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hier--soir · 1 year ago

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a lover's pinch | two

joel miller x f!reader

pairing: professor!joel miller x f!reader rating: explicit, 18+ minors dni summary: will a complicated realisation drive you and joel apart, or drag you closer together? warnings/tags: au, university professor joel, age gap [20 something years diff], ethically dubious relationship due to inherent power imbalance, some mildly gratuitous Classics chatter, some very gratuitous descriptions of joel's office, trope of being enamoured by your favourite teacher lol [and her fav isn't even joel, sorry guys], angst, a little manhandling, semi-public sex acts with a not-so-stranger, dirty talk, brief impact play, fingering, orgasm denial, oral [m!receiving], face fucking, facial, cum eating, sheeesh i think that's it okay i need a glass of cold water word count: 10.3k i'm not sorry series masterlist | main masterlist a lover's pinch playlist a/n: folks, this series has taken over my entire brain. i'm having the best time writing+outlining it, and i have been so delighted by how many people liked the first part. giving you all the biggest kiss through the screen right now. lmk what you think of part two! this is part two of ALP. you can read the previous part here: one.

Tuesday.

It’s as though a mirage resides in the periphery of your vision.

A wobbling, shimmering thing that offsets the centre of a picture and makes your eyes hurt until you want to close them. The type where you’re squinting and trying to see, trying to make out what’s happening, and people are turning to look at you and pointing and you realise that you aren’t wearing any pants, and it’s a dream, a dream, a nightmare, it’s not fucking real. Illusory. Fantasy.

It's a childish thought that you can’t help but be consumed by. The idea that this is all some cruel, fucked up delusion you’re about to wake up from. That it couldn’t be possible for the charming Texan you’d met four nights prior to be stood only a few metres in front of you, discussing your fucking syllabus. Reality becomes this twisting, writhing thing that is painful and awkward to comprehend, and everything slows to a liquid, dreamlike pace. His voice, his movement, the shifting of other students around you, all drifting by slowly, as if a year has passed in the span of ten seconds.

And yet when you pinch your arm—nails scraping across skin until raw red marks raise in jagged lines—and you don’t wake up, the mirage remains, your stomach rolls.

Joel looks so different here. What had been casual at the bar, a lob of messy hair above a cotton t-shirt, is now professional. Buttoned shirt tucked into pressed brown pants. Beard trimmed, and hair pushed back into soft, tidy waves that roll down to his neck. A set of glasses rest on the bridge of his nose. Square, with black frames that compliment his skin tone, and have your fingers gripping the edge of the desk, wondering why the hell he hadn’t been wearing them on Friday night when he sunk his mouth against your cunt. Dirty little thing.

You can still feel his hands on you, days later. Feel the rough scrape of calloused fingers on your thighs, between your legs. Remember how soft his hair was when you buried your fingers in it and held him against your aching core, whining his name. It had been like this all weekend; holding an image of his tan, handsome face in your mind, trying to emulate the feeling of his hand between your thighs with your own, only to fail over and over again.

And he’s talking. That low, honeyed drawl that tickles across your skin and drips into your ears, warming your insides. It’s a marvellous thing; the way he shifts easily from topic to topic, disarming the room with short, sharp—surprising—jokes sifted in between soft-spoken sentiments about classical academia and the university, and what he hopes you as individuals will gain from a postgraduate in this course, and it feels like it’s been both hours and seconds as you watch him breathlessly, waiting. Waiting for his eyes to skirt to your side of the room, to dance across your face and recognise you, remember you, just as he said he would.

Joel is talking about The Aeneid when he finally notices you.

“I want you to be thinking about language,” he’s saying. “And tone. Virgil and Homer’s writing differs in a lotta ways, but it does share that same character of irony. Don’t forget that Virgil wrote during the Golden Age of the Roman Empire – and he’s presenting us with a story about destiny, about fate. Our focus here isn’t so much about love, or reverence, as it is about tragedy – no one in The Aeneid is safe from what their own fate lays out for them. All of these calamities and heartbreaks are necessary for the empire to thrive.”

He pauses. “Take Dido in book four as a prime example. In the openin’ lines of her story, if we’re looking to the West translation; she is suffering from love’s deadly wound, feeding it with her blood and being consumed by its hidden fire. We know from the beginnin’, that her love for Aeneas will be her downfall; that her death is essential for him to leave Carthage. And on that same page, talkin’ about Aeneas, we get, oh how cruelly he has been hounded by the Fates. This is what you need to think about if you’re gonna get to the bottom of Virgil’s bigger plan with these books. Why is he using this language? These words? I want—”

Joel inhales sharply, dark eyes frozen on your face, which grows steadily warmer beneath his scrutiny. His body doesn’t move, hands hovering in the air mid-gesticulation, lips parted as his next words rest there, caught on his tongue. You swallow thickly. Feel sweat form on your hairline. The silence stretches, dead air giving rise to confused murmurs across the room, and your eyes widen, willing him to look away and continue; to do anything except stand there and keep looking at you like that. But it’s like he’s in a trance. Tan face dimming to a sickly, pallid colour, shoulders shifting as he breaths deeply. Staring.

A few heads turn in your direction, but you can’t bring yourself to look back at them; to snatch yourself away from the feeling of being held in his gaze again. It’s intoxicating—almost euphoric—to have those dark eyes on your skin.

And then it’s over, the moment severed as Joel’s eyes snap away and he clears his throat, offering a pained smile to the rest of the room. And he’s apologising, Lost my train of thought for a moment there, using a playful tone of voice as he says, first day of the semester jitters, y’know?

He ignores you after that.

For the entirety of the two-hour lecture, he makes sure not to spare a single glance in your direction. And it stings, but you suppose you understand. Can see the tension held in his shoulders now; the strain in his voice as he works to talk with that same measured ease he’d had at the beginning.

You take notes carefully, and don’t bother raising your hand when he inspires participation from the other students. But by the end of the class, you can’t bring yourself to walk out – not without saying something, without finding some kind of understanding over what the fuck is happening. You’re practically glued to your seat as students rise, filing out of the theatre hall.

Joel stands by the desk, back hunched as he collects his things, fielding kind comments of thanks and that was great from people as they pass him on their way toward the exit. Eventually you join the stream, wandering down the stairs on shaky legs until you find yourself at the edge of his desk, fiddling with the strap of your bag and watching his back. His shoulders hunch tighter when you pause there, shadow splaying across the desk. Though his face isn’t visible to you, his hands are almost a blur, scrambling to drag his things into a messy pile so that he can pack up faster. He slaps his laptop closed and you flinch at the sound.

After a few moments, you find the courage to speak.

“That was, uhh, that was really interesting,” you clear your throat awkwardly, watching other students shuffle past in your periphery. His hands move faster, stuffing loose notes into a leather satchel with little disregard for the paper creasing.

You lower your voice to a hoarse, careful whisper. “We need to talk about this.”

Joel finally looks up, nostrils flaring as he meets your stare. He nods once, looping the bag over his shoulder. “Not here,” he says gruffly, tight eyes darting around the room. “Room’s booked for another lecture in five.”

He tilts his head towards the door, encouraging you to follow him as he paces out towards the hall. You shadow him quickly, clutching your bag and watching the muscles in his back shift beneath his shirt as he walks three paces ahead of you. You fight the urge to place your hand in the dip between his shoulder blades; to feel the heat of his skin, the rolling tension beneath it, and dig your fingernails into him. Joel doesn’t look back to check if you’re following – he knows you are.

He leads you up a flight of stairs and down another hall, makes a left, and then another left, until finally he’s pausing and dragging a key from his pocket, pressing it into the lock of a heavy wooden door and nudging it open. There’s a plaque on the wood that reads J MILLER, PhD. You swallow. And then follow him inside and let the door fall shut behind you.

Joel stalks into the room, feet heavy against the dark carpet. He tosses his satchel to the floor and then stands by the desk, wild eyes trained on where you hover silently by the door. He looks on edge, to say the least. Frazzled fingers race through his hair, mussing the curls until they look reminiscent of the past Friday. Foot tapping against the ground in a quick, jerky rhythm.

And you know that you need to talk, need to clear the air, need to say anything, but you can’t help it when your eyes wander around the room because—

His office is sort of beautiful.

A larger space than you expected it to be, with a north-facing window that allows a natural yellowed morning light to fill the space, and a vast bookshelf stretching across the wall behind a large desk. You can’t make out the titles from where you stand by the door, but texts fill every crack and crevice of the shelfing unit, not organised by any noticeable colour scheme or structure. The space is messy – personal. In fact, everywhere you look seems to expose something private, something intimate.

A jacket hangs from a hook on the back of the door, made of a worn duck brown waxed material that looks soft to the touch. In the corner opposite the desk, a velvet green armchair sits beside a low table that houses a record player and a potted plant. Sleeves of records are tucked beneath the table, stacked upon each other haphazardly, without a hint of dust on them. Clearly touched and rifled through more often than not.

The wide window is cracked just an inch, allowing a warm early-Fall breeze to slip in and rustle the starched curtains. A coffee mug is beside the record player. Two more sit abandoned on the outskirts of his desk. All empty and forgotten about, too busy to be refilled or moved or cleaned. And there are books everywhere; strewn across his desk, forgotten beneath the cushion of his armchair, piled against the wall beneath the window. Worn, well-read books, with frayed covers and broken spines. You almost drool, tempted to ignore him completely and venture towards them; to run your fingers over the covers and find out exactly what kind of writing this enigma of a man spends so much time devouring.

After what feels like an hour of simply looking—but could only have been a minute—Joel breaks the silence.

“Did you know?”

His voice is quiet. Detached. The backs of his thighs perch on the edge of the desk, hands tangled in his lap. Large fingers pluck at each other as he stares at you from across the room, in an almost anxious fiddling movement.

“What?” you ask.

“Did you know who I was?” he clarifies, voice hardening. Those dark eyebrows tighten in the middle of his forehead, features pinching together into a sharp frown. “When you saw me.”

“Joel,” you scoff, taken aback. “How the hell would I know who you were?”

“Your classes were organised,” his voice raises slightly—just a little. “You knew the names of your profess—”

“J Miller,” you interrupt. “Everything says J Miller, that’s it. I didn’t fucking know, Joel.”

His frown softens at that, eyes dropping to the carpet as he nods once, clearly still unsure. You shuffle awkwardly on your feet, shoulders tense. There’s only a metre or so between the pair of you, and yet you can feel it. That static, burning energy, the same as four nights before. Something inside of you that rages and claws at your skin from the inside, begging to get closer to him. You ignore it.

“Why didn’t I meet you when I interviewed for the program?” you ask. You remember the day you came in, six months ago. Sitting with an older man—the Classics department head—and a soft, round woman with light hair. No Joel. You would’ve remembered him.

His eyes flash, hands tightening in his lap. “I was on vacation,” he grinds out. It’s like it physically pains him to talk to you—to even look at you. One of his hands drops, palm flexing by his side. He’s taking deep breaths, clearly trying to calm the quell of panic that has been swirling inside him for the past two hours. You keep your distance.

After a moment, he speaks again.

“Greece, huh?” It comes out in a low scoff. His eyebrows are raised expectantly, frustration laced through the lines in his face. “Said you were there for a month.”

“Mhm,” you hum. “I was involved in a text translation study based in Athens.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he exhales, digging the palms of his hands over his eyes. “This can’t be happenin’.”

“Joel—”

“Y’need to transfer out of my class,” he interrupts, eyes blazing. “They run it online, you can—”

“What?” you blink. You feel your blood pressure rise, anger spiking as you comprehend what he is suggesting. “Be serious – I am not doing the class online because of this. It’ll jeopardise my entire semester.”

“I don’t care,” he glowers, rising from the desk.

“Jesus, stop acting like this was all my doing,” you snap. “If memory serves, you’re just as to blame as I am—you wanted me just as much as I wanted you.”

“Stop,” he growls. It’s a rough, unforgettable sound that fills your stomach with heat. An oddly familiar thing that raises the hairs on the back of your neck. Silly little slut. The memory licks at your throat, the skin of your chest, leaving a hot heady feeling in its wake. You wonder if he’s noticed the hickey on your neck that hasn’t entirely faded yet. A persistent, lingering reminder of his mouth on your skin. Of the sharp scrape of his teeth.

You take a step forward and Joel’s entire body goes rigid, right hand jutting out in front of him, fingers splayed open.

“Stay over there,” he says quickly, voice a low warning.

You scowl but don’t move, feet planted in the soft carpet. The breeze rushes in through the window and causes a paper on his desk to flap upward, and your eyes drift toward the movement. Gaze shifting over the items on his desk, the mess of papers, the half-full mugs, and then… a picture frame. You squint, unable to make it out from where you are. Take a step forward, and then another, and realise it’s Joel’s shape in the image, standing with a tall woman tucked against his side. It’s too far for you to see clearly, but you can tell his arm is wrapped around her shoulder, holding her against his chest, and you know he’s grinning from the splash of white across his face.

“What’re you—” Joel’s words turn to silence as he tilts his head and realises what you’re looking at. A broad hand darts out, gripping the frame and knocking it face down on his desk. You flinch, eyes widening in incredulity as you turn to him.

“What?” A sardonic laugh escapes your mouth. “Are you fucking married or something? Jesus, Joel.”

You reach for the frame, fingers skirting across it with every intention of seeing, of understanding, of knowing just what it is that he’s so desperate to hide. But then he’s there, strong fingers looping around your wrist, halting your movement. The speed of it sends you stumbling toward the desk, and Joel’s body follows you forward, chest flush against your back as your lower stomach collides with the dark wood. Caught between a rock and a hard place, quite literally. You stiffen, sorely aware of how close he is. How much of his body is touching yours, and how similar it is to before.

“I’m not married,” he bites, and you can feel his breath against your ear. Hot, harsh exhales that send whisps of your hair fluttering forward. A shiver runs down your spine. His grip is firm around your wrist; not hard enough to hurt, but enough to hold you in place with your hand frozen in the air, fingers still outstretched towards the frame.

“Then who’s in the picture?” you grunt.

“None of your fuckin’ business,” he snaps quickly. You can feel his stubble graze the edge of your jaw, and something fizzes in your stomach. Your resolve softens at the frustration in his voice; the truth that bleeds out through his words. It is none of your business. Your body relaxes a little, arm going limp in his hold, and yet he doesn’t let go. It takes a moment for you to realise why.

Joel’s hips are pressed tightly into you, trapping you against the desk, and he’s hard. You can practically feel him throb against the small of your back, the full length of his cock only separated from you by two layers of clothing. Saliva pools in your mouth, eyes pinching closed as you remember the feeling of him; the delicious burn of his heavy cock dragging through you. Using your free hand, you twist your arm behind you and slide it down his front. A whispered oh fuck escapes your lips as your fingers drag across the front of his pants, and he grunts in your ear, grasp tightening around your wrist. Painful this time, but only for a second, until he’s tearing his hand off you and placing it on your lower back, pushing you down so that your chest is flush with his desk.

You gasp, lips parting to speak, but no words are coming out and Joel’s hands are on the waistband of your jeans, on the button. He’s undoing it, fingers steadfast in their movement, and then he yanks the material down roughly over your ass.

“Joel,” you whimper urgently as he grips your panties, dragging them to your knees as well. He keeps you bent against the desk, so you twist your neck to stare at him over your shoulder, legs tensing when you see the expression on his face. His eyes are dark, pupils blown behind his glasses as he looks down to where his covered cock grinds against the swell of your ass.

“God dammit,” he exhales, and you clench around nothing, warmth pooling between your thighs. This is so different from at the bar. There the door was locked, place full of people who didn’t know either of you. Here, in his office, anyone could walk in. A member of faculty, a student, anyone. And the thought has you fucking aching for him.

Thick fingers streak between your thighs from behind, spreading your slick folds apart. You gasp as cool air hits your throbbing clit, but the sound cuts into a low moan as his fingers expertly roll over the sizzling nerve endings there. He ousts a low grunt of surprise at how wet you are, hips still grinding against you as his fingers drift to your entrance, rubbing and collecting your slick on his fingers until you’re whimpering into your own palm, pressing your hips back and begging him for more. All at once, one of his palms slaps across your ass while two thick fingers press inside you. The sting has your eyes rolling back. Your teeth sink into the palm of your hand to muffle the noise you make, and he’s curling his fingers inside you, rubbing against your g-spot, and your legs are trembling with the effort of staying standing. Your mind is a blur. You feel almost lightheaded at how suddenly this is all happening – and at how relieved you are to feel his hands on you again.

“S’this what you wanted?” Joel pants, scissoring his fingers inside you, stretching you out. “Knew if you followed me in here, I’d end up fuckin’ this pretty pussy again? Huh?”

“Fuck,” you choke out, eyelids fluttering as he adds a third finger. Heat sizzles beneath the tightening muscles in your stomach, and you can feel yourself clenching around him over and over again, your high already approaching. It’s almost pitiful, the affect he has on you; how easily your body yields to the simplest of touches from his hands.

“Huh?” he prompts for a response. You can feel the cool zipper of his pants cutting across the bare skin of your ass, scratching you as his hips rut forward.

“Please,” you say, voice quiet as you can muster. “I’m so close, Joel, please.”

He grunts, increasing the speed of his fingers. Soft squelching sounds are audible now, slick smearing against your inner thighs, his wrist, and your face goes warm at the sound of it. Your fingers claw at his desk, nails catching on paper as your hand lands against a book and grips it tight. Your abdomen burns, that soft thrumming heat licking at your skin, the muscles of your thighs, scorching in its might as your orgasm builds and builds, hanging dangerously close to the precipice.

“Gonna come all over my fingers?” Joel asks, voice haggard and breathless. “C’mon, give it t’me.”

You’re nodding before he even finishes speaking, forehead knocking roughly against wood, eyebrows pinching together. So close, so close, so fucking clo—

A light knock sounds against his office door.

Joel freezes. Your eyes widen, hips shifting against his hand as you murmur no, no, no, please Joel. But he ignores you, gripping your hip to keep you still and dragging his fingers from your dripping cunt to press them over your mouth. Your pulse thunders in your ears, heart trashing wildly in your chest as you catch your breath, devasted.

“Joel?” a soft voice calls from the hall. A woman. “You in there?”

“Just on the phone,” he says loudly, voice surprisingly steady. You can taste yourself on his fingers. Feel it smear across your lips. “What d’ya need?”

“I’m headed to the café,” the woman calls. “You want anything?”

Joel responds with a sharp, resounding no.

There’s a beat of silence where you can almost feel him holding his breath, waiting for her to inevitably open the unlocked door and discover the scene in his office. But the silence stretches on, and then you can hear soft footfalls fade down the corridor, and you know that you’re alone again.

Joel rips his hand from your mouth. Grips your underwear and drags it up over your hips, then your jeans, before he’s stumbling away and dropping into the armchair across the room. His chest heaves with ragged breaths, eyes wide as he gazes at the floor. When you push off the desk and turn to stare at him, a firm tent is visible in his pants. You button your jeans slowly, watching him. He doesn’t look at you.

“Joel—” you start softly.

“Don’t,” he interrupts. “Just… just get out.”

You open your mouth to speak—to argue—but once again, nothing comes out. No words to defend yourself, or what the two of you just did. You stare at him for almost a minute, but Joel’s eyes stay trained on the carpet, fists clenched against his thighs.

You leave his office silently and try not to look back. Make two rights and head down the stairs, outside and across the green to where your car is parked. The whole thing feels so dirty, so debauched, and yet you want so much more from him. Want it so badly that you drive home in silence, mind too busy with thoughts of Joel Joel Joel to remember to turn on the radio.

And behind it all, is a low, itching thought at the base of your skull, something that makes you smile as you drive – the knowledge that he wants you just as badly as you want him.

Wednesday.

You decide very quickly that you like Rachel.

Maybe it was because you were having a good day. The sun had been shining when you woke up; strong beams that teased their way through the window in your bedroom and rested warm upon the bare skin of your back. By the time you rose, the coffee was already done brewing, and Trin met you in the hall with a large mug of it and a soft hey, man, how’d you sleep? And when you went to get dressed for the day you remembered you did the washing two nights before, and found your favourite pair of jeans—the ones that squeezed your ass just right—were neatly folded in a drawer, waiting for you. Yes; maybe all of that had something to do with it. Or maybe, it because Rachel was just great.

You like her tenacity, her words; the idolatry with which she discusses her work. And she is charming; an intellectual through and through. The soft roundness of her face and the kind slant to her eyes offset by a razor-sharp wit. And there’s this peculiar quirkiness to her that catches your attention in seconds – a rough snort whenever she laughs, the bright orange shade of the toenails sticking out of her sandals.

Her teaching is direct, no-bullshit, and yet she has this smile. This soft, thin-lipped genuine smile that says, I know something you don’t know, and I can’t wait to share it with you.

During her first lecture, you feel rooted to the spot, unable to draw your eyes away from her for two-hours as she waxes poetic about heroines and tragic love stories, about the importance of myth, of gore.

Listening to her reminds you of what you’d always loved about classics – the filth of it, the horror. It feels like reaching your hands into a puddle of mud, flexing your fingers and letting the dirt and grime slide beneath your nails, coating every inch of your skin. The squeamishness of it, the rot, the tragedy – you love it all, and Rachel does too.

“When we talk about the juxtaposition between heroines across different texts,” she says. “We want to look at the values being portrayed; the meaning behind what’s happening to these women. Let’s appreciate the context here, guys! To understand the rage of Medea, or, say, the sacrifice of Iphigenia, we have to get to the root of their roles in society. Priestess, mistress, virgin, mother – we want to understand the perspectives being shown to us. What drives these women? What fire lives within them, pushing them to make their decisions—or to have their decisions made for them?”

She points to a student and nods, “Go on.”

“Do you think Medea holds much bearing here?” someone to your left asks. A man. “If we’re focusing on heroines, I mean.”

“Do you?” she challenges. A hint of a smile—that smile—drifts across her lips, hands clasped to her stomach as she awaits his response.

“Not particularly,” he says, voice less sure now. “I know you can view any text through most perspectives, but I’d never thought of her so much as a heroine in a feminist text.”

“I see,” Rachel nods. “Well, the short answer is that I’d encourage you to read it again.” She laughs, a soft tinkering sound. “The long answer is that her character is complex. Let’s not beat around the bush; Medea is a woman scorned. Banished by Creon, forgotten by Jason. As the reader, we are able to comprehend the most brutal pain through her – a woman trapped in a world where men have decided everything for her, and she is furious. Even describes herself as a woman born to sorrow. Now, as the reader, it is your right to believe that she is bad, or an anti-heroine, but you cannot deny that she is made bad by circumstances out of her own control.” She pauses, thick eyebrows jutting upward as she looks around the quiet theatre. “I’d say that’s pretty feminist of Euripides.”

You approach her afterwards, fingers an awkward tangle in front of your chest.

“I just have to say,” you smile bashfully. “That was wonderful. You’re so engaging, I was… god, I don’t even know what to say, but thank you. I’m really looking forward to learning from you this semester.”

Rachel’s eyes light up at your words.

Up close you notice a pair of thick, ceramic earrings dangling from her lobes. They look hand painted; thick brushstrokes of dandelion yellow smeared across crimson red ovals.

“Oh, how lovely,” her eyes assess you quickly, mouth splitting into a crooked, fond smile. “I’m very glad to have you here…?”

You tell your name in a mumbled rush, and she nods once, eyes scanning the list of students on her sheet.

“Oh of course,” she says knowingly. “You emailed yesterday, no? Some trouble with accessing the readings online?”

You stiffen. Blink at her, smile dimming somewhat. “Yeah,” you exhale. “Yes, that’s actually—I was having trouble with the link for another class, and I hoped you might be able to help.”

“I see,” she frowns then. “Well, unfortunately if it’s not for this class I won’t be of much help; my access code only gets me so far in that damn portal. Which professor assigned the reading?”

“It’s, uhh,” you speak slowly, the words stiff as they stumble out of your mouth. “It’s Joel Miller.”

“Oh, Joel?” she smiles. “Well, he’ll be happy to help, I’m sure. He’s usually in his office around this time – do you need me to show you the way?”

Your mouth is dry. Yeah, you think. I’m sure he’ll be over the moon to see me.

“That’s okay,” you reply with a tight smile. “I’ll find it.”

She nods, bids you a warm goodbye, and her eyes have already drifted back to the papers in front of her when you turn to leave the room.

Your bag weighs heavy on your shoulder, straps of canvas material digging into the muscle there as you retrace your footsteps from yesterday. Up the creaking set of stairs, taking a left, and then another left, and your mind is a blur, static wobbling in your veins as you rehearse what you’re going to say, how you’re going to say it.

It’s been less than twenty-four hours since you’d last seen him, and from the second you left, an image of what happened in his office played on a loop in your brain. Like the spool on a VHS has been stuck together, wound into a circle, and the tape repeats over and over again, the same images, sounds, smells, soaking your mind until all else is white noise. And it’s twisted, and wrong, and you’re vaguely aware of that, somewhere in the part of your brain where you stash knowledge that you’d prefer to forget. Because it’s easier to forget the hard part, the ugly part, and far nicer to remember the scrape of his stubble against your skin. The smell of him filling your nostrils as he crowds you against his desk. The scratch on your ass from his zipper. Remember how your name sounds when he moans it, and forget the feeling that comes when he refuses to look at you after the fact.

And you wonder if this is what the entire semester will be like; spending each day reminiscing on your last interaction with Joel, hoping for another touch, taste, another chance, another something, anything, from him. The weight of it sits heavy on your chest, like a wall of freshly cemented bricks left to solidify in the sun. And beneath that, beneath the clay and sand and limestone, excitement buzzes. Indisputable, persistent, anticipation. A vibrating that hums in your bones and has you shivering from the tips of your toes to the top of your skull as you knock on his office door.

J MILLER PhD. The words glare at you from the bronze plaque for the second time in two days.

You hear his voice call pleasantly from behind the door. Light, relaxed. You swallow down the lump in your throat and step inside.

The window is wide open today, pale curtains drawn back to allow the bright midday sun to shine through and warm the carpet. Joel’s head tilts upward and within seconds the soft, easy smile on his face dissolves into something unreadable. He’s perched behind his desk, broad frame bent over a mess of papers, pen tucked neatly between coiled fingers. A clear tension simmers in the lines on his forehead; a tangible rigidity that clouds his expression when he sees that it’s you. He clicks the top of his pen once, twice, three times, and says your name in a clipped greeting.

“Hi,” you say, hand raising in a quick wave. “Sorry to barge in like this, I, uhh, I was wondering if you could help me with something.”

“My office hours are between one and four,” he says tersely, eyes lowering back to his book. “Schedule an appointment over email.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, face warming as embarrassment swells in your chest. All of the excitement—the longing—that had churned inside you since yesterday seems to dissipate, replaced by a looming sense of dread as you register how distant and apathetic he seems. How hard he tries to not even look in your direction. Those words from yesterday ring in your ears. Just get out.

“Seriously?” you mutter, nonetheless, trying to contain the hurt that threatens to spill across your face. “It’ll take five seco—”

“Seriously,” he repeats firmly.

Your jaw clenches, annoyance tightening the already stiff muscles in your shoulders as you march over to his desk, dropping your bag onto the edge of it. The exact same spot from yesterday, where’d pressed you down against the wood and— Joel’s shoulders hunch. The sleeves of his shirt are pushed up to just below his elbows, thin white material stressing around cords of muscle. You gaze at the bare skin for a moment, tongue heavy in your mouth, before looking to what he was doing before you came in. A book in front of him is filled with scribbles and annotations, harsh black marks scrawled beneath thin lines of text. You only get a second to look at it before his hands are snapping it shut, revealing the cover. Robert Fagles’ translation of The Odyssey. The picture frame from yesterday is nowhere to be seen.

“Working on something for a lecture?” you try. If it’s about class, he can’t be mad. If it’s about class, he can’t push you away.

“What do you need?” he asks impatiently, ignoring your words entirely.

A hand lifts to rub the skin above his eyebrow. The tip of his middle finger massages the tan skin there in soft circles, and you watch the movement for a second, transfixed. No ring. I’m not married. His other hand reaches for the mug on his desk, and he takes a long, drawn-out sip of black coffee. Steam billows from the dark liquid, fogging the lenses of his glasses. The sight makes you want to laugh, but you swallow it down, acutely aware that Joel would be less than impressed by the reaction.

“I can’t access one of the readings for next week,” you explain distractedly, dragging the laptop from your bag.

You round his desk in a few short steps and Joel sighs, cringing as you place it down in front of him, opening the screen for him to see. He shifts his chair just slightly to the right, away from you. That persistent feeling of doubt coils in your gut, sharp teeth that twist and nip at your insides, taunting you, telling you that he doesn’t want you. And it’s not why you’re here—not at all—but you can’t bring yourself believe it. Don’t want to believe it. So you bite back – turn your back to his desk and pitch your thighs atop the edge of it, feet dangling an inch off the ground. You jeans are tight, and the fabric cuts into the skin of your hips where they bend.

“Get down,” he warns sharply, dismissing you with a taut shake of his head. “You can ask IT for help with that.”

“I’m asking you,” you persist stubbornly. “You’re my professor, Joel—"

“Yes, I am your professor,” Joel bites in agreement, glowering up at you. You stiffen warily at the heat in his gaze. At the anger you can see stirring in those dark brown orbs, brimming and ready to boil over. “And I don’t think we should be alone together,” he adds. “It’s not… this is bad for us, okay? I can’t… fuck, you can’t just come in here. I don’t want you comin’ in here anymore.”

And the memory plays once more. That thing, that something twisted, something wrong, something familiar, curls in your stomach. Snaps and bares its teeth at your uncertainty, sends it scattering into the distance, and replaces it with want.

“I didn’t even plan to come here,” your voice hardens, hackles rising as the feeling rises within you. “You’re not the first person I asked, alright? I just need some fucking help—”

“Don’t swear at me,” he interrupts through gritted teeth.

A beat of stunned silence hangs between you. A shocked laugh tumbles from your mouth, eyes widening as you take in the grave expression on his face.

“You have got to be kidding me,” you stare at him incredulously. “Joel, you had your fingers inside of me against this desk yesterday. I think swearing is the least of our worries.”

“Jesus,” he spits, pushing his chair further from the desk. His elbows fall against his knees, head resting in his palms as he breaths, not looking at you. “You’re fuckin’ filthy, y’know that? Can you not just behave?”

Don’t swear, you want to tease, but think better of it.

Instead, you nod slowly, drop your hand onto the desk, fingers hovering over his book. “Joel,” you implore, tone pleading. “I don’t… I don’t know how to act around you right now, okay? It’s not easy for me to just pretend nothing has happened between us. To just forget.”

“And you think it’s easy for me?” he gripes. His eyes are focused on your hand; on the way your fingers tense and untense over the bound cover, stroking the frayed paper his own fingers have clearly touched countless times. He doesn’t move a muscle. “To try and act like things are normal, act like I didn’t—” he cuts himself off, lips clamping shut. An anguished look crosses his features.

“We’re both adults,” you frown. “It’s not a crime that we fucked, Joel.”

A harsh laugh falls from his mouth, stern eyes blazing. “Ain’t about that and you know it. It’s against professional ethics,” Joel snaps, tone firm. “Against university policy – if anybody finds out it could put us both in jeopardy.”

You’re silent for a moment, watching him. His glasses have slid down a little, and they rest precariously on the tip of this nose. Dark eyes stare from over the top of black frames, and then his legs are crossing, one tucking tightly over the other, a thick forearm dropping to rest across his lap, and want burns in your throat. You struggle to remember why you came to his office in the first place.

“Nobody is going to find out,” you whisper.

A rasp of your name catches in his throat. Joel looks bemused, face as flat as he rolls his eyes. “Quit fuckin’ playin’ around. You know how serious this is.”

You contain the urge to scowl, lips tight as you say, “Yeah, I know. Just—look, you don’t have to worry. We can cut it off right now – I won’t say a word of it to anyone. Nothing else is going to happen.”

But you can see the way his eyes flicker down your body whenever you move. How his gaze rests heavily at the pinch of your waist, the spread of your thighs against his desk, your bare arms, before darting away. You wonder if he’s touched himself thinking about you, and a jagged heat tears through the top of your thighs as you picture what that would look like.

“But that's not what you want, is it?” you ask softly. Joel doesn’t speak. He’s so still you almost think he didn’t hear you. But his eyes glance to your thighs again, you know that he did.

“You want me,” you say then, voice low and sure.

The muscle in his jaw ticks. Lips purse around clenched teeth and a harsh breath escapes his nose before he’s saying your name again, a strained whisper. And God, you love the way he says it. Like the word was created just to spite him.

“You are walkin’ on some mighty thin ice right now,” he grits out, heated gaze scorching your skin.

You glance down to his lap, where a forearm still balances over his crotch, and arch an eyebrow.

“Show me,” you murmur.

You can hear him breathing. Slow, exaggerated puffs of breath, chest rising and falling at an increasing pace as he maintains eye contact. Large hands tighten into fists, fingers curling against palms, and he’s dragging his arm back from his lap, spreading his legs as far as they’ll go within the arms of his chair. You wet your lips, face heating as you stare. The firm line of his cock is evident beneath his pants, a solid ridge against his left thigh. When you look back to his face there’s a faint red hue colouring the skin of his neck, steadily rising toward the edge of his facial hair. He’s blushing.

“How long?” you ask, voice awed.

“Since you got on the desk,” Joel grumbles, tone almost begrudging.

You hum softly, a low vibration in your throat, and then you’re slipping off his desk and taking a step towards him. And he doesn’t flinch away. He watches you close the distance between the pair of you and hover between his thighs, your legs almost brushing his.

“Let me help,” you whisper, lowering onto the ground in front of him. The carpet is warm and rough against your jean-clad knees. Your eyes drift from his face to between his thighs, and then back up, slowly.

“We shouldn’t,” he croaks, lips chapped and dry. You want to kiss him senseless. Want to drag your tongue across his mouth until it’s soaking wet and then push your way inside.

“But do you want me to?”

An agonising beat of silence follows. But there’s no doubt there anymore. No more wondering, or uncertainty, because you can see it in his eyes. The same all-consuming, devastating desire that crawls its way up to rest at the base of your throat whenever you’re with him.

And then thick fingers are at the waist of his pants, undoing his leather belt, his button, pushing the material open to reveal a pair of black briefs. He doesn’t take his pants off, just adjusts slightly in the chair before pressing his hand beneath the band of his underwear. Joel grips himself, the sight still obscured from your vision, and you find yourself mesmerised nonetheless, unable to drag your eyes away from the dark material. A low grunt escapes him, and then he shifts the band of his underwear down and pulls his cock out.

The head of him is swollen and leaking, tight skin so red that it’s almost a purple hue against the stark white of his shirt. Joel’s fingers tighten around his base, stroking himself once. Impatient, you lick you hand and let it drift forward to replace his, fingers slipping over the silky wet skin of his head and wrapping around him. Your hand is so much smaller in comparison, and your fingertips almost don’t meet as you flex your grip around girth.

Your underwear clings to the skin between your thighs, material warm and damp against you, a result of the simmering heat that rests in the base of your belly and flares every time Joel sighs. When you glance up to see his face, he’s already staring at you, pupils blown wide, lips sealed in a tight line. His length twitches in your palm, and you salivate.

You lean in and place a gentle kiss again his tip, smearing the pearl of precome there against your lips. You stroke the length of him in slow, firm pumps, guiding his head against your puckered lips, but not quite taking it inside yet. Joel’s fists are tight against his thighs, and you wish he would put them in your hair, on the back of your head, grip you, pull you down against him. But he doesn’t, not yet.

He’s got a salty, heady taste, and you swipe your tongue out to clean the hint of it from your mouth, swallowing with a satisfied purr. A harsh exhale shoots from his nose, eyebrows dragging further down as he watches you tease him.

A quick flick of your tongue against his slit has a sharp gasp rising from him, and in response you lathe wet, messy kisses to his head, puckering your lips around it and swirling your tongue, not caring what you look like, not caring that he probably wants you to go faster. It’s purely for your own enjoyment, and you’re moaning and sighing around the taste of him. You want to take Joel Miller a part, piece by piece, and feel him come undone beneath your mouth.

Unable to wait any longer, you let his head slip passed your open lips and sink into the wet heat of your mouth. And he’s so quiet, so composed, so you glide your tongue over his slit again before pressing forward, lips meeting the movement of your own hand as you take him deeper.

Your jaw strains, muscles smarting as you attempt to take the entirety of him. He’s so long, so thick, and the tip of him is nudging against the back of your throat in seconds, making your eyes water. And god it’s better than you could’ve imagined.

Tears cling to your eyelashes as you look up and find Joel with his bottom lip snagged between his teeth, pink skin turning white from pressure. The heavy weight of him crowds your senses, his taste on your tongue and scent in your nostrils, everywhere, and you can feel how hot your face is getting but you can’t look away from him. You don’t stop until his hand is landing on the nape of your neck, collecting your hair in his fist and dragging your mouth off him. You part with a wet gasp, a string of saliva dangling between his tip and your shiny lips.

“Breathe, goddammit,” Joel says, holding you still when you attempt to press forward and take him back into your mouth.

“You’re so big,” you say earnestly, head tilting backward to rest heavy in his hold. You blink through bleary eyes, smiling lazily. Drunk on him after only a little taste. “Couldn’t stop thinking about this, you know. How you’d taste… how it would feel to have you in my mouth.”

“Fuck, stop,” Joel says quickly, voice pained. “Y’can’t say shit like that.” His grip tightens at the base of your neck, and then he’s guiding your face forward so the head of his cock slips back into your mouth, effectively shutting you up.

You hum appreciatively and relax your jaw, taking him until he’s nudging at your throat again, and he’s still so fucking silent. Determined to get some kind of reaction from him, you pull off and lick a broad stripe from tip to base, hand stroking his length in unhurried, firm pulls as your mouth finds his heavy balls. Your tongue glides along the sensitive skin in slow, overwhelming movements, leaving no inch of him untouched. Wet sounds fill the air as the movement of your fist increases in pace, and your lips drag over him, sucking one of his balls into your mouth and then—finally—a long, drawn-out groan spills into the air, and he’s saying, “Shit, that’s it.”

Never pausing the movement of your hand, you pull back just a smidge and grin.

Joel’s hands are on you then, another deep sound sputtering from his lips. He’s brushing your hair off your face, mussing it as he rakes his fingers through it, short nails scraping against your scalp. He swears softly when you take him back into your mouth.

“Fuck,” he mutters breathlessly. “Is that what you want? Needy little thing wants a little praise, huh? Want me to tell you how good you are, how good your pretty mouth feels on my cock?”

You whimper, eyelids fluttering as you begin to move on him desperately. Your mouth tightens around him, and a tear squeezes from your eyes as his hips jolt forward, cock nudging suddenly into the back of your throat. Joel’s hand cups the back of your head, strokes the damp skin at the base of your neck as you gag around him.

“Jesus,” Joel groans at the sound. “There you go, s’perfect, s’fuckin’ perfect.”

The muscles in your thighs tighten, legs pressing together to try and soothe the pulsing ache there. Your head is moving up and down along his length and it’s wet and messy and depraved, saliva gliding down your chin to your neck, and you fucking love it. Joel’s gruff sounds of encouragement only serve to spur you on.

And then, as if by some stroke of divine intervention, it happens again.

A firm rap against the door of his office.

Joel goes silent. Your shoulders tense, and you pull back until his tip rests heavy on your bottom lip. Wide eyed, you gaze up at him, panic swelling in your chest. And then comes that voice; the same voice as yesterday.

“You in there Joel?”

You can feel your lungs squeezing inside your chest, grasping violently for air and finding zero reprieve as the reality of the moment begins to overwhelm you, because you know that voice.

“Fuck,” you whisper dazedly, slumping back to rest on your heels. “Fuck, fuck, fu—”

Joel shakes his head, strong hands gripping your shoulders to soothe you. “Shh,” he hushes quietly. “Stop, hey, stop. It’s fine.”

Another knock at the door. Nowhere for you to go, nowhere to hide.

“Just a sec, Rachel,” Joel calls, voice laced with frustration.

And then those hands are guiding you backwards. You move blindly, allowing him to encourage your body back, back, back, broad palm protecting your head as he nudges you underneath the desk. Further and further until you’re completely hidden, tucked away where only he can see you. And as you settle into the warm, sweaty space, watch Joel drag his chair forward and squeeze his long legs around your body, you feel the panic quell. Your pulse slows, the tremor in your hands settles, and cool relief comes in the form of a chill down your spine.

“Come in,” Joel calls. You can hear the door click open a second later, soft footsteps entering the room. You hold your breath as they begin to talk, heart stuttering, eyes trained on his where his spit-soaked cock rests against the underside of his desk.

“Sorry to be a bother,” Rachel’s soft voice chimes. “I was hoping to grab my copy of The Annals, I need it for the undergrad lecture I’m covering this afternoon.”

“Course,” he says sharply, and you can hear a drawer to your right open and close. A moment of silence. “All yours.”

Your abdomen tenses at the sound of his haggard voice, and something tight pulls in your chest. A flare of jealousy, of possessiveness, at the fact that someone else is seeing him right now. That the flush on his cheeks, the sweat on his neck, is no longer yours alone. And it’s absurd, because she has no idea. But the desire to reclaim the moment for yourself, to assert that his sweat, his blush—his body—is yours is overwhelming, and you find your hand gripping his heavy cock, tongue gliding out of your mouth to swipe against his weeping tip. The dread from before flares in the back of your mind but you push it away, shove it down until it’s hazy, a faint ringing that fades into the sound of your blood rushing in your ears.

Joel’s thighs stiffen. He coughs, a sharp, surprised noise.

“Thanks for that,” Rachel says, voice slow. “Hey… are you doing okay? Looking pretty faint over there, Miller.”

You smile around him and rub your tongue in teasing strokes along the underside of his sensitive head. He clears his throat roughly, and then his hand is slipping underneath the desk to tangle in your hair. It’s rough and it stings, and you find yourself humming ever so slightly around him, indicating that you love it.

“Feelin’ a little under the weather,” he agrees faintly.

“Should try some of that tea I always tell you about,” she says, ever so friendly. “Works a treat when you’re sick.”

“Maybe I will,” Joel says, and his fingers are twisting in your messy locks, pulling your mouth away from his cock.

Although he can’t see you, you pout. Not wanting to push it, you settle for looping three fingers around him, index middle and thumb, gripping just beneath his head, and begin to rub him in slow, soundless movements. With every forward motion of your hand, the tip of his cock brushes against your lower lip, and his grip on your hair tightens.

“I could bring you some,” Rachel offers then. You can practically hear the smile in her voice, picture the kind slant to her eyes. “Maybe tomorrow, if you think you’ll be coming into wor—”

“I’ll be here tomorrow,” Joel snaps suddenly, voice almost harsh as he interrupts her. “Was that all you needed?”

“Oh,” she replies awkwardly. “Yeah, sorry.”

“No,” he says, audibly flustered. His cock is drooling over your lips, and the salty taste has your pussy aching, clenching painfully tight, begging to be filled. “m’sorry, got a fuckin’ headache, is all. Tea tomorrow?”

“Tea tomorrow, sure,” Rachel confirms. “Sorry again, I… yeah, sorry, I hope you feel better, Joel.”

Whem the door closes a moment later Joel is shoving his chair backward again, hands wrenching you out from underneath his desk. You fall forward, flushed and breathless. His expression is thunderous, pitch-black eyes glaring down at you. On all fours, you crawl forward and splay your palms across his thighs, feel them twitch and tremble beneath your nimble fingers.

“You couldn’t fuckin’ wait?” he snaps, hand finding a home in your hair once more. He drags it into a ponytail and wraps it around his fist.

“Sorry,” you lie, teeth nipping at your swollen bottom lip. Joel’s eyes follow the movement and he grunts, unimpressed with the apology.

“She could’ve caught us,” he admonishes you.

“Better start locking the door then,” you clip, winking lazily. A short huff passes through his lips, and then his left hand is dropping to land on your chin, thumb rubbing against your lower lip, prying it from between your teeth.

“Open,” he orders.

His jaw is set with concentration, eyebrows drawn low as he cradles your jaw, holding it still while he pushes his cock back into your eager mouth. The salt of him rushes your senses again and you’re moaning around him, cheeks hollowed and eyes wet as he begins to rut into your mouth, the tip of his cock caressing the back of your throat with every thrust. It’s fast and hard, and the noises coming out of you are scandalous, but you can’t drag your eyes away from his face. Lips parted, eyes ablaze as he watches his cock push in and out of your mouth, over and over again. A tear streaks down your cheek and Joel groans, swiping at it with his fingers. Shallow curses and murmurs of your name spill from his lips in a tortured stream of consciousness.

“Always so fuckin’—impatient,” he mutters. His grip on your jaw is near bruising, cock throbbing against your tongue. You can sense how close he is. Feel it in the way his hips start to stutter, snapping thrusts losing their rhythm.

The stretch has a dull ache searing through your jaw, but Joel is breathless, eyes dark and focused on yours, saying, “Look at you. So pretty takin’ my cock like this.” and you can’t bring yourself to care. Your eyelids flutter closed, and his fingers are tapping your cheek quickly—softly?

“Let me see you,” he says urgently. “Want those eyes on me, don’t close them.” You cast your eyes up to meet his gaze, and Joel hisses under his breath, expression taut.

His hips drag backward, and he’s replacing your mouth with his hand, fucking himself in quick, brutal strokes, and your mouth is open, slick tongue peaking between your lips before he can even say open your mouth.

“Fuck,” he exhales at the sight, tip bumping against your tongue with every wet pump of his fist. His thighs are trembling beneath your hands, and you dig your nails into the muscles there, encouraging him. “Fuck me.”

And then he’s coming, face going slack as hot ropes of his come paint your lips, your tongue, your chin. Unashamed rasps of your name fall from pink lips, washing over you in glorious waves as you sit there and take all of it. And for a moment, you think it’s over. But then Joel’s hand is still moving over his length, calloused thumb gliding against the ridge of his rounded tip, and there’s more.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Fuck—yes.”

Salty strings of his spend gloss over your cheeks and slide down to paint your neck. And it’s like he’s coming a second time, torso jolting in short, jerky movements, and you wish you could see his body while he came; the way the muscles in his stomach would flex and pull taut, entire frame straining as he gives you his all.

His shoulders slump forward as he stares down at you, hand falling away from his sensitive cock, and his face is ruined. Eyes blown wide, cheeks a dark red, looking at you like he’d enjoy nothing more than to devour you whole. Maintaining eye contact, you swallow down his spend, practically purring at the taste of him.

Joel’s thumb smears his come off your cheeks and into your swollen mouth, making sure you don’t miss a single drop.

“Good girl,” his voice is broken. “That’s it, yeah—yes, s’perfect.”

Perfect, perfect, perfect. The word rings in your ears. Your skin is on fire, and you can’t believe that you are both still fully clothed. You feel naked, bared to him in the truest sense of the word, despite being completely covered up.

He groans heartily when you suck his fingers between your lips, tongue swirling around them greedily, and swallow down the last of his spend.

For a moment after, the two of you simply sit there, your knees chafed and aching against the carpet, his fingers hooked against your tongue, staring at each other. And you know. You both know – there’s no going back from this.

Joel drags his hand away and snatches a box of tissues from the top drawer of his desk. You stand, knees popping in relief, and lean against the desk to stabilise yourself. He takes a moment to clean himself, and when you’re sure he’s not looking you swipe a pen from his desk, scribble a set of numbers on a post it and press the sticky paper down against the cover of The Odyssey.

He offers you the box of tissues and you wipe your face carefully, make sure no trace of him is left on your skin. Joel watches your movements like a hawk, eyes fading from black to brown as he fixes his belt and tucks his shirt back into his pants.

“You good?” he asks after a moment. And it’s the same. The same thing he asked you that night in the bar after fucking your brains out. After calling you a slut, a dirty little thing. Maybe it’s his thing—you good? And it’s more than anyone else has ever said after you’ve had their cock in your mouth, so you smile at him. Nod. The duality of man, you think.

“Perfect,” you use his word, and cringe at how wrecked your voice is. The corner of Joel’s mouth twitches upward, something sly and conspiratorial in his gaze as he watches you tuck your computer into your bag, IT issue long forgotten.

Even as you wander toward the door of his office, tossing a casual see you tomorrow over your shoulder, you can see it in his face. In the lines by his eyes, the furrow of his brow; never satiated, never finished, never satisfied. More, more, more. This wasn’t enough for either of you. And this will not be the last time.

Hours later, when you’re tucked into bed with a glass of wine and a book perched in your lap, you get a text from an unknown number.

You’re going to give me a heart attack one of these days.

And then another, twenty minutes later.

That can’t happen again.

You grin. Save his number under J MILLER, PhD, and don’t reply.

tags: @lovely-ateez @nana90azevedo @stevie75 @evyiione @dameron-grant-spector @brittmb115 @ashhlsstuff @casa-boiardi @sinfulrock @bbyanarchist @murc0cks4eva @hopplessilse @joeldjarin @anoverwhelmingdin @bluevxnus @kelp-dreaming @prettyinpunk85 @spacelatinos4life @iluvurfather @daisies-yellow @mrsquill @sarap-77 @sunnywithachanceofjavi @alleyy-katt @zeida

thank you for reading! x

#my writing #fic: a lover's pinch #professor!joel #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller #joel miller smut

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pedgito · 1 year ago

Text

MILLER'S GIRL ✎ SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter Four: Under Your Skin

Chapter Summary: An implosion that changes everything, leaving results devastating but unseen. [5k]

[student/teacher relationship, age gap, no outbreak, power dynamic]

Chapter Warnings: fem!reader, professor!joel miller, inappropriate behavior, reader is delusional lol, background tess/joel (mentions of infidelity), technical infidelity on joel's behalf, unprotected piv, f!oral, angry sex, lack of aftercare, belt as restraints, inappropriate use of a tie & desk, semi-public sex (sorta), angst at the end i'm sorry.

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There’s a deep ache in your body and between your legs as you toss in bed that morning, rousing from a less than relaxing sleep, the faint smell of Joel still lingering on the clothes you fell asleep in, not bothering to change. Licking at chapped lips he’d kissed you so feverishly the night before, you recollect the night in flashes, rubbing sleep from your eyes and feeling riddled with anxiety.

You reach for your phone blindly, stuffed under your covers as you scroll through your phone, expecting some type of change—an updated grade, a note or two on your follow-up essay. But, there’s nothing. The big, glaring fucking zero staring you back in the face. And for a moment, you feel guilty. You wonder just how badly you screwed things up by doubling down and approaching him so boldly in his office. In his space.

You threatened him and he attacked. Not you.

You never intended for things to unfold the way they did, but you wanted to get your feelings across clearly, even if that meant getting under his skin.

Joel. Not Mr. Miller.

Those were two entirely different entities now.

You take your morning slow, enjoying the relaxation of the weekend and taking your time—researching and looking into things you definitely should not be. First, it’s his name.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t bring up much. His job history was fairly public, no local or national awards, nothing note-worthy and only a few small non-fiction pieces to his name, though you knew there were more—there had to be. With his taste in poetry and fiction you expected something, but came up with nothing. He’s so inexplicably boring to the naked eye and maybe that’s what he wanted. He wanted to blend and disappear.

Curiously, you do more digging on his wife. Who—yeah, it was definitely his wife. A few links later and you stumble upon the marriage certificate, nearly ten years strong. No kids, either.

It was impressive, more than what a lot of people could be prideful about. But Joel, he wasn’t prideful about Tess. He was secretive, dismissive, and shot a look of disgust at his phone every time he received a text, whether purposefully or not.

You find that she works at a law firm, relatively small and headed by two partners. One significantly older than the other—father and son? You squint slightly, searching through the website carefully but not coming up with much. She was a lawyer, that much was obvious.

Still, it didn’t explain the rift.

What happened?

You try and struggle to find anything rational or tangible, feeling like you might drive yourself insane trying to find out and you spend most of the weekend trudging through the obscurity of things you could find online, very little compared to what you could find out by just asking him.

There’s a tinge of dread in attending class that Monday knowing that no matter how hard you tried, Mr. Miller would never see you the same. He wouldn’t treat you as he had, pedestaling you up above the rest and, though he’d never admit openly, admiring you.

But, god, it ails you. Sickens your mind and keeps you from focusing on anything else.

You needed more answers, more clarification. But, more importantly, you still needed him.

That deep, gnawing feeling of desire in your gut had only grown stronger since your encounter in his office and you feared—knew, it would only worsen as time went on.

Joel knew that night that he needed to follow through on his plans.

His lack of trust in Tess, his instability in his life now, and how he couldn’t get you out of his head. The three were a volatile mix and he knew if he didn’t start somewhere that things would quickly grow out of control.

He makes the call to his lawyer the following morning, hungover and tired. Nursing a headache in his open palm as he conversed quietly over the phone. Tess was home, far off and distant in another room but he can hear her shifting around, moving about, and he feels like he’s betraying her. He doesn’t know why he’s filled with guilt and shame—maybe that was partly because of you, his willingness to cross that line for just a moment and kiss you.

It was a momentary slip, his want clouding out his sense of rationality.

You were conniving and manipulative, using his own selfish thoughts against him, his eagerness to aid you in your progress but also allowed a level of vulnerability between you both. Joel should’ve known, he should’ve seen it in the way you looked at him.

It was admiration and obsession and he fed into it.

It was something he never had, not even with Tess.

He loved her, sure. Cared about her, absolutely. But the physical connection—sexual or not, had never truly been there. And Joel figures that was why she did what she did, despite how badly it hurt him. He felt at fault for a while, like he had caused it.

Maybe he did—but he would never have betrayed Tess like she did so easily, even if she swore it meant nothing at the time. Late nights for her were fickle, but they still happened. And that’s when Joel allowed the doubt to seep in and eat away.

But, he just couldn’t do it anymore. He felt like an intruder in his own home.

Tess would be served the papers on Monday evening and Joel would face the wrath when he arrived home, but there was still time. Time to prepare and settle, commit through his day and do his job, even if you lingered in his peripheral as class went on.

Your lack of reaction and response to his unchangingness of your grade gives him a false sign of relief—had you finally moved on from the idea? Joel was clueless to how preoccupied you actually were, chewing on the end of a pen as you sifted through tabs as he droned on at the front of class. Discussion days were always long and dreadful, and as most of the class was discussing the troubled assignment Mr. Miller had given you the week prior, your silence was…required. He avoided you like the plague and you were thankful, to some degree.

Still filled with frustration and simmering rage, you can’t ignore how despite everything—Joel still glances your way. And where his looks before were restrained, subtle and less driven…these were not. Like he was replaying the events in his head every time he looked at you, wondering if he’d tossed your panties out or kept them, if he still tasted you on his lips—at this point, fucking you was the least he could do.

And you know it’s in poor taste, but you approach him at the end of class with a revered look on things—hopeful, even. Apologize, fix your grade, and move on like things never happened.

He straightens a stack of files on his desk as you approach, jaw tense as he swallows and his gaze follows the last few lingering students as you neared on him, like prey. But, your face softens when he looks at you and whatever retort he has on standby dissipates for the moment.

“Um,” You start, unsure of how he would react, “I—can we talk?”

“I don’t think that’s the best idea,” Joel offers logically, “not…now.”

End of day, he thinks. In his office. Privacy. Secrecy. He didn’t feel like airing things out in the middle of the day, not with his divorce on the forefront of his mind.

“I just…I wanted to apologize.” You tell him quietly, “For everything.”

Was it genuine? Not really.

“I can’t change your grade,” He admits, “I’m not going to and it’s beyond the deadline for that assignment.”

You breath sharply through your nostrils and intertwine your fingers in front of you—Joel can see from the way your grip tightens that you’re holding back and nothing has changed.

Unstable and volatile, you both stared at each other for too long, an eerie silence settling.

“That’s—”

He interrupts without much care, “Unfair? Unethical? Don’t start with this. Not now.”

He doesn’t have any leverage here either, but you quiet down under his gaze slightly.

You begin to speak again, but he holds up a careful finger. Like scolding a child for their actions and you bite back a venomous retort as he talks over you, “Meet me in my office at six. Fifteen minutes. That’s all you get.”

He’s on edge, jaw flexing around a tense swallow that feels impossible to get down. He turns back to his desk, ignoring you and ultimately ending whatever conversation you were hoping to have.

He wants you to wait and despite your stubbornness to address the situation now, you settle with his words and nod, a quiet “Okay.” in response.

“Don’t be late.” He stresses, eyes flicking up towards you briefly.

Your insides twist ominously in anticipation, but you feel yourself throbbing with need.

“Yes,” You respond, “Of course, Mr. Miller.”

There’s an urge for praise that Joel bites back.

Joel is already opening the door as your footsteps approach later that day, anticipating your arrival and eyes glancing over your figure in the darkened lights of the classroom, the warm glow of his office blanketing you both as he welcomes you in with a gesture, moving out of your way slightly and closing the door to his office as you trailed toward his desk, lingering quietly.

“You can sit.” He directs, thumbs digging into the waistband of his slacks as he adjusts them slightly, the uncomfortable press of his belt pressing into his stomach. Normally he’d undress a little, relax, but he couldn’t allow that. Not with how anxious he felt, knowing what he faced at home, sure that the divorce papers had already been delivered to Tess.

He’s tried to ignore it—and he doesn’t know why he’s worried, but her refusal to cooperate is always an option and that isn’t something Joel thinks he can handle calmly.

“Okay,” You listen, taking a seat in one of the two leather chairs placed in front of his desk, watching as he leaned against the edge of his desk a few inches away, hands clasped in his lap as he looked down, unsure of how to begin, or where, “Um, I can—”

“You need to understand something,” Joel begins suddenly, interrupting you again—it really, really fucking bothered you. He did it on purpose, as a way to assert himself over you, and you felt it in the way he looked at you, down and scrutinizing, “this—whatever this is, or was—it’s inappropriate.”

As if he had a proper moral compass to explain his actions.

“I don’t need a lesson in appropriate behavior,” You counter, “if that’s what you’re leading into.”

“No—”

It’s your turn to interrupt, sitting up straighter in your chair.

“And truthfully, it’s a little unprofessional of you to continue to fail me after I did the make-up assignment.” You respond, a tinge of condescension in your tone, “and you kissed me, if I remember correctly. So—if this is because you’re upset, then I’m allowed to be too. I want a fair grade. Not what you’re punishing me with now because you—for whatever fucking reason, can’t get passed the idea that you had those thoughts too, but can’t accept it.”

“I’m not punishing you.” Joel responds lamely and you squint your eyes slightly as you look at him before huffing out a breath of defeat, chuckling softly under your breath.

“You know—we talked for weeks. Back and forth. And you reached out to me first. So, if you want to deny that then let’s talk about you abusing your power and holding it over my head now after all of that. Genuine talks. You had to care, to some degree.”

“You’re not the first student I’ve talked to outside of class—”

You roll your eyes, feeling the conversation stalling out quickly.

“Do you still have them?” You ask curiously.

Joel doesn’t need to be told. He knows what you’re referring to.

And the guilt on his face as he looks away briefly, tongue pressing into his cheek as he glances at his watch, avoiding your question.

“Am I out of time already?” You ask patronizingly, leaning over in the chair slightly as you struggle to meet his gaze, his eyes pointed elsewhere. “Tight schedule today?”

“What are you expecting out of this?” Joel asks, arms crossing over his chest, biceps stretching under the dark button-up, licking at his bottom lip anxiously. “Are you that fucking stubborn that you think this is somehow going to work in your favor?”

Your face twitches in frustration and you cock your head slightly, rising from the chair and into his space, close enough that you can smell the faint waft of his cologne, looking him over slowly as his eyes fall on you.

“Where are they?” You ask curiously, squeezing yourself between the small space, thighs rubbing against his own as you walk around him, trailing by his desk. “Here?” You point toward the stack of closed drawers nestled in the wood and Joel glances over his shoulder, quick to move as he pushes you away gently, palm flat against your chest.

“The fuck are you doing?” He asks, “You came here to talk. So talk.”

You click your tongue against the roof of your mouth and test your limits once more, “Oh, so they are in there? Kept them for yourself? You know, this whole moral high ground thing is really fucking annoying, Joel.”

He speaks your name as a warning, but it only makes you feel more at ease.

“What?” You ask innocently, “Do you have somewhere to be?”

Joel chews at his bottom lip and removes his hand from the center of your chest, feeling it sting like a hot brand as his fingers curl around the edge of his desk, feeling oddly small as your eyes track him and watch like he’s some type of prey, a devilish smile pulling at your lips.

He made a mistake underestimating you—or even allowing you back into his office. He was screwed.

“Stop.” He warns, watching as you sucked your bottom lip between your teeth and reach behind him quickly, yanking at the drawer but he draws your hand up, tight in his grip and forcing you against his chest, your unrestrained hand falling against the desk to catch yourself.

“What’s going on?” You ask softly, feigning genuine emotion. The crease between his brow growing deeper—you’ve spent enough time with him to know when something is bothering him, someone, and it’s written all over his face. “Come on, I won’t say anything.”

“It’s not your business.” Joel offers lamely, feeling you create a small amount of distance as you push away, your wrist still held firmly in his grip, but lower by his waist.

“Is it her?” You ask carefully, “It’s her, isn’t it?”

Another breath of your name—stop here, stop now.

“Did you tell her?” You ask suddenly, eyes widening. “God, are you really that much of a —”

“No, fuck—” He interrupts, “I’m—not that it’s any of your goddamn business, I served her divorce papers today.”

“Oh…” It wasn’t what you expected, not by a longshot. “Was that—is that because of—”

“No,” His eyebrows quirk up slightly, amused that you thought you were the cause of his marriage's untimely dismantlement, “not at all, actually.”

He doesn’t know why it feels like a weight lifting on his chest, but talking about it with you feels…less imposing than he expected. And your eyes soften slightly at the mention, still beckoning something dark but he can see the genuine reaction that flashes momentarily.

He loosens his grip but doesn’t quite let go, thumb rubbing over the vein of your wrist.

Joel doesn’t understand why he can’t just let go, like he’s weirdly tethered to you.

“Do you…want to talk about it?” You ask, feeling the need to reassure some comfort.

You didn’t really care, but he seemed so pathetically sad. It spilled over and flooded into you, that small tug at your heart. It quickly fades, his mouth opening to speak.

“Not really.” He doesn’t feel the need to bother, glancing at his watch briefly again.

The minutes were ticking down and he knew you were overstaying your welcome—and he was allowing it. But, you here—it feels good.

“I can’t change your grade,” He reiterates again, “but if you promise to not do something like that again—I can offer some extra credit, something to help make up for it.”

And ultimately teach you a lesson and punish you in the process. Did you really have a choice?

“Extra credit,” You stress, saying slowly as you consider the word, the implication—you don’t think he means it in a nefarious way, it just feels ridiculous, “seriously?”

Joel nods, “Consider it a…lesson learned.”

A small laugh bubbles from your chest but you ignore it, staring down at his touch and speaking.

“You know—I did appreciate the recommendations you made,” You admit, “if that counts for anything.

Joel stares at you, despite your preoccupied gaze, speaking directly.

“I wasn’t lying when I said I care about that,” Joel says, “I give recommendations to students all the time. But, you seemed more interested so–I gave you more.”

“Right,” You say with finality, “and all those nights at the coffee shop?”

“I’m there quite a bit anyways,” He admits, only a half-truth, “you’re not the first student I’ve had meetings with outside of class.”

He’s trying to reiterate to himself that his actions are justified, but his body is saying otherwise.

“Mr. Miller,” You start softly, “can I ask you one more question?”

Silent, he nods again.

“Why are you still touching me?”

And he doesn’t know why, but something in him snaps. The quickening of your pulse under his fingertips, your eyes finally flicking up to him. He does have your panties tucked away in his desk, he doesn’t meet with students outside of his class like that, and he can try and convince himself all he wants, but him reaching out to you was a personal, selfish decision that had nothing to do with anything but his own curiosity. He sees the subtle catch of your breath and doesn’t stop you when he sees you moving closer, quick and determined.

Fuck his time limit, you think.

If he wanted you to leave he would’ve forced you out by now.

Your lips are soft but forceful, pressing against his with fervor as you slip your wrist from his grip and bury your fingers into his shortened curls, trimmed down at the base of his neck but there’s still just enough to tug, swallowing down his soft grunt as you pull and bite as at his bottom lip.

Joel has the thought to stop you, but he can’t.

He feels guilty, appreciating the touch that he’s lacked for so long. But, there’s a creeping sensation of frustration that fills him, vexed with you. And it snaps, completely.

His hands finally touch you, releasing a breath into his mouth you didn’t realize you were holding. One hand cradling the back of your head, the other wrapped firmly around your neck. Just a solid weight that he uses as leverage when you get too eager, nipping at his lip.

Joel moves you easily, silently as he turns and presses you against his desk, mumbling a soft “Up.” as he aids in the lift of your thighs, taking a seat on his desk as it shakes with the movement and he slots himself between your open legs and kisses you fuller, selfishly.

He’s eager to slip his tongue into your mouth once more, like beforem and you welcome it with ease. Giggling into his open mouth as he squeezes at your throat, the sound breaking his focus.

“So, is this the extra credit?” You speak against his lips, a soft puff of his breath over your face as he keeps his eyes closed, face pressed against yours. “Because I think my fifteen minutes is up.”

Joel can’t do conversation right now, the noise grating in his ears as he blindly reaches for his tie and loosens it, yanking it away from his neck and balling up the material, his eyebrows shooting up slightly in response as he catches your gaze, momentarily confused until you quickly catch on.

Oh, he wants you to shut up. Noted.

He’s guiding the fabric to your mouth before you can properly speak and that’s what he wants, stuffing it between your teeth and forcing you to bite down, his eyes darkened as he squeezes your cheeks between his fingers, shifting a hand under the hem of your dress where it tickles your thighs and you legs widen instinctively, even more. There’s an obvious absence of fabric that Joel notes as his fingers dig into your hips, your eyes brightening at his realization.

And that’s how Joel knows—you never came here to talk. You always had some underlying intention or reason and it drove him insane, but he was a raging hypocrite, wanting it just as selfishly. His fingers drag over your pussy with intention, gliding through your slick and pressing a single digit inside of you with little resistance and you gasp, muffled by the fabric.

“You didn’t come here to talk,” Joel surmises, though it was obvious from the start, “did you?”

You shake your head weakly, eyes squeezing shut as he pumps his fingers and quickly adds another, hand flying to his wrist as he quirks his fingers inside of you and hits a spot that has your stomach coiling in anticipation.

“What do you want?” He asks hotly, hand squeezing at the base of your neck while he uses his other hand to rub messy, slow circles over your clit. Your hands reach for his belt without question, palm flattening over his cock that was held tightly behind the stiff material of his slacks. “Yeah?” He questions, the subtle squeeze of your hand against his shaft in response.

And part of you really doesn’t think he has it in him to go through with it, but then he’s pulling his hand away from you to manipulate and manhandle, yanking you off the desk sloppily and pressing your front against the edge, fumbling with his belt behind you and pulling it off in a sharp snap, hand flattening against your back as he presses you down.

“Give me your hands.” He tells you, a soft whine of protest coming from your mouth, but then he’s pulling himself from his briefs, cock in hand as he tugs at himself slowly and glides along the center of your pussy, dragging through the wetness. “You want me to fuck you, right? Give me your hands.”

You had control on just about every aspect of his mind—he needed this, the physicality stripped from you.

You oblige silently, face resting against the cold wood as you offered up your hands and allowed him to constrain them tight and snug—he does it with ease. Practice and perfected and he uses it as leverage to pull you back toward him, “So, we have a caveat here. No condom.”

You nod deftly, eyes closing as he tightens his grip and ultimately squeezes the belt even tighter.

“But, something tells me you don’t care—” A shake of your head in response, “—don’t tell me you’re that fucking naive.”

You shrug lamely, wiggling your ass in an effort to move closer, eyebrow furrowing as he moves his hips away slightly. You growl in frustration and spit out the tie, “Fuck you, I’m on birth control. Do you really think I’m that irresponsible?”

His lack of answer is enough of one and he stuffs the fabric back into your mouth with a grimace, “Given your behavior, yes.” He fists himself tightly and slips inside of you with ease, a snug fit but you mold around him perfectly.

And it shouldn’t feel right, but it does. Joel breathes a soft breath of relief as he uses his free hand to fist into the fabric of your dress and use it as a perfect leverage to fuck into you with fervor, disregarding of your own pleasure for the time being—though the angle and the intensity of your thrust doesn’t have you far off, snapping his hips with a furiosity that strikes something inside of you with each harsh movement.

He’s huffing behind clenched teeth, a low growl emitting from his chest as he feels you tighten around him instinctively, sobbing brokenly around the fabric in your mouth, eventually allowing it to slip as you feel his grip shift, pulling you upright by your dress and pressing you back against his chest.

“Why the—sudden change of heart?” You tease, an underlying suspicion in your mind that you don’t speak aloud. He wanted a distraction and you were proving to be a great one. His hips slow suddenly, almost like he’s contemplating a response.

He huffs out a bitter laugh, snapping his hips sharply and forcing a gasp from your chest.

“Do you ever shut up?” He asks, “If I knew you’d be this annoying I would’ve just shoved my dick in your mouth—maybe that would do you some good. You’d like that, huh?”

You giggle softly but it falls off into a broken moan as Joel buries his face into your neck, biting roughly at your skin as he feels himself reaching his peak, knowing it’s been far too long for him—years of lacking sex that quickly divulged into nothing. “I think you would like that, Joel.”

You’re waiting for a chastise that never comes, knowing he hates when his name falls from your tongue—he makes a muffled sound as he loosens the belt with fluid, practiced fingers and discards it to the floor, relieving the growing ache in your shoulders as he crosses an arm over your chest, palm flat against it to hold you in place as he snaps his hips once, twice, before his other hand is digging into the flesh of your own hip as he comes, deep inside of you and with a muffled grunt, teeth leaving a faint impression in your skin—and you’re only slightly disappointed in his lack of attention in making you come, but then he’s pulling out and spinning you around, hands coming up under your thighs to spread you out over his desk, silently pressing for you to lean back, dropping to his knees with his pants pooling low on his thighs. Too impatient to redress fully.

You gasp when he dips a finger inside of you, catching the slow spend that slips out, stuffing it back in as he presses his tongue over your clit and groaning at how you clench tightly around his fingers, spasming at the pressure.

“Quiet,” He warns, “put the fucking tie back in your mouth if you can’t control yourself.”

You can admit defeat, pathetically stuffing the fabric back in your mouth—haphazardly as half of it drapes over your chest, eyes locking on Joel’s as he laps at your clit, fingers stuffed inside of you to keep his cum from dripping out. And it’s so overwhelming that when you do finally come, you feel your vision blacking out, biting down roughly on the silk tie as you claw at the hand he has braced against your stomach, desperately trying to keep your writhing body still.

The aftermath is quiet, jaded—shifting on his desk silently you watch as he redresses, tucking his shirt back into his pants as he slips his belt through the loops, the fingers that were just buried inside of you working so easily against the leather.

“Satisfied?” He asks suddenly, into the silence as you both lock eyes.

He slips the tie from your fingers, placing it back around his neck and tying it diligently.

“Are you going to try and convince me you did that for my benefit?” You retort in annoyance, despite how satisfied you actually may be, this wasn’t just on you, “How about you apologize for using me as an outlet for your troubled marriage?”

“You’re not an outlet–”

And as if you spoke it into existence, the knock comes a few moments later. The door opening.

This is the part where Joel’s life finally implodes.

You on his desk, compromising as he still stands halfway between your legs in the middle of shifting his tie and Tess is…stoic. Silent.

“This is what’s been keeping you so preoccupied?” Tess asks, the dooming stack of papers gripped tightly in her hand. “Fucking a student?” Her eyes flicking to you briefly but quickly back to Joel and he nods toward the door, beckoning for you to leave.

You do, without question.

And the aftermath is abysmal.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fic #tlou fanfic #joel miller smut #professor!joel miller #the last of us fanfiction #my writing #miller's girl #pedro pascal characters

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roseglazedlens · 1 year ago

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Okay let's forget about all the agents Kennedy, alcohol and trauma in RC, Ada...ect,and turn to Leon s Kennedy as Your husband's policeman 36years is receiving a promotion to Chief Police Officer cuz I can't see my bbguy suffer more :(,you can add some nsfw if you want to

thank you for requesting lovely! i'm sorry i write so much angst hahhaha, but here is a change of pace! i've never written anything purely fluff (lol) and so many characters, so this is a challenge! i hope you enjoy!

⦑ take me home ⦒✶.*

pairing(s): leon kennedy x gn! reader synopsis: you throw a surprise party for your boyfriend's last day at work after his job promotion. content: pure fluff, established relationship, flirting, alcohol, leon is tipsy, but he's cute & not depressed ab it. claire, rebecca, jill & chris works in RPD. « 1 k words┇masterlist┇ao3┇reblogs appreciated! »

Today is an unusual sight for the usually hectic police department in Raccoon City. The office is adorned with balloons, garlands, and laughter, celebrating not just the promotion of a well-loved officer, Leon S. Kennedy, but also his farewell as he relocates to a new precinct.

You should be happy for your boyfriend – and you are – but part of you will miss watching over his figure from your desk, casting flirtatious grins back and forth in attempts to distract each other from the rigorous paperwork.

A banner suspends between the light fixtures, observing the lopsided words ‘CONGRATULATIONS’, strings twisted into the knot. The culprit of this handiwork, Chris, puffs out his chest proudly, while Rebecca looks at him in disbelief.

“Chris, leave the decorations to Rebecca, please.” You break apart the squabble forming between them. Rebecca smirks as Chris descends the ladder, defeated. “Don’t forget everyone, this is supposed to be a surprise.”

“Claire, where is the card?” You interrogate the next person in your line of sight, who happens to be Claire. All whilst you signal Rebecca to tilt the banner slightly upwards. “Has everyone signed?”

“Yep. It’s just you left.” She hands over the card, before resuming to the case files on her computer.

The card scrawls with heartfelt blessings from your team, a lot of ‘good lucks’, ‘we’ll miss you’, and nostalgia when he was just a rookie. He worked hard for ten years to be a sergeant, and you know he deserves this.

You pick up your pen – contemplating the words to express how amazing he is, how you will love him forever, how you will miss the sneaky make-out sessions in the work janitor’s closet.

…Marvin will be so proud of you. Yours, ....

The vibration in your pocket cuts you off mid-sentence – Jill. She is supposed to be on the case with Leon for another thirty minutes. You read the text out loud.

“I can't hold him back much longer, we're on our way. ETA in five minutes!!”

The floor scrambles in panic to finalise their positions. Rebecca quickly secures the banner with some tape. Claire is passing party poppers. Chris is putting away the ladder to the storeroom.

As Jill enters the space with Leon following behind, all the confetti releases at once.

The rainbow plastic ribbons catching in his hair like stardust in sand. You catch a glimpse of surprise in his reaction, following with a light on the corner of his lips.

“To Leon!” your team lifts their glasses high in the air, sipping beers and cocktails all night. Leon is the star tonight – you can barely talk to him without two other people buying him drinks all night along.

You catch him a whole two hours later in the circle booth, after some of the crowd has dispersed, his cheeks redden from the many drinks consumed all in a few hours. You squeeze yourself through three different people to sit yourself next to Leon.

“Having fun?” You try to get his attention by nudging at his forearm. “Don’t get too drunk though, I have to take you home.”

Leon lifts his gaze, when he sees you right by him, a grin tug at his face almost immediately. His cerulean eyes somehow more glazy than usual.

“Thank you for doing all of this. You are so good for me.” Despite the scent of beer merging with his breath, the grin on his face remains childlike. One that you only see in his drunkenness, which he lets down his guard to show more of his emotional side.

“Everyone helped. Not just me.” You are thinking how cute Leon looks when he’s drunk. “You are well-loved in here. I’m just the facilitator.”

“How about you work for me?” Leon brings the back of your palm to his lips. “I can pull some strings, now that I’m sergeant.”

“Sergeant Kennedy, using your influence for personal goals? It’s not even your first day.” You quip with a slight chuckle.

“And what if I am?” He peppers kisses from your palm to your fingers, the faint heat from his lips sizzle through your nerves. “Sure you’ll enjoy less time on the field, and more time in my office.”

“Well, if that’s the case.” You decide to let this banter go on a little further. “I expect to be well-compensated for my extra duties.”

“That will depend on your performance.” He raises a sassy eyebrow, pulling you closer until your noses touch.

“Good thing I always hit my KPI’s.”

“I do like a hardworking employee…”

Eyes fluttering shut slowly, you smile into the kiss. His lips lay gently on yours, sucking slightly at your cupid’s bow. Your bodies move closer, so close that you rests your hand on Leon’s thigh for support. The kiss deepens further, sloppier, tongues intertwined until…

“Ahem.” Chris clears his throat loudly, snapping you back to the present.

You open your eyes to find the whole table staring at the two of you. Your gaze finds its way to Jill, which she immediately, most awkwardly, rolls her eyes to the ceiling as if there is something to see there. Claire is nonchalant, sipping her beer and simply enjoying the scene.

You retract the tongue that is still shoved in Leon’s mouth. A hint of pink is running up your cheeks, you don’t need to see it to feel it. Leon, however, is unphased by the attention from his coworkers. Perhaps it’s the alcohol, perhaps it’s knowing that he won’t be seeing these guys next Monday.

“So… next rounds on me. Who’s in?” Chris attempts to diffuse the awkwardness, which earns a few curt nods from the table.

Leon holds you by the hand, picking you up from the seat. “Sorry Chris, we’re gonna call it. It’s been a long night. Thanks for the party, everyone.”

You two shuffle past Chris and Jill out of the booth, after a round of hugs with everyone, you can practically feel Leon sprinting out the bar.

“How ‘bout we continue where we left off at my place?”

Your cheeks turn a deeper red. It seems like he will be the one to take you home tonight instead.

thanks for reading! come check out my other works. ––yours truly, rose. tags: @carlosgf @sporeghost (pm me for tags) © roseglazedlens - please do not repost, plagiarise, or feed to ai.

#꒰✒️ rose fics ��.꒱#leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #resident evil fluff #leon kennedy fluff #resident evil fanfiction #leon s kennedy #leon x reader #leon kennedy #resident evil x reader #resident evil #fanfiction #leon s kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x you #꒰✏️ rose requests ♡.*꒱#chris redfield #rebecca chambers #claire redfield #jill valentine

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herefortheships · 3 months ago

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Just rewatched Beetlejuice Beetlejuice again, and I have thoughts!

But this was my first time watching it while being a Betelgeuse x Lydia shipper, so there might be some unhinged shipper takes here. I'll leave my completely speculative, potentially emotionally-charged impressions under the "read more" cut, under the list.

A lot of what I'll mention here I already noticed after my first watch, but I hadn't written a post like this about my impressions after watching the movie, so I decided to put it all here.

Here it goes!

This movie NEEDED more Betelgeuse. I'm sorry, Michael, but you are kinda wrong. It's not like we need the movie to be all about Betelgeuse, but we needed at least five or ten more minutes with the ghost with the most.

The movie sprang to life whenever Delia was onscreen. The same can be said about Betelgeuse.

The chemistry between Michael Keaton and Winona Ryder was through the roof. All scenes between them were immaculate and precisely why we needed MORE Betelgeuse!

I didn't notice how slow the first half of the movie felt, until Betelgeuse shows up. The movie picks up the pace after the couples therapy scene.

Betelgeuse is crazy about Lydia, no doubt. Was he gonna try to kiss her when he said "come here" right before she yelled "home, home, home!"? I think he definitely was going to throw himself at her. Anyway, he had several chances to do that later and he didn't try anything, but he might have been more restrained not to scare her away again.

Betelgeuse always seems to be more careful around Lydia (about checking her out, touching her, etc). Is he shy about Lydia specifically? lol

We needed more interactions between these two, especially so Lydia could see Betelgeuse wasn't the scary demon she thought him to be. He's more of a self-serving, lovable a-hole with a perverted side, than an all out evil entity. (She still got to see he's not that bad through his actions in the movie, after he saves Astrid and goes above and beyond by also exposing Rory and sending Jeremy to hell lol, but we needed a little more conversation between the two. This would help Lydia process her trauma around Betelgeuse. (*I have a point about this particular thing below, under the cut). Also would have helped the audience see why Betelgeuse's motivation to marry Lydia had nothing to do with Delores and everything to do with how he feels about Lydia herself (he was already chasing Lydia before Delores came into the picture, and had been doing so for over 30 years, as he keeps her photo on his desk and hasn't moved it from there, as shown by the cobweb behind it. Betelgeuse is looking into that portrait literally every single day).

Delores could have been entirely removed from this movie and nothing would have changed. When she shows up and says "Betelgeuse is mine" she literally does nothing to Lydia, whose photo she had literally smashed minutes earlier. When faced with the real woman who she believes to be stealing her man, she doesn't attempt anything against her? That was weak writing.

Everything around Delores was weak writing, except for her backstory.

Lydia did not leave Winter River at the end of the movie. I think the bed she wakes up in after the nightmare is still in Winter River.

As a matter of fact, the nightmare/dream sequence starts when she's quitting her show. The music that denotes that this is a dream starts there. Lydia did not quit the show. She might later on (if there's a 3rd movie we'll know if she did quit), but by the end of this movie she did not quit. That was part of the dream.

Betelgeuse starts blowing up like a balloon before Lydia says his name three times. She's said it once and he started ballooning. So I confirm: he did this himself on purpose. This man is a drama king and this was his grand exit back into the afterlife. 😂

I had this strange vibe that Astrid was bullshitting when she said that by violating code 699 the marriage contract was null and void. The contract also burned when she mentioned it. If it was null and void by Betelgeuse's violation of the code, why is it that it only burned when Astrid mentioned it?

Betelgeuse was indeed in bed with Lydia at the end. Not only is she sleeping to one side of the bed, the pillow he was in was wrinkled like he'd been lying there, and we can also hear the echo of his laugh. This makes me believe that he's the one who put the dream in her mind. Maybe to get back at her for banishing him. (This is a headcanon though, but the fact stands: Betelgeuse was truly there).

Oh before I forget, Lydia did look sad/conflicted at the end after Betelgeuse blew up and vanished. We can't know exactly how she felt after her time with Betelgeuse in this movie because it ended before we had a moment with Lydia alone after everything was said and done. Her story doesn't wrap up, because after she says her goodbye to Delia, what we have with Lydia is the dream sequence. Then she wakes up next to Betelgeuse, and again, alone, but still we can hear Betelgeuse's laugh echoing in the room as Lydia looks half scared, half confused (her face is like "wtf??") as the final scene of the movie.

And now for the potentially unhinged fangirl takes and headcanons (mostly revolving around Betelgeuse and Lydia):

Lydia has always had unresolved feelings for/around Betelgeuse. These unresolved feelings, whatever they are, has not allowed Lydia's romantic relationships to progress. The movie presents these feelings as trauma, and I find that very interesting. Let's explore this one a bit:

Early in the movie when Lydia is talking to Astrid about death and Richard is mentioned, Lydia mentions that her relationship with Richard had ended long before he left and had his accident in the Amazon. Astrid also mentions later that his dad left after his relationship with her mom had ended (If I recall correctly, Astrid says it like "after they separated, my dad left").

Then, when Lydia is talking to Delia after she's seen the Betelgeuse ad that Astrid found in the attic, she starts talking to Delia about how she met Rory at a grief retreat dealing with the loss of Richard and some unresolved feelings. Notice how she said her relationship was over long before his death. Naturally she was grieving him, but what are these unresolved feelings about? Is there guilt involved due to... :

Later, when Lydia tells Rory about Betelgeuse, she goes about it this way: She reminds Rory about their couples therapist, and how he told her that until she faced this "thing" that she was holding back, her relationship with Rory was not going to evolve. This thing of course turns out to be Betelgeuse.

So this kinda confirms that Lydia has some unresolved feelings around Betelgeuse that are holding her romantic relationships back.

As I mentioned above, this is presented as trauma. Is it because of her experiences in the first movie? I don't think so for various reasons: She not only grew up surrounded by the love and care of the Maitlands, she also hasn't seen or heard Betelgeuse in years though she's felt his presence. She also appeared to be living happily at the end of the first movie. You can't present me a traumatized character in the sequel when you showed me this character to be completely fine at the end of the previous film. Lydia also mentions to Delia that her anxiety comes from seeing ghosts every day.

So her traumatic feelings about Betelgeuse stem from something inside her that she needs to face or she won't be able to move on. Keep in mind these are my interpretations and shouldn't be taken as fact! But I believe that Lydia's trauma stems from guilt about having feelings and attraction toward Betelgeuse (possibly since she was a teenager), someone who, in her own words, she is convinced is a "trickster demon".

She may have always been attracted to him, but she pushed it down ("held it back", using her own words). She probably worries that having these feelings makes her "wrong" in some form. That she is "dirty" or even "evil" herself. How can she feel an attraction to someone like Betelgeuse, who is not only scary-looking, but also did scary things to her family and once tried to force her to marry him? These are her conflicted thoughts.

Confronting these emotions is Lydia's true path to healing wholly, because she will be faced with her own darkness. And this is what she is vehemently avoiding by wanting Betelgeuse out of her life (whilst simultaneously wanting him in her life).

This is yet ANOTHER reason why we need a third film: Lydia needs to face her own feelings about Betelgeuse or else she will always be stuck in life. Her relationships will always fail because her heart belongs to someone else; to the one person (ghost) she refuses to give it to, not because of what she feels about him, but because of what having these feelings makes her feel about herself. Only facing this will Lydia be whole again.

That's interesting material for a third and final film, but again, just my headcanons and interpretations. These movies are mostly comedy, and so it's unlikely they will go into the deep stuff. But then again, this movie at times went surprisingly deep, despite being mostly bonkers comedy, so there is a chance they will explore deeper, darker themes in the final installment. Usually the final film in a series goes harder than the rest into the deeper and more nuanced themes.

#Beetlejuice Beetlejuice #Beetlebabes #Beetlejuice x Lydia #Betelgeuse x Lydia #Beetlejuice meta #My thoughts about Beetlejuice Beetlejuice #Things I write

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ilikeredcars · 1 year ago

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Two hearts, one love

Charles Leclerc x Wife!Reader

Summary: Formula's one cutest couple also happens to be between a reporter and a certain pilot in red

Warnings: Broken bone (leg)

An: Hiiiiii!! I'm very very proud of this work (so if you don't like it pls don't tell me 😌) anywhoss, just remembering yall that I'm brazilian so English is not my first language, that means you have to forgive me if I make any mistakes LOL, ENJOYYY!

Being a reporter for Formula One truly isn't easy, but you love it and always did. You were indeed always fascinated by all the cars, drivers, teams and everything that had to do with the sport, so it wasn't surprising to anyone when you graduated college and soon got a job as a reporter to a highly successful TV channel. Your job was great, you could do together the two things you loved most, work for TV and Formula One. And that is how you met the third thing you love most: Charles Leclerc. He had just signed with Scuderia Ferrari when you two met. It was your first year as a field reporter, which meant you went around interviewing drivers, mechanics and team principals, basically anyone that you passed through who had time and knowledge enough to be interviewed. The day you two officially met was in the first Grand Prix of the season, it was qualifying day and Charles had just done amazingly well for such a young driver, fortunately the universe was on your side and you managed to get a interview with him, il predestinato, all dressed in red and with sweat dripping from his hair to his forehead and onto the sides of his face, that was the first time you saw him so close, and the moment he looked inside your eyes, the driver knew that the purpose of his life, was to make you his wife. And he did it, two years later you married in a beautiful church just outside Monaco, and it was the happiest day of your lives.

Current days

It is race week! And you couldn't be more happy with the excitement of every fan who passes by your side, you just love everything the paddock has to offer, maybe except for the giant cast on your right leg that couldn't go by unnoticed even if you tried. The week before you were walking home and in your way you encountered an old lady whose cane had fallen, without thinking twice you bent down to pick up the object for the poor woman who could clearly barely bend down, unfortunately for you, a car next to you lost control and hit you hard, fortunately he was not driving at a big speed and so the only injury you received was a broken leg, you were released from the hospital a day later with a cast on your leg and a crutch. And that's how you ended up here, this is officially your first race as Charles' wife and not as a reporter and you couldn't be more excited, with Charles help you got out of the car and was immediately flooded by questions and fans wanting to take a picture with your husband or wanting an autograph, you told him it was okay and gave him space to talk to the fans for about ten minutes. After some of the fans went away he walked slowly toward you with a giant smile on his face, "Sorry about that mon amour, let's get you to the garage okay?"

"Okay" You smiled and gave him a small kiss to his cheek, "I love you so much angel" "And I love you more bébé"

As you were walking to the red garage that was near the end of the paddock a reporter stopped you and you immediately recognized her as Rachel, the girl who was filling in for you until you took off your cast and could go back to work.

"Charles! YN! How are you love? Are you getting better after the accident?" She asked smiling towards you. She had a microphone in her hand and the cameraman had the camera pointed at you, Rachel can be your friend but this was still an interview and you had to be careful with what you and Charles said.

"Hey Rach! Fortunately I'm great! The accident wasn't too bad and I'm not feeling pain at all!"

"That is awesome YN!"

"Yeah! And let me tell you a secret..." You felt your husband's hand wrap around your waist and smiled. "...I have this great guy by my side who is helping me with everything I need!"

You turned to Charles who gave you a passionate smile and slowly pulled you in to give you a loving kiss (appropriate for the cameras around you, of course), you smiled and found home in his embrace.

"Okay okay, let's let the lovebirds be! Haha! It was great seeing you both. Good luck on the race today Charles and hope you get better YN!"

"Bye bye Rach! Thank you!"

"Merci Rachel" Said Charles before turning once again to you and helping you continue your way toward the garage. As soon as you entered the space you grabbed your husband's hand carefully.

"I love you so so much and I'm so proud of you my love. You have no ideia how much I look up to you"

"Je t'aime tellement mon ange, je l'ai toujours fait et je le ferai toujours"

*I love you so much my angel, I always have and I always will*

#charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc #charles leclerc fluff #formula one x reader #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc x female reader #charles lechair #ferrari #charles leclerc x wife #charles leclerc x reporter #formula one #charles leclerc fic #charles leclerc blurb #cl16 #cl16 x reader #cl16 x you #charles leclerc x yn

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2demondogs · 11 days ago

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Can you do Arthur and BioKid!reader (prob age around 5-7) where Arthur sent his kid to school (around 1870, school began to become free) because even if he knows he could teach his kid the basics, he wants better for them.

As we know, schools back then did physical punishments. If a kid lacked behind their fellow students, teachers often saw it as laziness and would punish the kid.

Arthurs kid, who was very excited to attend school, came back from it sobbing their eyes out because they were canned (hit) on their hands for not understanding math and begging that Arthur doesn't send them back.

Obv Arthur, being an amazing dad, doesn't send them back and taught them stuff himself.

Weirdly enough I had a very similar experience at that age but in ballet class. Are any of us okay?

Historical accuracy was attempted. Though the image of being dropped off at school on a horse is absolutely hilarious to me. "Okay little buddy here's a cigarette for lunch, I'll clip clop back at 4. Daddy's gonna go rob a bank now. Hyah!!"

Arthur's a cigarette mom tbh. Also this took literally like 2 months for me to get to I'm so sorry LOL I wanted some familial comfort so I was finally in the headspace for it.

Words: 3k Tags: AU - canon divergence, pre-canon (circa 1888), hurt/comfort, it takes a village so the gang's all here too, angst but also a lotta fluff Arthur is just being Arthur (aka a killjoy), gender-neutral reader

Few things in his life have brought Arthur as much pride — in someone else, in himself — as the grin plastered on your face the first day of school.

Boadicea disliked the amount of people, the small kids that tried to stroke her legs before being beckoned away by their parents. Most were used to animals like her, but he could tell the city-bred ones from his own kind: brighter faces, slower walks, cleaner nails. It's the same as their parents, dressed well and sometimes in automobiles.

What an odd gathering these schoolrooms make for. He's always thought it'd be funny to have punted John in the direction of one, but he finds he's had a wrong idea about the crowd. Wouldn't have been as satisfying as he imagined when the man was just a boy, wily and jaded and just like all the other farm kids that he saw trudge in and out yesterday. (Of course, when John showed curiosity about it and asked him what the crowd was like, he told him he was far too stupid to dream of going to school. He is a father, but he ain't John's.)

In another life, he might even stick around to converse with the other parents. He'd pondered it that first day, feeding Boadicea an apple for the trip from camp some miles off and to this building on the edge of town. Arthur wondered if he had had you ten years later, and if he were not so much younger than all these parents, and if you were not so—

Well, misplaced in the world. His own fault. He thinks of it everyday.

He studies the bricks while he smokes and waits at the side of the building, now, early as he was yesterday lest he miss something important. What it would be, he doesn't know. Perhaps he just hopes you'll be given back to him sooner today, because he's coming to realize he's grown fond of knowing exactly where you are. After your mother died, the clinginess is a little more souring than he'd like to feel, so he doesn't study it.

Instead, he flicks ash off his cigarette and considers that it's going to get chilly soon. You've grown since last winter, and he ought to make sure you still fit your coat when he brings you home.

He doubts Grimshaw will mind making you another; seems to like you. Pities you, anyways, because your father is the young, dumb oaf Arthur Morgan. That woman drives him insane, sometimes, but he has learned that she cares in her own way ever since you came along. A certain softness came out in her that, rarely but truly, extended to him, too.

The cigarette is replaced by another by the time the kids begin to pour out of the doors. Youngest first, so there's no wait to see you searching for him.

Already, Arthur knows something is wrong. There's no difference from your usual face, besides whatever calm comes over it when you lay eyes on him— but that calm looks more like an ache for comfort that concerns him, even though he can't tell what, precisely, tips him off. He supposes it's the same thing that changed him to the point of considering your winter clothes, whatever thing makes him a father instead of a simple man.

The ground is tough and sandy below his knee when he drops to one to meet your eyes, brows raised in expectance of some explanation. Even your gait is quicker, your hug tighter; you aren't talking like you were yesterday, let alone grinning, and Arthur pinches his cigarette in his teeth to smooth a hand over your head and back.

That smile had made you seem so grown-up, but now you look so young and small. He takes the smoke from his lips and holds the hand to the side to keep it from your face.

"How's your day, buddy?" He asks, anyways, and frowns when you shrink in his arms and press closer. Peeling away to take a look at you, Arthur runs a hand over the side of your head to brush away your hair. He doesn't see any bruises or scrapes, but still asks: "Y'get in a fight or somethin'?"

You shake your head. His hand is large where it lays on your shoulder, firm and comforting. It only takes a moment for you to give up the silence and struggle to explain.

"She called me lazy," you say.

Arthur's brows furrow. "Teacher, you mean?"

You nod, speaking as if it's difficult not to burst into a shout. Around you, the older kids begin to pour out, but he is only focused on your voice. "She smacked me with a ruler."

"What?" He interrupts.

It comes out harsher than he means it to, and he strokes a hand over your head when you flinch. Jesus, you're on edge if you're flinching at him. Anger broils hot and instant in his gut; he knows very well how most people raise their kids and he had talked long and hard with Grimshaw for yanking on your ear one too many times but regardless, it isn't anyone's place to lay a hand on you. It isn't even his — he isn't Lyle, and you're considerably more of an angel than he ever has been himself — but it certainly isn't anyone else's.

"Where?" His eyes pass over you, searching.

Looking over the handsewn clothes Grimshaw had done-up for you, adorned with those gaudy little buttons Dutch had popped off of some nice suit jackets during a gathering he'd infiltrated some months ago, Arthur feels even more anger. Six years of raising you and dressing you in love.

It certainly is not her right to smack his child. Our child, he thinks, and the fondness only feeds the disgust. Suddenly, he wonders what you didn't tell him the first day, and if some of those wailing kids were sad for more than simply missing mother dearest.

You hold out your hands, backs up. A few knuckles are swollen, and you wince when he traces a fingertip over them to test how badly.

He bites back a sigh. He feels like he should've known this would happen, although not a single one of them has been inside a schoolhouse. Maybe Grimshaw, seems the type, but she never spoke of it. Still, Arthur thinks he should've known it the same way he knows you'll grow out of your coat this winter.

Isn't it what fathers do? Know things? Lyle hadn't been much of a father, but he always knew things.

Is Arthur worse off than him?

"Why'd she do this?" He asks.

Your face is growing redder and redder, flushed with embarrassment and shame. He wishes he had the words to soothe that, but he knows a scolding like this always leaves a certain rawness in a child. He'd had plenty of them himself.

"I was bein'... in— inatten..." The frustration of not being able to remember and repeat the word wells tears in your eyes, but Arthur's heard enough.

"Hey, it's a'right," he hushes, shaking his head. Takes a quick drag and blows it to the side. "Let's get'chu home, okay?"

You ignore him, trying to explain: "I was bad at math."

"Shit, I ain't no good with numbers, neither," Arthur says, and then catches himself. "Don't say shit. Okay?" You nod. A small flicker of your lips into a smile makes him feel better, though you still look like a kicked puppy and it makes his heart ache. "Let's get'chu home," he repeats, and this time you listen.

He's never seen Hosea so displeased.

That's untrue; he has, over gunshots and blood-puddles. It feels like a gunshot to see you burst into tears, curled into the man's chest after Arthur tried to encourage you to talk to him about what happened. He had always been better with words, but he remembers while watching him handle your sobbing that Hosea has always been better with comfort, too.

Hardly had the man picked you off your spot hugged to Arthur's front atop Boadicea — did so yesterday too, and if today was just as happy then Arthur would've been glad to see it turn into a habit — before you broke into tears once more. He had quieted you eventually on the ride with the promise of not returning, although he intended to talk it over with the others before he decided once and for all.

Our kid, he thinks warmly, and then: I feel like a kid myself. Some things come naturally when you have a child, he's finding, but so much of it just doesn't.

"Teacher smacked 'em with a ruler. Poor thing's knuckles are all..." Arthur explains, sighing heavily, waving with a hand in the air as if to say: fucked up. Hosea will jump off that crate he's sat on and smack him if he talks that foul in front of you. At least I'm grown enough to take a flick to the nose, he thinks bitterly. "Doesn't wanna go back, now."

Hosea seems to struggle through the same thoughts as he did, prying your hand off his chest to take a look. It's normal for others, though not for them. Not with you, at least. He can almost see the memories of similar punishments in his eyes. Still, Hosea pats your back and picks you off himself to hold your face.

"You think your Daddy knows everything you need to know, anyways, do you?" He asks.

It's a tease, mostly, humor to get you to stop crying. You're too upset to realize, and only nod. Arthur could cry himself at that. I'm still a kid myself, he thinks, in the back of his mind; Hosea only smiles at him, before righting his expression to look at you.

"I figure we all do," he says. Looking to Arthur, he raises his brows. "You intendin' to try again?"

Arthur sighs, shrugs his shoulders. He doesn't feel so dissimilar to you: vaguely ashamed, upset, embarrassed. "I was gon' ask what'chu thought I oughtta do," he admits.

Almost imperceptibly, Hosea's face softens further. "Well," he says, looks back to you to dry your eyes and wipe your nose with the sleeve of his button-up. Natural-born for a man that's never raised kids this young. "I never was in school, 'n' I'd say I'm quite well-educated."

"Never had a class on humbleness, I see," Arthur says.

Hosea snorts. "Don't listen to him," he says without sparing a glance.

"What's humbleness?" You ask, oblivious.

"Oh," Arthur says, steps forward to ruffle the hair atop your head. "Y'see, Uncle Dutch is real humble."

The other man bites his cheek to stave off a smile. "Arthur," he warns, looking up at him.

But it's a good opportunity to send you off and allow the two of them to talk in private, so he leans over to catch your gaze. "If you go tell Dutch he's humble, I'll give you a dollar," he promises, patting your shoulder.

"Is humble mean?" You ask.

"Y'catch on quick," Arthur says, grinning. John has certainly given you coins to say worse to him, though he found it funny each time. Your face is puffy and red, and he finds it sweet that you paused every other thought going through your head to consider it. "No, it ain't mean, sweetheart. Very nice, in fact."

Very mean to lie about, he thinks, and when you turn on your heel to go and earn yourself a dollar, he knows you will be just fine. Hosea laughs only when you've pattered away.

"Odd critters, kids," Arthur says. He sounds far too fond.

It was an easy choice. It had been a stretch to even take you to school, and the adults had all agreed that you'd likely miss most of it, anyways. They could only change so much about their lives, even if it was no way to raise you.

Sometimes Arthur wonders what it'd be like to live a normal life with you. To find someone to help him raise you proper, like a civilized family. He doesn't speak of it, but he's sure they all know that he wonders. Maybe they do, too. He thinks on it less after testing those waters with school, but once in a blue moon, the dream comes back to him.

Arthur ran into a block, as far as teaching you how to read went. He'd sat you on his lap and tried his damnedest to answer the fifty questions that every sentence of Dutch's borrowed book provoked you to ask, but he had run out of answers very quickly despite it being one of the simplest ones he had to offer.

For the last two days, he has been laying awake at night trying to answer why, exactly, bear means both an animal and an action that seemingly makes no sense. Tried and failed to use Hosea's beat-up old Bible to teach you a few words, because by the second verse it was losing him a little, too. That one made him feel quite stupid.

Hosea is better suited for that, they'd decided. He seemed a little tired being asked to teach yet another person to read, but Arthur knows that irritation is only skin-deep and watches it disappear whenever you're around. When Arthur said he wasn't sure where to start with writing, either, Hosea put a hand on his shoulder and told him the alphabet in a tone that told him he was on his own, unless he really got too lost.

It is fair. Arthur wants to teach you as much as he can, too, finds a sort of warmth about it.

The pride he feels watching you copy the alphabet he'd printed out — as steady as he could, admittedly nervous he'd screw it up and somehow damage your intellect forever, is this what being a dad feels like? — was greater than any he'd felt before. Your handwriting is unsteady, and he has to readjust the pencil in your grip more than once, but by all accounts, it is much easier to answer what sound does this make? than what's a garden?

He lets you work. Arthur likes, too, that this way your first writings will be kept in his journal. He already protects it like a sacred thing; now, it'll probably be on his body or in his pocket until you're old enough to marry someone. Even then, if all goes well, he'll have it.

Oh, how the thought of you growing up distresses him. He can't imagine what you might look like older, even though it sneaks up on him every year come your birthday that your eyes and nose are looking more adjusted to your skull, that your face is sharpening out from baby-round. He could hardly picture John as anything but the scraggly little mutt Dutch dragged back into camp when he had. It's a familiar, more intense fear.

Shit, Arthur doesn't even know what he himself will look like come three year's time.

He's twenty-five and still changing. Will he see what your face settles on?

Is this what it is to be a father?

He thinks so. There can't be any other truth, because he's faced this feeling every time you've hit a milestone. He was glad you didn't need to be carried constantly anymore, but so very depressed that you could walk; he was overjoyed when you said his name clear as day for the first time, but he was terrified at the thought that he may one day be Arthur to you.

It's sad, but it makes him smile when you look up and proclaim that your wobbly rendition of the letter W — dubba-yuh, as you say, he won't ever get over how children always sound like they are drunk — looks almost exactly like his.

Grimshaw and Hosea make a fuss, playing cards at the poker table some yards away. You ignore them entirely, absorbed in your own little world, writing at your own pace. With ears that turn off so easily, he worries about how you'll do hunting. He could've heard Grimshaw asking Hosea in exasperation why he's not cheating, you old fool, from a mile away.

Then comes Dutch, after you've scrawled a few more letters. Walking quiet up to the pair of you sat in the grass outside Arthur's tent, observing from above you before he speaks.

"Arthur?" He asks, and he sounds odd, considering that they're doing nothing unusual.

He looks up. "Yeah?"

Dutch points to the open journal. You look between them, then, interested in whatever is going on now that your dad is involved. "Did you forget the letter Z?"

Arthur squints, looks back at the journal. Oh. His ears turn red, but he only clears his throat. "I mean, who uses Z anyways?" He dismisses.

The prospect of being able to show some kind of smartness beyond a full-grown adult's seems to excite you. "Where's Z go?" You ask Dutch.

He kneels, takes the pencil and book from you to write it in after Y. In cursive. Christ, Arthur thinks, but he doesn't say anything.

"Right here, my dear," he says. Handing you the pencil back, he smiles as you skip over the others to add your own interpretation early. "Now, will you cover your ears for me?" Perplexed, but you obey anyways. Arthur is already narrowing his eyes before Dutch turns to him. "You are a goddamn fool, you know that?"

There's no malice in it, only amusement. He looks positively chuffed, which almost irritates Arthur more than if he truly meant to call him an idiot. "Who even uses Z?" He repeats, waves a hand. "It ain't that big'a mistake."

"I don't know," Dutch scoffs. "A zebra?"

"A zebra?" Arthur says, in disbelief. "You ever seen one for y'self?"

Dutch's brows raise. "Are you—?" His face falls into mock graveness. "Arthur Morgan," he says, feigning disappointment. "You can't be serious."

"Well, have you?"

"I ain't gon' dignify that with a response," Dutch says, turns to smile at you. He always smiles at you, at least, Arthur likes that about the man. He plucks one of your hands off your head. "You're good, now, honey. Keep writin'."

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mixtape-racha · 1 year ago

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YAYYYYYY 100 followersssss :) im so happy for youuuuu :)))))

okay, here is my request... hehe, im suchhh a sucker for hurt comfort and I loveeee fem 9th member au's. but like not smut or like fwb, just like a really juicy story y'know? I haven't been able to find any of those two categories combined tho, especially into like a longer fic, like it's always in the hundreds (I would love it if it was a little longer, no pressure tho :). literally, anything works, from some kinda mess up on stage to maybe you messing up a relationship w a member??? idk. I'm letting ur thoughts run wild here... THANK YOU AND CONGRATSSSS

(im sorry im really vague in requests lol)

YAYYYY THO IM LIKE REALLYYYY PROUD OF YOU<<<3333 LOV U BB KEEP DOING WHAT YOU DOOOO

thank you so much my lovely bae!! ilysm and i hope i did this request justice!! i kind of went off on a tangent and got carried away with the plot waaa <3

---------------

sorry seems to be the hardest word

pairing: ot8 x fem!9th member!reader

warnings: angst, hurt comfort, reader snapping at the members, reader being physically unwell, fluff at the end

words: 2.29k

everything was going wrong today, and you truly meant every. fucking. thing.

somehow, you had managed to turn your alarm off the night before (probably because you fell asleep while on your phone, accidentally calling your mom in you sleep in the process), and none of the guys took the initiative to wake you up when they got up.

okay, sure, you couldn’t blame them entirely. you were a grown woman, and you could look after yourself. but weren’t you supposed to be a team? eight other people surrounding you, and none of them thought to check on you? especially when you were usually up and alert before they were? no, instead they were all out the door without even knocking to see if you were feeling okay. so much for being your brothers and best friends.

so god forbid, you were late this morning. you managed to turn up at the company for your vocal lessons only ten minute late, but it felt awful as you’d never been late before. you were so incredibly lucky to get the opportunity to debut with skz, especially joining the group later in their career and being the only girl. you wanted to do everything perfectly to show that you deserved to be where you were, and with the way today was shaping out you were so disappointed with yourself.

but then - it got worse. you, in your rush to leave the dorms, had forgotten your sheet music, leaving your vocal teacher to be short and snappy with you. yeah, you brought it up on your phone instead, but she was strict, and a firm believer in “good old-fashioned pen and paper over your silly little radio devices nowadays”. her attitude towards you for the remainder of your lesson affected you more than you liked to admit - excusing yourself to the bathroom to have a little cry before you headed to the studio.

for some reason, none of your schedules were properly coordinated today, leaving jisung to be the one in the studio with you - rather than chan, like usual - while you recorded your lines for the demos to be sent to the company later in the month, when you’d decide the songs for the new album you had upcoming later in the year.

jisung was always the nicest to you, especially when he could tell you were having a rough day - you were both very alike in that sense, very attentive towards each other as if you could tell what the other was feeling.

however, it seemed today that something had crawled up his ass and died. he was almost as snappy as your vocal teacher, and you were quite frankly sick of it. you kept messing up your lines; whether from the stress or the ache building in your throat (god you hoped you weren’t getting sick), you weren’t sure. but clearly, jisung wouldn’t stand for it.

“honestly, (y/n), you might as well just call it a day and come back to this with chan-hyung another day. i need to get on with other stuff.” he sighed, dismissively, as you bit back the tears fighting to escape your eyes. he wouldn’t even look at you, and your stomach was doing somersaults. was he really that mad? surely he could see how hard you were trying.

but instead of confronting him, you just grabbed your belongings and left after silently agreeing. no one answered your message on the group chat when you asked if anyone was down to get lunch together, even though you could see basically everyone had read it, so you retreated to the canteen alone before you had to go to practice with the boys.

as the ache in your throat spread to your joints, fatigue plaguing you, you trudged up to the practice room for rehearsals with the boys. you were learning a new dance - in fact, the already chosen title track for the new album, and deep down you were dreading it. it was more difficult than you had imagined, and definitely aimed more towards moves the boys could do compared to you. you loved the boys, but sometimes you felt like they forgot that men and women’s bodies worked differently.

surprisingly, you weren’t the last to arrive, squashing your fear of another thing going wrong.

but just as soon as practice began, your fear was reawakened. the ache in your joints was making the dance more difficult for you to execute, and you could feel the annoyance radiating off of minho’s body even if he wouldn’t admit it. you stumbled a few times, almost knocking into felix, who looked at you more frustrated than concerned.

“seriously, (n/n), what’s going on? it’s really not that hard. get your head in the game.”

you huffed, shaking out your limbs and telling minho to start the track again. maybe if you ignored your surroundings, ignored how you were feeling, then things would be easier. you could block out minho’s harsh criticisms - he was probably just tired. you could block out everything, knowing the boys were suffering just as much as you lately. but when the music stopped again, and everyone was talking at you, voice after voice lapping over each other you just couldn’t take it anymore.

“shut the fuck up! shut up, shut up, shut up! give me a fucking break, i’m trying my hardest!”

you honestly didn’t mean to snap, you were just so overwhelmed and couldn’t take anymore. when chan tried to put a comforting hand on your shoulder, you flung it off, all your annoyance and stress from the day building up at once.

“don’t fucking touch me. i don’t need your pity, i don’t need you to tell me that i don’t know how to do my job well enough. this is the fucking worst day of my life and you all keep making it worse!”

every fiber of your being was telling you to stop, to be reasonable, but it was like your mouth was making its own decisions. you couldn’t tell which member it was, but you were interrupting the gentle call of your name before you could even control it.

“and no, before any of you try to be funny, i’m not on my period,” you sneered, anger bubbling under your skin as you saw jisung look away sheepishly. “i’m just sick of feeling like i have to fight to prove i’m good enough, like i’m not one of you guys yet. we’re supposed to be a team, but all day i’ve been pushed to the side and treated like i don’t matter. i’m sick of it!”

you breathed heavily, grabbing your duffle bag from the side of the room and storming towards the door.

“i’m staying with yeji tonight, leave me the fuck alone.”

was all you said before leaving the boys stood in shock, confused as to why you were acting like you hated them.

regrettably, the minute you found yourself in yeji’s dorm and explained your day to her, you knew you were in the wrong. how could you let yourself treat your best friends that way? they didn’t deserve that, and you would be most understanding if they never forgave you. it was only when the throb in your head and ache in your joints became too much that you finally allowed yourself to sleep.

chan’s apology

luckily, you and the boys were granted a week off a while ago, and today marked the first day of that week. however, knowing chris he was probably still hauled up in the studio from the night before. it was around 3am (yeji shouldn’t have let you crash so early, your sleep schedule was going to be manic), so you pulled yourself together before making the decision to go visit him.

he may not even want to see you after your little outburst, but you could still try.

you stopped by the convenience store on your way to the studio, grabbing some snacks and some drinks just to be on the safe side. carefully checking the group chat, you saw that changbin was still in the studio with chan and you hoped you could get there before he left - it might be easier to kill two birds with one stone. you were just glad you bought way too much food for just two people.

you smiled politely, bowing at the security guard as he let you into the building, heart thumping in your ears as you carefully traced the steps to chan’s studio.

when you finally approached the door, you had to take a minute to prepare yourself to knock. you heard chan’s voice mumbling behind the door once you did, nervously waiting until he came and opened it.

he looked surprised to see you, frozen for a moment before quickly ushering you in and sitting you on the couch next to changbin. almost in instinct, changbin’s arm was slung around your shoulder - something he always did when you were close by, relishing in the fact he wasn’t the shortest in the group anymore.

you sheepishly held out the bag containing all the goodies you got at the convenience store to chan, a small smile on your face when he took it.

“got you some snacks.. kind of guessed you might have forgotten to eat.” your voice was quiet, ashamed. you just hoped they wouldn’t hold your outburst against you.

but when chan grinned, you knew he could never be mad at you for long.

“we were worried about you, y’know? that’s why jisung let you go early today - something seemed off and we didn’t want you to get too overwhelmed.” changbin said from next to you, the hand on your shoulder rubbing it comfortingly.

you couldn’t stop the tears from welling up behind your eyes again, but bit them back in fear they’d think you were looking for sympathy.

“i– i’m so sorry. i’ve just had an awful day, and i feel like shit, but that doesn’t excuse my actions, and i shouldn’t have snapped at you all - you couldn’t have known, and its not your fault.”

you explained why your day had been so bad to them (after some pushing from chan), and how you were feeling physically, causing changbin to look at you with great worry.

they indulged in a small cuddle session, feasting on the snacks you provided while they tried to help cheer you up. and honestly, it worked, just talking through how you were feeling, and gettin constructive feedback rather than just a shoulder to lean on was relieving.

you couldn’t apologize to them more, feeling so ashamed of your actions, but they were quick to reassure you it was okay - everyone had bad days, you were only human after all. you just needed to work on your communication a little bit.

when you finally got ready to head back to the dorm at 5am, you felt better than you had in a long time, actually.

apology numbers one and two: complete.

but when you arrived back at the dorm, head peacefully resting on changbin’s shoulder, what you weren’t expecting to walk into was what you all called a “cuddle pool” - the sofa bed pulled out, covered with pillows and blankets - and a spot waiting for you between felix and seungmin.

your eyes watered at the expectant faces of your soul-brothers, small sobs leaving your lips as your shoulders shook. god, the day had taken a toll on you - you couldn’t remember the last time you cried in front of the boys.

it was only then that minho - who you hadn’t seen standing by the door - scooped you into a hug.

“oh, angel,” he frowned, a hand pressed to your forehead. “you’re burning up. is that why you felt so bad earlier?”

words seemed to fail you, and all you could do was nod as your grip on his sweater tightened. it certainly wouldn’t be the first time you got sick from stress, but you hated being sick. you hated feeling out of control in your own body, and despised being doted on like you were unable. however, this time… you think you could let it slide. you just needed your boys close by right now.

they seemed to enjoy looking after you, and you felt you owed them that after the situation in the practice room.

minho was quick to place on you on the couch, felix and seungmin suffocating you in a bone-crushing hug. jisung handed you the tv remote, saying you could choose to watch whatever you wanted, and that everyone would be having a slumber party in the living room until you felt better.

minho and chan had gone to make you some chicken noodle soup - using felix’s mom’s recipe, which was known for being a lifesaver in your dorm. jeongin was quick to grab you your comfort plushie, taking his place on the floor by your feet - the two of you were 100% keen on physical affection, but having him close by helped.

within merely an hour, all nine of you were curled up, an animated disney movie playing, with soup and mugs of tea being passed around the room. it was nice, and it felt so good to have your boys so close and willing to help you.

you definitely took on changbin’s mention of needing to improve on communication, wanting nothing more than to improve yourself for the little family you had build around you. and yeah you were sick, and they would probably get sick too by being in such close proximity to you, but that was a problem for another day. you’d just return the favor of looking after them.

you just knew you were lucky to have them.

taglist: join taglist here @pretty-racha @chubbyanarkiss @taeriffic @mits-vi @chanssmiles @5kayzee @torixx80 @fawnpeaks @bangtanmix73 @savluvsmingi @boi-bi-ahaha

#mixtape-racha #mixtape-racha fic #stray kids x reader #skz x reader #skz 9th member #fem reader #chan x reader #minho x reader #changbin x reader #hyunjin x reader #jisung x reader #felix x reader #seungmin x reader #jeongin x reader #skz hurt comfort #skz angst

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peachmangofuzz · 1 year ago

Text

7 minutes in heaven - shohei ohtani au

summary: Y/N snoops around famous football player Shohei Ohtani’s locker in search for a scandal against his clean record but ends up in one herself.

tropes: friends with benefits, friends to lovers(?)

tw: *slight* smut, mentions of sex, oral (f receiving)

word count: 30,033K words (i'm SO sorry in advance holy shit)

hi! it's been a while. when i made this account, i vowed to write at least once a week but it had been so difficult this month juggling work, my chronic migraines, and seasonal depression (lol).

please note i did not proofread this so plsssss i apologize for grammar mistakes and inconsistencies!!

posting this on the last day of 2023, hoping to give everyone a good read before we welcome the new year. so thankful for this small space to try, linger and reset all over again. hope you had a very merry holidays with your loved ones.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

==================================

Locker Lockdown

At around thirty minutes past four in the afternoon, I skimmed the clubhouse for any signs of life. It was only the quiet that prevailed. Clear.

I tiptoed my way towards the player locker room. I only had around ten minutes to locate the correct locker and take whatever I could find. Discovering the locker area to be empty and unguarded, I felt a surge of excitement.

Six years later, I couldn’t get my big break and decided sports journalism could catapult me into somewhere big in the industry. This is my last chance to prove myself, otherwise I’d have to reconsider going back home and write Hallmark greeting card messages again.

Shohei Ohtani’s jersey number is the number 17. Lucky bastard, after all these years and even after going through free agency, he got to keep his famous number, even at the cost of having their senior player give it up for him when he joined the football team.

And here you might be wondering why I’m doing this aside from my sheer desperation to get an official spot in the workplace and not eat scraps of topics editors discarded for themselves.

Some people are privileged to a fault.

And I hate seeing him on TV. Or on social media. Or his Colgate-white smile plastered all over my favorite beer and skincare brands.

Some would say this is the TMZ tabloid level of writing. I say this is investigative journalism. Find out if the famous favorite son-in-law has any flaws of his own and wrap around a bowtie of hidden horrors of sports documentaries.

And where else can we find this but in the athlete hotpot: their locker room.

I found Shohei’s locker right away as it was the tidiest locker among all on display, with nothing but brand-sponsored clothing hung neatly on the rack. He also donned the top shelf with some dog-eared self-help titles and vitamin bottles. While the rest of the athletes have pictures of their girlfriends, wives and their kids, Shohei has an unreleased polaroid selfie with his dog, Dekopin, just right beside his perfume bottles. Dekopin was looking away, captured in mid-yawn, with his ears raised, and Shohei, smiling into the camera with pursed lips and a snapback on.

I got so immersed into reading the ingredients of his vitamin bottles, trying to find anything remotely related to steroids, or any form of illegal bodily enhancements, that I didn’t notice footsteps from outside the hall.

“What are you doing here?” a voice loomed behind me and I dropped the diet supplement bottle in panic.

Only the sound of the bottle rattling could be heard as I locked eyes with Shohei Ohtani, tall and all muscular. His hair was sweaty and unkempt and his eyes held mild anger and confusion. After the bottle stopped rolling and settled somewhere on the floor between us, there was only silence and the cold sweat building up at my back.

I swallowed hard. I planned everything from studying the stadium’s entrance and exit doors but I didn’t plan on bumping into him. Not like this. Not when I’m at the lowest level of the social hierarchy right now.

I could only be ashamed.

Brain still befuddled at the thought of getting caught, I urged my limbs and picked up the vitamin bottle and returned it back to Shohei’s locker. The plan was not to respond at all and run as fast as I could before the rest of his team arrived. That was the only way to keep whatever dignity I have left.

“I said, what are you doing here?” He caught my arm mid-exit and pulled me back, tightening his grip.

“Let go of me.” I struggled to keep my balance and the way my voice wavered was no help at all.

Shohei saw the camera slung over my shoulder and looked back at me, realization hitting him.

“Y/N, are you a sports journalist now? And were you looking through my stuff?” he said, sounding almost disappointed.

“That’s none of your business. Let go of me.” I kept my voice steady but his grip only tightened. The sides of my eyes slowly formed tears.

“What tabloid media do you work for? I should report you. Would you like that? What a shame you’ll be banned from all the games now, right? You nasty journalists just won’t keep your noses away from my business.” he took my camera and deleted all the photos I took of the contents of his locker. I tried to leap for it but he was obviously inches taller than I was and I was no match for that.

“I don’t write tabloid news. If I was, my name would have been all over TV by now.” I grabbed the camera from him and sighed morosely at the lost media. A day’s work is all lost.

“My boss gave me a green light to do a documentary about the team. And the star player.” I wiggled my fingers in front of him, as if to emphasize the word “star” in front of him.

“I came here assuming you and the other players would be here for an interview but no one was around yet. So I hung around a bit and took interest in your nutritional supplements.” Lie after lie after lie. I gritted my teeth and faked a smile. The most convincing lie I’ve learned on almost all my failed dates and relationships was to stroke a man’s ego and have him talk about all the things he is interested in, making him divert his attention to something else.

“You’ve got really good, um, vitamins for muscle recovery there. Maybe that’s why you got so big and strong, right?.” He looked at me dubiously, nodding responsively to be polite. If he took the bait, then he is obviously just like any other guy I’ve ever met.

“I mean, I guess? I’ve been doing deadlifts so–”

Approaching footsteps and faint voices were heard from the hall. Shohei pushed me toward the opposite end of the hall, where the showers were located.

“Wha–” I started but was shut up when he pushed me further into the back of the shower room, swiping the doors closed.

“Shut up if you don’t want to be caught.” He growled and I recoiled back into the tiled corner. On top of me was the almost rusting shower head who had seen better days, and two bottle pumps for shampoo and body wash.

Voices and conversations were starting to fill in the locker room that was empty only a few seconds ago. The voices of men echoed through the shower rooms. You could hear the sound of water turning on from neighboring shower stalls, laughter and tired conversation in the locker area. We were surrounded.

Shohei could be heard laughing with his mates while blocking the door to the shower room I was hiding in.

“Are you using that, Sho? I could use a hot shower right now.” one of his teammates said.

“Uh, no, I was just about to use this room, sorry.” he said, almost hesitating. After a few seconds, he entered the shower room and started undressing.

I widened my eyes and shot him daggers. When he unhooked his shirt from his armholes, I was rendered speechless.

He had the body sculpted by the gods with his wide shoulders and large pecs that glinted under the light. How could someone look handsome and beautiful at the same time?

So when Shohei reached for the waist belt of his pants down, I didn’t know why I had choked on a silent scream. I looked away, embarrassed to have reacted like an inexperienced teenager. I have seen and have been with naked men before. This should be nothing new to me and my level. Or so I thought.

I stole a glance at Shohei, who was slowly walking towards me (or to the showerhead, where I stood under, obviously) in only his boxers on, gazing at me in wild amusement.

We were almost inches apart from each other, foreheads almost touching, breaths almost converging, if you may. If I stand on my tiptoes, I would be almost at his eye-level and I could peck him on the lips if I wanted to.

If I wanted to.

“Sorry, but I need to shower or someone else will try to take this stall.” His voice broke my salacious thoughts. He looked at me and turned the shower on.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes, I’m supposed to. Aren’t I? I just got off practice and I stink.” He said almost sarcastically.

“So I’m supposed to just watch you bathe and hope I get out here alive?” Water slowly dripped into my shirt, soaking my chest and exposing a bit of my underwear.

“If you didn’t sneak in here, we wouldn’t have this problem.” He concluded and pursed his lips, not looking at me.

“Shohei? You okay? You sound like you’re talking to someone.” a familiar voice floated into the shower room.

“It was a video on my phone that I forgot to pause, Ippei-san.” Shohei’s face turned red but recovered quickly, glaring at me.

“Oh, well then, I thought you finally had a girl in there. I was wrong.” Ippei laughed.

Shohei started lathering body wash on his body at the slowest pace possible. His hands glided through his chest, stomach, and into the dick he’s restraining inside his boxers. Simply having this view had me almost whimpering. If it had been another day, I would have obviously enjoyed this, having a sexy man bathe in front of me, because who wouldn’t? But under my circumstances, I’m only fairly annoyed at being a flustered, hot mess and I couldn’t do anything about it.

“Oh, fuck, now you got me wet.” I blurted a little loudly as the water splashed and got into my socks.

Shohei’s widened and panicked eyes shot at me.

In between those short seconds, Shohei was able to respond quicker than my brain could. He had faked a laugh and said loudly, “Well, that’s awkward, the video keeps on playing on its own. Let me turn my phone off instead.” gaining laughter from outside the shower area and then reaching for the small of my neck and closed whatever space was seen between us.

Based on what I had learned in self-defense training, my initial bodily reaction should have been this: If someone is coming at you from the front, a groin kick may deliver enough force to paralyze your attacker, making your escape possible. 1. Stabilize yourself as best you can. 2. Lift your dominant leg off the ground and begin to drive your knee upward. 3. Extend your dominant leg, drive hips forward, slightly lean back, and kick forcefully, making contact between your lower shin or ball of your foot and the attacker’s groin area.

Instead, when his lips touched mine, I felt my arms throw around his neck and pulled him closer. They say we’re all beggars for something, and this indulgence I had let myself be greedy for.

When his lips reached mine, I parted like the Red Sea almost immediately, welcoming him and everything that he could offer: the taste of his tongue on my mouth, the smell of honey orange and apricot from his body wash seeping through my nose as I peppered kisses on his chest, and his obviously hard dick grinding against my stomach. When I palmed him, he managed a low growl and caught my wrists.

“Not here.” he groaned.

I pushed my head back inquiringly, both of us breathing too hard.

“I have no condom,” he tucked a wet strand of hair behind my ear. Under the dim bathroom light, I could see his face and chest were flushed. “Next time?”

“Well, usually when two old friends meet after a fall out in college, they just catch up and have coffee.” I said.

He laughed and said quietly, “Okay, so I owe you.”

“The coffee or the protected sex?”

“Uh, it could go a lot of ways.” Before he could say more, I palmed him through his boxer shorts and looked up at him, trying to find his limit.

Shohei bit his own lip and tugged the roots of my hair in a bundle, pulling and tugging from the pleasure. To keep himself from making such ungodly hot sounds, he pushed his tongue down my throat and thrusted his hips back and forth against my hand.

As if to make it even, he unclasped my bra and sucked on my already soaked breasts, a satisfied groan slipped from me. We both pulled and pushed and sucked and kissed each other in the crevices the shower splatters couldn’t reach, silencing the moans before it could escape us.

In that brief and elating moment, while we muted the noise from unsuspecting people, we smothered each other’s groans and reached our highs in the quietest, most pleasurable way possible.

=========================================

7 minutes of heaven

It’s strange how I always find myself in the most ridiculous situations.

The next few occasions that I’d meet Shohei would be wordless and timed interactions in enclosed spaces. We’d see each other in public and pretend we didn’t know each other but slip each other notes of the next place we’d secretly meet. It all felt strangely exhilarating to keep a secret like a fifteen year old would, with all the sneaking and running.

We’ve explored almost every nook and cranny of the stadium, discovering hidden spots of our rendezvous. We’d meet up in a different bathroom and he’d push me on my back while he fucks me repeatedly on the bathroom sink. Pre-game preps meant I gave him blowjobs in his manager’s office hours and hours before everyone even arrived.

Of course, when we ran out of places to hide, we’d go as far as looking for the next empty parking lot and tried to fuck each other noiselessly.

“So when can I take you out for dinner?” he had asked one day, when he dragged me out to meet with him around after midnight. I wouldn’t let him inside my apartment and I refused to do the deed in his either, so he’d bring me to places that only us knew, to fuck, to kiss, sometimes to talk, but more often, to drive each other’s pleasure and only that.

Because god forbid we both catch feelings and lose the fun, right?

So no talking, no sharing of personal details, no anything.

We were in an empty parking lot, away from the lampposts and streetlights. Shohei had made sure that we were well hidden in the dark.

He had his legs spread while sitting on the driver’s seat. His hands, warm and wide, rested on my hips and thighs, lightly urging me to ride him slowly.

Soft RNB music played on the stereo, it was a quiet, still night. It was both our day off so he had wanted us to chill and take the sex slowly.

Slow meant gazing at each other’s eyes–gaze, not look–with endearment or adoration, not lust or pleasure. Slow meant thinking the unthinkable thoughts. Slow meant being vulnerable while coming undone.

And I don’t want the slow and quiet moments. I wanted the fast and rough with no time to talk, gaze or even think, just one hundred percent fun and debauchery.

“Mmm. Maybe when you show me your photos,” I avoided the question but I also knew Shohei would never show me the photos he had taken–past and present. Even when we had been buddies for an entire semester, he had, not once, shown me his portfolio.

“So probably never, right?” he gazed up at me with his creamy brown eyes, hands caressing my stomach lightly.

“Probably,” I muttered and with that he had gripped my thighs tightly and moved his hips upwards to meet me. I moaned when he hit me in the right spots. Any sign of softness he had shown a few moments ago was gone, and only the roughness and unsettling disconnection remained.

This particularly fine day, I would be standing at the mercy of his mouth. He had dragged me to an empty storage room in the east wing of the stadium, hours after practice. According to him, the area stands the exact opposite from the lockers so most people hardly come by. How he had found out about this, I had no idea.

He was kneeling in between me, my right leg hooked on his shoulder, giving him more access and my hands tugged at the strands of his hair every time he licked my sensitive clit.

Shohei’s tongue grazing against me had left me quivering in delight. He stands up and kisses me, giving me a taste. My fingers started unbuckling his belt when he felt his phone vibrate.

“Oops, Ippei’s looking for me.” He pockets his phone, looking forlorn, as if telling me he didn’t really want to go yet. “See you again next time?”

“Yours or mine?” I had asked, brushing up and straightening my wrinkled dress. And when I realized what I had done, Shohei’s eyes shot up and he beamed widely.

“I just– I- I want a proper night with sex, you know.” I explained, trying to sound nonchalant. “It’s so uncomfortable having to go commando at work after you had just literally sucked the life out of my vagina, Sho.”

“Mmm-hmm.” He smiled even more.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“What? Fuck off.” By this time, my face felt hot and had probably looked red like a tomato, which probably amused Shohei even more.

“Your place, then. I’ll call you.” he gives me one last kiss then heads out first, leaving me a dazed and pulsating mess.

A shrill sound knocked me awake. It felt like seven thousand screaming hungry babies in my ear, bouncing off around my brain like a pinball.

I looked at the digital clock on the bedside table and saw the time glinting behind the glass: 8:41 PM. I must've fallen asleep after taking a half day off from work, feeling nauseous and slightly feverish. It seemed that whatever body malaise that I have been carrying inside me earlier had sprung into a full-blown ailment.

I pushed my body up and walked groggily to the source of my misery.

Someone was buzzing the doorbell and repeatedly pounding on the door. Great.

“If you’re not dead or dying behind this door, you’re about to be.” I croaked harshly, throat burning; putting all my remaining energy in pulling the door open. I was greeted by an extremely tall man with frantic brown eyes, searching my face.

“Oh, thank fucking god. I’ve been knocking for half an hour.” he wrapped me in a tight hug, I almost collapsed. Partly because of the throbbing headache and overall discomfort that I already felt, but hugely because of the warm minty scent of Shohei Ohtani.

“Jesus, you’re burning up!”

“What are you doing here?” I said, struggling in his grip, his face resting on the curve of my neck. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“You don’t text someone ‘at least i’ll die happy today knowing that my last meal was shoyu ramen’ and then not fucking reply after.” We were still standing by the entrance, his face now angled towards me, a look of concern or anger mixed in his face, I couldn’t tell. My cerebral cortex functions seemed to have shut down after witnessing this unexpected tenderness.

“Medicine knocked me down cold.” I shrugged weakly.

Shohei pulled me into the bedroom and tucked me back in, apologizing for his intrusion, putting down plastic bags of what seemed to be groceries on the kitchen counter, and went back to lightly scolding me for proper texting etiquette to family and friends, to anyone really. That my dark humor doesn’t translate well in messages and that I could have really died and people would think I’m joking but really, he got so scared that he went here as fast as he could.

I don’t remember much but in between fever dreams and my ibuprofen haze, I faintly remember the savory taste of rice porridge exploding in my mouth, the constant dabbing of a cold towel on my face, neck and chest, sometimes, my back, too; the smell of rubbing alcohol and a large, gentle, almost loving touch.

I don’t remember much but in between waking up in the darkness and stone-cold silence, I remember soft forehead kisses until I drifted back to sleep; of big strong arms enclosing me into a big embrace, as if to tell me, you can put your guard down now. you are safe here.

I don’t remember much from coming in and out of slumber, but I remember thinking: wouldn’t it be nice if this wasn’t a dream?

======================================

Reset

In the end, I quit sports media on my own volition and got into a friend’s ceramics house. I have always had a thing for ceramics and sculpting as early as college, where I had met my then-professor and now friend–who happens to be the owner of mentioned ceramics house. She had always praised me and encouraged me to join her when she first opened the shop, but as someone who had musings for writing at the time, I politely declined and pursued, you guessed it, journalism.

I’ve always been good at writing, no doubt, from the way professors always had a good word for me, but I always seem to get into the wrong places every time. Time moves fast if you’re a journo, if you’re slow, then the news is rehashed news, it would just be a late-night recap at a midnight slot that no one is ever awake to watch.

Here, inside her shop, it was quiet, and time moved slowly. I can get into my laziest clothes and no one bats an eye. I can finally retire my stilettos and straight cut blazers.

It was all so going well. The customers were always mid-twenties who got interested in our social media marketing of creating your own mugs and other ceramics and always came in in groups, duos, and solos.

Slowly, I realized that not everyone gets to the places they want. Even when you work blood and sweat for it. Not all were built like, say, Shohei Ohtani, whose talent was recognized early and afforded him an automatic slot in the big leagues.

Some are born to be big icons and some, like the rest of us, are meant for smaller, softer spaces. I get that now. It finally felt like I was in the right place and pace.

All this positivity and good timing felt all too good to be true and been proven accurate when the scandal blew up.

Shohei Ohtani photographed exiting his LA apartment with a woman in his arms.

Shohei Ohtani’s rumored girlfriend receives backlash from fans: READ MORE

EXCLUSIVE: More photographs of Shohei Ohtani and rumored girlfriend driving away in his Porsche

Rumored girlfriend of Shohei Ohtani: Who is She?

When I say it was everywhere, I meant it exploded right in front of our faces like a million confetti, falling and twirling fast. It was unstoppable. It was inevitable.

I felt my limbs go numb when I read the morning news. There in bold and black letters was the headline, my name and a clear photo of me holding Shohei’s arm, smiling. A certain news outlet had gotten juice of us and our secret hideouts and had spread all over social media like wildfire. You know what’s funnier? The media outlet that released this was my previous employer. The same company that asked me to snuff out a controversy. While I had failed to give them the news they wanted, I had unintentionally brought them an exclusive that wrote my entire name–and face–off the map and potentially ruined Shohei Ohtani’s clean record.

Shohei Ohtani, despite his happy-go-lucky and passive demeanor, was a very serious and straight-laced person. I already knew this in university but I got to see more of this side of him when we had started the fucking thing. Even though I had clearly told him that I didn’t want any strings attached, it was unavoidable to give and receive bits and pieces of each other when we’re not naked.

I did enjoy talking to Shohei under the sheets. His ingenious ideas and the way he talked about the things he adored spilled all over him, like afternoon sunlight streaming in between curtains, making way even through the small spaces to cast his light. I basked into this warmth as much time allowed me, because who knows when I can experience the glow of his presence again after all the chaos.

He was exactly like the golden hour: a warm afternoon orange luminescence that usually only stays for ten to fifteen minutes a day. If you wait too long to look up, he disappears quickly as he goes, leaving only the faint orange, yellow and pink hues chasing after him before the black of the night takes over you.

Well, now the fairytale has run its course and the sun has set to announce that golden hour is over. Night has finally fallen on me and I’m feeling scared and alone.

The first thing I did was to grab as much stuff as I could and put them all in my luggage and filed for an indefinite leave.

As if like clockwork, my phone rang and saw Shohei’s name on the caller ID. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. What could I possibly say to him? That I used him just for the clicks and the views? That after all this time we spent together, he would realize that I am still the same despicable, scathing piece of garbage who’d trample on anyone just for a few cents?

So I don’t answer. Even when he calls back again and again and leaves me twenty or more messages by the hour. I turned my phone off. The latest message from Ohtani coming up on the notifications bar read, “Where are you?” before the screen flashed to black.

I have nothing but my pride left. I’d like to keep it that way. In such a way, I was embarrassed, too. I thought I finally had something to brag about. A job that I actually liked and enjoyed, a peaceful mind, and the possibility of liking a guy who had shown me nothing but kindness.

And because I couldn’t handle all of this, I handled it like I have always handled things: I ran away like a coward.

I rode a bus without reading its destination card and let it drive me away as far as it could, to someplace where no one knew me or Shohei Ohtani, or had any idea about the news.

The bus drove away and I never looked back.

================================

Waiting Until My Spring Comes Again: Shohei’s POV

Just like that I lost her. She wasn’t even mine to begin with.

When the news broke out, I was so furious that I wanted to drive to the news outlet that published the article and give them a piece of my mind. I knew my blind rage would have done more damage so I didn’t.

Instead, I looked for her and wanted to let her know that whatever happens, I won’t drop her just like that. That I’m willing to acknowledge the rumors and make it official, if she wanted to.

I’ve always been open to the idea of taking it to the next level with her but every time I broached the subject, she would change the topic, get into a foul mood, or try to pick a fight with me. Which I found endearing. She’s so adorable when she pouts. And when she pushes her luck thinking a five foot four girl like her can withstand someone as tall as me.

I just can’t help but laugh and feel a flutter in my stomach. She’s someone who has been adorable and held a special corner in my heart.

Y/N’s face was so expressive and whatever emotion she was in it would always be evident on her face. When she’s happy, a dimple on her cheek shows up. When she’s feeling sad or down, she’d look downcast and would prefer that you leave her alone. When she’s thinking about something deep, she would chew on her lower lip and always had a blank almost unfocused stare. Despite her many faces, I’m sure as hell that I love all of them. I wanted to be by her side when all this shit happened, I wanted to see which face she was making. Is she pissed like I was? Is she sad? I wouldn’t know. The moment her number didn’t connect after I had tried reaching her, I already knew that she was avoiding me.

I lost count of how many messages I had sent her, of how many missed calls and voicemails I left her. She was unreachable. She gave me her spare key so when I tried visiting her apartment, it was empty.

She was gone.

And only the traces of her lingered in her apartment. Her unwashed mug with leftover stale coffee was on the kitchen counter, specks of lipstick staining the mouth. Dirty clothes hanging on her bathroom door, forgotten and unwashed. The peachy scent of her purifier that always latches on to her clothes whenever we go out. Her unread books on her coffee table, some dog eared and annotated.

Everything that I love about her is here except for her and I miss her.

For the next couple of days, I dodged the media and focused on training, playing and practicing. Those three over and over again. I tried to not think about her and lose sleep because of her. An athlete’s wellbeing is connected to quality sleep.

But she was everywhere I went. Pieces of her were scattered all over the places I avoided, and it was my fault really, for bringing her to places we usually hid. For hoping that someday, the secrets we hid would be our stories to tell. Now I just let her memories rot inside my heart, where she should be.

I thought it would be easier when you just let it slip by but the more days that passed without seeing her, the more I feel a gnawing pain in my heart. She had sucked all my sunlight and took it all away with her.

I want her back.

=====================================

My Answer is You

Eleven days. It took me nine days to realize running away was a bad idea.

When I first got off the bus, I thought the place looked familiar. Turns out, I rode the bus to my hometown, to the very south and the last bus stop until it turned around to go back to the city.

When I appeared in front of my mom–the first time in a long time–she had immediately said, “Did something in the city?”

The moment she asked, I broke down in tears. She shushed and consoled me while I cried like a little kid. Like the way I had bawled to her when my first boyfriend broke up with me, or when my love birds died from illness, the other from loneliness.

It feels like I would die of loneliness, Mom. I had said.

Did he really say that? Did he tell you that it’s over? She cooed.

I was embarrassed to admit to my mom that no, Shohei had never told me anything because I had shut him out even before I could give him the chance. But what if that call was already the end of it all? What if answering his call meant exactly what I had thought. That would shatter me more.

So, no, Mom, you can call your daughter a coward but in her heart, it’s all over.

The next forty-eight hours at home was a blur. After feeding me with what feels like a day’s worth of homemade dishes, she made me wash the dishes, clean my old room, and the living room as well. And when that wasn’t enough, she made me go with her to the night market and bought whatever seafood she could find to feed me.

Is this what you did when Dad left? I wanted to ask her. Did you go around acting as normal while nursing a wounded heart? Did you go all through that facade just to show me that you were strong for the both of us?

She had her back to me, her hands pale and creased with age, showing signs of passage of time and her hardwork to put me to school. I know she was trying to make me busy to keep my mind off of Shohei. I’m not sure if she fully understands the scandal but she was trying her best to keep my head above the water. Probably just like how she always did.

I wish I was strong like you, Mom.

On the fourth and fifth day, she had let me work under the sun harvesting corn. Which I absolutely despised. I had to wear sun hats and these jumpers to cover myself from the heat.

“It’s cheap labor for letting you stay and eat my food,” she said when I complained. “Tomorrow, you’ll help me sell these at the market.”

As the days grew idly by, I’ve grown more accustomed to rising early and eating less meat and more vegetables. I willingly went out of the sun more to do housework, like hanging clothes, watering Mom’s plants, however, I was still not willing to harvest her vegetables, which she made me do a lot. When I say a lot, it means everyday since then.

On the eleventh morning, I woke up earlier than usual and found my mom already awake. She busied herself with a cup of coffee.

“Good morning, mom.” I yawned, grabbing my own mug.

“After breakfast, pack your things and go back to the city.” She said quietly.

“Huh?” I’m not sure I heard her right. Is she kicking me out?

She pushed today’s newspaper into my hands and pointed at an article. An article shows a picture of Shohei smiling at the camera, behind him was a framed candid photo of me turning my head just in time when the camera clicked, I was wearing a sleeveless shirt, a shawl draped over my shoulders, and the wind blowing my hair and covering my face slightly. Just by looking at the photo, it looked like a time when Shohei and I drove to the beach. He had brought his camera and took a lot of photos.

The article said, “Portfolio on Love: Shohei Ohtani’s Photographs Displayed for A Cause.”

“....and when the powerhouse athlete gets a day off, he plays around his camera and takes photos of anything, everywhere. He reveals Insider Today that for the first time ever, he is displaying his portfolio to the public at the Grand City Museum starting today until the 31st of the month, with the theme of “hello, love, are you there?”

“...’I don’t know how else to define love but this. I hope when the public sees this, they will instantly know that my photographs are a reflection of my love,’ he said.

“When asked if this was a confirmation to the rumors flying around recently, he just smiled sadly and said, "I'm hoping that this answers everyone’s questions, especially hers.”

“If your face is plastered on all of the newspapers, it wouldn’t make sense to stay here longer.” Mom said after a while. She had finished her breakfast and took them away to the sink.

“It doesn’t end well if you’re too afraid, my darling.” she said, not looking at me. “To love and to be hurt is to be brave. If it doesn’t work out after facing him, then by all means. Come home. My doors are always open for you. And I will feed you rice cakes while you harvest my corn.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. She wasn’t a hugger but welcomed my hug and patted me on the shoulders. “Now go, before all the chismosas wake up and corners you.”

I packed my bags and left home, my heart pieced back together. It was not wrong to go home and seek shelter. What I did wrong was leaving Shohei all alone when he took most of the fall.

Five hours, one taxi ride, and a ten minute walk later, I arrived at the city museum, nervous, anxious, feeling a little lightheaded and hesitant. I wiped my sweaty palms and got inside.

It was not as packed as I had expected, probably because it was a little over after lunch, though there was still a relatively big crowd overall.

When I stepped into the hall featuring Shohei’s displays, I felt a surge of emotion. It was a collection of all the photographs of his loved ones. In a black and white collection, he had photographed his parents holding hands while walking in the snow, a photo of his dog sleeping idly on his couch, a photo of the football stadium in a wide angle shot, showing Ippei and the rest of his teammates playing a warm up game before practice.

When I turned to a corner, that’s when I saw it. There were multiple frames hanging intricately on one side, showing all of the photos he took of me. One during university days, where I was showing him a strangely large eggplant during our photo walks at the market. There was another with me looking at him angrily for reasons I couldn’t remember, and a more recent one, in the middle, where he was holding my hand while I walked forward, back facing the camera.

On the metal plate below were words that read in cursive: “2009–present. Moments of love that I hold dear.”

At that moment, tears had started rolling down my cheek and I couldn’t help but sob. The onlookers nearby started moving away, probably weirded out by the sudden burst of emotion over some piece of art.

They weren’t just pieces of art. These were moments when Shohei and I were together and maybe realized that it was love.

By then, someone on my left offered a handkerchief and I gingerly took it, wiping my tears-strewn face. I muttered an apology for ruining the fabric.

“This is not the first time someone cried in front of my photographs. Some were absolutely heartbroken after seeing them.” a man’s voice said. And that reeled me back as I turned around and saw Shohei standing in front me.

“I knew this would lure you back,” he said, smiling.

His face was a little gaunt and tired. He had dark circles around his eyes that I’ve never seen before. I could only look at him and he looked back. I had so many things I wanted to say to him, so many things I wanted to explain but he spoke first and said:

“Did you get a tan?” he started, raising an eyebrow.

“I-I was harvesting corn!” I said, covering my face with both hands. I didn’t even have the time to put on makeup or a swab of lipstick and that’s the first thing he notices.

He took my hands and held them tightly against his chest. “No one looks this beautiful even after harvesting corn.”

“Shut up,” I said looking away.

He tipped my chin and held my face. “Let’s start again, shall we?”

I raised an eyebrow in question.

“Hi, my name is Shohei Ohtani. I’m an athlete and an amateur photographer sometimes. I’ve been in love with the girl in the photographs since forever.”

I managed a smile and laced my hands around his neck. “Hi, I’m a ceramics maker and sometimes, a farmer, you should see the corn I harvest. You look so familiar. I think you look like my future boyfriend.”

His eyes perked up and laughed at our silly little game. He went in for a kiss and I obliged, feeling safe and brave in his arms.

Let them take the damn photographs and write the articles all they want, but they could never take my sunshine away ever again.

#shohei ohtani au #shohei ohtani imagines #shohei ohtani #shohei ohtani pov #shohei ohtani fluff #shohei ohtani smut

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flightfoot · 3 months ago

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Isn't the target audience for the show little kids? Why is the heroic mc gaslighting? Why was THAT chosen to be her decision? Idk I feel like the fandom excusing this is focusing solely on the fanfiction side of things lol. I can't really see a conversation about boundaries like you've mentioned happening, for example. Marinette will cry about it for one scene, hugged by the guy she gaslighted, then the show will move on. All the implications of her actions, how toxic the love square is- those are not things that can be adressed respectfully in an episodic kids show. Especially not by these writers. We've seen the twitter takes. So just- idk, I wouldn't want a ten-year-old to watch this ngl. Especially because the kid watching might be an abuse victim themselves.

We have had some conversations about boundaries before, in Glaciator 2, when Ladybug was upset at Chat for keeping on hinting at wanting to be a couple, which means that such a conversation IS in the show's wheelhouse of what it can do.

Cat Noir: I guess I'm not your favorite cat at the moment, am I? (walks towards Ladybug) Can I take you to a movie to make up for it? Or how about a restaurant to celebrate our nomination as Couple of the Year? Ladybug: (yelling) We're not "Couple of the Year", we're not a couple at all! Cat Noir: Sorry! Sorry! I didn't mean to make you so mad. (Ladybug simply looks away from him, still mad.) I get it. You're sick of me. I might sound like a broken record expressing my affection for you over and over. I know I should stop but... I can't help it, you know? I have so many feelings welled up in this heart, and I don't know how to control them. Ladybug: (sighs) I know your heart's in the right place and that you don't mean any harm but— Cat Noir: (dejectedly) You're right. You shouldn't have to put up with this. I'll stop. I don't know how yet, but I'll figure it out. I promise. Ladybug: (smiles) I'm counting on you. Cat Noir: (frowns) I'll see you later. (vaults away, and Ladybug eventually to the other direction)

(Later)

Cat Noir: Nice to see you again, my... dear friend whom I respect and for whom I have no other feelings than true platonic friendship. Ladybug: Are you making fun of me? Cat Noir: Not at all! I'm... just getting my bearings. Ladybug: Lucky Charm! (uses her power as a car drops in front of them) Cat Noir: Oh, yeah! That lucky charm really revs my engine! (Ladybug closes her eyes, coming up with a plan to use her lucky charm. The scene zooms to the big exhaust in front of Gare du Nord.) Ladybug: Okay! Take the wheel. I got a plan. Glaciator: There you are! You think you can escape me like that? (Ladybug and Cat Noir step in the car. Cat Noir starts the car engine and drives away, escaping Glaciator as the villain comtinues to chase them.) Glaciator: (sing-song) I'm Glaciator, the mean ice-cream man, and I am your number 1 fan! Cat Noir: (while driving) That's enough! We're just friends! Ladybug: Okay. Let's go! (hurls her yo-yo, tying it around Glaciator and on her car seat) Pass me the wheel. Glaciator: You think you can escape me by attaching me to you? Cat Noir: Where are we going with this—? I mean, not the two of us. Just... where are we going, like, a direction? Ladybug: I got it. We're heading to the Gare du Nord. We'll stay in touch. (She continues to drive, escaping Glaciator.) Cat Noir, now! (Cat Noir jumps out of the car.) Ladybug: (through the ear-piece) You know what to do. I'll come back as soon as you're ready! Cat Noir: Drive safe. (He leaps to rooftop where a billboard of him and Ladybug is located. He drops it to the ground to use it as a ramp for Ladybug's car.) Ready, m'lady! Uh, do you mind me calling you "m'lady"? Ladybug: No, that's okay. (performs a drift) It's not that complicated, you know? If I tell you that something's annoying, you stop doing it, that's all!

I don't know that the show could go over all the implications of some of the things Marinette's done with Adrien, in all the identity versions, but it having Adrien lay down some boundaries and Marinette doing her best to abide by them so she doesn't accidentally hurt him is within the realm of what it can do, since it's done it before. Granted, there's more variance and a bigger scale with some of the lies Marinette's told Adrien and the secrets she's kept from him, but it's a similar idea at least.

#ask #miraculous ladybug #ml spoilers #ml london special #ml analysis #I don't know whether the show is going to actually do this #But I want to believe it

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lanawinterscigarettes · 7 months ago

Text

Jason Dean dating someone who's transmasc

Warnings: brief mentions of transphobia, canon typical stuff such as bullying, swearing, violence, murder, etc, slight suggestive things but nothing that's full on smut (I might make another post with that later), smoking (because we all know our boy JD smokes like a chimney), mentions of dysphoria, mentions of menstrual cycles/periods, some forcemascing by JD (sorry I couldn't resist)

A/N: I did a Veronica version of this like two years ago and since I'm currently obsessed with JD (and it's pride month) I felt the urge to write one for him too (also because I've come to the conclusion that I might just be transmasc and not genderfluid so this is mostly just written for me)

I wanna start off by saying that yes JD is an asshole, but he'd never be (intentionally) transphobic. However, if he thought you were trans then he would push your buttons a little bit to see how long it would take you to admit it, especially if you met before you came out

Let's say you two started dating when you still saw yourself as a girl or something (I know that JD's supposed to be "straight" or whatever but he's bisexual to me okay fight me on it). If he saw you acting a little uncomfortable being referred to as his girlfriend or having to use the women's restroom at school he would 100% call you out on it

Not in a degrading way or anything like that, just to see how you would react to it. The second you start to get defensive or give him the silent treatment he shuts up, not only because he accomplished what he set out to do but also because he feels a little bad

Eventually you just decide to rip off the bandaid and come to terms with the fact that you're actually a trans guy, him being one of the first people you tell. His only real response to this "startling revelation" is to look at you and go "Yeah I kind of figured that one out for myself already, I was just waiting for you to"

Your worries that he'd want to break up with you after telling him disappeared almost immediately as you crossed your arms and rolled your eyes at him. "Ha ha, very funny smartass"

If you decide you want to cut your hair shorter then he will absolutely offer to help you with it, insisting that there's no reason for you to go to a professional with him there (it's totally not just because he's very possessive and would never let anyone else touch your hair other than him, that's crazy)

You may have wore his clothes some before, but he practically begs you to do it after you come out. Why would you ever need to go shopping when you can just raid his closet, y'know? Plus seeing you in them really turns him on

He gets ten times more protective afterwards too, constantly following you around to make sure you're okay. You could have classes that take place at the same time on opposite sides of the school and he'll always skip his to join you. Eventually the teachers just move his class schedule around to match with yours since he never attends his anyway

Always has an arm wrapped around you no matter what, especially if he sees someone like Kurt and Ram passing by. It's best to distract him with kisses or something so he won't hear the things they call you and get mad (he hears them anyway but can't resist making out with you so he lets it slide for the time being)

Speaking of making out, he does it with you everywhere and all the time, whether it's a modern au or the 80s. He's not worried about what people say or do, usually letting his gun do all the talking. He shoots them is what I'm trying to get at here lol

Most people are much too scared to even breath too loud near you because of your attack dog boyfriend but if it ever does happen that you get bullied (whether that be verbally or physically) he will go out of his way to make sure the local morgues, cemeteries, and funeral homes have plenty of business

Feeling anxious or stressed about having to spend time with/be around someone who misgenders/deadnames you? Just let him tag along. He might not say much but what he will do is very passive-aggressively correct said person on their "mistakes". It pretty much always works as no one wants to argue with a guy who frequently carries a gun

It's not the best habit around but he probably gets you hooked on smoking at least occasionally, especially if he hears you complain about your voice being too high. Oh, you're worried that you sound too feminine and "girly"? He has the perfect way to get you that low and gravelly voice that you want! You think he's talking about voice training or something until he hands you a pack of cigarettes and with the most serious expression ever says "these will do wonders"

Even if you don't smoke religiously like he does it's kind of hard to resist it completely given how often he lights up a cigarette (and yes, he will blow smoke into your face, because while he loves you he's also an asshole and thinks it's funny when you wrinkle up your nose in disgust at him)

He's not the best at comforting you when it comes to days where you feel dysphoric. Like, he won't flat out say that he thinks you're acting ridiculous because he knows it would only make things worse, but he's also not great when dealing with emotions, so the most he might do is let you cling to him while he gives you a few awkward pats on the back

If this goes on for days borderlining on weeks, however, that's when he'll start to act less sensitive and give you a bit of tough love. "What are you talking about saying that you 'don't look like a guy'? Are you crazy? You really think life would be better if you were still living as a girl? Do you honestly think that would make you happy?"

It surprisingly works, believe it or not. Even if you know he's purposely trying to rile you up it ends up making you feel better and more confident in yourself. Anytime he notices you starting to slip back into feelings of self doubt or insecurity, he just wraps you up in his arms and whispers soft encouragements in your ear. "You were never a girl, you just need to work a little bit harder than others to grow into the man that you are. If anything, that's a testament to your strength for being able to do that"

This certainly happens whenever you're on your period and feel grouchier or less confident than usual. "You're so strong for being able to endure this every month, did you know that? You're much braver than I am, I doubt I'd be able to get through it as well as you"

Sometimes you almost start crying because of how emotional his words make you feel, and sometimes you roll your eyes with annoyance while muttering "you're a condescending asshole" under your breath. Either way it ends up making you feel better, especially when he offers to rub your lower abdomen when your cramps get too bad

If you decide to start HRT then he wants to be there to help you take the shots, even if you insist you can do it yourself (he likes being part of the process of helping you "turn into" a man). Same thing if you use T gel or whatnot, he gets really pouty if you ever apply it without him

He's not really the best person to do "guy bonding" activities with unless you like making pipe bombs or planning the murders of people you hate (hypothetically speaking, of course) but if there's anything like that you want to try out then he'll definitely be there to support you. Like I don't know, hunting/fishing? Or watching sports games while drinking beer? Or breaking out the toolbox and fixing things around the house? Sorry I don't really know things that guys do despite being one myself 😭

The only exception to that is probably car maintenance. I see him as being very protective over his motorcycle and learning how to take care of it himself so he doesn't have to worry about taking it to the shop and having them screw it up. He'd be happy to teach you about how to change your own oil and might even teach you how to ride it as long as you don't accidentally scratch up his paint job. He might not kill you for it, but he will be very upset and end up ignoring you for a few hours afterwards

Purposely introduces/refers to you as his boyfriend in front of others just to see your face light up with confidence. It's not like JD has a lot of friends or anything but anyone that he does know feels as if they've met you already because of how he much he talks about you (he's totally that one annoying person you know who never shuts up about their partner ever)

All in all, I'd say he's a relatively good boyfriend in general, but especially if you're transmasc. Solid 8/10 (one point was deducted for his slight insensitivity and another was due to his crazy streak. Sorry JD I promise I still love you </3)

Main masterlist | Heathers masterlist | wanna be added to my taglist?

End notes: this ended up being much longer than I anticipated but I have absolutely no regrets whatsoever at all

Likes < reblogs | comments are greatly appreciated | requests are currently open

🏷 taglist: @missmewts @ghot-girl @gilmore-angel @your-next-daydream @the-night-owl-blr @noisy-dumb-piece-of-shit @pregnantmen @theonetruepotato87

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golbrocklovely · 1 year ago

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mr. fantastic // sam golbach

A/N: first off, sorry this is getting posted so late. had to make some last minute revisions. so, for this one and colby's fic later on, i need to give some slight context. basically in both of these, they are AUs were snc are corrupt ppl, or have a bit of a corruption aspect to their personalities. some of these fics are/can be seen as dark, so i totally get if you don't feel comfortable reading it. just give a good look over of the trigger warnings and see how you feel. if you do enjoy it, please lmk what you think. also this fic is very vaguely based off the boys, the tv show/comic book series. sam is a smidge (and i mean a very tiny amount) reminiscent of homelander. do with that information as you will. happy haunting!

prompt: everyone around you loves sam, or as he's commonly known as - mr. fantastic. but you can see right through his facade. but when he starts winning over your friends, you know something is going on, and it's not good. || AU!superhero!sam x fem!reader

trigger warning: SMUT, enemies-to-lovers, you used to have a crush on sam in high school and now he's a superhero, superhero!sam, corrupt!sam, twist ending, i would say a hint of dubcon (but y/n never says no or stop, but just to be on the safe side i'm letting yall know), manipulation via powers and magical handcuffs (it will make sense in the story lol), hate fucking/rough sex, unprotective sex, cursing, mentions of: babygirl, slut, good girl, my girl, baby, degrading language

word count: 6769

I couldn't stand him, or anyone else like him. Everyone praised the ground he walked on, but me? Every time I saw him, he made me sick to my stomach.

Well, maybe not sick. But I did hate seeing his dumb, stupid face.

You would think with superheroes becoming known to the public, life would get easier. Crime would go down, more criminals would be off the streets, and the overall quality of life would skyrocket. But that just wasn't factually accurate. Did you know in my city alone, the crime rate has gone up 25% since last year? And what exactly are the superheroes doing about it? Causing more destruction and chaos. I swear, bad things only truly started happening once they came out to the public all those years ago.

The only saving grace I had in my life was that I wasn't alone in my feelings towards superheroes. I had my two best friends, Macie and Rachel, and they both felt the same way I did. Especially towards the best-known superhero in our city, Mr. Fantastic. His real name was Sam Golbach, and I hated him deeply.

He and I had history, you could say. We both went to the same high school. We were both nerdy, and just overall losers. We graduated and moved away to the same city, and then a couple years ago, all of a sudden, he is shown on the news as the newest superhero to save us. It made no sense to me because I remember him from high school. He never had powers. And there's no way that he, the guy that got shoved into lockers and made fun of for being a band nerd, would have tolerated being bullied like that if his powers were super strength and flight. And not only that, but the way the news describes his upbringing: it's all a lie! They paint him to be this all-American boy. They say he was a jock and just a bit shy for most of his life until finally growing into his powers at 19. Most superheroes get their powers by 16, so that alone should be telling that something is off with him. But no. Everyone just believes the lies he tells them. And that is why I hate him.

I may also hate him because I had a huge crush on him in high school and he never gave me the time of day. But I mostly hate him for all of the superhero stuff, not the high school bullshit.

Mostly.

It was like any other normal Tuesday in our office. Our manager, Sally, would bring in donuts, George would make some comment about the week moving too slowly, and around ten o'clock we would all have to stop working to watch the daily superhero news. It was mandatory in our office, as our jobs revolved around fixing superheroes’ fuck ups.

It was almost ten, and we all sat around the flatscreen hanging in the middle of one of our bigger conference rooms, waiting for the news to begin. I glanced around, noticing that Rachel wasn't in. I furrowed my brow, leaning towards Macie.

"Have you seen Rach?" I asked.

She shrugged, "No but I talked to her last night and she seemed fine. Maybe she's just running late or is taking a half day."

I hummed, "Maybe..."

The news turned on loudly, quieting everyone in the office. I leaned back in my chair, sighing deeply. God, please let today be a normal, boring news day.

"Hello everyone, thank you all for coming out this morning," the police commissioner nodded his head, looking at the audience that had formed outside of the precinct. "As always, we like to start with the positives and then move onto the, uh, wreckage. Please hold all questions until the end of the press conference. And now, I pass the stand to Mr. Fantastic."

A bunch of people clapped in the office, some wooing lowly. I grimaced, rolling my eyes the moment he popped on screen.

"Good morning, hello. Oh no need for cheering, thank you. You're too kind," He smiled brightly, shushing the crowd politely. "First, like I always say during these press conferences, thank you for letting me protect this city. I wouldn't know what to do with myself if I couldn't protect the lovely citizens of this place."

"You'd probably be working at a Burger King by now." I mumbled, getting close to Macie. She snickered, gazing back at the screen.

"So last night was eventful, like most nights here. I was able to stop two car jackings, and finally put an end to the mask thief that's been vandalizing all of the inner city's school buses. You can all be glad that today, your kids are riding on safe, clean transit." Sam pointed, giving his trademark wink and smile.

I groaned, lulling my head back in the chair. Could this day get any more boring?

"I also have some fantastic news to share with you all," He chuckled, the crowd following suit. "I saved a special young woman from a purse nabbing and possible assault last night around 2:30. Now as you all know, I know many of the people I save like to remain anonymous, but this one really wanted to let you all know how she felt. And of course, I just can't say no to any of you. So please, allow me to give her the floor." He let out another laugh, backing away from the mic. I glanced at the clock, realizing only five minutes had passed. God must have been punishing me, specifically.

Suddenly, everyone in the room gasped, Macie being the loudest. She slapped my leg, pointing at the tv. I turned and my eyes widened at the sight. Rachel, with tears welling up in her eyes, stood at the podium, smiling brightly. "Thank you all. I just wanted to say that Mr. Fantastic," she turned to him giving him a sensual gaze, "Sam, is one of the best superheroes around. This man saved my life, and I couldn't be more grateful for him. He is amazing and so handsome, and this city should be thankful to have a man like him. I love you, Sam. Thank you so much."

She reached over, giving him a huge hug. He accepted her embrace, allowing her to run her hands almost up and down his body too many times.

My mouth dropped open, unable to comprehend what I was watching. Rachel hated Sam just as much as I did. Literally last week she wished a car would fall out of the sky and squish him because he held up her commute stopping a supervillain from breaking out of the state prison. And now she was on tv, basically ready to suck his dick, because he saved her!

Macie and I looked at each other, knowing we needed to talk to Rach as soon as possible. I sent Rach a quick text, telling her to meet us at our usual lunch spot.

~~~~

My eyes narrowed at Rachel, her smile irritating me. "Please, repeat the story one more time for me."

"Okay, if I must," she giggled. "Last night I went to the corner store because I was craving some ice cream. As I was walking home, a man rushed me and stole my purse. I tried to chase after him but couldn't catch him. He ran across the street, and out of the shadows... there was Sam. He swooped in, grabbed the man, roughed him up, and got my purse back to me. God, it was seriously so hot to see him in action like that."

Rach lightly fanned herself, and I had to hold back my vomit.

"So, he saved you, gave you your purse back. And then what?" Macie questioned.

She continued, "He walked me home and... I woke up this morning knowing I had to thank him for saving my life. So on my way to work, I stopped by the police station, saw him and begged him to let me speak at the conference."

I blinked hard, "He didn't save your life. You weren't threatened. Some random dude just stole your purse."

She pouted, "Yeah, but he saved me so much hassle of having to call my credit card companies and tell them to shut everything off and having to get a new I.D.-"

I jumped in, "I get that, and I'm not trying to downplay it, but like.... last week you wanted a car to fall out of the sky on top of him."

"And the week before that we betted on the subway crushing him between the tracks during that pipe burst. What's changed?" Macie argued, taking a sip of her coffee.

"He saved me," she stated plainly, with a soft smile. "You know, I think we've been so focused on this idea of him that I think if we got to really know him, we would know he's a great guy."

"Have you forgotten that he is lying to the public about his upbringing and reputation? Or the fact any time he saves someone, there is destruction in his wake that our company has to clean up, causing our jobs to be more difficult?" I scowled at her, unable to hold back.

She rolled her eyes hard, "Oh, come off it, Y/N. The only reason you care about that is because he rejected you in high school and you're too hung up on it."

"Excuse me?" I deadpanned.

Rach crossed her arms defiantly. "You heard me. I will no longer be a part of your rain-on-Sam parade. He is an amazing man. And a great superhero."

"Even if any of that were true, you gotta admit that this 180 you're doing is weird. You fucking hated him last night." Macie argued.

"And now I want to marry him." Rach smirked.

My eyes widened, "What the fuck did you just say?"

"If you want me to be honest, I'll say it. I think he is the man of my dreams and everything I could hope for in a partner. I want him, and I hope he'll have me." She turned to Macie, almost giggling, "I slipped him my number at the conference."

"You can't be fucking serious, Rach." I groaned.

"I just know he’s great in the bedroom..." Rach thought out loud.

"Oh... so you've completely lost it. Good to know." I remarked, taking a quick sip of my coffee.

"Don't be jealous of our love. Maybe one day he'll save you too." She quipped.

I laughed sarcastically, "I would rather get crushed by a car, thanks."

~~~~

Two weeks had passed since Rach's incident with Sam. We hadn't been talking to one another all that much, just casual conversation in passing. Maybe she was right to some extent. Maybe I was holding onto this hatred for Sam just because he didn't care about my existence back when we were kids. I should let it go, and stop being such a hater.

At least, I thought that way, until this morning.

I had tunnel vision as I glared at the tv, unable to peel my eyes away as I watched the news. Another press conference. Another day of kissing Sam's ass. But this time, he again introduced another woman that wanted to thank him publicly. And this time... it was Macie.

Her spiel was the same, her mannerisms almost identical to Rach's speech. I watched, my mouth a gaped, as she thanked Sam profusely for saving her from the purse nabber. She leaned up and kissed his cheek multiple times, her hands gripping the collar of his shirt desperately.

You've got to be fucking kidding me. There's no way that this was actually happening. Something fishy was going on, and it had everything to do with Sam. I fucking knew he was trouble. I just needed to get proof.

I met with Macie alone at our usual spot. I begged her to tell me everything in detail, and her story was eerily similar to Rachel's.

"So a guy stole your purse as you left some club, Sam got it back to you, walked you home, and then you woke up today knowing you had to tell the world how great he is." I reiterated her story, annoyed.

"Exactly. He really is truly a fantastic guy." She snorted, rolling her eyes, "Oh my God, sorry. Such a bad pun."

"Yeah... that." I blinked, holding in my rage. "So, you don't happen to feel the same way as Rach, tho, right? Like... you're not in love with him?"

She thought about it for a moment, "I do think he's amazing, and I would love to be married to him... So I guess you could say yeah. I am in love. Am I blushing?"

I sighed deeply, "What exactly changed? I know he saved you, or your purse, and that's great. I'm so happy he did that. But what exactly made you wake up today and feel this need to wish to have his children?"

"I don't know. It's like... this light just switched off in my head. I just feel that deep down in my soul, I want to be his. And I really hope he'll have me." She smiled dreamily.

Hearing her say almost the exact same thing as Rach made my composure crack. "Do you hear yourself? You want to be his?! He is a douchey superhero who makes our jobs harder, and not to mention barely does anything to actually help the crime rate in this city! He got you your purse back, and all of sudden you want to... be his? You can't be serious."

She shook her head, glaring. "You know, I think Rach was right. You are jealous of the love he and I share, all because he rejected you."

"He didn't even reject me! He didn't know I existed! There's a difference," I took a breath, trying to calm down. "You don't think it's odd that all of sudden you want to have his children? You don't even want to have kids."

Macie ignored me, continuing her argument. "Either way, you come across really bitter and I hope if he comes to save you, you change your attitude. To be held in his arms would be a dream come true."

She stood up dramatically, leaving the restaurant in a huff.

~~~~

After the shitty month I had, I needed to buy some alcohol to drink my troubles away. Rach and Macie hadn't talked to me since their "savings", so work had become even more tedious and annoying. And now, it seemed like I was the only one in the office that didn't like Sam. Morale had really gone up once he saved two of our coworkers, and I had to quietly sit there, pretending I did despise the man or the situation as a whole.

As I walked home from the liquor store, I noticed how quiet the streets had become as I got closer to my apartment. It was like anyone that was out on the street moments ago disappeared. There were sirens off in the distance and the light rumble of the subway underneath the streets. The low buzz of the street light above me caught my eye, and as I looked up, the light flickered. A chill ran up my spine suddenly.

Okay, maybe I was just freaking myself out for no reason.

A body slammed into mine from behind, almost knocking me flat on the ground. A man wrestled my bag out of my hand, sprinting off down the street.

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me!" I screamed. I began to chase after him, my speed not even remotely catching up to him.

My thoughts swirled of all the things I had in that bag. My wallet, my phone, and my key to get into my apartment. I groaned loudly, annoyed.

Where the fuck were any of the superheroes when you needed them?

The man ducked into an alleyway, a loud crash coming from there. I ran to where he was, finding him passed out in the street. His nose had blood running down it, like someone punched him. My purse was nowhere in sight.

"Are you looking for this?" A voice said from behind me.

I spun on my heels, coming face-to-face with Mr. Fantastic himself, Sam.

I opened my mouth to speak but was unable to say anything. I had so much I wanted to say, but couldn't decide on what.

"No need to be shocked, miss. I know, superheroes are a lot to take in." He smiled softly.

Hearing his voice brought me out of my stupor. "That's not why I'm shocked. You kinda just... came out of nowhere."

His face dropped, surprised by my tone. "Oh..."

We stood there awkwardly for a moment, both unsure what to say next.

He reached out, my purse in his hand. "Um, here you go, Miss...?"

"Y/N. My name is Y/N." I stated.

"What a beautiful name for a beautiful girl." He complimented me.

"Thanks, I guess," I mumbled. "And thank you for getting my purse back. It means a lot."

"It's all in a day's work. Or night's technically." His well-known laugh escaped his lips.

I blinked, slowly walking away from him, "Yeah.... Anyway, I gotta get back home. It's late, and I wanna get drunk."

"Oh, well, why don't I walk you home?" He asked, keeping in step with me.

"I don't think there's any need to." I argued politely.

"No, let me. It's clearly unsafe on these streets." Sam responded.

"Well, you just stopped the purse nabber... again. For the third time. Maybe this time he can finally get arrested." I smiled bitterly, trying not to sound it.

"The police have already been called and they are on their way. So, why don't I walk you home?" He stopped in front of me, looking me in the eyes genuinely. "I will be worried if I don't make sure you get there safely."

I exhaled, "...Okay, fine."

I walked home silently, not wanting to speak to Sam. He stepped in time with me, never speaking. I almost forgot he was with me, until he cleared his throat once or twice.

I pointed up at my building, pulling my keys out to go inside, "Well, we're here. Thanks for walking me home, I gotta get upstairs and get to drinking. So, goodbye."

"Wait, before you go up, can I ask you something?" He queried.

I squeezed my eyes shut, opening them again and turning back to him. "Sure, I guess."

He crossed his arms, cocking his head. "How did you know I stopped the purse nabber before? Those were such minor crimes I solved; I'm surprised anyone would remember them."

"Well, you didn't really solve the crime since clearly the man never got put away." I retorted; my voice sickeningly sweet.

Sam raised an eyebrow at me, waiting for me to answer his previous question.

"My friends were the two you saved." I deadpanned.

"Oh really, what a small world." He pursed his lips in thought, "Their names were... Rachel and Macie, correct?"

"Yep, them exactly." I nodded.

"They were kinda like you, in a way." He mentioned.

I furrowed my brow, "What do you mean by that?"

His tone shifted. It was no longer the public persona one he used on the news. Now, it was more... casual. Equally as snarky as mine. "They too didn't like me. Or were a little... snippy with me."

Oh, well if you wanna play like that... "Yeah, and weirdly now, they want your babies."

He faux-gasped. "What a strange turn of events."

"I guess you changed their minds. How exactly did you do that?" I glared at him, accusatory.

"My charming personality." He smirked.

"Right." I jeered.

"I mean, if you really want to know the answer, let me into your apartment," his voice was almost sultry, his eyes mischievous. "Let me have one drink with you."

I narrowed my gaze at him, blinking slowly. "You're serious."

"100%. But I mean, if you don't want to know, then I can just leave." He pointed to the street, backing away.

"No, you can come up." I felt this overwhelming sensation that I had made a grave mistake, but I continued. "But if for even a second you make me uncomfortable, I have every right to resend your invitation."

"You know I'm not a vampire, right?" Sam snickered. "I'll respect your wishes regardless, but you can't just kick me out that easily."

"Okay fine, if you don't get out of my house when I say so, I'll stab you. Got it?" I grinned crazily.

He raised an eyebrow playfully, "Feisty... Sure, I hear you loud and clear."

We walked up to my place, my eyes catching his form out of the corner of my eye. What the hell was I even doing? Why was I inviting this asshole to my apartment?

I mean, I know why. But God, I just hope this ends quickly.

I cleared my throat as we both stepped in. Sam glanced around my apartment, giving a soft whistle. "Fan-cy."

I rolled my eyes, knowing he was joking. "Well, some of us aren't government paid employees with apartments in skyrises."

"You are a very defensive person. Do you always feel like you're being attacked, or is that just your general tone with me?" He shot back.

"I guess you just bring it out of me." I popped the bottle of whiskey open, the sound reverberating as I smiled bitterly. I poured two cups, dropping a cube into both.

"You're into whiskey, huh?" He gave me a quick once over, "That's kinda sexy."

"No one asked." I raised my glass, "Cheers."

"To new beginnings." He toasted.

"Sure..." I took a long sip, the whiskey burning a little extra hard.

He let out a light cough. "Hooo, that's has a kick."

"So, are you gonna tell me how or why my friends all of sudden started liking you or not?" I asked coldly.

"You don't mess around." He chuckled.

"I only invited you up here for that reason." I replied honestly.

"It wasn't to sleep with me?" He hummed, "I'm surprised."

"I wouldn't sleep with you if you were the last man on Earth." I spat.

"Well, thank God I'm not." He quipped.

I placed my hands on my hips, annoyed. "So... the reason?"

Sam walked over to my living room, taking in everything. His eyes scanned my bookshelves, stopping suddenly. "Hey, how do you have this?"

I glanced up at the ceiling, hoping God could feel my glare from down here. "Have what?"

He pulled a book out, its green and white cover I knew all too well. "This yearbook. This is the school I went to, the year I graduated."

My heart dropped and I raced over to him, "Hey that's mine!"

He flew across the room easily, flipping through the book. "God, I haven't seen this in so long. But again, how did you get this?"

"Give it back to me." I demanded, stomping up to him.

"Wait a second. Is this you?" He opened up to a page with my high school portrait, little writings around it from friends of mine from back then.

I felt a rush of heat to my cheeks, making me speechless. I yanked the book out of his hands, going back to the bookshelf.

"You went to my high school. Wait, Y/N...." He gasped suddenly, "I remember you! Wow, you got a lot hotter."

"Thanks. Can't say the same for you." I grunted, hating how warm my face felt.

He spun me around, his eyes staring into mine. "Now, there's no need to lie to me."

"You don't understand personal space, do you?" I bitched, trying to push him back.

He barely moved; his eyes unchanging. "Am I not allowed to be close to you? Do I make you nervous or something?"

"No, I just hate your presence." I did my best to hide the shakiness in my voice, my body hitting the edge of my window and radiator.

"Strangely, you are the only woman that's like that." He jested, "Is it because you're hiding a crush or some-"

"No!" I cleared my throat, huffing. "No. I don't have a crush on you."

For a second it looked like he moved, his face holding back a smile. "Can you say that again for me?"

"I definitely have a crush on you." I breathed, my brain feeling like it buffered for a second. Why the fuck did I just say that?

He backed away, cocking his head. "Oh you do? Glad you could admit it."

"I wasn't admitting anything. I was just joking, and the joke is that I've had feelings for you since high school." I gasped, "What the fuck?!"

He teased, "I'm so happy you feel comfortable telling me the truth."

"Why am I saying this?" I whispered to myself.

He pointed down to my hand, "It probably has something to do with the handcuffs I put on you."

"Wha-?" I glanced down, and sure enough one of my wrists was handcuffed to the radiator by my window.

"You gotta be a bit more observant than that." He laughed sincerely, lounging on my couch.

I let out a ragged breath, pissed. "How the fuck did you-"

"Those handcuffs are really only meant to be used by me on criminals, that way they confess. But sometimes I like to use it for more..." He gazed at me longingly, "spicier reasons."

"You're a fucking creep." I hissed.

"And you're into it." He snapped.

"Yes I am." Oh my God...

He bit his lip, pleased at my answer. "So, your friends actually told me, without needing the handcuffs B-T-W, that you had a crush on me since high school. And now seeing you, I remember who you are. You were just as nerdy as me."

"Oh, at least you're admitting that now. Why, because there's no cameras around to lie to?" I sassed, pulling at the handcuffs.

"Hey, it's not a lie that I tell. I just... fib a bit." He settled into my couch, fluffing up one of the pillows, "I did play sports, so that would qualify me as a jock."

I scoffed, "Ping-pong is barely a sport."

"Says you," he grumbled. "But that can't be the only reason you hate me slash love me."

"I don't love you." I stated honestly.

"Oh, but you will," Sam uttered lowly. “You still didn't answer my question though. So, is it really just the crush bullshit?"

"No. It's not just that," I started. "You lied, not only about your upbringing. But your powers. You didn't have them in high school. You got bullied just as much as me, if not more so. If you had super strength, you would have kicked Joe's shins in."

He chuckled mockingly. "God, are you, like, obsessed with me? How do you know so much?"

"Joe bullied me too, dumbass. I'm not obsessed with you, I just don't understand you at all. And I know you're a liar. And I try to use those reasons to hide the feelings I still have," I groaned, pulling at the handcuffs more. "Jesus Christ get these handcuffs off!"

"Not yet," Sam commented. "So... you are right. I do lie, in a lot of ways, to the general public. Sometimes I throw in extra crimes I 'solved' during the night, when usually I'm just chilling at the 24-hour Taco Bell."

I gaped, "I fucking knew it!"

He sat up, sitting on the edge of the couch. "Jokes on you, it's actually the 24-hour Wendys."

"Why do you lie? People love you. There's no need to pretend." I argued.

"Ahh, but there is. I have a lot riding on me to be one of the best superheroes around." He remarked.

I hid my eye roll. "Like what?”

"You're right about one thing. I didn't have superpowers in high school. I wasn't born a superhero. When we graduated, an up-and-coming bio-tech company, Malusvir, reached out to random people asking if they wanted to be part of a study for $50k. I thought, I have no idea what I'm doing with my life, might as well go see what's up. Go be a guinea pig for some money." Sam shook his head, his anger brewing, "Come to find out, they were testing out if they could grow superheroes."

"What the fuck?" I squeaked.

"I was injected a whole lot of times with... something. And while I was basically comatose for months, all of a sudden, superheroes started bursting on the scene. The government was finally letting them out of the bag, and they were allowing all heroes to sign up to become part of the Superheroes Task Force." Sam stood up, starting to pace. "When I awoke, I was one of the only ones that survived the trial run. This company ended up getting bought out by the government, and they covered it up by going bankrupt and saying they were making chemical weapons, which isn't technically wrong."

"Does the government know about you being... home grown?" I inquired.

"No. The bio-tech company used an alias for all of us, so no one found out. And the secrets disappeared with the CEO when he flew out of the country back to his home country and mysteriously died. I'm pretty sure he's just hiding. Or was killed for what he knew." He informed, his eyes almost glazing over.

"Why are you telling me all of this?" I questioned, confused.

"Because no one will believe you." He replied softly, his voice taking me back. Then, he switched back into his cocky self. "So... that's my story. But back to you, how long were you into me?"

"Since junior year." I confessed.

"You liked 17-year-old me?" He winced, "Oof, now that's a choice."

"So was that haircut." I quipped lightheartedly.

He leaned towards me, whispering. "And those cargo shorts."

I snickered, and he smiled genuinely for the first time.

A silence fell over us for a moment, then he looked up at me and asked nonchalantly. "So... do you wanna fuck?"

I choked, "What?"

"Is it really that surprising of a question? You're into me, and I find you hot," his eyes snaked down my body. "Especially handcuffed."

I stammered, "I-I don't-"

"Look, if you don't want to, understandable. I am a bit of a dick. But let me put it to you this way, have sex with me and get all that anger out that you feel towards me." He stepped closer to me, teasingly. "A good hate fucking helps out everyone involved, really."

I breathed, "You're insane."

"Or, if you have sex with me, and I'm bad... you can brag to your friends that I suck." He offered.

I sucked in a deep breath, already knowing my answer. "You raise a good point there."

"So, will you let me make you feel good or no?" He wrapped an arm around me tightly, bringing his face close. Our bodies were pressed together, my heart speeding up. "Do you wanna fuck me or not?"

"Yes I do." I admitted.

"See, and I didn't have to keep the handcuffs on you for you to tell the truth." He raised up his hand showing the cuffs, smirking.

I scoffed, shoving him back. "You are such a dick."

"And you love every second of it." He taunted, back up to the couch.

"I do, I can't lie." I bit my lip, staring at his mouth.

He sat down, pulling me towards him. "Go ahead, sweetheart. Fuck me like you hate me."

I straddled his lap, grinding down on him as our mouths connected. He shoved his tongue into my mouth, a moan falling from my lips. He gripped my ass, pushing me down more onto his lap. I yanked on his hair, digging my nails into his scalp and chest.

He winced, chuckling darkly as he pulled away from our kiss. "Oh you like it rough, baby?"

"Yeah." I smirked.

"Well good," he bunched up my shirt, tearing it away from my body suddenly. The ripping fabric fell apart in his hands and he chuckled darkly. I gasped loudly, a pleasurable chill running down my spine. "Me too."

I whined, "I liked that shirt."

"I don't care." He slammed his lips back onto mine quickly, taking my breath away. He nibbled on my lip, our teeth clashing together from the intensity of the kiss. I grinded myself against his growing bulge, my wet panties pressing into my sex achingly. I hadn't even realized how hot and bothered he had made me, but I wasn't complaining. I needed this, and clearly so did he.

We removed our clothes desperately, needing each other. He sat back against my couch, gazing up at me hungrily.

"God, your body is killing me." He grunted, "Give it to me."

I settled back down onto his lap, my sex grazing his leaking cock. Our breaths stifled, hitching at the feeling of our bodies being so close and so bare. I lined up my hips, slowly taking in every inch of his dick.

Breathy moans fell from my lips, his groans almost covering up my sounds. Once he was completely inside of me, we stared into each other's eyes intensely.

He began moving his hips, his eyes never leaving mine. "How's it feel, baby? Riding the dick of someone you hate."

"I love it." I whimpered.

"Of course you do. You take me so well, babygirl." He grinned.

I grimaced, "Ew, don't call me that."

"I'll call you whatever I want to, and you'll enjoy every second of it." He slapped my ass hard, pushing into me harder, "Won't you?"

"Yeah, I will." I laughed, moving up and down on his cock, "Fuck, you are so annoying."

His voice was raspy as he glared at me, "Oh, I am? Well, you ain't any better."

I snickered, "Nice comeback, nerd."

He grabbed my face, forcing me to look into his eyes. He pounded into me faster, "Nice cunt, slut. Take this dick."

"Oh my God, fuck yes Sam!" I whined.

I bounced up and down on his cock, his hips meeting with mine, making him go deeper and deeper each time. Sweat slid down our bodies, the room rising in temperature from our movements.

His lips brushed against my ear, nibbling along my neck. "Baby, baby, do you wanna know something? I forgot to tell you something."

I groaned, displeased. "Do you know how to not fucking talk?"

"But babygirl, I think this is really important. You'll want to hear it." He hummed, his thrusts stopping.

"What? What is it?" I slowed my hips, my pussy quivering around him, needing more.

He let out a breathy laugh, pushing my hair out of my face. "So, I forgot one major detail when I told you about the bio-tech company that made me the way I am."

I rolled my eyes, not interested in this conversation at all, "What did you forget to tell me?"

"Malusvir..." The lights behind Sam's eyes dimmed, his face dropping. "They weren't making superheroes."

My heart skipped a beat, my eyes fluttering, "What do you me-"

His hand wrapped around my throat quickly, squeezing tightly. My breath hitched, and Sam began to pound into me again, his hips picking back up the pace they were at once before.

"You are such a silly, dumb girl. Your friends were just as dumb as you. Maybe even dumber." His almost sinister gaze sent shivers of pleasure down my spine as his grip tightened.

I held onto his shoulders, my heart rate picking up as he made it harder to breathe. "S-Sam, fuck."

"You wanna know how I got your friends to fall in love with me?" He pressed his mouth against my ear, whispering harshly. "I fucked them. Just like I'm fucking you. All three of you were so desperate and needy for this dick. But you? God, you're so much sexier."

I shook my head, "You're fucking joking..."

"No, I'm not. And yet, even as I tell you this, you're still riding me." Sam smirked, growling, "God, aren't you pathetic? Your crush runs real deep. Just like my cock."

"Fuck you." I spat.

"Fuck you right back." He leaned in again, biting my earlobe and neck. "I could literally feel you squeeze around me when I called you pathetic. Don't pretend you don't like this."

I tried ignoring him, but he was right. My body reacted to him saying it again, throbbing around him. "How did you make them-"

"Love me? Pheromones, mostly. Thanks to all of those..." His eyes closed tightly as he got lost in thought. "Injections. Fuuuck. God, you make it hard to think sweetheart."

He had to be lying. He had to be fucking with me. "So they fucked you, and that made them fall in love with you? But Rach said-"

“I fucked them but made it so they can't tell anyone. They remember it, but will never say a word. No one would believe them anyway." He winked, releasing his hand from my neck and sliding it down my body to my clit. "Oh baby, you are in for a world of change once you come. Or once I come inside of you."

"S-Shut up Sam. Shit, fuck yeah..." I let out a breathy moan, my hips stuttering. His cock was hitting the right spot repeatedly, his thumb rubbing my clit gently, making it hard to do anything but whine. "You're just fucking with me."

"Believe what you want to, Y/N. In the end, you're gonna be mine." His lustful blue eyes bore into mine, his voice husky as he continued fucking me. "My girl to use whenever I want to. My girl that gets love drunk on my cock. Aren't you excited for that? Don't you want that? To be my little plaything forever?"

"Yeaahhh," I mewled. My eyes widened, realizing what I said. "Fuck, h-how did you-"

"It's already happening. You can't stop it now. But you don't want to, either. Take this dick more and more, slut." He gripped my hips, slamming me down onto him over and over again. My brain grew quiet, mindless. All I could think of was his leaking cock deep within me and needing him to come inside of me. I needed his come. I needed him.

"Aww, baby. You're in love, aren't you? You love me, don't you?" He mocked, a feign innocent smile on his face.

I tried shaking my head. I was not in love with him. But my body didn't listen to me anymore.

I nodded my head, unable to stop myself. My heart surged, a wave of adoration washing over me as I took in Sam's face. God, he was so handsome, even more so when he was fucking me. I cried out in pleasure, my hips bucking hastily.

He bit his lip, his head falling back against the couch. "Good girl. You're my good girl. Forever."

"Forever." I repeated, my heart soaring.

"Who's are you? Tell me." He ordered, his eyes staring into mine.

"Yours." I whined wantonly.

He sped up his actions, fucking me faster and deeper. "Say it again."

Borderline sobbing, I stuttered out, "I'mmmm youuurss."

"Again!" He yelled, rubbing my clit harder.

"I'm yours, Sam!" I panted, bouncing on his dick as fast as I could.

"That's it, baby. You're so close. Get close for me!" He shouted darkly.

I begged desperately, my body overwhelmed, "Fuck Sam, please! Let me come! I fucking need it! I need you."

"That's right babygirl." He grabbed my neck again, growling, "Fucking come! Come for me!"

I exploded in ecstasy, my brain turning off as I came the hardest I ever had before. My body took over, my hips rutting against Sam's. My nails dug into his arm and shoulder, holding onto him for dear life as I rode him through my orgasm. Suddenly, he came inside of me, his groans thundering off the walls of my apartment. His hips bucked into me with abandon, pounding me once more before dropping back down onto the couch. I felt his cum leak out of my cunt, sliding down my inner thigh. Our bodies collapsed against one another, completely spent.

As I passed out, the last thing I heard was a small whisper that escaped his lips. "Mine."

#sam golbach #sam golbach fic #sam golbach fanfic #sam golbach fanfiction #sam golbach oneshot #sam golbach one shot #sam golbach smut #sam golbach x reader #golbrocklovely's 13 nights of halloween

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hotvintagepoll · 10 months ago

Text

Propaganda

Anne Baxter (The Ten Commandments, All About Eve)—her soft, gentle voice in "all about eve", those gentle eyes with something odd behind them, the way she flips from Sweet Innocent to Viper on a dime......there was something Built Different about anne baxter, man, and it makes her so good for playing people who are Built Wrong. also one of my favorite batmen villains (her joint episode w vincent price is a delight) and of course I'm obsessed with her columbo episode where she bosses around edith head and does fabulous movie star things for no good reason. and i would be REMISS if i didn't mention her slink—oh the slink—in the ten commandments...................pardon me i must go think of sinning again

Edana Romney (Corridor of Mirrors)— Look. It is definitely a case for your discretion. Edana Romney had only one major film role and then foundered in a Britain/Hollywood that didn’t like her look. But the film she starred in was also one she CO-WROTE and co-founded a whole production company to make happen, and it is a lavish, imaginative gothic romance where she runs around in fanciful medieval gowns and has incredible eyelashes. She was also known in later years as a Hollywood hostess who had popular “twelfth night” parties, gayest of all Shakespeare plays to have a party about.

This is round 1 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut]

Anne:

The prettiest murderer in that film. Just so beautifully evil as Nefertari.

Anne Baxter was part of my Bisexual Awakening. My family has a tradition that every Palm Sunday we watch The ten commandments on TV together... And starting from a very young age, I essentially developed a crushes on Anne Baxter's Nefertiri & Yul Brynner's Ramses. Dude, the woman was HOT! They both were! My crush definitely wasn't helped by the fact that Anne Baxter's costumes were a bit on the sheer side. She had a way of capturing you with her eyes, and I never understood why Charlton heston's Moses didn't just have a threesome with Nefertiri and Ramses. LOL

Her Nefertiri in The Ten Commandments was FORMATIVE TO ME. If not the hottest old movie lady, then she definitely played the hottest old movie character. if that makes sense.

Look. Listen. I only *just* discovered her on a post from the Have You Seen This Romcom poll blog. Saw she had the same last name as me and went OOH hi hello. Went to her IMdB and saw she was born in Indiana like moi. I am now even more intrigued. Been eagerly telling my partner this, and he was like "maybe you guys are distantly related?" And after 2 hrs of going down the tumblr tag + her imdb photos, I'm In Deep(tm) and I can't stop looking at her like 😍 When I go to my grandma's house, bet your ass I'm gonna check my grandpa's genealogy and see if we're somehow related. Sorry that's not really propaganda I just got real excited, esp when I saw that the submission deadline was extended (bless your soul). Narrowing down the movies where she's hottest in was Hell tyvm. I've only just discovered her, she looks gorgeous to me in every movie still I see of her gdi lol.

Edana:

#edana romney #anne baxter #hotvintagepoll #fuck that old woman #ladies 1

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onskepa · 5 months ago

Note

Hello Halo Hello! I am here! As promised, MUWAHAHA!

And I have brought forth a Lo'ak x reader request!

(Be warned this is gonna be lengthy, cause I wanted the request to be clear, I hope you don't mind.)

(Backround for the request):

Instead of Neteyam dying or being the one shot, it was Lo'ak. Eywa had decided to bless Lo'ak a second chance in a way, by sending him to a past version of earth, during a time of trees and modern technology, but still a pretty damn healthy version of earth.

It's there, that as a human he fell in love with a lovely happy go lucky human gal and as years past even got to marry and have children with her, ten children to be exact soon to be eleven. (Jake would be Hella proud. 😏 lol)

The first to be born were the sextuplets! Six at once, eywa was it a miracle, to which he did not faint upon finding out. (He did) and one more two years later, and then twins three years after and then five years after that, their youngest child who would soon no longer be the youngest since the eleventh child was soon on their way.

He was truly filled to the brim with joy, but even at his most happiest, he missed his family dearly.

(The Request):

Lo'ak, after getting shot on that sinking ship, is then blessed by Eywa to have a second chance at life on a past version of earth. Years later Eywa sends him and his family back to Lo'ak's home world and timeline on Pandora in the body of Na'vi's.

His family comes to meet his Now birth family in Awatalu, (I have no idea if I spelled that right! I'm so sorry!) After a bit of a tense soon turned joyous reunion, the families come to meet for the first time and learn about eachother as they interact for the first time.

The children however, have a bit of a difficult time adjusting, but try to for the sake of their dad. Even his wife who is so open minded has a bit of a hard time, but loves seeing her husband so happy.

It's a bit difficult, but they try to adjust to this new adventure and life, cause Lo'ak seems so happy.

[Little extra notes for ya!]

I actually have some ideas for some characteristics on the kids if you wanna hear about em! And or if you have questions of course!

Thanks once again as always for reading my request hun, I hope this was okay! 💕(♡≧ 𓎺 ≦)=ъ ♡💕

okie dokie *cracks my knuckles* Sit down ya'll, this is gonne be a ride. Also, to keep my mind sane, I am cutting down the number of the children from 11 kids to 6.

P.S: This beautiful cover is done by none other than @quirkyhero !!! She has done an amazing job!

-------------

Brace for imapact

Lo’ak sully was ready to die. After the constant mess he caused, from bringing his siblings to dangerous areas, to bringing his brother in a death trap. Lo’ak was ready to pay his deed by sacrificing himself instead of his older brother. Feeling the bullet hit a vital area on his body, lo’ak felt so much pain. He knew he was shot, and that he was not going to make it.

So he jumps over the rail of the ship, letting his body go limp as it hits the water. The feel of the cool water surrounding him. His energy quickly draining. As long as neteyam lives, that is all it matters. So, smiling to himself, lo’ak lets Eywa take him in peace. Knowing that he did something good for once.

“Llo….? ca…….ear….me?”

There was a voice, it sounded distant yet loud at the same time. A massive headache kept hitting lo’ak. A bright light stinging his eyes, making the headache much worse. Trying to blink, letting his eyes adjust to what is in front of him.

“W-what….?” he mutters out. Damn, does he feel the need to vomit for some reason. Is this how it feels after dying? Is that Eywa he sees…? Why does she looks so….human?

“Hello??? Can you hear me??” the sound of fingers snapping next to his ear. Gently slapping his cheek, the person was trying to wake him up.

“Eywa..?” lo’ak asks out loud.

“Huh? What is that??”

Now fully waking up, lo’ak sat up really fast. He looks around, it looks like he is at a beach? He lays on the sand.

“Hey, you ok? Do you know where you are?” the voice became more clear, feminine.

Lo’ak turns around and sees it's a human girl. She looked confused yet worried.

“Hey, you ok in there? Found you washed up on shore, knocked out real cold. Were you surfing or something? The tides are pretty high these days” the girl kept on talking.

But for lo’ak it was just a buzz.

He looks down at his hands and legs. His skin is not blue. His stripes are gone. He has dark skin.

He is human.

The girl didnt know what to make of the strange guy she found at the beach. The second he looked at his hands he began to freak out. Unconsolable and began rambling in a whole different language she has never heard of. She didn't want to call the cops as they might arrest him for probably wrong reasons. So where did she go next?

Hospital.

It was better than sending him to a mental one. They would have been worse than the cops.

So that is where they currently are. The doctors examined him, taking tests, everything.

“What is your name, young fella?” the doctor asks.

The strange boy answers. “Lo’ak Te Suli tsyeyk’itan”

What?

“That is um….a unique name” the doctor compliments as kindly as he can.

The strange guy looks nervous, looking down at his hands.

“You can just call me lo’ak”

Lo’ak…what a nice name.

2005

It has been 5 years since lo’ak arrived on planet Earth. However, as if it wasn't strange enough, he was sent back more than a hundred years in the past. It was less technology, still plenty, but not as much as the humans used in his time. The beauty of earth will always take his breath away. The air was clean, humans were more kind. Dare say, more peaceful.

The young girl who found him, offered to stay with him until he managed to be independent. Went to the human school, it was…..interesting to say. The teens were beyond different than the na’vi teens, even spider. Trends to follow, pointless gossip, but entertaining. At least there were sports he can partake in like track and archery. Spent good years, made some decent friends. Lo’ak will admit he was somewhat popular because of how “cool” he looked, along with his name.

Graduation happened, became an adult in the eyes of the humans. A man in the eyes of whom he likes to call his savior. The now young who found him. Sevin, a loving name he would call her.

“A loving name my dad would say to my mom” he would say time to time when sevin asks what it means. Lo’ak used to talk about a tribe he was part of, his dad marrying a native. Sevin did some hard research, all about native tribes from all over the world, and not one came up with the name “Omatikaya” , a tribe lo’ak says he was born in.

When nothing came about, in answering how lo’ak came to this world, he stopped mentioning it all together.

And later on, he and sevin married.

“Come on everyone! Let's find a good spot!” Lo'ak tells his family as they get out of their family van. 6 little heads all sprawled out from the sliding doors, all chatting at the same time. Sevin trying to tell something to her husband but even her shouts

It was summer break and lo’ak thought the best way to start off a summer vacation is a beach trip.

It honestly sounded so easy on paper than in reality.

Having 6 kids is not so easy. Lo’ak doesn't know what is better or worse, all 6 children being born at the same birth? Or having them be in different ages thus being in different stages of life? Either way, he is thankful for his wife giving him such beautiful yet unique children.

Every day, he secretly gives his thanks to Eywa. Though she might not be aware.

“Wait wait! Litx! Moe’seykxel! Both of you stop it! Nifu stay there-wait, d-dad!!! Your children want to eat sand!” the eldest son shouts, ‘awve. He tries to separate his two young siblings from trying to beat each other.

Lo’ak couldn't help but laugh so loudly. His oldest has become a stricter copy of his older brother. Shaking his head, he helps out.

“Ay, let them. Sometimes it's ok for your siblings to fight it out” he says. ‘Awve huffs.

“Besides, you stress too much. We are at the beach, a place to chill and relax. Worrying to death is my job, not yours” lo’ak goes on.

Suddenly, there was a quick tug from his trunks, looking down he sees the youngest of his sextuplets. Bending down, he lets his daughter whisper in his ear.

“Moe’ango is crying again,” Nifu says.

She points over to see moe’ango crying large tears as he stands still, terrified of a little hermit crab. Who is just as terrified as the boy.

A grin sneaks up to his mouth, yup, this is going to be a long beach day.

“Hubby! Look what I got~” sevin, the love of his life, the jewel in his eye, the light in his darkness, stands before him proudly waving around the ingredients to make smores.

“Isn't it more for camping…? In the mountains…?” lo’ak asks as he grins as he raises his shoulders.

His wife drops her smiles and is replaced with a frown.

“Who said smores are only exclusive to camping? Camp police?” she asks.

Lo’ak leans back, “yes” he replies sounding so confident.

His face was then met with the plastic marshmallow bags.

“Too bad! We are gonna make them, whether you like it or not” his wife says with a playful smirk. Knowing she won't change her mind, lo’ak gets the fire pit started.

As he and his wife work together, they would glance over at their children, making sure they are safe while having fun.

Sevin smiles warmly as she looks at her children, “hey, remember when we found out how many there were?” she asks lo’ak. He sighs silently.

“How can I not? I thought I was dreaming”

“Is she ok?! Is my child ok?!” lo’ak asks in fear towards the doctor. His wife was in labor, it looked very painful which scared him to death.

The doctor looked at him with a reassuring smile.

“Yes, they are fine. In fact, you can come see them. They will be very delighted to see you”

Lo’ak couldn't help but feel slightly suspicious with the tone the doctor said. His wife and child better not be in any form of danger.

So silently he follows the doctor, leading him to the room his wife currently stays in. The door opens and a handful of nurses leave. All smiling and congratulating him, to which he is thankful about.

As he enteres, the first thing he sees is his wife. Feeling excited, he quickly goes over to her and gives her the deepest kiss. She happily reciprocates.

“Our child? Is it a boy or a girl?” he couldn't help but ask. His wife smiles nervously.

“Yes” was all that was said. Making him feel confused.

Sevin points across from her, lo’ak following her direction.

Across the room he saw 6 little beds, and in them were 6 little babies.

“We have sextuplets babe,” sevin says.

The doctor smiles happily, “I bet you are feeling very excited, aren't you?”

THUMP!!!

Sevin and the doctor look over to see lo’ak passed out flat on his back.

“Lo’ak?”

“Remember? You were out the whole time!” sevin says as she and lo’ak laugh together at the funny memory.

“Sextuplets, I see my kids everyday and I still can't believe it” she goes on, looking out as her kids play in the sand, crafting whatever they want.

“What can I say? I got a magic d-”

“Mellow time!”

Sevin shoved a big marshmallow in lo’ak’s mouth, making him choke in the instant.

“We are in public!” she scolds.

Lo’ak chewed the sweet treat, but before he can say anything, he noticed something. Making sevin turn too.

Nifu was getting a bit too far into the sea for their liking. Quickly they get up as they notice their other children follow suit.

“Hey hey! What did we say about going too far? Come back!” lo’ak shouts as he and his wife run towards them.

“But dad! There is something in the water! Something shiny!” hawne says as he points at whatever he is looking at.

“It looks like a big light bulb!” litx says.

“Oooooh!! I wanna touch it!”

All of the 6 siblings go father, making their parents panic.

“KIDS! STOP!!” sevin screams. Both of them reach the water, desperately trying to reach them. But just as they were about to, some force yanked them down into the water. Not just lo’ak and sevin, but also the 6 children. The entire sully family were yanked down in an instant. Silence was all that was left.

The soft sounds of the ocean were heard, starting distant at first, but when lo’ak was slowly gaining consciousness, the sounds became louder. Slowly opening his eyes, he finds himself at the beach…? But the beach looked different. Somehow.

How long was he out-

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!”

Hearing a high pitched scream, he gets up and looks over to see…

A na’vi child?

Wait.

Na’vi?

NA’VI!!!

Looking down at his hands, he sees his hands are blue! With stripes! Holding his hair, his braids are back! His kuru and tail! He was ba-

“WHAT IS THIS!? GET OFF GET IT OFF!!! WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE!!” the na’vi child continued to scream. Panicking.

The other children began to look at themselves and began to freak out. All screaming and crying. The other adult na’vi, who is also freaking out, was screaming. Lo’ak doesn't know what is going on but somehow he is back to pandora. His family with him.

“Ssshhhhh its ok, its ok, sevin, sevin look at me” lo’ak tries to calm down his wife. She tries to fight back.

“Dont touch me!! Who are you!?”

“Sshh, its me! Lo’ak!”

This stopped sevin for a moment, taking a good look at him. Taking in the details.

“Lo’ak…? Is that really you?” she whispers….

He takes in the details of his wife too. Having the traits of omatikaya. Her eyes now astonishing golden color, like that of the sunsets. Her stripes beautifully decoration her body. Her hair is now black but the style has remained the same.

“Yes, yes it's me” lo’ak nods happily.

“If that is you…then does that mean they are…” sevin looks over at the still panicking children.

“Yup, we better calm them down”

“Na’vi….we are na’vi…?” ‘awve asks, still playing with his tail.

After long hours of exhaustion from crying, lo’ak managed to explain to his family what they are now. It was very hard for them to accept their new looks. Lo’ak can tell a few of his kids still cant believe all of it is real.

“Na’vi….omatikaya. You are from this world….how did you get to earth?” sevin asks, Her memories playing back to the day she met him.

“I have no idea” lo’ak answers honestly.

“So…..what do we do now? Still doesn't help that we are in some island” litx says as she points to the forest behind them.

Very true.

“One thing left to do. Explore, see if there is any fruits we can find” lo’ak suggests.

“Food….what can we eat exactly??” moe’ango asks. Feeling his tummy rumble.

“Whatever we find, I will tell you if it is edible or not”

With that, they all huddled close, holding hands as they make their way into the forest.

It was deathly silent. Getting used to your old body sure is odd. Trying to recall his hunting methods and skills. Lo’ak would refuse to admit but he is clearly rusty. Which is not good, not knowing what kind of animals lurk within the small forest. What is dangerous or not.

Not only that, he fears they might come across another na’vi. Something he dreadfully does not want to do.

“Dad, nifu wants to know how much longer?” moe’seykxel asks in a whisper.

“We can take a break if you want but we have to keep going-”

They all fell into a pit. It was a trap!

The kids began to scream. Their sounds alert someone nearby.

“We caught them!” an unknown voice was heard.

Illuminating torches were seen, getting closer, and then looking down at the family were na’vi! Lo’ak immediately knew these na’vi. They were of reef. An idea quickly popped in his mind. Perhaps they know of the Metkayina clan!

Luck was never on lo’aks side.

The reef na’vi tied him and his wife but not his kids thankfully. But were being watched carefully as they are lead deeper into the forest.

“We are not dangerous! We dont know where we are!” lo’ak tries to tell the warriors in na’vi. Speaking english for so long, his accent was clear as day. It doesn't make him look good. The warriors might think he is a dreamwalker.

The warriors ignore him.

At what seems the end of the forest, more light was seen. And more reef na’vi were also seen. Torches and fire pits illuminating the grounds.

This is good and bad.

“Dad! Who are they!?” one of his kids ask.

“Lo’ak what are they gonna do to us!?” sevin asks loudly.

“Lo’ak?”

A voice in the gathering crow was heard. The reef na’vi make way for another na’vi. This one however, was not reef.

Her skin was dark blue, matching lo’ak and his family.

“Do I know you…?” lo’ak asks. The girl did seem familiar.

“Oh my eywa….it is you! Lo’ak! Its me! Tuk!” tuk finally says as she hugs him.

Tears of joy fall from her eyes.

Did he hear that right?

This grown woman, is tuk? His baby sister?

“YOU’RE A WOMAN!?”

Word reach to the sully family. Quickly they all ran towards the main gathering area of the village. Tonowari told them that someone claims to be their long dead son.

Neytiri had to see for herself. Not caring if she isnt as fast as she used to, but she has to see.

Following was jake and their other children.

“Its him right? How is he alive??” kiri asks.

“I dont know, but we have to check this out” jake answers rather fast.

Seeing the large crowd, the people made a path for them. There in the center was tuk. Who was cooing, coddling, poking, and hugging 6 na’vi children. A femal adult was looking at tuk with wide eyes and extreme confusion.

“Mom! Dad! Look! Its lo’ak! He came back! I told you didnt I? I told you he would come back” tuk shouts happily, pointing at a forest looking na’vi.

Jake looked into the young man’s eyes. It was instant. Jake knew, that was indeed lo’ak. His son whom everyone thought, died in the space dragon ship. The son he and his family mourned for years. He is back.

“Lo’ak…?” neytiri whispers. Tears ready to fall.

He smiles, “h-hi….ummm….Im home….with my family…”

Kiri and neteyam look over at the 6 kids tuk was cuddling over.

“You did not waste any time huh brother?”

Aaaaaaaaand that is it for this one! NGL, it was pretty tricky to write it. Even now I have some doubts in the finished work. However, hopefully you all liked this one! Until next time! See ya!

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1: ‘awve = first, ordinal [top left]

2: hawne = soft of an object [top right]

3: litx = blade [sharp] (middle right)

4: moe’seykxel = strong, confident [both emotionally and spiritually] [middle left]

5: moe’ango = soft sound [bottom left]

6: nifnu = silent [bottom right]

#avatar #avatar the way of water #na'vi x reader #na'vi avatar #avatar 2 #na'vi x human #lo'ak #jake sully #lo'ak imagine #lo'ak sully #lo'ak te suli tsyeyk'itan #lo'ak x reader #lo'ak avatar #lo'ak x you #omatikaya clan #metkayina clan #human lo'ak

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