photographer unknown (from the Cooper Chow collection at the Chinese Historical Society of America).

In the above image, the same trio of father, daughter and son are wearing the same clothes and posing in front of what is probably the father’s business premises. Prominent advertising signage appears above the doorway to the business which reads from right to left as follows: 廣珍號珍珠玉器金銀首飾男女新衣蘇杭發客 or roughly “Guangzhen Pearl Jade Gold and Silver Jewelry Men's and Women's New Clothes Suzhou and Hangzhou” (pinyin: “Guǎng zhēn hào zhēnzhū yùqì jīnyín shǒushì nánnǚ xīn yī sūhángfā kè “; canto: “Gwong Zun ho sunjiu yok hay gam ngan sau sik nam neuih sun yee so hong faat haak”).

The barely discernible calligraphy on the upper-right pane of the store window frame bears the probable business name, 廣珍 (“Gwong Zun”).

Magnification of the window reveals at several photographs that can be seen through the window. At least four framed photos are visible on a wall behind a desk. On the most discernible of the photos, a figure appears to be seated and holding a fan – a pose commonly used by Chinese subjects in the studio portraiture of the late 19th century. The figure could be an ancestor or even the merchant’s wife, as photos became essential evidence to overcome the hurdles to the effective denial of entry to the US by Chinese females after the enactment of the Page Act of 1875 which purported to bar the immigration of prostitutes.

A couple of wooden shutters appear behind the merchant and his son. The panels would have been used to cover the window as a security measure. A similar set of shutters also appear at the far right of the photo frame, indicating the merchant shared this alleyway or street with other businesses. Unfortunately, the signage (appearing in the upper right-hand corner of the frame), for what appears to be a street number or street name is illegible.

Outside of his store, the merchant shows more of a smile as he looks directly at the camera lens, perhaps more familiar with the photographer. Even his son has started to show the beginning traces of a smile. This implies that the photographer either followed the trio to father’s place of business from Ross Alley or encountered the merchant and his offspring for another shot.

The Highbinder

The serious study of the role of illegal business enterprises played in the micro-economy of segregated and marginalized communities such as old San Francisco Chinatown remains to be written. However, the fact that gambling establishments played an out-sized role in the ghetto economy’s demand and supply of goods and services before and after the 1906 quake and fire continues in the living memory of descendants of family members who worked in some fashion for the gambling dens. The cash-rich operators of the gaming operations were viewed by many Chinatown as veritable kings who had the means to live well, arrange for women to enter the US to start families, and buy real estate openly or clandestinely during an era of alien land laws. The prevalence of large amounts of cash and contraband in Chinatown establishments providing opium or gambling to the public required security measures in the form of watchmen, armed guards, and fortified doors against interdiction by police and competitors.

In this context, we consider the next two photos of a “highbinder” whose work and home lives were captured in a remarkable pair of photographs sometime during the 1880’s.

As a veteran of the Chinatown beat, San Francisco Patrol Special officer Delos Woodruff (1834-1893) was best known for harnessing the new photographic technology of the day by compiling a book of mug-shots of his arrestees and suspects. He is often credited as the originator of the term “highbinder” in reference to the “hatchet men/boys,” “boo how doy” (Toisanese pronunciation), or 斧頭仔 (canto: “fu1 tau3 jai2”) who served as the soldiers or enforcers for the criminal tongs of Chinatown. As Richard H. Dillon wrote in his book, Hatchet Men, Woodruff was testifying in court when he declared: “A lot of highbinders came to the place—” whereupon the judge interrupted him with a gesture of his hand. “What do you mean by ‘highbinders?” Woodruff replied, “[w]hy a lot of Chinese hoodlums… .That’s what I call them.” (Dillon 21)

“4761 Highbinders' Quarters, Chinatown, SF, Cal.” c.1887. Photograph by Isaiah West Taber (Marilyn Blaisdell Collection / Courtesy of a Private Collector).

The volunteer curators at opensfhistory.org correctly note that I.W. Taber’s photo no. 4761 shows a “multiracial group of four people poses in front of a rustic shed; graffiti drawing of woman on left.” The adult Chinese man seen at right is only presumed to be a “highbinder” based on Taber’s caption. His working class garb provides no hints of his vocation other than knee-high work boots, which would suggest a job in an industrial concern such as a cigar or bootmaker.

Perhaps more startling is the pose of his presumed partner, an African American woman holding in both of her hands the Chinese man’s right hand on her left hip. The pose conveys an easy comfort and implicit intimacy between this multiracial couple in an era in which few photographic examples of such have survived. The couple is joined in the photo by a middle-aged white woman and a Chinese boy, whose relationships to the couple have remained unclear across the centuries (although the boy could have been the highbinder’s son).

“’Honeymoon of the Chinee and the Coon.’ Highbinder Headquarters, Chinatown, San Francisco,” c.1887. Color postcard published by Britton & Rey, San Francisco, based on a photograph by I.W. Taber (from the collection of the California Historical Society).

As rare and surprising as it appears, the image of an interracial coupling by a Chinese man and African American woman was hardly novel for the Chinatown area of the late 19th century for at least three reasons.

First, San Francisco’s pioneer Black and Chinese communities lived in close proximity to each other. According to a city-sponsored study from 2016, “[t]he African American presence was densest in the eastern portion of this area. By the last quarter of the nineteenth century, one-third of the City’s Black population lived in a six-block area bounded by Stockton Street, Kearney [sic] Street, Washington Street, and Broadway. They lived among Chinese, Europeans, and American-born Whites. As shown … this area was served by two horse car street railways by the early 1860s and readily accessible to service jobs in the commercial core. ”

Second, California had enacted laws against the importation of Chinese, Japanese and Mongolian women five years before a federal ban. The state had cited the rise of prostitution crimes as the rationale for effectively discouraging Asian women from coming to California. The state law, 1870 Cal Stat 330, required that “Mongolian” women immigrants to prove that they were of good character.

In 1875, a new federal law barred entry of "Chinese, Japanese and Mongolian prostitutes, felons, and contract laborers," based on the assumptions that Asian women were “prostitutes” and Chinese laborers were indentured or “coolie” labor. The Page Act of 1875 (Sect. 141, 18 Stat. 477, 3 March 1875) was the first restrictive federal immigration law in the United States, which effectively prohibited the entry of Chinese women. The law was named after its sponsor, Representative Horace F. Page, a Republican representing California who introduced it to “end the danger of cheap Chinese labor and immoral Chinese women.” The law also technically barred immigrants considered “undesirable.”

Closing female Chinese immigration represented an explicit form of legislative genocide. Preventing women from immigrating alongside their partners meant male laborers were unable to create families and set down roots in America. Chinese males had little recourse except to earn and send money back to impoverished villages in southern China, with the hope of returning at some future time to rejoin their families. The Chinese, it was presumed, would either leave or die out over time in America.

Third, racist legal restrictions had severely limited the marriage and family choices for Chinatown’s working class males. From its inception, the state of California banned interracial marriage since achieving statehood in 1850. The initial statute of 1850 specifically banned interracial marriage between whites and blacks, declaring that “all marriages of whites with negroes or mulattoes are declared to be null and void” See, Cal. Compiled Laws of California Chapter XXXV Section 3 (Cal. Stat. 1850). The legislature later amended the statute to ban the marriage of whites with people from other racial minority groups, most likely because of an increasingly diverse population coupled with an “inclination to segregate” as demonstrated by the existence of an anti-miscegenation statute (Karthikeyan, Chin).

In 1905, the marriage of a white person to an Asian was explicitly banned. The language of the statute was changed so that “no license must be issued authorizing the marriage of a white person with a negro, mulatto, or mongolian.” See Cal. Compiled Laws of California Chapter CLXXXVI Section 69 (Cal. Stat. 1905). “Members of the Malay race” as part of those ineligible to marry whites were added to the law a quarter-century later. See Cal. Compiled Laws of California Chapter 104 Section 60 (Cal. Stat. 1933). Although a full discussion of California’s anti-miscegenation laws is beyond the scope of this article, suffice to say that the state’s principal focus for legislative action was to expand the classes of persons who were unworthy to marry a white person.

Resulting bachelorhood among Chinese male laborers defined life in old Chinatown for the next 70 years. The bachelor society also enhanced mainstream suspicions and served as the foundation for the Sojourner Myth and Perpetual Foreigner Syndrome, which permeates attitudes and writings about the Chinese American experience to this day. “They were portrayed as driftless," says Dr. Melissa May Borja, assistant professor in the Department of American Culture at the University of Michigan. “It enhanced the view that they shouldn’t be full Americans. Barriers justified other barriers.” Thus, the highbinder in Taber’s photo lived in a world in which he had few choices to build anything approaching a conventional home life.

As a legal issue, the statutory scheme largely ignored the issue of marriages between non-white persons.

Thus, the highbinder shown in Taber’s photo lived in a world in which he had few choices to build anything approaching a conventional home life. Far from home, denied a normal home life, a Chinese pioneer had found his solution to society’s limits on his world and a companion against the loneliness of his days in his new land.

“4765 Guard on Duty, Lottery Den, Chinatown, S.F., Cal." c. 1887. Photo by Isaiah West Taber (from the collection of Gallica, the digital library of the National Library of France and its partners).

I.W. Taber’s photo of a gambling den guard is seldom exhibited, and it is not easily accessible online from the usual public archival sources. However, Taber’s startling image answers the question why he referred to the man in the previous photo no. 4761 as a “highbinder.” The image also presents a rare and startling instance of the same subject appearing in two different photos of old Chinatown in two different venues.

I.W. Taber’s fascinating photo of a security guard for a Chinatown gambling seems to have attracted scant from researchers, archivists and museum curators about the nameless Chinese man who allowed Taber to photograph scenes of his home and work lives.

The stolidity of the guard imparts to the viewer that he is the principal guardian for the lottery den. Although he is seated, our highbinder projects a size and heft greater than presence of the more slightly-built man wearing the 瓜皮帽 (canto: “gwa pei moh”) or 小瓜帽 (canto: “siu gwah moh”) for headwear. The seated man displays a pair of large hands formed as half-fists between his knees. The standing man’s right hand is poised reflexively at belt height in front of his oversized jacket; he appears ready to reach inside, if necessary, for something concealed inside his garment. Both men stare into the camera’s lens with a blend of curiosity and relaxed concern, but without a sense of heightened readiness or fear. Perhaps the larger man has reassured his colleague that Taber’s presence posed no threat to their employer’s business.

The operators of Chinatown’s lottery took bets day and night on what the Chinese called “white pigeon.” Police Chief Jesse B. Cook wrote about lottery operations in a 1931 Chinatown beat memoir as follows:

“In regard to the gambling games in Chinatown—my first trip to Chinatown was in 1889 as a patrolman in a squad. At that time there were about 62 lottery agents, 50 fan tan games and eight lottery drawings in Chinatown. * * *

“The lottery drawings: The Chinese have a very large room, with the doors constructed the same as in the case of a fan tan game room. The far end of the room is partitioned off with wire screens to the full width and about 8 feet deep. In back of the screen are two shelves, one of which acts as a counter for four Chinamen. Each Chinaman has a separate window in the screen. On the other shelf are placed Chinese ink pots and brushes, for the purpose of marking Chinese lottery tickets. Every Chinese lottery ticket has 80 characters on it; 40 above the line and 40 below. Each company stamps their own name at the head of the ticket. These tickets are really a Chinese poem, written by a Chinaman while in prison, and later adopted as a Chinese lottery ticket. There is not a thing on these tickets to designate their real use, although they are never used for any other purpose.

“The agents around town had their offices in back of stores where they sell the tickets. Just before the drawing takes place, they present a triplicate copy of each ticket sold to the Chinaman at the window. The duplicate ticket is given to the purchaser, while the original is retained by the agent.

“The clerk back of the window then figures up the amount that the agent should turn in to cover the tickets sold. If they agree, the clerk accepts the tickets. No receipts are given. The actual taking and accepting of the tickets by the clerk is considered an acknowledgment, as his name appears on all the tickets.

“Sign says white persons, with or without guides, are barred from this Chinatown alley. As soon as all the money and tickets are in, the tickets are closed and the lottery is held. In a little package, about 2 inches square, are 80 slips of paper. On each of these slips is a character corresponding to one of the characters on the lottery ticket. The Chinaman sets in front of him a large pan, like the old-time milk pans we used to set for milk to raise cream, and four bowls, each bearing a Chinese number—either 1, 2, 3 or 4. The small slips of paper are folded into little pellets, thrown into the pan and shaken up. The drawing then begins. The first pellet drawn is put into bowl No. 1, the next into bowl No. 2, and so on, until there are twenty pellets in each bowl.

“The Chinaman then takes another small package, containing four little square pieces of paper. On each of these pieces is a figure in Chinese corresponding with the figures on the bowls. The same procedure is then followed as with the pellets. The slip picked from the pan is handed to the clerk, who in turn hands it to a man standing on the shelf in back of him. It is opened, in the presence of everybody gathered there. Of course, the bowl bearing the same number is considered the winning bowl, the other three are placed under the counter.

“The pellets are then taken from the winning bowl and are pasted on a board in full view. These are winning characters. The Chinese mark the tickets by daubing the characters that agree with the ones on the board, with a brush. After this has been done, they present their tickets, and come back at the proper time to get their reward; that is, whatever they won.

“In 1895, the lotteries and games were controlled by Chin Buck Guy, Chin Kim You, Wong You, Wong Fook, Jim Wong, Mah Lin Get, Chin Chung, Qwong Bin, who were sometimes called the “Big Eight.”

“The lottery companies at that time were the Tie Loy, Foo Quoy, Foo Quoy Chung, Fay Kay, Shang High, Fook Tie, Quong Tie, New York and Wing Lay Yuene.”

In his classic book San Francisco Chinatown: A Guide to its History and Architecture, historian Phil Choy wrote about the ultimate fate of Chinatown’s lottery:

“The casinos of Reno and Las Vegas copied this lottery and called it “Keno,” using numbers in lieu of the Chinese characters on the keno tickets. For almost a century, the policeman of the Chinatown Squad raided and battered down doors with axes to stop the illegal gambling, to no avail. However, when the federal government established the Kefauver Committee in 1950 to investigate narcotic trafficking and organized crime. Nationwide, Chinatown lotteries stopped abruptly. Congress enacted legislation requiring a federal tax stamp to operate gambling operations. Most of the Chinese lotteries were operated by Chinese with questionable immigration status. Rather than subject themselves to the scrutiny of federal authorities, they chose to close their operations.”

The Taber photo of the lottery den guards conveys an immediate sense that the games are conducted just beyond the double-doors set into a half moon-shaped entrance. Some deterioration in the wall above the entrance indicates water intrusion possibly from the skylight. Both men are washed by mid-day sunlight streaming through a skylight, above and behind the photographer’s position, and onto the landing where they stand guard. In the foreground at left, the last step of a staircase suggests that one more level to the topmost floor or roof can be reached from the landing on which the men stand watch. A semi-polished, wooden balustrade can be seen in the foreground from which the guards can look down into the building’s stairwell.

No weapons are evident, and the rugged-looking guard on duty for Taber’s “lottery den” may simply have performed the non-kinetic role of a “look-see” man whose job would have been to alert the lottery den’s operators and patrons of an imminent raid by police or other parties wishing to disrupt the gambling. Taber’s photo raises more questions than it answers, particularly about the working lives of fathers whose jobs were to look outward for threats and confront them, if necessary.

Fortunately for their as-yet unknown descendants, the two pairs of photographs captured the lives of two men from very different social positions. As such, they must be considered as the priceless tetraptych of old Chinatown.

[updated: 2022-7-24]

#Chinatown merchant #Chinatown highbinder #San Francisco Chinatown #Ross Alley #keno #Chinatown lottery #I.W. Taber #Page Act of 1875 #California anti-miscegenation laws #African Americans in Chinatown #Charles Weidner #Jesse B. Cook

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