#the grey man on the right is a statue
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IM BACKKKK!
This is my sona telling my (most developed) ocs their stories (Agatha and Doyle aren't there cause I was so tired 😭 sorry)
#why do my sona's clothes remember me of scooby doo#the brown thingo with leaves is a talking wooden sign#the grey man on the right is a statue#finals really turned out pretty well#digital#digital art#digital painting#oc#pork milk#sona#oc selena#oc helliot#oc lazaro#oc anima#oc robota#oc statue#statue is not going to be his name#im just figuring it out#oc sign#that applies to the sign as well#dont look at the proportions#my sona is somehow gigantic sorry
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I am once again envisioning beautiful cathedrals in my mind. Sobbing because they will never be real.
#idk if cathedral is the right word since theyre not like. christian spaces. but i dont know how else to describe them 😔#having a religious yearning kinda day. dont worry about it.#but also. man. i love vaulted skylights and statues and fountains and stained glass and the meaning built into every inch of it all.#idk what i believe anymore but i will always love the way religious buildings are designed.#even my childhood church that was mostly a grey brick. there was so much there and so much love.#anyways i stood outside and watched the sunset in the rain the other day and i believe in some kind of god again 👍#batty blogging#text
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NIGHT RIDER, zhong chenle
working night shifts 24/7 at the convenience store while also supporting your boyfriend’s obsession with watching motorcyclists race is not easy, but little did you know that one of the bikers that he loves soon gets involved with you.
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— pairing: motorcyclist!chenle x fem!reader
— genres: social media au (smau), written, slowburn, angsty-ish, fluff, strangers to enemies to lovers (except they're not really enemies.. they just can't stand each other)
— extra: y/n is dating jaehyun (from boynextdoor) but they break up, jaehyun is kinda toxic, chenle is a lil shithead, probably inaccurate descriptions of motorcycle racing, y/n and chenle are crackheads when together
— warnings: lots of death jokes, profanity, everything in this story is pure fiction and not an actual depiction of how they act!!
— playlist: Do I Wanna Know? - Arctic Monkeys | devil in a red dress - EIGHTYEIGHTWAV | eyes don't lie - Isabel LaRosa | HEARTBEAT - Isabel LaRosa | COLD BLOODED - Chris Grey | Rude Boy - Rihanna | OHMAMI - Chase Atlantic, Maggie Lindemann | Te Quiero - KISS OF LIFE
— authors note: my 2nd smau!! this one will be pretty different from got my ion you and hopefully better 🤭 i’m super excited for this one ngl..
— status: finished
— taglist: closed
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profiles 1 | profiles 2
1. fuckass job and bf worries
2. 40 dollars?!
3. kicked out (half smau/half written)
4. easy forgiveness
5. victim of bad boyfriendism
6. where’s the apology?
7. a fool in love
8. he’s a sim now!
9. scary stares
10. surprise dinner (fully written)
11. sensing something... ah yes, jaemrina
12. the long awaited breakup
13. living life to the fullest and fuck chenle!
14. or maybe… don’t fuck chenle?
15. bad energy and mewing
16. the witch is coming
17. good job, genius!
18. the race (fully written)
19. nightmare wishes
20. is it the end of the world?
21. apologies are in order… oh and you’re not that bad
22. single and ready to mingle
23. yuta, the rizzler
24. yes, a date is happening!
25. stood up (half smau/half written)
26. we’ll forget about it… right? (half smau/half written)
27. hooked by why don’t we vibes
28. prince sugarplums the 5th
29. she’s not my lovergirl! / he’s not my man!
30. who want backshots?
31. his true feelings (half smau/half written)
32. send help… or maybe don’t?
33. ho is u coo?
34. find her asap
35. king of racing (fully written)
36. nothing more than a bad decision
37. no deep meaning behind it
38. oddly specific lyrics
39. jaemrina sailed!
40. talk to me, please
41. hate you & miss you
42. mission get cheny/n to make up
43. mission accomplished (fully written)
44. our sims are getting married 100%
45. my angel
— end —
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#fluff#kpop#kpop smau#chenle#chenle smau#chenle fanfic#chenle fluff#zhong chenle#chenle texts#chenle scenarios#chenle imagines#chenle x reader#chenle angst#nct smau#nct social au#nct social media au#nct fanfic#nct u#nct dream#nct 127#nct#wayv#chenle x y/n#chenle x you
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AMORE ~ FATI (part 1)
a/n: wait until the movie? nah. haven't stopped thinking about this freaky fucker since the trailer dropped! eat up, babes. also the horny police called and there is a warrant out for my arrest.
description: after winding up in a crime related to the royals, geta strikes up a deal with you.
warnings: down right hoe shit, sexual descriptions, gruesome descriptions, minimal historical research/ distant memories from high school test, cliff hanger. MINORS DNI
Part 1 of 2 (at least)
///
The afternoon was like any other, the day your life changed. You awoke to an empty home, gathered your cart of crafts, and headed to the stalls. You sold your paintings there and begged the clouds to cover the swelter of the sun.
For your landscape art, you accepted coin. You accepted food. You accepted a jeweled ring that afternoon, just as well. An exchange like it wasn't out of the ordinary. You pawned the adornment for cash that evening, and made the trek back home. With plans to paint pictures into the night, to sell off the next day.
Your home was quaint, once big enough for two, now only you haunted the halls. The man you'd once been forced to marry had been dead for many months now, and a certain freedom was found in his absence. But a certain monotony about your routine seemed to predetermine the days ahead as far as you could see them. So, you painted.
As you fiddled with brushes and stained your grey dress with speckles of deep amber, a bursting knock came across your door. The guest gave you no time to greet them before turning into an intruder. Two royal guards burst into your home, shouting and grabbing you and dragging you away. All so quickly.
You went fighting. You cursed as they held you in a carriage. You demanded their silence broken. But they remained stone faced as you begged to know why you'd been abducted from your home.
Your captors rode into the city, past the colosseum, right through the gates that led to the home of the reigning family. Your heart hammered in fear, knowing what you knew about the rulers. Caracalla and Geta had only just taken over the reign of their father, their mother looming near, picking sides; as you understood. Since the change in leadership, Rome hadn't suffered en mass. But a growing dread hung heavy over the population, knowing the brothers were struggling to join together in power. Knowing their clash divided not only their power, but all of Rome.
You were grabbed at once more, forced out of the carriage and into the great hall of the estate. Gold and red statues lined the entrance. A plum rug stretched before your feet, a welcoming cushion as the rest of your senses were drowned by harshness. Before you, pacing near his throne, Geta waited.
You'd seen him and his brother before, trailing behind their father at rallies. Lingering near the stands at games. You'd always let your gaze settle on Geta, if ever you'd seen him. You'd always been drawn to gawk at the trimness of his figure. The enigmatic expressions he would pull. The presence he commanded. He was easy to admire, from afar. And the towns ladies often gossiped of how alluring he could be up close, if they were lucky enough to be invited to do so. No one spoke as much of Caracalla. In his name, fear and loathing often followed.
With a glare in your direction, Geta ceased pacing. He nodded toward his guards to relinquish their hold on you.
"What is all this?" You demanded, refusing to bow or humble yourself before this ruler in anyway. How could you dare offer up respect when little to none had been offered to you? Geta seemed taken aback, for a flash. His brows furrowed and his lips parted in shock, at your boldness. But then a grin flickered across his lips and his pacing started up once more.
"You're in possession of something of mine, no?" Geta alluded. Want as you might've to argue, to proclaim your innocence, you were too baffled. What could he possibly be on about?
"You were seen taking a ring as payment today, at your stall." Geta boomed, voice filling the room, echoing off the tall painted ceilings. He started into a story, then, that made things clearer. You learned that ring was a family heirloom, stolen by a servant only one night ago. That he'd sold it to a carriage driver for freedom. You learned that servant had been slain. But the ring was still gone. And you were the last person seen with the distinct bluish jewel in your palm. There were many a shopper along the street market this morning. Several were looking into your stall as you accepted the ring for payment. You couldn't deny the action. But you didn't have it any longer, anyhow.
"I exchanged it for money. With the sellers near the river." You decidedly conceded. "I've got nothing more to do with this now release me." Your voice shook, out of fear for your fate, and anger for your circumstance.
"Names." Geta stalled his meander, a few steps away from you. His dark eyes had cast across your figure before boring right into yours. You couldn't look right at him without feeling a shiver up your spine. And you were not about to let on that Geta had this effect on you. So, you cast your gaze to the hands at his sides, and scoffed at what you saw.
"Why? Are the rings already on your fingers not good enough? You cannot be allowed to want for what you don't have, if you're in possession of more than enough already."
"What's mine is mine! No one else's." Geta yelled, keeping his eye's boring into yours. His voice shook through the halls, and fueled your rage further. Your rage for your circumstance, and for that of this nation.
"Your greed shall poison this empire." You spat at the man.
"An empire I was born to rule cannot be soured, destiny has been at work since my conception and my father's before me." Geta grinned, an all-knowing sort of smile that was meant to belittle you, you were certain. But you couldn't be made to feel so worthless.
"We are all born to die, your highness."
"Your opposition will result in bleakness if you do not answer my call for this information. Give me their names." Geta shouted, still inches from you. Geta was giving you a chance to answer. And that shocked you. You voiced your opposition only because you thought you were surely moments away from being killed, and refused to die without standing your ground. But here you still stood. Geta was letting you.
As taken aback by his patience as you were, his arrogance and demanding shouts were only deepening your desire to withhold. To stand resolute. Who were you to ruin some poor people's lives over a bit of jewelry? Your silence was deafening, each passing moment tensing at Geta's shoulders. You watched his jaw clench, you watched his eye's dance between your own. You smiled.
"Get her out of my sight." Geta hissed, waving his men to capture you once more. You rolled your eyes as they grabbed at you. "Keep her in the cellar until she starts talking. Do not, however... take drastic measures."
You shot a perplexed frown the rulers way as he shook his head in your direction. A scowl turned Geta's lips down. But as he watched you begin to growl in unwillingness to go, his smile curled to life.
"And what of you? What punishments are you allotted?" You yelled as the guards dragged you away. Geta kept his furrowed smirk pointed at you, a puzzled sparkle in his eye.
///
The cellar smelled damp as it felt, your feet squelching along the dirt paths. You'd been taken past a row of prisoners, all in various stages of wither. You closed your eyes too them, offering silent prayers for their fates in passing.
"In you go," A guard shoved you toward the back of a small cell, chuckling as he locked the barred off door. "When you're ready to talk, we just might be around to listen. Let's hope we don't forget about you all the way over in this corner."
How had you ended up here? Hours ago, you'd been at peace in your quiet cottage, paint brush in hand. Now you sat on a wooden bench, senses filled with cold. How were the gods so cruel? Why did you have to accept that stupid ring? Why didn't you admire it longer? Maybe you would've found evidence of its owner, somehow, in the royal gleam of the thing. Maybe you could have returned it with honor, the promise of your home awaiting you. But none of that was happening. Now, you were unsure of everything. But you weren't going to go down without a fight. You weren't going to rat out the innocent fellow you pawned with, for simply surviving another day of this confounding life. You weren't eager to play into the rulers demands for more, as if he didn't have enough. As if he deserved to be granted assurance when himself and his brother offered Rome none.
Hours must've passed. Guards floated by time and again, jeering at you through the bars of your cell. As they passed you by, the voices grew louder yet, giving other prisoners hell. You heard shouts and screams. You heard begging for torture to cease. You heard the stabbing of flesh and the gurgle of blood. You heard the quiet from your own cell. Why were you being spared of such treatment? Why was your confinement different from the others?
As you began to question your own sanity, and the fate the gods had in store for you, a guard was passing by your cell once more. He stopped there, jamming a key into the lock. This was it. Your turn had come. You braced to be berated as the man reached in and yanked you to stand. The guard demanded you to follow as he dragged you through the cellar the same way you'd come in.
Suddenly you were in the great hall again. The purple carpet like clouds under your step. There were servants arranging decor as if an event were to be taking place soon. Your observation of the hall was short lived as the single guard dragged you up a marble staircase. The home was vast, and full of well painted statues and portraits and windows. The sun was long gone from the sky. It had to be later than midnight. As you soaked up your surroundings and let your imagination run wild, you tried not to worry how you'd be executed. You tried to remind yourself that death waited for no one. You tried to remember the last picture you'd been painting, a field of sheep under a setting sun.
Your captor stalled before a great carved door, twisting the handle. Your captor dragged you inside.
Candles lit a room with a bed in the middle, the biggest you'd ever seen. The amber glow of the space was welcoming, despite the terror that resided about your situation. Beyond the bed was a table full of wine, bottles of all sort decorated the clothed stand. Before the table, was Geta. His slump on a stool shifted when he saw you. Moving to stand, the man dressed more scarcely than before was slow to approach you. His expression unreadable.
"Leave us." He demanded, pointing the guard to exit the room. The man's parting left chills in his wake. What was to become of you now? What was this all about?
Geta did not stay still at your front. He instead let his head roll from one side to the other as his pace turned back toward the cloth covered table. Among the bottles of wine were a scattered few chalices. He filled one with a drink. And then another.
"We caught the carriage driver who initially accepted the ring." Geta announced, back toward you all the while. You admired the tone of his shoulders, as one was left uncovered by his robe. The cloth stayed tied among his waist. "We also captured the man you pawned the ring off to. We have the ring." Geta continued, bringing both cups of wine over to where you stood. Ah, so poison was to be your execution?
Accepting the chalice in a fist, you stayed silent all the while. Geta locked his tired gaze on yours and kept talking.
"The ring was my fathers. Something he left just to me. Caracalla was given finery as well, just for himself. We do not do well with equity, my brother and I." Geta raised his wine for a sip and kept his dark gaze locked on your own. His eye's were red from lack of sleep, it seemed. His eyes were bright, all the while, as they peered into yours. This leader had a way of drawing you in. This leader had a way of making you forget you were probably on the verge of slaughter or worse.
"And while this mission to hunt down the ring has been my mission alone, Caracalla's wrath has still been promoted since he learned something of our fathers had gone missing." Geta explained.
"What's become of the carriage driver and the man I sold your ring to?" You dared to wonder.
"The servant was killed as you know, by Caracalla's own sword. The driver has been exiled at my command." Geta said. "But the man you sold it too was killed as well, by my brother's guards. Before I could get to him. You see my wrath is often equal to Caracalla's. But my bloodlust isn't as insatiable. And I can see his way of violence has stirred fear among our people. Would you agree?"
You had to nod.
"I do not wish death upon you. Blood should only be shed in battles and in honor. You were a simple moving part. You should not deserve to be killed in the crossfire. But you should pay for stumbling where you dared not have stepped. Otherwise, Caracalla will catch wind that I let you slip away without a punishment. And he will do worse."
"So, what is my fate?" You wondered, clutching the wine in your fist, unmoving. Mind whirring. Had you really been shown a backhanded kindness by the ruler you'd always believed to be more unyielding? His already alluring nature becoming more attractive as you understood this to be true.
"Exile seems drastic, yes. But it's an option." Geta raised his glass to gesture, moving to pace before a cushioned chaise. This room, his room, wanted for nothing. There was space and comfort and treasure promised throughout its expanses.
"Then there could be a fine. You'd be meant to pay every fortnight." Geta reasoned drinking once more. Still not entirely trusting of your own wine, you rested the chalice on a nearby chest, crossing your arms with a scowl. As if this Empire needed more money.
"I'm too poor to keep that up." You spat, expressing displeasure in your tone. Geta raised a brow and frowned when he realized your implication, how much work needed to be done for the betterment of the population. With a sigh, Geta cast his gaze about the room. When his pace turned naturally closer to you, his eye's locked on your face as a realization dawned across his. Geta let a smirk hint at his lips as his dark eyes glanced into yours.
"There is... another way..." Geta implied something you didn't see coming. As the man continued his languid back and forth, his gaze stayed ever fixed on your figure. And you hadn't really been ashamed of the glances you'd stolen of his, this day. He was drawing closer, as if to entice you. He didn't need to know that it wouldn't have taken much seduction. He didn't need to know that you'd already been wondering what it would be like to untie the robe at his waist.
Geta didn't need to know that you were becoming less wrought with terror by the second. You'd hoped he'd never known you were afraid, before. But now, in the flickering candlelight of his lavish room, you saw him. The persona Geta had put on all these years, all this time, was just that. You could see plain as day. Geta was full of anger, yes. But he seemed full of so much more, to you, now, too. The man seemed to hold a brewing mixture of depth about him that felt so obvious all of a sudden. Now, more endeared to the ruler, and just as attracted, you made up your mind.
"Seeing as I have no funds... let's just get this over with." You sighed, feigning impatience for the wrong reasons.
Geta circled you, eyeing you up. You wanted to melt under how hot his gaze was. But right now this was all happening far too slowly. Your interest had skyrocketed. But your time had also been heavily wasted here. You had plans, after all. He'd held you captive long enough.
"Sit down. I'm tired of waiting." You barked at him, shoving his shoulder so he collapsed into the chaise. Geta fell seated at your order but looked up to you with an irate sneer. An anger passed over his expression but morphed into curiosity in a blink.
"Seeing as to how I'm getting what I want out of you, I don't mind giving into your demands." Geta announced, as if to remind you he was the one calling the shots. You couldn't help but grin, struggling not to roll your eyes at the man's obsession with power. Humming so he knew you heard him, you settled either knee at Geta's sides.
As the ruler's fingers reached to grab at your hips, your day flashed before your imagination. Funny how life worked. How days could be spent so monotonously for so long only to become upturned and scattered about the next. You never imagined you'd find yourself straddling one of Rome's emperors over a payment for your latest painting.
Geta's kiss surprised you. Not the fact that it was bruising, and harsh. But the fact that it was. You assumed this would go quickly, without much effort put into anything besides a quick and vulgar shagging. Granted, his lips didn't press into yours longer than a couple minutes, before his teeth were digging into your neck. But the way his hands wandered to grab at your limbs and claw at your skin was a welcomed affection you had not expected.
When you finally got to untie the robe around his waist, you couldn't help but admire the build of his core, the shape of his figure. You'd heard girl's oggle over the emperor before, he was no stranger to trysts of most kind. You'd heard girl's trade deadly details of their nights spent with Geta, his lust unbridled. But the sight of his body bare before yours was better than any rumor you'd caught wind of.
As you lowered yourself into Geta's lap, he was quick to rock his hips against yours with force you had been bracing for. His grip on your hips threatened to turn you over, but you'd be damned if you let him gain complete control. You rose a hand to the man's head, raking a set of fingers through his hair. Your fingers curled to grip with perhaps too much gusto, and your hips rolled to force Geta back, more fully seated.
You heard the man let out a hoarse curse as his grip lightened, as he accepted your dominance. Did this really count as payment if you were getting more out of it?
Geta pushed you away when it was all said and done, a steady hand stayed holding your side as he nudged you off of his lap. You maneuvered to stand, adjusting the skirt of your dress with a sigh.
"I suppose I should thank you for sparing my life. Surely thought you'd take it. Shame our exchange has come to an end. Didn't quite feel like a payment at all." A daring smirk painted your face as you turned to head for the door. You heard Geta lumber to stand, perhaps drunk off wine and pleasure. His feet padded as your hand reached for the handle of your escape.
"What was the painting?" Geta asked, stalling your leave and perplexing you to turn to face him. He was shrugging his robe back into place with a raised brow. "The painting bought with my ring, what was it?"
"Oh," You realized, pursing a frown. "I- I don't exactly recall. I do a lot of landscapes. Seascapes. Could've been anything like it." You noted. Geta watched you speak, mouth opened, stalled to say more. His tongue glided over the ends of his teeth as the man nodded and sauntered back toward his table full of wine.
"My guards will see to your return home." Geta called, back facing you. You took that as your leave, anxious for some rest after exhausting your mind with wonder all day, and your body with pleasure this night. As you shut the emperor's door with a soft click, a gratitude filled your chest. That could've gone a lot worse.
///
The next day seemed surreal. You recalled the night like a fevered dream, like a plot from a book. But there were scratches along your thighs that reminded you what had happened was very truly real. You recalled the feelings Geta stirred in you with warmth.
You milled from room to room, mind in constant awe of the way your life had been spared. Since the brothers had come into power, so many senseless killings had been threatened and followed through. So much violence had afflicted common criminals and the odd person out of place alike. Was it more to do with Caracalla? Was he truly the more cruel? Did Geta have a softness about him? Or had you just gotten damn lucky?
You went about your daily chores and sat down to paint. Your art displayed sheep dotting across greyish green land. Your setting sun was in progress. A breeze flowed through the window, and you imagined it in your painting as well. A knocking rattled your door. It's persistence grating your nerves. Only now, at least, no one was intruding.
Maybe that's why you were shocked more so now than before, to see two royal guards at your front door.
"Geta is demanding your audience." One of them chuckled lowly before reaching to grab at you. He was too strong to fight off, though kick and yell you did.
Oh God, he'd realized he'd let you off easy, hadn't he? You should've pretended to hate rocking against his lap in that chair. You should've begged for freedom. Or maybe it was Caracalla after all. Maybe he'd heard of your involvement with his father's stolen ring and wished you dead. And these guards were luring you in with a false promise that Geta was the one wishing for a meeting.
While your mind raced, and the carriage took off into the city and passed the colosseum, you cursed the guards for dragging you away again. For being such fowl scum of the earth to manhandle women like they did.
It wasn't long before you were being yanked from the ride and marched into the great hall with that luscious purple carpet underfoot. Geta was there, assessing a scroll with a couple of servants nearby. His shock surprised you, when his glance looked up from the papers.
As you squirmed against the holds the guards kept on you, Geta shoved the scroll he held onto, into the grasp of a servant. He drew his sword from his side, the instrument of war and horror blinding you in its brightness. The emperors stomp in your direction was quick, his footfall shaking the building and you to your core. This was it. This was your fate.
"Release her now!" Geta yelled, directing his fury to one of the guards at your side. Before the words fully formed from the man's mouth, either of the guard's grips had unlatched from your arms. You did not see that coming. You almost couldn't comprehend that his blade had missed piercing straight through you.
"You were gone for all of a few seconds before you bring her back here?" Geta quizzed, face red with anger. He held the end of his sword to the man's chin, forcing his footsteps back.
"You- you told us to go fetch the girl from last afternoon, is that not what we did your highness?" The guard was bold in asking, though his voice trembled.
"I told you to ask her to come. I told you to remain at her door in patience. And you dare drag the woman back in the matter of mere moments? With force? That's a direct disregard of my orders!" With speed that rallied a gasp from your throat, Geta whipped his sword to slash at the knees of the guard that defied him. The man let out a cry as his legs gave way, sending the fellow to collapse. Geta ordered the other guard to take the injured one to a medic and stay there until he was ready to deal with them further. His blood pooled and stained the purple carpet.
"Why am I here again?" You couldn't linger in uncertainty any longer, once again failing to greet the leader without any respect of his authority. Geta plunged his red stained sword into its sheath as he demanded his servants get out. The workers scattered at the sound of his command, scurrying toward exits. The room was filled with quiet as Geta turned to face you fully.
"I'm sorry they dragged you here. You were only meant to show up if you so wished." Geta's voice was lower, his rage subdued. He confounded you, the way he held so much darkness and contempt about him. The way he eased into constraint. These were not the stories you had heard. This was not the man described to you by retired servants and wives of soldiers. He was more withheld, before you. And it caught you by surprise time and again.
"But since you are here now, and you have not yet raised a hand to lash across my cheek, I shall tell you," Geta went on, letting his eyes do what they had done before. Letting his gaze sweep across your figure. "I asked you here to present to you a proposition. An invitation to spend more evenings like the one we shared just before."
"You cannot be serious." You let a breath of a laugh fan from your throat.
"I'm hardly ever anything but." Geta reasoned with a curled lip and a shrug of his shoulder in a way you knew was meant to get you to chuckle for real. This man continued to confound you. This man contained multitudes. How had no one else, in all their gossip, mentioned this?
"Is this more to do with payment? Did our exchange not suffice?" You reasoned, still uncertain of the terms in which Geta was asking.
"I think you know exactly how well our exchange sufficed. Well enough for me to not have stopped dreaming of doing exactly that time and time again. I'm merely asking because I wish too." Geta was so close, his breath ghosting across your cheek, his eyes searching yours. "And now you get to decide what you wish. Who am I to deny you a choice?"
"What happens should I turn to leave?" You wondered.
"A guard would take you home. And with fair treatment, I'd make certain."
"What happens should I stay?"
"A servant would take you upstairs. And your imagination could fill in the rest."
Well, this certainly wasn't how you expected your day to turn out. That painting of all the sheep and the sunset would have to wait another long day. You suddenly couldn't dream of plans outside of those featuring Rome's half reigning emperor.
With a nod toward the door you'd seen Geta's servants go through, he grinned.
With footsteps more certain of the direction of his room, you found yourself locked in there, waiting.
///
The next weeks were filled with plans you couldn't tell anyone without fear they'd think you'd gone mad. You spent days milling about the stalls to sell your landscape paintings, careful of the payments you accepted. You'd harvest the fruits from your garden for meals and wait until night fall, when your promised escort arrived.
Nights were spent in Geta's room, on his floor, against his wall, in that blessed chaise. Nights were spent shoving the emperors head into the pillows as your hips rocked together. Nights were spent demanding he speed up and slow down at your desire. Nights were spent with Geta sharing wine in between drawn-out romps. You'd drink and laugh and carry on, a couple times until the sun peaked dimly into a new day. You'd stay drinking, sharing stories about where you had come from and your hardships. Things you'd hardly spoken of before. Things you couldn't believe Geta would listen so intently to.
It started off as only a few times throughout any given week. But at the end of those nights Geta would always ask about the next. You'd offer up a day or a time and he'd promise you that he'd see to it happening. He would pour you more wine and tell you the dirtiest jokes, and ask what pleased you most before those nights ended.
But after a while, he stopped asking. And your escort showed up outside your door more nights than most. And it became a rather expected part of the schedule of either of your days.
This night as you padded across the purple carpet, following behind a servant you'd come to trust; a ruckus was sounding from the stairwell you headed toward.
There you found Geta and his brother spitting fowl words in one another's direction. The men were swarmed by guards, ready to take on any outcome of the boys spat. And while they argued about political things you weren't privy to the full details of, you understood they spoke their father's name. You heard Caracalla remind Geta that their father had decidedly upped Rome's soldiers pay to ensure their loyalties to the empire. You heard Geta shout something about how his father was dead, how the brothers needed to learn to ensure loyalties in their own manner. And then he noticed you had arrived.
"Thank God." Geta seethed, waving his brother off, taking the stairs two at a time to lower himself to greet you.
"For you, Geta, trust is easily earned, isn't it?" Caracalla shouted, still domineering about the stairs. "A bat of your lashed eyes toward any common whore and they come flooding through our halls." Caracalla cast a snarl in your direction that turned Geta's blood so hot you swore you could feel the smoke coming off him. With a decidedly quick hand, you rested your fingers to grip Geta's arm, stopping him from running up the staircase to rip his brother in two. You didn't care so much what Caracalla thought of you, so long as Geta's opinion remained unchanged.
"But my powers of persuasion are not so charming. And I must demand trust more harshly. And I must remain harsh to keep control. And I do control the half of this empire entrusted in my name!" Caracalla was seething, fists balled at his sides, eyes bulging with rage. You'd never known anyone to be fueled by such negativity. Geta had slowly started toward his brother, letting your grip remain on his arm.
"We'll reach an agreement. But not till morning. Go back to your side of the estate, now." Geta demanded, taking the staircase slowly, keeping his eyes on his brother. The younger one stood shaking with fury as the elder led you to his room. Guards and servants followed, wordlessly seeing the pair of you behind closed doors. A couple of soldiers usually waited on either end of this hall, but tonight a few more lingered near in addition. These boys really hated each other.
Once locked in his room, safe from rage and question, Geta had you pinned against the wall. He'd usually greet you. He'd usually ask about what paintings you'd sold that day, or if you'd had any great stories of your family before they sold you to a husband. Or of your husband before he died. But tonight, Geta was ravenous. Tonight, he moved more accordingly to the rumors you'd once heard about him.
The emperor didn't fuss with your clothes. He didn't give you time to unravel his either. No sooner than his hand had crept up the skirt of your dress, was he rocking his hips into yours, pounding your back against the wall.
Your nails clawed at the back of his neck and your legs curled to flex around his waist. Geta was relentless as his body hammered into yours. He huffed harder with each new pulse and let out some cursed sighs when your teeth pierced into his shoulder, to keep from screeching all the same. You knew the guards could hear from the hall. But they didn't need to hear more than they had too.
His efforts had ended, his face stayed buried in your neck. But you weren't ready for it to cease.
"You think you're finished? You're only just getting started." You barked, pawing at Geta's head and forearm, shoving him downward. He didn't hesitate, his knees cracked to the floor with force you knew had to hurt. But he didn't seem phased. Geta seemed entirely entranced on bending your knee over his shoulder. Scratching his fingers along your skin. Burying his head between your legs. And he did so consciously, like a duty being fulfilled. He was relentless tonight, and you felt lucky to be relented against.
When your pleasure had ended, and you were left to slide from the wall to find footing, you found the wine too.
"Well, I can't help solve Rome's problems," You began, pouring you each a drink. "But I hope I've just helped solve some of your own, your highness." You half mocked, but half spoke in well-meaning regard. Geta hummed somewhere behind you. His voice sounded nearby. But his hands fell to close the space between you, gripping at the hilt of your hips.
"Dunno, might need to try a couple more times." You could hear the smile in his tone, and you felt his sultry chuckle against your neck, where he nearly dared to place a kiss, but didn't. Geta only reached ahead for his chalice, and asked about your day.
///
You didn't need to sell paintings. You could've lived a basic enough life, fed from the food you grew in your garden, rested from the comfort of your own bed. Secure enough in your late spouses left over finances.
You had known married life for all of five years. Wed before you'd even turned old enough to know better. All because your parents thought it best. They said you'd been sold to a husband to take care of you, in the long run. He did care for you, in his own twisted way. He kept you fed and housed until he died. And he left all his meager earnings to you in his passing. It wasn't much, but it was enough for you, for now, for a while.
You started painting when you moved in with him, to fill the days that dragged on so endlessly. You dreamed of freedom from the man for so long. And kept painting when he died, to fill those same days that were just as endless and a lot quieter to boot. He'd left you all alone in the expanses of the great wide world, yet freedom seemed even more unobtainable to you then, somehow. So, you painted. And decidedly started selling those paintings when the house filled up without room for any more of them. You kept selling them when you realized how eagerly peers bought from you.
You'd made friends down at the stalls. You found a quaint routine there, waiting in the sun to trade paintings for coins, and chattering with townspeople while the mornings stayed young. Bakers and seamstresses and writers alike shared your routine, all becoming familiar faces you were pleased to see each day.
"Goodmorning, you!" A trio of girls your age came giggling your way. Girls you'd invited over a few times. Girls you were happy to see now.
"Listen, are you going to the games in three day's time? I'd like us all to twirl about the colosseum buzzed on vino, carefree!" The small brunette leaned across the table your art was displayed on.
"She just wants to go to wait on Geta, afterward. He always invites girls in after the games." The blonde rolled her eyes, leaning against the post of your stall as you chuckled in understanding, and out of sudden apprehension. You and Geta agreed to your trysts because he trusted how discreet you could be. When you refused to bend your will to give the names of the people you pawned his ring to, he admired that. You couldn't give yourself away, now.
"But haven't you heard?" The redhead leaned in, waving you all to listen closer. "Geta hasn't invited any of the girls that wait at the empire gates in, in weeks."
You'd often trailed in past that very line of girls in question, much to their growing displeasure. Luckily, none of them were from the side of the country you had resided. None of them could spread your name around in whispers, as they did not know it.
"I'm still eager to take my chances." The brunette joked, going on to beg you to come to the games at the colosseum.
"I don't know." Was the best answer you could give without disappointing your friends, or thinking up a messy lie on the spot.
///
Another night in Geta's room was unusually spent in his bed. You'd been used to being forced against a chest of drawers, his voice growling in your ear. Or yours demanding the emperor sit on the stool before the table of wine, and wait in agony like a good, obedient, merciful ruler.
But tonight, Geta had you moving slower in his sheets. He'd closed his eyes as your hips rocked atop his, nice and easy. And when he reached to flip you over, his core pierced languidly into yours. His hand brushed across your cheek and his eyes stayed steadily locked on yours.
"Are you feeling quite alright?" You couldn't help but worry, too overcome with the silence that fell about the room. Geta had been resting at your side, his finger tracing the same pattern against your stomach forever.
"What if you stayed, tonight?" The ruler asked, after a while.
"You didn't answer my question. You realized, still confused as to what mood you'd found Geta in tonight. You'd been often surprised by his wit and his resolution. But this wasn't a way you'd known the emperor before.
"You didn't answer mine either." He pointed, finger still dancing across the skin of your abdomen. You turned your head to find Geta's gaze. His head rested on a pillow at your side, his eyes rolling up to lock with yours. His dark brown stare was illuminating. His curls graced his head so delicately. His silence was so reticent this night. Maybe it was the fact neither of you had had any wine.
"I'll stay if you tell me what's going on in that head of yours." You shot a pointed look to the man at your side who let a lifeless smile flash across his lips as his eyes turned away from yours. Silence filled the room once more, but you got the sense that Geta was choosing his words a while.
"Nothing... none of this is how I thought it would be." Geta spoke. You kept your eyes cast across his amber lit room, fixating on the pattern of the wallpaper. What did he mean?
"What's this?" You quizzed. "Ruling an empire? Sleeping with me? Sobriety from wine for a night?" You tried to joke, desperate for some kind of clarity.
"None of it." Geta responded, his inflection implying everything you listed was weighing on his mind then. And that surprised you. He was always surprising you. Silence settled yet again, and stayed for a while. It was Geta who broke it, after so long. He sat up to meet your eye, searching your gaze before offering a nod. You nodded back, knowing that meant your promise to stay here had been sealed. He rose from the bed to dim the candles, and crashed back into it with a sigh.
When Geta rested his head of golden curls on your chest, in the dark and quiet of his room, you finally understood what he meant. This was all very different now, than it started. None of it had turned out in an expected way. But you felt at ease with it all. You hadn't shared a bed with anyone since your late husband, and those times simply did not count in your mind. You did not care for that man as you had come to care for the one laying against you now. And that dawned on you in fear. But then, a realization that it didn't matter. Not now. Now, you got to rest under the weight of the emperor, for one peaceful night.
///
The next morning was bright and felt early in your bones. And it wasn't long before it hit you, the games were meant to happen today. Geta's stirring at your side was a relished wonder, as his smile widened to see you upon waking. But it all came crashing down as servants and soldiers demanded quick work of getting up and ready for the day of events.
"It will be too hard to send you away now, with all the crowds starting to gather." Geta realized, peering from the window of his room to the public below. "I'll have some appropriate attire sent for you. You shall join us today." The emperor's smile was bitten back, but you saw it reached his eyes as his looked into yours.
Things were shifting with Geta. Night's were turning into days with him. Festivities were offered to be shared. You knew better than to ask. You knew better than to wonder why. You simply thanked him for his offer and waited for clothes to change into as the leader headed out of his room, yelling for a guard to hurry along and follow. You milled about Geta's room, admiring the wallpaper in the daylight. Admiring the stained glass of his window. You traced your finger along carved chests and bed posts. You dared to open a drawer, finding a collection of jewelry there, a familiar blue stoned ring at the front of the collection.
You snapped the drawer shut in a hurry when a knock came across the door.
"Hello." A familiar face entered. Julia, the Emperors mother, twirled in the room with a stack of garments. "These are mine from seasons past. I brought a few, just in case." The woman was dear, with soft curls that matched her sons, gold earrings that brightened her blue eyes. She smiled and introduced herself as if she needed too. For her, you bowed.
"Such a pretty thing, you are." Julia cooed, resting her clothes at the foot of the emperor's bed before turning to consider you. "I've seen you come and go. Quite the feat to boast over. Geta never struggled to make friends, not like Caracalla. But he has failed to keep so many of them."
Julia kept a studying gaze on you as you thanked her for her kindness and watched her saunter out the door. The woman told you to meet the family downstairs once you readied yourself. That's when a certain anxiety settled in the pit of your stomach. What was this? What had you gotten yourself into? Worry plagued your mind as you squeezed into a bright blue and plum skirt. The fabric hugged at your figure but fell so elegantly to the floor. You never dreamed of such finery adorning you. You'd never dreamed of a life so different from the one you'd been used to living.
Downstairs, everyone had gathered, gearing up to head out. Guards of every kind kept the ruling brothers on either side of the room while Julia flitted about, laughing with a man you didn't know. Senators and councilors seemed to mingle with the family just as well, their wives and children patiently lingering on the outskirts of the gathering.
When Julia found you descending the stairs her first greeting after a smile was to tell you how perfectly the dress fit, how powerful you seemed entering the room. She said you held a certain presence about you, keeping a watchful eye on your expression as you gushed to thank her for such continued kindness.
And then you were off, trailing with the wives and the children of the party as the royal family presented themselves before the public. They were loved and hated so that the cheers and boo's from the crowd muddled together in an indistinguishable roar. Your heart pounded to realize how close you were to the action of the day, to realize how viscerally the opinion of the public mattered to the fate of the royals.
You watched Caracalla pull some face, pointing a finger at a citizen who cursed his name on the families walk toward the colosseum. You watched women line themselves along the path Geta walked, his politics be damned. You watched as he turned to look back, smile stretching wider as his eyes found yours. You watched then, as Julia stalled to join your side, and failed to calm the quickening of your heart as she held your arm to walk with you. None of this was how it used to be.
The woman leaned in, explaining exactly how today's games were meant to go. She yammered about the history of it all and pulled a few giggles from your throat as she threw in some personal deadly details about old games she'd bore witness too.
Once you'd all reached the colosseum, the brothers were ushered off to find their royal box, while Julia strategically placed you just outside of there. She frowned when she reminded you could not be allowed to join them further than here, but smiled when she hoped you'd enjoy the day's events. You watched her saunter off, stopping a guard and pointing in your direction before she disappeared in the box all the while. The guard locked his gaze with yours, offering a respectful nod as you considered your surroundings.
All kinds of vendors and stalls were open around every entrance of the arena. All kinds of people wandered about, sampling food and drink, playing cards at tables until the event's kicked off. You decidedly began to wander about, accepting free samples and smiling to people you'd seen in passing. You shielded your eyes from the sun and noticed that guard trailing nearby, keeping a steady eye on your every move.
When the crowds began to clamor toward the inside of the arena, you realized the games were about to begin. You downed a free sample of wine and found your way to watch from afar. Caracalla and Geta were announced in, and greeted with that same muddled roar of praise and disregard. You watched as Geta ate up the attention. You watched as Caracalla fought against it, spitting and arguing with some poor guard in the box. There was something so volatile in the air, as if one wrong move from either of the emperors would unleash havoc. The public was only one excitable realization away from realizing their joined forces could rip the royals from limb to limb. Geta was quick to shift focus to the games, demanding the publics energy be reserved for the battles that were begun, turning the spotlight away from himself. It was a tactical move, but you worried if he and his brother did not change the course of their political actions soon, no amount of pantomime could save them.
Another few swallows of wine helped ease your nerves, all the while. You'd forgotten how on edge the public had only just seemed. You'd been entranced by Geta's presence even from so many miles away. His distraction's had worked wonders on the crowd, his excitable reactions to the winners and losers kept the arena entertained for the better, for now. He kept you entertained all the while. When he would tear his gaze from the games every once and a while, you liked to imagine he was looking for wherever you might've been.
When you wandered off to find more wine, the guard that had been following you stayed back, glued to the battle that was happening. You returned with two cups, to share. The guard tried to deny your kindness but caved with a smile at your insistence to have at least one drink. It was a day of festivities after all.
"We thought you weren't going to make it!" A voice familiar echoed over your ear. Turning from the view of the battle, you found your friends. You chuckled as you greeted the small brunette, buzzed enough off wine to shrug your nerves away. You couldn't exactly explain how you ended up here, to them. Or how you'd come to dress so finely. But they didn't pester you too much about it, drunk all the same. The girls swarmed you with giggles and hello's and how are you's.
"Change your mind, have you?" The blonde teased, raising her brow at you. But your mind was too slow to understand why.
"This is the gate the royals always leave from. Isn't it obvious?" The small brunette pointed, waving her hand to gesture around. When you glanced up, you noticed a particularly increasing population of young women that had begun to collect around the area. Geta always famously exited from this path, and always famously collected a girl or two to follow him back to the royal hall.
"Oh, no, I just sort of-" You stumbled over words, "ended up on this side." How were you to explain this all away? "I actually... should be going now that it's nearing an end. Get home before sun set." This reason sounded good enough in your head to speak aloud, as you began to walk backward, waving to your friends all the while. You spun on your heels, anxious to get away, making up your mind to head home should that be your only sound escape. But you'd barely walked a dozen paces before that guard was gliding close and halting your leave.
"You're not to go. I'm to see you united with her highness when she passes through that exit."
"Is- is that what she ordered?" You asked meekly, looking up to the roman soldier who loomed over you with his bulky build, yet kind eyes. The man did not speak, but lifted a hand to spin you around by the shoulder, placing a gentle palm there to guide you back where you came from. You saw your friends notice, perplexed gaze's settled on your march as you stepped closer to where they'd stayed waiting.
Caracalla was the first one to storm through the arched entrance, scowling at you on his storm toward his chariot. But then, a spectator, too drunk for his own good, began to slur insults to the emperor. The fellow had barely began cursing Caracalla's name, before the ruler stepped close to grab the man by his throat, strong enough to lift him to the tips of his dirty toes. The citizen struggled to breathe, squirming for relief. Caracalla shouted in the man's face, something about knowing better. The ruler let go, the citizen dropped to the floor in a rattled gasp. When Caracalla demanded the guards that followed him, to slaughter the citizen still choking for breath on the ground, you'd had enough.
"Do not do that. Have you such little mercy?" It wasn't to be helped, the way your body and mind worked together to force out a shout. You should have been more afraid of the way Caracalla turned to fix his fiery gaze on you. But rage at the senseless violence was all you could feel. Yet, the guards were already slashing their swords at the belly of the the citizen, so he might suffer still before passing.
Caracalla stood considering you, longer than you expected. The crowds fell silent, the only noises were the hoarse cries from the dying man. And your heart hammering in place.
Caracalla moved his look from you, to the guard steady at your side, and back to you. His head shook, and a scoff left his throat. He turned to leave, kicking the man he'd murdered on his exit. Your body shook with panic. Your stomach churned at the realization that you'd escaped yet another royal execution.
The crowds parted to let Caracalla pass, steering clear of the angry little man. Your friends seemed to think of walking closer to where the guard had stalled you to wait. But their confounded and horrified expressions morphed into something more wonder filled, as their collective eye unfocused from your position.
You were too busy assessing your friend's questioning gazes to see he'd appeared. But instead, you heard Geta's voice in your ear.
"I'd say you're lucky he spared you. But I think there are more powerful forces than luck working on your side." You heard him say. Your friend's gazes had no doubt been locked on the emperor, but soon fell more perplexed onto you, yet again. And then you realized everyone's eyes had shifted to you. The entire crowd that had watched you speak against the vindictive leader just ahead. The same crow that had pushed closer to wait for a scrap of attention from the man that spoke to only you, now, was casting a collective stupefied glare right at you.
"I'd like to take you away now, but I'll have you wait on my mother. She hasn't stopped bringing up your name since this day has begun." Geta stayed speaking lowly, and you nodded to assure you understood, keeping your nervous gaze cast on the crowd that had fixated their attentions on you. "Do not worry though, tonight we can debrief in more ways than one."
You had to turn and grin at him then, pleased to see he'd waited to share a smirk with you. He was off no sooner though, parting through the crowd with little acknowledgement their way. Your friends kept their slack jawed gazes set on you as you wondered for a beat about saying something to them. But then Julia was sweeping you away, resting her clutch at the bend of your arm like she'd done before.
They watched you leave, just as everyone had. You shot your friends a quick shrug and an expression you hoped they'd understand meant you'd catch them all up later, if ever you could dream up a good enough fib.
Unlike your journey here, Julia asked all about you on your trek back. You gave thoughtful answers, not daring to spare the truth of your meager life to the woman, but hoping the way you spoke of it would endear you to her somehow. It wasn't like you needed to be adored by Julia. But you did long to be respected in some basic human way, by the royal woman.
///
That evening went on strangely. Caracalla locked himself away in the furthest parts of the halls. No one dared speak about him in his absence. No one had dared to allude to his fury or righteousness at all. Instead, the tone of the evening was rather merry. You shared a meal with a mile long table of strangers, glad all the while to have been welcomed in the celebrations of the day. You gabbed with socialites and senators alike, until one by one they headed for home and bed. Try as you might to take your leave, Julia would not let you. She only kept dragging you from guest to guest to introduce. Until you were the last one standing. Until even Julia had made her exit from the room, Geta too. Leaving you to wait in the parlor until further command.
A pair of guards stood unmoving near the doors, as you sat at the head of the dirty table. There were plates and glasses and saucers left awry, covered in crumbs for the kitchen maids to come and handle. There was a steady crackling fire on the opposite end of the room. There was wallpaper that didn't put your senses at ease the way the kind in Geta's room often had.
When the sound of the door opening stirred you from blank thoughts, you shifted to stand. Julia was easing into the room, smile and curls soft as ever. Eye's full of a certain kind of knowing. Behind her, Geta followed. His mother spoke your name, as if to grab your attention, as if she didn't already have it.
"You're not to return home." The woman began, gliding to stall before you. Geta shouldered past her, moving to stand at your side and watching as his mother spoke. "I've noticed you come and go, as I mentioned." Julia went on. "And I've noticed how my son has been less fraught, during the time you've been around. I've heard you speak, and I've seen you command a presence in any room you enter."
"What are you on about? What is this?" Geta demanded, that brooding gaze of his beginning to darken as understanding evaded him.
"As good as she has been for you, son, I'm certain she'll benefit our empire just as well." Julia glanced to Geta before her gaze settled unmovably on yours. Your chest filled with the weight of a realization. Your mind buzzed with wonders of her implications. "You will marry in two days time. Enough to spread the news across the public, and plan something grand."
"Marry?" You breathed, feeling your heart hammer in your stomach.
"You actually don't-" Geta began.
"I actually am watching this empire teeter on the edge of collapse." Julia interrupted Geta, causing his jaw to clench and his brow to darken further than before. "If we do not start moving more intentionally in the direction of change, you and your brother will ruin everything. If you marry this girl, you will marry someone from the very public you've been so often accused of dismissing. This girl is clearly capable of not only earning our family greater public favor. But she would be your bride, and you two together would have a better chance of making sense of this empire than your brother. Caracalla cannot be allowed to overpower your rule, Geta. Do you realize how close that idea is to becoming our reality?" Julia was insistent. "You do not have a choice. This has to happen. For all our fates." She was looking right at you again.
You were shaken, stunned, totally unprepared. Just days ago you were living such a carefree reality, all you knew were paints and pleasure by way of the emperor's hands. But now all of a sudden, all of Rome's fate depended on if you stayed standing here or made a break to sprint for the door.
"Get out." Geta pointed, coldly dismissing his mother. She began to argue back, pleading his name to listen. "Get out! I command it!" Geta was fuming, rage becoming his entire essence. You couldn't help but screw your eyes shut at the boom of his voice. You heard a guard approach to see the royal mother out of the door. She went without a fight, but insisted Geta had no choice, insisting she was already making plans to assure this fate for the both of you. As one guard saw her out of the room, the other followed, leaving you and Geta alone in the room with the ugly wallpaper.
The fire stayed crackling in the corner. The table stayed dirty. Geta began to pace, like he did, hands on his hips, head shaking in an effort to make sense of things.
"You are quiet." He spoke up, softer than he had spoken all night.
"I am choiceless." You warbled. Hadn't this already happened to you? Hadn't you already been forced to wed a man for the betterment of some kind of future? You thought you'd already paid your dues. You thought freedom was supposed to be promised at some point. You thought you'd had it, just days ago. But even still you were captured by the powers that be. It wasn't like you were opposed to being Geta's bride. But you were rocked to realize it didn't matter what you wanted, in this life. It was just going to keep happening to you, against you, despite you.
You watched as Geta sped up his pace, thinking. His eyes danced as if to keep up with an invisible coming together idea. And then his moving stalled. He rolled his shoulders and let his eyes rake up your figure, like they so often did. Geta's brown stare bore into yours, as if to search for an answer to a question not yet asked.
"You claim to have been born to die." Geta gestured, sauntering closer. "I claim to have been born to rule. But we have failed to consider what there could be to live for. I have reason to believe my answer to living lies within you." His speech was imploring. He meant it. He only ever spoke with authority, by that you weren't surprised. But by his meaning, by the tenderness in it, you were. "As ruler, I shall make the final decision regarding my mother's demands. But... I shall also wait here in silence as you choose your fate. I will command no guard after you should you flee. This time, this wedding, you'll be allowed to choose."
"Should I flee, will there be fines? Will I forever be in your debt somehow?"
"I shall see to it that you owe nothing to this empire if you leave it. But you must leave it entirely, you must go far from here. It's the only way I could make these guarantees."
"Should I stay..."
Geta loomed closer, until his breath fanned across your face. So close you could see the golds speckled across the brown of his eyes. Close enough to kiss.
"I would see to your value." Geta breathed, stalling an inch before you. "Your profile on coins. Your voice heard above others. Your throne... My bed... I'd see to it."
Your heart hadn't stopped pounding since this conversation spun to life. But it beat harder yet, at Geta's tone and implication now.
"Take my hand." Geta held an open face palm before you. "Or turn away." You glanced to the door.
You considered all that lie beyond it, the quiet, the vastness. The race to the finish line of life would be slow and steady outside these doors. Your freedom would be quiet and lonely. Then you turned to Geta and saw a different kind of future to consider. And then a thought dawned on you. What if the freedom you'd always been in search of, was not just yours alone? What if an entire empires fate had always been pressed into the back of your heart, clear in the front of your mind only now that you understood everything Julia had said. You thought of your latest painting. The one with the sheep and the sunset. You wondered if maybe it was a sunrise all along.
Your hand flexed, knuckles deciding between clenching and raising up. Until suddenly your palm was in Getas. Until suddenly your fate, and all of Rome's, had been sealed.
///
Part 2 Coming Soon...
#joseph quinn#joe quinn x reader#joseph quinn x you#emperor geta#emperor geta fanfic#geta x reader#gladiator 2#joseph quinn x reader#fem!reader#joe quinn smut#minors dni
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genius. [akaashi keiji x f!reader] chapter two.
>>You struggle to pay rent on your limited graduate student salary, and your worst enemy agrees to help you out.
or
You realize you need to find a partner for your faceless porn account, and Akaashi Keiji is the only man who meets all your requirements.<<
series status: [ongoing]
taglist: [open]
@kodsuken @onlytendoguesses @kakeru-eem @itslawful @rikari0913
tumblr didnt let me tag some of you -- please check your settings and let me know :'))
previous. || masterlist. || next.
a/n: im never writing a 30k chapter ever again in my entire life. i hope you like it :))))
[feel free to buy me a cup of coffee!]
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Akaashi arrives on Saturday morning at 8am. You’re making coffee when he knocks.
It feels almost illegal to be filming porn so early in the morning, but Bokuto had texted a large group of people at 2am, inviting everyone to a party that same day, and you’d sleepily texted Akaashi instead of responding to the group message.
“Come over at 8 if you plan on going to Kou’s thing,” you’d said. It’s the only text you’d sent him after his impromptu video message, and you’d hoped at the time that he wouldn’t be offended by it. “Otherwise, come at 11 like we planned.”
“8,” is all he’d responded, and you’d gotten the feeling Bokuto’s text had woken him, too.
He looks exhausted when you open the door, and you latch onto that so as to not be overcome by the weird tingling feeling that’s starting to swirl in your stomach at the sight of him.
“Hi,” you say plainly, looking him over. He’s wearing a pair of grey sweats – a different pair than last night’s, you hope – and a black t-shirt, his hair falling into his eyes and his glasses barely staying on his nose. He’s got a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. You point to it now. “What’s that?”
“Three changes of clothes, so all the videos are different,” he mumbles, his voice tense. “Do you have coffee?”
You can’t help the smile that breaks out on your face. “Akaashi Keiji, are you a crabass in the morning?”
He rolls his eyes. “Do you have coffee or not, Y/n? Because I need to go to the shop downstairs if-” He points over his shoulder in the direction of the elevator, but you wrench the door open, waving him in with a laugh.
“I made it, I made it.”
He gives you a snippy hum and makes his way through the foyer, leaving his shoes behind as he moves to drop his bag by the couch. He goes straight to your kitchen, and you wonder if his usual polite tendencies only show themselves post-caffeination.
“Cup?” he calls from the other side of the wall, and you follow him in there, seeing that he’s opening all of your cabinets.
You laugh. “I’ve never seen you not be a good guest-”
“Cup, please, Y/n – I’m dying.”
“Last one on the right.” You chuckle to yourself and open the fridge, pulling a bottle of cream out and leaving it on the counter. He meets you halfway, setting two mugs between you and reaching for the pot of coffee just as the machine is beeping its completion.
“Breakfast?” you ask, already reaching for the fridge again while he pours a heavy cup for each of you. You have eggs, and you’re sure there’s bacon in there-
“Do you have pop-tarts?” is all he says. You stay silent, just staring at him. He cuts you a tired glare. “Don’t look at me like that. I can’t be perfect all the time.”
You let out a breathless laugh. “Does anyone else know you’re this humble?” He takes a defiant sip of his coffee instead of answering you, sighing contently afterward. You move to your pantry, extracting a variety pack of pop-tarts. “Here,” you say, sliding it to him.
“Thanks,” he grumbles, poking through it and deciding quickly on the smores flavor. “I’ll get lunch. Chinese?”
“Free food is good food,” you respond, mixing your coffee with cream and sugar from the little jar on the counter. You watch him rip the plastic open with his teeth. “Do you need… I don’t know, a toaster or something?”
“Nope.” He talks through a mouth full of smores pop-tart and walks off, disappearing into the living room. You stare after him, laughing in shock as he goes. You’ve never seen Akaashi Keiji like this.
You move to the couch with your own pop-tart (strawberry) and sit on the opposite side. He already looks better, his fingers tangled in his hair as he chugs coffee that’s scalding hot.
You feel odd starting right away with a conversation about the filming plan, so you take a quiet sip of coffee. “So… how was your night?”
Akaashi chokes on pop-tart crumbs.
Your face burns with realization. “Oh– I��”
He shakes his head, laughing while he coughs. “You did that on purpose.”
“I didn’t!”
“How was your night?” he asks, meeting your eyes. You purse your lips – you hadn’t responded to his text, after all.
“It was… fine.”
“Fine, good? Or fine, bad?” You don’t answer, and he gives you a meaningful lift of his brows. “Some feedback would be nice.”
“Well, you let me know when you make your own porn account,” you joke. “I’ll be sure to leave a comment.”
“Hey, now.” He tuts and shakes his head. “I showed you what I thought of your video. I think a little reciprocity’s fair.”
“I’m about to take my clothes off for you,” you argue. “I think that’s your reciprocity.”
He hides his smile behind his hand. “Fair enough.” He downs the rest of his coffee and then sighs, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I needed that.”
“Clearly,” you mumble, leaving your own drink and pop-tart on the coffee table. “Better, crabass?”
“Better,” he says plainly, accepting the nickname. “What’s the plan?”
That quiet tingle returns, prickling in your fingertips and toes. “Uh…” You stand, moving toward your bedroom. “I suppose I should figure out what I’m wearing, but… generally, I was thinking we could film enough for three or four videos? I can fill the rest of the week in with solo videos.”
“Okay,” he says behind you, and you hear him stand and move to the hallway. “Is what I’m wearing now okay for the first one?”
You leave the door cracked while you change. “Yeah, that looks good!” you call, pulling out a yellow crop top and a black, lacy thong. You grimace down at the set. You usually don’t put much thought into your outfits, but having Akaashi here makes you a little self-conscious. “Which video should we do first?”
“Well, I’m not sure that 8am is the best time for freaky, screaming, headboard-slamming sex, Y/n.”
You laugh to yourself. “Something softer? With the morning sunlight coming in through the window?”
“That sounds better. I’ll get the windows in the room.”
You change into the set quickly and stand in front of your mirror, fixing your hair. You look down at yourself, turning back and forth, and decide to forgo the bra. There’s no point in it, but you do feel a lot more exposed now. “Are we gonna talk for any amount of time, or are we starting?” you say, a little louder so he can hear.
“We should probably figure out the order of the videos,” he responds, back in the living room now.
“Okay, then I’ll get a sweater.”
What you walk out in is more of a moomoo than a sweater, and Akaashi tells you as much.
“You look stupid,” he says, amused, when you stop outside your bedroom door.
“Be quiet – wearing nothing is a cold affair.” You scoop your coffee from the table and follow him toward the hall, but he stops before you can get there. You have a whiteboard hanging on the wall in the living room, one with your research ideas and spare thoughts. He takes the marker now, hovering over an empty spot, and looks down at you expectantly.
“Order?”
“Not on my precious board,” you complain, and he rolls his eyes.
“Fingering for the first one? And then I was thinking something with the desk,” he says, writing down the first point quickly.
“I think oral’s probably good. Both kinds.” When he grimaces, you nudge him. “Would you rather do isolated videos, or have me give oral as foreplay in every video-”
“Isolated sounds lovely,” he says quickly, starting to jot that, too, but you stop him with a slight laugh.
“Why don’t you like having your dick sucked, Akaashi? Is something wrong?”
“There’s nothing wrong with me,” he argues. “The attention’s just a little weird. I prefer doing other things with the time.”
You tilt your head at him, brows furrowed. “You feel weird about the attention?” He meets your eyes briefly, and you spot the scowl forming. “Sorry, have you never gotten good head before?”
“Shut up,” he bites. “I just get a little lost in my head. Makes it hard to enjoy it.”
You blink. You think you can understand that – having an overactive mind must make it hard to relax. You can’t say you don’t know what that’s like.
“Okay, then,” you say, taking the marker from him. “You just need to get out of your head.” You write ‘Give Akaashi Good Head’ under his first point, and he snorts.
“Good luck,” he mumbles.
“I don’t need luck,” you beam at him, confident. “What’s next? The desk?”
“I can eat you out there,” he says plainly, taking the marker back, and you’re suddenly caught off guard again by his jarring language, as though you hadn’t just done the same. You blink rapidly.
“O…kay. And then?”
He shrugs. “Bed? Sex?”
“Right,” you say, nodding. “Sex. Sure.”
He eyes you while he writes. “You’re getting nervous.”
“It registered while you were talking.”
“Registered for me last night,” he says, capping the marker and replacing it. “I’ll take over while you process.”
“Shut up,” you say weakly, letting him lead you down the hall anyway. “When’d you process? When you were coming to a video of me?”
He has the decency to blush. “Somewhere around there, yeah.”
You snicker, leaving your coffee on the dresser. “Shall we? Before I get cold feet?”
“Does your rent due date get cold feet?” he asks, moving to the chest. He extracts a small vibrator and a dildo, and then, after careful consideration, he puts the dildo back. He moves to the couch with the vibrator and settles down with a sigh.
You nod at his question. Right. You’re here to make rent. This is a business arrangement. You can do this.
Your eyes scan the room. He’d popped one of the windows open and raised the blinds for all of them, making the room just a little chilly but overall comfortable and sunny. There’s a golden glow in the room, birds chirping peacefully, and you smile, pleased with the environment.
“Okay!” You say, mostly to hype yourself up, and strip from the moomoo. You leave it on the bed, shivering slightly, and turn toward Akaashi. He’s looking at you blankly, but you can see a pink tinge in the tips of his ears. You take your phone to the tripod, bending at the waist to set the camera up. You change all the settings the way you like them, keeping him in frame to position the phone right.
You realize upon glancing at him in the front view that he’s got his eyes on you.
“Are you staring at my ass?”
He jumps, meeting your eyes in the camera. And then he scowls. “Don’t scold me. I’m processing again.”
You snicker, shaking your head and pressing record before joining him on the couch, a good foot or two of space between you. “I’m just fucking with you.”
He eyes the camera, seeing both of your faces in frame. “You’ll crop it?”
“Zoom and crop,” you reassure. “I’ll even send you the login to my account so you can review the videos before they post.”
He nods, seemingly comforted by that. “‘Kay.”
You swallow. “... ‘Kay.”
It hits you in this moment that you haven’t been with a man in three years – and that Akaashi Keiji is one very handsome man.
He looks at you expectantly, lifting his brows. “Wanna start?” he asks, in a voice gentler than before – you’re struck with the thought that Akaashi is one of those men whose soft features make him all the more masculine. Long eyelashes that make his eyes darker, a lean frame that makes him tower over you, a voice so soft that the depth of it is striking.
You like men like that.
“Right.” You blink rapidly, panicking at the realization that he might just be your type. Panicking because you hadn’t noticed it before. “Okay. Uhm-” Your face warms, worsened when he starts to smirk. “Oh!” You say, an idea coming to you. “Music! Maybe music will help-” You rise, starting to question where you’d left your speaker, but Akaashi’s hand wraps tight around your wrist, warm and secure.
“God,” he says, laughing slightly. His grip drags you down, your knees hitting the couch and your body slumping against his. You yelp when you land, and he releases you in favor of sliding one hand around your waist and the other around the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair. “You’re a mess,” he jokes, his voice suddenly a lot closer than you’d prepared for.
When his lips touch your throat, the room starts to spin.
Your whole body breaks out in goosebumps, starting from the crown of your head and melting down over you.
“Oh,” you breathe, your head falling to the side all on its own, resting against his hand and giving him better access. He drags his lips across your throat, kissing the skin quietly and easing the tension in your muscles. You slide trembling fingers into his hair, holding tight as he uses the hand on your hip to pull you half onto him, your legs dangling between his knees.
There are a hundred different sensations you’re struggling to come to terms with. Every touch of Akaashi’s skin to yours is new, because there’s never been a situation where you’d needed to make physical contact with him. His hands are large and his fingers are warm. His mouth is warmer, and his tongue and teeth send shockwaves down your spine with every pass and nip of your skin. His body is hard against yours, and, when your free hand searches for somewhere to anchor and lands on his bicep, you realize that Akaashi’s endless wardrobe of cardigans, sweater vests, and button-downs has done remarkable things to hide his physique.
He’s strong, strong enough to hold you steady as you all but go limp in his arms. And his hair tickles against your skin, but it smells nice. He smells nice – he hadn’t put cologne on this morning, but he smells nice. And his eyes are dangerously blue when he pulls back to look at you, that deep blue that’s close enough to a dark green to be confusing in the golden light of the morning.
“Princess,” he whispers, and you start, staring down at his lips. They’re pink and look soft – they are soft, you register. You know that now. You know what his lips feel like. “Do you plan on doing anything at any point?” he asks, and you blink, meeting those blue-green eyes again.
Oh, right.
Right.
“Sorry,” you mumble. “Just… took me a second to get used to it.”
He doesn’t quite smile, but it’s close enough. “Second’s up, darling. Take your shirt off.”
You nearly laugh, your face warm, and then you shift, using your fingers in his hair to tilt his head away. “Gimme one more second.”
It is way too satisfying to hear the way his breath hitches when you press your lips to his throat. His skin tastes the way you imagined it might – like soap and salt, clean and chilled against your tongue. You let your hand roam his body while you kiss him, your teeth sucking marks into his skin while your fingers curve over his shoulder and across his chest. You wonder if he’s as affected by all of this as you are. If he’s as confused, if his nerves are as electrified by the newness of it.
His fingers leave your hair to latch onto your leg instead, fingertips sliding across the skin as he runs his hand slowly up and down your thigh. When your hand drops to front of his sweats, he manages not to jump. His fingers dig into your skin, and he lets out a rough breath, but he manages to not make it look like you’ve never touched each other before. You palm him slowly, doing your best not to react when his cock jumps under your fingertips. You keep kissing him, palm tracing the outline of him as he grows hard at your touch, his breath short in your ears.
He doesn’t say anything else to you, only anchoring both hands to your waist after a moment and hauling you up. You gasp quietly, lifted and turned until you’re on your knees, straddling his thighs. He looks up at you, and you see that his eyes have darkened since you’d last looked at them.
“Take your shirt off,” he says again, and it’s not a joke this time. You cross your arms over your chest and hook trembling fingers under the hem of your crop top. Your stomach flips in a moment of nerves and anticipation, but you brush it aside, lifting your shirt clean over your head and dropping it to the couch.
Akaashi’s fingers tighten on your waist, and you only have time to slide both hands into his hair before he leans forward and takes one nipple in his mouth. You gasp loudly, a quiet moan leaving you. He takes the other breast with one hand, sucking and dragging his teeth over one nipple while his thumb tweaks at the other. You moan louder, fingers tightening in his hair, and your thighs shake. You lose the strength to hold yourself up when, eyes shut and eyelashes fluttering prettily against his cheeks as he suckles you, he slides his hand blindly up your body and pushes his thumb against the seam of your lips.
Your knees give out, and you collapse into his lap with a breathy moan, the sound parting your lips and granting him the room to slide the pad of his thumb against the flat of your tongue. His head stays nestled against your chest, his ministrations never stopping, and you moan loud around his thumb – for the camera, because you realize suddenly that all that’s visible is your back and the supporting hand Akaashi has pressed to the center of your spine.
When the sound leaves you, admittedly a little performative, the rest of his fingers tighten around your jaw, and he releases your nipple from his mouth with a quiet pop. He lifts his head to meet your eyes, lips pink and wet, and he uses the thumb in your mouth and the fingers on your jaw to grip you, pulling you close.
“It’s annoying when you fake sounds like that,” he whispers, eyes hazy but piercing straight through yours. You stare back, your own eyes wide. He lifts a brow. “Understand?”
You nod back dumbly, and he pulls his thumb from your mouth. Both hands fall to your waist, and he mumbles ‘turn’ close to your ear. You let him turn you around, settling between his thighs with your back to his chest, your heart beating loud in your ears after the way he’d spoken to you.
“Do you need to fix the camera?” he murmurs against the shell of your ear, and you lean forward shakily, pulling the tripod closer and lowering it so only your mouth and below are showing. You relax your head against his shoulder, sighing nervously when he cups both breasts in his hands.
You arch your back a little dramatically, glad that he seems to realize that some things need to be performative, and spread your thighs, hooking them over each of his. He slides his hand up your chest and pushes the middle two fingers into your mouth. You wrap your lips around them, tongue swirling around the tips, and you hear his breath stutter in your ear. His hips push against your ass, and you realize with a rush of heat and a flip of your stomach that he’s properly hard now.
You twist one of your arms behind your back and slide your palm against him carefully. He groans low against the side your head, pulling his fingers from your mouth. His hand falls to your pantyline, and he slips his fingers past while you’re distracted with touching him.
You jump when his wet fingers, cold from the air, make contact with your heated core. “Oh, my-” He swipes two tight circles over your clit before sliding his fingers through your folds, repeating the motion a few times – just the way you like it.
He’d paid attention during that video last night, then.
“Mm,” you groan, feeling his middle finger push gently against your entrance. You grip him harder behind your back, and he shudders against you, his teeth grazing the tip of your ear.
“You’re really wet,” he breathes, teasing weakly. “How long’s it been, again? Three years?”
You arch your back, nearly distracted by the way he pushes his fingers through your folds. “Take your pants off, then. Let’s see how long you last.”
You feel him grin against your ear, and that does something to the flip of your stomach and makes you twitch when he swipes the pads of his fingers over your clit. His free hand pushes at the lace of your panties.
“You first, princess,” he breathes, and you lift your hips in compliance. “Your viewers are gonna wanna see how you look with two of my fingers buried inside you.”
Your heart explodes in your ears, and you go limp against his chest, your head turned and your face pressed to his neck when you moan weakly. He laughs quietly, jostling you and the million tiny needles pricking your skin as his comment sinks into you.
Akaashi gets your underwear off of you with very little help from you, and then he pries your thighs open with both hands, your whole body on display while he holds you, still fully clothed. “Shit,” he whispers to himself, fingers hooked behind your knees and pulling your legs open a little further. Your eyes flutter open, and you find his gaze flicking between the camera and your body, his lips parted as he looks down at you.
“Like what you see?” you whisper, pulling your arm out from behind your back and wincing when it aches. He adjusts you, sliding one arm around your waist and pulling you tight against him. The other lifts, the same fingers from before finding your mouth. You let him in, whining when you taste yourself on the pads of his fingers and shivering when he murmurs ‘there you go’ against your ear.
When his fingers find your core this time, all you can do is breathe out shakily and relax against him. He swipes twice and dips toward your entrance. You manage to keep the video in mind, arching your back and cupping your hands over your breasts, kneading and touching yourself for the camera. Akaashi nudges the tip of his middle finger past your entrance, and the moan that falls past your lips is breathless and shocked.
You purse your lips, your body trembling as it realizes that someone who’s not you is doing this. Akaashi pushes his lips to the crook of your neck and tries again, using two fingers to work you open carefully. Your breath is shallow and harsh in your chest by the time he gets both fingers inside you comfortably, his cock twitching against your back.
“God, you’re tight,” he breathes in your ear. The pads of his fingers brush up against the spongy spot that’s normally so hard for you to reach on your own. “You need to relax.”
“Trying,” you bite, breathing hard. “Your hands are a lot bigger than mi-mm-” You jerk when he starts to move, thrusting his fingers slowly and curling them inside you. “Fuck,” you breathe sharply, a rush of heat washing over you. He picks up the pace, flicking his wrist and snapping his palm against your skin. Your mouth falls open, breathy, high-pitched moans tumbling out with every push of his fingers into you, and your hips start to roll against his hand, entirely unconscious. You can’t remember the last time you’d gotten a stretch like this, and there’s a brief moment of insanity where you imagine calling Akaashi Keiji any time you need to get off.
It should be embarrassing, the way your body’s reacting, but your brain is full of static, and you can’t hear much aside from your own breathing and the low moans buried in Akaashi’s throat, quiet with each push of your core against his hand. He’s rocking his hips slightly against your ass, his fingers stalling and stuttering after a moment. He lets out a harsh breath on your skin, and you manage to crack your eyes open enough to see he’s got his eyes squeezed shut and his forehead pressed to the side of your head. His lips are parted, breath warm on your sweat-chilled skin, and, when your walls flutter around his fingers, his hips jerk against you, breath hitching on his inhale.
“Fuck,” he breathes to himself, his chest rising and falling faster now. “Fuck, fuck-”
He reaches out blindly with his other hand, patting the couch frantically. You don’t have the energy to look, but the buzz of the vibrator coming close makes you whine. When it touches your skin, his fingers finding your clit with ease, your back arches and you cry out, the extra sensation too much.
“Oh, I’m- I’m gonna-”
Akaashi holds you tight, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he whispers, “Come on, come on, come on, com-”
You gasp loud, twitching and jerking against him while you come around his fingers. There’s a warmth that spreads over your lower back, but you pay it no mind, your ears ringing too hard and your body shivering too much against him.
Your hand clamps onto his wrist, pushing the vibrator just far enough away from your body that you can catch your breath. Heart thundering in your chest and throat, you focus on regaining control of your limbs, your fingers and toes numb.
You’re not sure how long you lie there, splayed open on Akaashi’s lap as you try to remember your own name, but you do shiver and whine when he pulls his fingers out of you slowly. He runs them through your folds one more time, the touch to your clit making you twitch against him again. He breathes a shaky laugh into your ear and rests his hand on your inner thigh, sighing quietly.
“How was that?” he asks roughly, his breath as unsteady as yours.
“Mhm,” you hum. “‘s good. Nice. Well done.” His laugh is delirious, and it draws your own spare breath into a tired chuckle. “Dude, I can’t feel my toes.”
He laughs harder. “I just came in my pants.”
“Is that what that was?” you ask, turning your head enough to look up at him. His cheeks are flushed a pretty red, and his eyes are glazed over slightly. You reach lazily behind you, fingers dipping into the wet warmth on your lower back. He gives a pained groan when you whisper ‘nice’ in a voice that’s horribly smug, and he scrubs the bottom of his shirt over your skin to wipe it away.
“I haven’t done that since I was a teenager,” he complains, dropping the vibrator on the couch and reaching for your panties. He helps you put them on, propping you up while you complain about being lifted. When you pull away from him, sitting up properly between his legs, he laughs down at himself. You look back, finding a wet spot on his sweats and his t-shirt stained with cum.
He meets your eyes, ears burning. “You can’t give me head today. This is embarrassing.”
You laugh loudly, turning to reach for your phone and end the recording. “Okay, fine. You got off easy this time.”
“Yeah, you can say that again,” he mutters, and you drop your face to your hands, groaning.
“Can we take a small break?” you ask. “I dunno if I can handle more right now.”
“Yeah, I should change anyway.” He climbs out from behind you, taking your coffee cup with him as he heads back to the main room. You pull your shirt back on and then stand on shaky legs, padding over to the bed for your cover-up. Sitting on the couch in your Bokuto-sized onesie and going through your phone, you send the video to the locked photo album in your camera roll and try to recover from the small shockwaves still sparking through your body.
Akaashi returns in fresh clothes a few minutes later, black jeans slung low on his hips and a white t-shirt hanging over the hook of his forearm. You realize, by the wet edges of his hairline and the few wet strands that hang over his eyes, that he’d washed his face and freshened up. You also realize, with a sneaky peek at his lean build, that you hadn’t been wrong about the physique he’s been hiding.
“Couple questions,” he asks, holding both cups of coffee as he makes his way to you carefully, the open pop-tart packs pinched precariously between his knuckles. You sit up, taking yours and thanking him quietly. He sits beside you, sipping happily at his fresh coffee and letting out a large sigh when he’s done. “First, when do you want to eat lunch? Because, by the time we’re done, I’m gonna be crabby again.”
You snort, checking your phone. It’s already 9:15, you realize with surprise.
“Oh. Well, if we keep this pace…” You blink a few times, thinking. “We could order around 11?”
“Between the desk scene and the bed scene?” He lifts his mug to his lips again, and you lift a brow.
“Why? You think it’ll only take thirty minutes to fuck me? Just in time for delivery?”
He coughs into the cup, splashing hot coffee all over his face. “Fuck-” He tosses his clean white shirt in your lap and wipes at his face with a wince. “That’s not what I meant-”
You bite your lip, laughing quietly. “Sure, we can order before the bed scene.”
“You’re such a-” He shakes his head, cleaning his hands on his jeans.
“A what?” you tease, leaning toward him with a smile. He leans toward you, too, his brows lifting.
“A brat.” He leans away, leaving you with warm cheeks and a set of rapid blinks. “May I continue, or do you need more time to be annoying?”
“The floor is yours, Your Highness,” you say, picking at your pop-tart before leaving it on the little coffee table to your left.
He gestures to his jeans. “I put on a real outfit because I was thinking we could make it more… roleplay-ish.”
You hear his intended question. “I can find an outfit for that. What’s the vibe you’re going for?”
“I don’t really know. Something… spontaneous. Like you invited me over and things got out of hand, or something.”
You squint playfully at him. “I can’t tell if you read a lot of smut or watch a lot of porn.”
“I have an active mind.” He shrugs, rolling his eyes when you make fake gagging sounds.
“You want me in a school-girl skirt?” you joke, but he cuts a glance at you.
“You have one?” He laughs when you smack him on the arm. “I’m just saying – I’ve never seen it.”
You throw your hands up in exasperation. “When would you have seen it?!”
“We run the same circles!” he tries. “I see a lot of you on a daily basis.”
You groan, turning away from him and giving your coffee extra attention. “I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing a schoolgirl miniskirt to Bokuto’s biweekly parties, Akaashi. Use that brain of yours.”
There’s a pause, and then he chuckles to himself. “Oh, I get it – I should have scrolled a little longer on your account last night.”
“You’re so irritating,” you say, standing. “Is that what I’m wearing? I need to change.”
“Let’s see it, then,” he says, waving a polite hand at the door.
You pad to your room, your head swimming slightly. It’s weird, you think as you search your closet – you’d spent an hour reveling in new discoveries of Akaashi Keiji, but the moment things had ended, you’d gone back to normal. Is it the continued absurdity? Is it some weird, twisted form of suspended disbelief – where, when the camera’s rolling, you’re allowed to forget who you are with him? And, when it’s done, you’re able to snap back to reality without issue?
And does he feel the same?
You choose an outfit while hyper-analyzing him, sliding on a matching bra-panty set while wondering if he’s thinking the same about you. Zipping your plaid miniskirt while considering if things would be this easy with Bokuto or Kuroo, or if things are easy because it’s Akaashi – because of that strange sense of detachment you’d noted before. Tying your hair up and tucking a white button-down into the skirt, the first three buttons undone, while secretly hoping that things continue to be this strange and simple.
You’re still messing with your hair by the time you head back to the spare room, and you barely notice the way Akaashi’s eyes go wide when he sees how short your skirt is.
“Okay, I see what you mean.”
“Oh, yeah?” you laugh. “Think I should wear this to the party tonight?”
“Sure, if you want to put on a live show.”
You roll your eyes, straightening your clothes. “Slutty schoolgirl enough for you?”
“Incredibly,” he says, standing and pulling his shirt over his head. “Shall we?”
You move the tripod toward the desk by the windows, setting your phone up so it’s level with your chest. “I think we should probably walk into frame if we’re going for roleplay.”
“Okay.” Akaashi stands at the open window nearest the desk, peering down to the ground level and then out across the way. You hadn’t lied about your balcony yesterday – your apartment doesn’t face the street, because your residential high-rise looks out to water. The nearest building this tall is across the river. Still, he glances at you. “Do you close these when you film here or leave them open?” You don’t answer, your face warming instead. His lips split in a knowing grin. “I see.”
“It’s not what you think-”
“So, you’re not an exhibitionist?”
“Not a big one!”
He turns away, backing out of frame and waiting for you next to the end of the bed. “I don’t know about the degrees of exhibitionism, but I’d say leaving your windows open while I eat you out is pretty up there. Freak.”
“Do you always have to talk?!” you snap, embarrassed and a little warm from the way he’d called you a freak. “Always talk, talk, talking. Some of us like our windows open, Akaashi. It’s not like anyone can actually see.” You press record angrily and stomp over to him. “You can never just shut the fuck up-”
His hand flies out, latching onto your waist and dragging you the rest of the way to him. You gasp, hands landing on his chest as he pulls you flush to him.
You’re no less unprepared for his mouth on your throat this time around. You stumble back, grabbing onto his t-shirt to keep yourself standing while he sucks on a spot under your ear.
“‘m I still talking too much?” he murmurs, walking you slowly into frame. You card your fingers through his hair and trust him to not let you fall on your ass.
“Always,” you breathe, that strange suspension of disbelief setting in when you bump against the desk and Akaashi slips his fingers around the backs of your thighs to hoist you up. You lean up, pressing your lips to his jaw and kissing carefully down the line of it. He tugs your shirt free of the skirt and undoes two of the buttons with one hand, the other hooked under your knee so he can slot his hips between yours. Then he nudges you away, taking over.
You let him touch you, his fingers fondling and groping your body while you lean back on your hands with a sigh. His mouth finds the hollow of your throat, teeth nipping at your collarbones while his hands slide your skirt under the curve of your ass. The material bunches at your waist, and he slips your panties off of you and throws them somewhere behind him. When he meets your eyes, you catch the glint in them.
“Maybe you should do something about that. Since you want to be a freak.”
You narrow a glare at him, heart skipping a beat when he says that stupid name. You let him pull your thighs open, and then you reach between for the button on his jeans. He lifts a brow, interest piqued, as you undo his pants and push them past his hips. You slide your palm against his boxers, smiling up at him when he sucks in a breath.
“You like that, baby?” you ask, your grin widening when he narrows his eyes. “Even though someone could see?” His cock jumps under your hand, and your eyebrows fly to your hairline. He has the decency to look embarrassed. “Oh?”
“Shut up,” he mumbles, knocking your hand away. You shrug it off, pushing that hand into his hair.
“Then say I’m not a freak,” you say, pulling tight. He doesn’t seem to mind it, but he does narrow a glare and an irritated grin at you.
“You’re not a freak, sweetheart,” he whispers, voice saccharine. “But you love it when I call you one.” He lifts his brows when you say nothing. “So what does that make you?”
You glower and push down on his head, and he drops to his knees with a snicker. You check the camera quickly, making sure that his face is hidden behind your thigh. Keeping your hand on the side of his head to provide more coverage, you try not to shiver when Akaashi presses his lips to the inside of your thigh. When he hooks both your legs over his shoulders and holds on tight, you whimper quietly.
And then the bickering and the nerves all fall away. The flat of his tongue presses to your core, and you make the mistake of looking at him with wide eyes.
Akaashi’s eyes are a lot bluer when he’s got his face between your thighs.
You suck in a sharp inhale, legs trembling when he drags his tongue over your folds, slow and torturous. You’re unable to keep eye contact with him, a flush rising to your cheeks and your stomach flipping with nerves every time you glance down, because he’s staring right back at you.
Finally, he lets his eyes slide shut, his movements more intense now that he’s not focused on anything else. Your fingers shake in his hair, and your chest rises and falls with something akin to a live wire straight to the veins. Akaashi’s fingers tighten on the tops of your thighs, and he shuffles closer on his knees, his head bobbing as he slides his tongue, velvety and searing hot, through your folds before latching onto your clit.
“Oh, my God-” Your body twitches when he suckles gently, his lips soft around the nub. Your grip tightens on him, and your hips rock forward of their own accord. He follows your lead, finding his timing within the rhythmic cant of your body’s response, and soon, he has you gasping and moaning audibly.
His glasses sit knocked askew and pushed up against his forehead the more certain he becomes between your thighs. You feel the cold metal on your skin and glance down blearily. A fresh wave of heat washes over you when you realize that they’re smeared with dewy drops of you, and you move them shakily off his face and set them beside you on the desk. Akaashi’s hands respond, sliding up and over your hips, reaching for you. He finds the last button on your shirt and undoes it with a flick of two fingers, and there’s something about the way he moves, skilled and smooth, that makes you shiver visibly in front of the camera.
One of Akaashi’s hands slides up your torso, and he cups your breast firmly through your bra, squeezing and twisting at your nipple until you start to squirm, a whine building in your throat.
“Too much,” you whisper, and he pulls his mouth away from you with a warm huff, his lips wet and glistening when he looks up at you.
“Color?” he murmurs, his breath sharp against your core with each ragged exhale.
You purse your lips. “Green.”
“Then stop complaining,” he says, already lowering his head again. When he pinches your nipple this time, it comes with the aid of the tip of his tongue, pushing carefully against your entrance.
“Holy shit,” you gasp, eyes wide and fingers tugging his hair tight enough to hurt. He pushes once more and then relents, sliding up to suck hard on your clit. You choke, your body arching and trembling against him when he lowers his head and tries again, slipping gently in this time and moaning against you when you squeeze your thighs around his head. He uses both hands to hold tight to your waist, grounding you against him and keeping you from wriggling too much while he fucks you with his tongue. Your skin burns with every drag of his tongue against your walls, and you reach the summit alarmingly fast. “Wait, wait, wait-”
He slides out of you, and your chest bursts with air, gasps coming to you in choked breaths and shaking thighs. But then he leans up, wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking hard, his teeth brushing against the nub in a way that feels a lot like Akaashi putting his hand on your back and shoving you right off the cliff with no warning.
You scream, your head thrown back and your back arching painfully as you see stars. You feel a slight pain in the back of your head, but you don’t register that you’d hit your head on the wall until much later, when the stars are gone and your vision isn’t blacked out any longer. When all that’s left is the camera rolling and your fingers aching where they’re clenched in Akaashi’s hair.
He’s pressing kisses along your thighs slowly, thumbs rubbing circles into your hips. He glances up when your lungs finally relax, your breaths much longer and drawn out now as you find yourself again.
“You okay?” he mumbles against the inside of your knee, examining you through long, dark eyelashes. “You hit your head.”
You nod dumbly and meet his eyes, flames licking up your navel when you catch the thinly veiled heat in his expression. “It can’t be fair that I’ve come twice and you haven’t come at all.”
“I came once,” he reminds you quietly, the breath of his whisper seductive on your thigh. His lips brush over your skin, feather-light and wonderfully soft, and his tongue tracks the path of his mouth, too, warm and wet and drawing your breath short in your chest again. “But I wouldn’t mind taking you up on a second time.”
Your skin heats, the air buzzing in your ears and your heartbeat audible in the silence between you. You nod shallowly, your lips parted, and his eyes flit around your face, searching you. He must like whatever he finds, because he doesn’t respond. He only stands slowly and towers over you, his shirt pulled swiftly over his head and dropped on the desk next to his glasses. He leans down and wraps his arms around your waist, hoisting you up.
You gasp, wrapping yourself tight around him as he crosses the three steps to the bed, the tripod with your phone dangling between his knuckles. He sets it down on the end of the bed, and then he drops you unceremoniously on the mattress. You bounce lightly on it, staring up at him with wide eyes, and he nods at the camera.
“Need to set up?”
“O-Oh. Right-” You blink rapidly, crawling over to the edge and adjusting it quickly while he comes to stand at the side of the bed. You scoot back after, your head facing the top of the bed, and make sure you’re centered in the frame before looking up at him with wide eyes. You purse your lips, skin buzzing with anticipation. “Okay – ready.”
Akaashi lets his eyes roam your body – they land on your shirt, lying open uselessly on your shoulders and showing off your pretty, black bra. Then down to your skirt, bunched up against the tops of your thighs when your knees are bent like that. You do the same, shamelessly – drinking in his body, lean and lanky but muscular all the same. With those black jeans sitting so low on his hips that you can trace the dark trail of hair that disappears into his boxers, an invitation.
You take it, sitting up on your knees and reaching hesitantly for his unbuttoned jeans, your eyes on his. He says nothing, but his lips part when you hook your thumbs into his boxers and start to push them down.
“Shit,” he sighs under his breath when you get his pants down, his cock hard and smeared with precum. You inhale sharply, staring at the pretty curve of it – pretty like his long fingers and his warm lips and his piercing blue eyes. Pretty like the thumb he’d put in your mouth. You want to put this in your mouth, too – your mouth is already watering, funnily enough – but he’s already told you no.
So you settle for wrapping your fingers around him instead, satisfied with the quiet hiss he lets out. You stroke him a few times, twisting your wrist and running your thumb over the slit slowly, the way you’d seen him do it last night. He cards his fingers through your hair, holding loosely.
“How many times did you watch that video?” he asks quietly, the teasing edge in his voice lost to the breathless sigh he lets out after. “You’re doing it the way I like.”
That makes your heart swell with pride, and you can’t help the smile you give him, bright and giddy. “What can I say? I’m a fast learner.”
He chuckles back. “The academic uses her gifts for good.”
“You callin’ me smart, baby?”
He rolls his eyes, taking your chin between his fingers and tilting your head up. “How about you focus, huh? I’ll admit you’re smart when you get me off.”
You sit up a little straighter at that, pursing your lips and mimicking how he’d touched himself last night, flicking your wrist hard around the base and softening your touch at the tip. He swallows when you repeat the motion, his grip on your hair tightening, but he gives you nothing else, his eyes devoid of emotion otherwise. It spurs you on, targets the piece of you that seeks validation. He’d only given it to you once, but you’re eager to hear it again.
“How’s this?”
He just lifts his brows. “What’s wrong? Already need my approval?”
You scowl, returning to the task at hand. It doesn’t take long, not with the way the muscles in his abdomen keep tightening, or the way he’s breathing shallowly through his nose, or the way his hips start to push up to meet your fist halfway. No, it doesn’t take long at all.
But before you can get him off – before you can have the satisfaction of him swearing over you as he comes on your skin – he wraps a hand around your wrist, stopping you.
Your eyes fly up to his, alarmed and disappointed. “What?”
His cheeks are flushed, lips a little swollen from what you can only guess is biting, but he just moves your hand and reaches down to remove his pants. “Lie down. Shirt off.”
You strip from the button-down and toss it uncaringly off the edge, scrambling back to where you were before and leaning back on your elbows with growing anticipation. Your stomach flips when he starts to climb over you, his eyes searching yours. There’s a glint in his eye that seems to signal that he’s processing this, too – that you’re about to have sex. That, out of everyone – out of everyone you actually like – you had decided to come to the one person you don’t like. To the one person you hate most days, because of the way he is and the way he treats you.
But it’s the way he is and the way he treats you that had made him perfect for this.
So, out of everyone, it’s Akaashi Keiji that you’re getting into bed with.
Your tongue darts out when he settles between your legs, your skirt falling up to your hips when your thighs open for him. He glances back and checks the camera frame once before leaning down over you. His brow is furrowed as he slides his cock through your folds, his Adam’s apple bobbing when he feels you. He pushes his hips forward once, twice, and then re-angles himself on the third, his fingers lining the head of his cock up against your entrance.
You watch him when he finally slides into you, the rest of the world lost in a dull buzz that fill your brain.
When he nudges the tip past your entrance, gliding slowly past your walls, his chest rises and falls with the breaths he’s keeping trapped inside, but he’s short of breath nonetheless. His skin is radiating warmth in that way that you find pretty, just like the rest of him, and his eyes are dark when they meet yours. His eyebrows twitch the further he sinks into you, and his lips – pink and wet and pretty – are parting as he bottoms out, and he lets out a soft sigh.
The dull buzz is cleared away like smoke, and you realize there’s a needy moaning echoing in the room, one that can only be coming from you.
“Oh, my God,” you cry, falling back on the mattress when he starts to thrust into you. “Oh, my God, holy shit-” Your heart is pounding hard in your ears and throat and veins, and you’re caught between wanting to claw at the comforter desperately and wanting to hide your face behind your hands.
Akaashi drops down over you, caging you in with one arm as the other bends back, his hand tight on the underside of your thigh as he picks up his pace. You gasp, unable to find enough air in the room to fill your lungs. One of your hands finds his wrist by your head, clamping on tight, and the other smacks down over your eyes – you can’t look at him, not when you’re like this. Not when you’re sweating and breathless, not when your stomach is fluttering with some unfamiliar mix of nerves and desire with every bump of his hips against yours.
Not when you’re realizing that no one else has ever made you feel this way before.
“Look at me, princess,” he grunts, and your stomach flips at the ragged sway of his voice.
“I-fuck – I can’t-” you whine, but the sound catches in your throat when he angles his hips and the head of his cock smacks right up against your g-spot. You gasp loud, your grip on his wrist tightening with all your strength. “Oh, my God-please-”
“There?” he asks quietly, and he drives his hips forward at that angle once more. You cry out when he hits it again, but then he stops.
He stops, just hovering over you silently.
The hand on your face drops in shock, and you stare up at him. “What-”
“I told you to look at me.”
“You-” You want to smack him so badly. “You can’t just stop-”
“Can’t I?” He tilts his head, eyes filling with disinterest, despite the breathy quality of his voice. “You weren’t listening to me.”
You remember now, the things he’d said yesterday.
‘Is it alright if I’m a little mean?’
Fuck.
“Uh-fuck,” you laugh pitifully. “Fuck. I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry.” Your chest starts to fill with a strange feeling, a clawing that reaches for your throat when he only stares, dissatisfied. He doesn’t seem happy with you, and – for every piece of you that doesn’t give a fuck what Akaashi Keiji thinks in any other situation – there’s a panic that’s starting to swirl in you at this very moment. “I’m sorry, please don’t stop-”
He draws his hips back, and the panic forms into a knot all at once when you realize he’s pulling out.
“No, no, no-” You dig your nails into his shoulders, keeping him close and staring up at him with wide, terrified eyes. “No, please, I really am sorry.” The clawing in your throat starts to burn, and your eyes sting at the thought that he’s decidedly finished with you. There’s a rational part of your brain that knows he isn’t. He can’t be. You’re still filming. But the part of you that’s very rapidly become addicted to the feeling of Akaashi fucking you is panicking hard enough to make tears fill your eyes.
His cock twitches inside you when you start to sniffle, and the word ‘dacryphilia’ floats through your brain, the ghost of a memory.
If he wants you to cry, you’ll cry.
“Please, baby,” you murmur, your head falling back on the mattress and your nails clinging to him. You let yourself sink into that panic and your vision blurs, the tears hot and embarrassing as they stream down the sides of your cheeks onto the bed. “Please don’t stop.”
You don’t see his reaction when you give in to him, but you hear his shaky breath. And you certainly feel when he relents, because he’s pushing slowly back into you. You find yourself whispering ‘yes, yes, yes’ as he’s coming back to you, and the tightness in your throat starts to loosen.
“You gonna listen?” he murmurs, and you nod again. “Because I’ll stop. I’m fine either way.”
He’s bluffing, your brain tries to tell you, but fresh tears are burning your eyes and you’re choking on the lump that’s reforming at the base of your throat. He can’t stop, he can’t. You don’t know what you’ll do if he stops.
“Please, don’t-” you sob, shaking your head. “I swear I’ll listen.”
Your heart jumps when the mattress dips by your head again as he cages you in. When his other hand finds the underside of your thigh again, the bruises his grip had left the first time ache as his fingers fill those prints once more. He leans down toward you, and you blink through the tears just enough to meet his eyes.
“Cover your mouth,” he whispers, staring down at you with a dangerous glint in his eye. You’re quick to slap your hands over your mouth, terrified of taking too long and testing his patience. He doesn’t smile at your obedience or give you any visual signal of satisfaction, but his eyes do trace your face meaningfully. “Well, if you’re gonna be that good for me, I guess I can let you have it.”
He thrusts his hips forward sharply before you have any time to process what he means. You scream, your back arching when he slams up against your g-spot, and you’re distantly grateful that he’s minding the noise limits on your apartment while he decidedly fucks you into oblivion. He keeps that pace and that angle, and his head drops down beside yours as he does.
“Let’s make a deal,” he says, breathless and rough in your ear. “You listen to me when I talk to you, and I’ll abuse your tight little cunt as much as you want.” Your eyes roll into the back of your head, your body starting to go numb as the pressure builds in your navel for the third time in one morning. “Sound good?” he whispers, swallowing hard after. You nod frantically, and his panting becomes audible in your ear. “Fuck, I’m close. Where should I-” He starts to pull his hips away, but your hands fly off of your mouth and grip hard on his biceps.
“If you pull out right now, I’m going to fucking kill you,” you say, staring straight into his eyes. Your eyes burn, and you’re sticky and warm, and you know you look like a mess, but you keep your eyes directly on his. “We just made a deal.”
He stares, wide-eyed, and then breathes out a laugh. “Okay. I hear you.” When his hips touch yours again, it comes with him dropping down to his elbow and carding his fingers through your hair tight. “But I want you looking at me.”
You’re surprised by that, because it feels oddly intimate for him to chase an orgasm while looking into your eyes – but then he finds that special pace and angle, and you can’t think of anything but giving him what he wants, just so he doesn’t take away what you want.
You look right into those blue-green eyes as your navel curls and twists, despite every urge to let your eyes roll back and your mouth hang open. You slide your arms around his neck and look into his eyes, clinging tight as he takes full control of your body – prying you open and kissing that particular spot inside you that no one else has ever found before. You look into his eyes up until the very moment you find that summit, the morning light golden and warm and blinding. You find him there, too.
You won’t realize it for a long, long time, but something slides into place and locks tight when your body registers that the last thing you see before falling off the edge is the dark cyan of Akaashi Keiji’s eyes. When it registers that the last thing that he sees – before his eyes roll back and his forehead drops to yours, his hips stuttering and stalling as he fills you – is you.
You think you might have fallen asleep in that spot, because you’re not sure if it’s been minutes or hours since you moved. Your body trembles under him, and you feel him starting to release you achingly slow – his elbow cracks when he lifts off of it, and his breath is taxed and heavy while he pulls out of you. He holds you like that for a minute, just long enough for the creampie to be visible to the camera, and then he sets your thigh down gently. But you whine anyway, because there’s a horrible soreness that’s starting to set into your muscles and bones.
“Shit,” he whispers. “That was-”
You let out a weak laugh, immediately groaning at how it rattles your body. “This Chinese food is going to be the most glorious meal I’ve ever earned.”
He laughs back, that delirious one that comes when he’s struggling to find himself. “I forgot to order it between the desk and the bed.”
“I don’t think we would have made the thirty-minute deadline.”
He laughs harder, collapsing back down on his elbows. “God, I think I’m dying. I don’t know if I have the stamina to be a porn star.”
You groan, planting both hands on his chest and pushing him slowly off of you. He hits the mattress beside you with a sigh, and you curl up in place. “This was hard. I’m tired.”
“There’s no time to be tired. It’s already-” He sits up slowly, reaching for your phone to end the video and check the time. “-noon, apparently.”
“Noon?!” You dig the heels of your hands into your eyes. “Four hours, holy shit.”
“I need food,” Akaashi mumbles to himself, rising off the bed with a groan and searching the floor for his boxers. He finds and trips into them on his way to the door, muttering ‘phone, need my phone’ as he goes. You roll off the side of the bed unceremoniously, swiping your shirt and underwear off of the rug and slipping them back on.
“We were supposed to change,” he calls from the other room. “You’re a slutty schoolgirl in two videos.”
“I don’t care,” you whine, stumbling back into bed and lying flat on your face, your voice muffled. “Let me be a slutty schoolgirl, fuck.”
“Do you still have your pop-tart?” he asks, back in the room and completely ignoring your complaints. “What do you want for takeout?” You hear him snatch the plastic package off the little coffee table by the couch. “I’m eating your pop-tart-”
“Oh, my God, Akaashi, just eat the fucking pop-tart,” you snap, growing crabby. There’s silence, and then he flops down on the bed beside you.
“Maybe you should eat the pop-tart.”
A laugh bubbles and bursts in your throat, and you start to giggle uncontrollably. “What the fuck did we just do?”
“Burn a lot of calories,” he jokes through a mouth full of your strawberry pop-tart. You turn your head toward him, watching as, half-naked beside you, he scrolls through the delivery menu of the nearest Chinese takeout place. “I’m getting kung pao chicken.”
“Ew.” You wrinkle your nose. “Peanuts.”
He looks at you in confusion. “You’re allergic to peanuts?”
“No. I just don’t like them.”
“Oh,” he grumbles, turning back to his phone. “That’s stupid.”
“You’re stupid-”
He flaps the silvery plastic of the pop-tart in your face. “Eat this and tell me what you want before I get double kung pao-”
You snatch the stupid pastry away from him, watching him lift his hand in defeat and whisper ‘okay, crabass’ as you stuff your mouth with sugary nothingness. “I want beef and broccoli.”
He grimaces. “Boring.”
“Get out of my house, Akaashi-”
“I got it, look-” He brandishes the screen at you, showing your food in the online cart. “What else?”
“Egg rolls. Crab rangoon. Maybe some pot-stickers, too-”
“You’re just trying to spend my money,” he complains, adding it all anyway.
“We’ll make it back soon enough.”
He meets your eyes, and you both seem to re-realize how you’ve just spent a full Saturday morning. It settles in then, the arrangement you’ve made with Akaashi Keiji. Saturday mornings and weekday evenings, a suspended disbelief that you’ll never be able to explain to your friends. Pop-tarts in your slutty schoolgirl skirt, Chinese food in his boxers. A series of life experiences that can never leave this apartment, shared with the singular person you’d tried so long to keep out of your life entirely.
Akaashi blinks, and you blink back, infinite realizations passing by all at once.
He turns his head back to his phone. “Fried or steamed pot-stickers?”
You turn your face back into the mattress, your voice muffled. “Fried.”
–
While the food’s on its way, you leave Akaashi to wash up in your bathroom. You disappear into your bedroom and change, hearing when the sink stops running and the door opens.
“In here,” you call, pulling your hair back as you head to your desk that’s pushed against the wall shared with the living room. He appears in the doorway in a pair of athletic shorts and a hoodie, his hair and face damp and his glasses a little foggy from the moisture on his skin.
“Should be ten more minutes,” he says, checking his phone. And then he glances around your room in a way that appears casual, but you can tell he’s curious.
“You can come in,” you joke, waving him in. You take a seat at your desk, shaking the mouse attached to your monitor to wake the computer up. “I’m gonna give you account access now before I forget.”
He hums, wandering your room slowly and taking it all in. The photos of your friends on top of your dresser, the plushies on your bed that would be embarrassing to show anyone that’s not him. The bookshelf in the corner, filled with fun novels and academic textbooks alike.
“I have a few of these,” he murmurs, crouching and thumbing through the volumes. You smile to yourself, logging into your account while you respond.
“The smutty romance novels? No wonder you’re such a creative porn star.”
“You’re funny,” he says, not an ounce of humor in his voice. “You’re missing the Cambridge handbook on Korean morphosyntax.”
“‘s here,” you nod at the small pile of books on your desk, spines facing outward. “I keep the best ones close.” You hear him approach behind you, your eyes busy locating his own account and inviting him as a collaborator.
But then his hand reaches past your head, and you realize with a drop of your stomach that he’s plucking a paper off the top of a pile that you keep next to your books.
A paper with his name on it, published in Syntax last year, on Korean case marking. It’s full of pen, highlighter, and sticky tabs – your thoughts on his work.
“Oh?” he says, his voice dreadfully smug. “You keep the best ones close, you said?”
“Shut up,” you say, shaking your head. “Research is research-”
“Good research gets cited. You gonna cite me, Y/n?”
“I’m sure you’re no stranger to good research, Akaashi Keiji. I’d be stupid not to.”
“So-” He steps closer, and your lift your eyes to his reluctantly. He looks excited. “-you’re including the case marking, then? In the dissertation.”
You roll your eyes. “Would you like me to say ‘thank you, Akaashi, oh Brilliant One’?”
He lifts his brows with a smirk. “Yes, actually. I would.”
“Kiss my ass,” you say with a laugh, shaking your head and returning to the task at hand. “Now that I don’t have to find a second job, I might actually have the time to include it.”
“You would have made the time anyway,” he says confidently, and you give an exhausted sigh.
“Okay, I gave you access. Can we-” You stand, snatching the paper back and dropping it on the pile. “-exit the research chat, please?”
“Why?” he prods, following you out the room. “Worried I’ll make good points without our referee around to keep me in check?”
“The fact that you need to be kept in check in the first place is a bad sign.” You flop down on the couch with a sigh, and he follows. “You’re so abrasive.”
“Being gentle doesn’t get you published,” he argues, and you snap back quick.
“Shockingly, I still managed it.”
“You got published?” He lifts his brows, turning to you with interest. “Where? When?”
You sigh. “Language and Cognition,” you mutter, watching his eyes go slightly wide before flattening out again. “End of the month.”
“Holy shit,” he says, nodding and looking away. “Language and Cognition. That’s top-shelf stuff.” You think that might be a compliment. The first he’s ever paid you. “It’s about time.”
The compliment is magically negated.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” You say, heated.
“Nothing!” he laughs, shaking his head. “I wasn’t trying to be mean.”
“You’re saying it took me a long time to publish-”
“Considering your skillset,” he argues pointedly. “Yes. I’d say I’m surprised it took this long.”
“Are you insulting me or complimenting me?” You throw your hands out. “Choose, Akaashi.”
“Don’t wanna,” he says childishly, smiling in a way that’s intentionally irritating. You scoff, but his phone pings with the delivery notification before you can pick a fight. He stands, disappearing out the door to get it, and you take a long, deep breath to relax yourself. You turn the TV on, flicking through the options before landing on the nature channel.
He slips back in after a few minutes, bag dangling from his fingers. “What are we watching?”
“Squirrels fighting for their territory,” you say, completely entranced by the action happening on the screen.
“Seriously?” he asks, stopping by the couch briefly to look at the TV.
“Look at them go,” you whisper in amazement, shaking your head as you watch two squirrels positively tear each other apart.
“Are you in the habit of watching the nature channel?” He wanders to the kitchen while he asks, and you let him struggle to find bowls and unpack the food.
“Every night,” you say, distracted. “Relaxes my brain.”
“God, you’re insane,” he mumbles from across the room.
“Well, what do you do to relax?” you ask. There’s silence in the kitchen, and your attention’s torn from the screen as you look over your shoulder at him. He’s frowning slightly down at the food while he serves it, and you grin smugly. “Oh, I get it. The stick in your ass is there for a reason.”
“Fuck off,” he breathes with a shake of his head. He carries both plates to the couch, handing you one and staring with skepticism at the TV. “We’re really watching this?”
“Look how that one stands on his hind legs and asserts his dominance!” you exclaim, pointing excitedly at the TV before stuffing your mouth full of beef and broccoli. “The other one’s totally gotta give up his acorns now.”
Akaashi sighs, digging into his food with a shake of his head. “Squirrel social dynamics and Chinese food. My Saturday morning.”
You eat in relative silence, the only comments coming from your enthusiasm about nature and his quiet, exasperated laughter. Finally, he sighs, setting his empty plate on the coffee table.
“I should go.”
You nod, reaching to mute the TV. “I gotta edit these videos and draft one to post tonight. What time’s the party?”
“Starts at 9,” he says, standing slowly. You purse your lips, realizing that you’ll have to see him again today – in public, where you’ll have to pretend you hadn’t spent the morning together.
“Okay.” You nod. “See you then.”
There’s a moment of silence, where he seems to realize the same thing you had, and then he just nods, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Kay. See ya.”
The apartment echoes with the click of the door behind him.
You stare at it, feeling a bit weird, as though the entire affair is finally starting to crash down over you now that he’s gone. Your phone buzzes on the table, and you shake off the feeling, snatching it up. Your heart beats a strange little rhythm at the sight of his name.
[1:24 PM]
Akaashi: dont forget to cover your hickies tonight
“What?” You stand, padding to the bathroom quickly. The reflection in the mirror is horrid, your throat already bruising on both sides. “This motherfu-”
You: youre such a dick.
He sends back a shrugging emoji and nothing else, and you move around the apartment with a little more stomp than usual, minimally annoyed as you clean up the tables and put the leftovers away before returning to your desk to edit the videos.
–
Keiji arrives at Bokuto’s townhouse at 9 o’clock on the dot, knocking quietly. It’s Tsukishima who opens the door, just lifting his brows in greeting before leading him back through the living room. There’s no one else here, and Bokuto is filling bowls with chips in the kitchen.
“Hey!” he calls excitedly. “I’m so ready to be trashed!”
Keiji sets two handles of vodka and a case of Coke on the counter. “In a good way or a bad way?”
“Good, of course! Life is good!” The kinesiology student starts organizing the bowls by color, smiling to himself while he talks. “Research is good, friends are good, life is good!”
There’s a knock on the door, and Keiji’s heart jumps without his permission. He glances at the new arrivals that enter when the host yells ‘it’s open!’, and he’s oddly disappointed to see it’s just some of the people in Bokuto’s cohort.
Tsukishima dims the lights in the main room and connects his phone to the speaker, and Bokuto starts to dance while he chats up his friends and preps the kitchen with more food. Keiji stands off to the side, pouring himself a drink and nodding politely when a guy he recognizes greets him.
Thirty minutes go by like that, with Keiji standing in sight of the door and glancing up, a little nervous, every time it opens. He doesn’t know why he feels this way, but he does know it’s your fault.
He’d felt it when you’d texted him a couple hours ago, too – it was only to let him know that the video for tonight had been edited, but he’d still gotten a strange twinge of anxiety when your name had popped up on his phone. He had watched the video back, impressed at how you’d edited the tattoos out and muffled both your voices – creating what’s essentially a quiet, faceless video with only your moans to show for his performance. He’d also refrained from watching the video in too much detail, because even just skimming through it, he’d felt renewed desire stream through his veins.
He wonders if it would be too much to go back and watch it later tonight, when he has too much alcohol in his system to worry if it’s weird.
Tsukishima finds him again after a while, lingering with him in the corner. “Research?”
“‘s good,” Keiji says, lifting his drink to his lips – the second in half an hour. “Finally started writing the dissertation chapters. Should be done next year.”
“God, I’m jealous,” the blond laughs quietly. “With working at the museum, everything takes twice as long for me.”
Keiji hates that his first thought is you – that that could have been you, too. “Did your advisor tell you when you’re s’posed t’finish?” He should slow down. Water, maybe.
“Two years,” Tsukishima groans, emptying his cup and then reaching for the vodka again.
“That’s what Kuroo has left, too.”
The blond shoots him a side glance. “So?” Keiji sees the tinge of pink at the tips of his ears, so he shrugs.
“Just an observation.” The door opens behind Tsukishima, and his eyes flit to it, just over the blond’s shoulder.
It’s a couple he doesn’t recognize, but Bokuto clearly does, his ‘hey, hey, hey!’ audible from here.
“Who are you lookin’ for?” Tsukishima dips his head into Keiji’s way, an eyebrow arched and his words slower than usual from the alcohol. “You keep doin’ that.”
Keiji blinks and clears his throat. “No one. It just-” The door opens again, and you walk through it with Kuroo and Yachi. Keiji’s throat dries up. “-catches my attention.”
Tsukishima glances back, but if he notices that you’re clearly what Keiji had been waiting for, he doesn’t say anything. He just whips his head back around, swallowing hard and taking an aggressive swig of his drink.
God bless Kuroo Tetsurou.
Keiji watches you greet Bokuto and some of his friends, your smile wide and your hugs generous. His eyes scan you carefully. You’re wearing a pair of black jeans that hugs you in all the right places – places he knows now – and red long-sleeve shirt with a v-cut so low that his mouth waters slightly. You’d covered the bruises on your throat, and there’s a piece of him – small but troublesome – that’s a little dissatisfied to see the skin smooth and mark-free. Especially with the way you giggle at something Bokuto says, the taller man smiling down at you and holding your waist in a friendly way. Keiji swallows and brushes that odd little feeling away.
His heart flips over itself when you turn in his general direction, and he’s quick to turn back to Tsukishima, blinking rapidly. He feels weird – he wants you to notice him there, wants you to say something to him, even though you’d both agreed not to act any different. You’ve never spoken to him at these parties unless absolutely necessary, so he shouldn’t be wishing for anything of the sort.
But he wants to know that you feel weird, too. That you want his attention, too. That you don’t know why, either.
“So,” he clears his throat, getting the history student’s attention. “The museum. Have they gotten back to you about the full-time position?”
“Not explicitly,” Tsukishima responds, seeming equally grateful for the distraction. “But they basically said it’s mine whenever I’m done.”
“That’s good. Makes things a little less stressful,” Keiji says, pointedly looking down into his cup, because he feels you behind him, passing by. Your perfume makes his nostrils flare, and a shiver – traitorous and laced with want – runs down his spine.
“Hey, Tsukishima,” you say, brushing past the taller man. “Good weekend so far?”
The blond nods. “A little pissed to get a 2am text of Bokuto screaming, but otherwise, yeah.”
You laugh gently, and Keiji’s skin floods with goosebumps. He looks at you without meaning to, and a white-hot heat sears through his stomach, because you’re already looking back. You don’t greet him or betray any visible emotion when he makes eye contact, but he sees your breathing change, and there’s a warmth that makes your skin glow in the dim light.
You’re nervous. He’s making you nervous.
And that’s a dangerous little piece of information for him to have access to.
“Y/n,” he says, rolling your name around on his tongue like he’s tasting it for the first time. He’s glad that Tsukishima’s distractedly looking over his shoulder at Kuroo, because he doesn’t see the way your breath catches or the way your spine straightens.
“Akaashi.” It’s weak, and your voice wavers on the last syllable, cutting out and filling with the breath that you draw in sharply. His body hums when he hears it, and the urge to hear it again – the urge to witness your poorly concealed emotions – grows to the point of being unbearable.
He wants to make you nervous.
“Get started on those case marking materials yet?” He’s careful to reference the LEM meeting only, not the things you’d talked about this morning. Still, it makes you swallow, and you pluck a red solo cup from the stack before reaching for the vodka.
“Do you really want to talk about research here?” you ask, mixing it with some of the orange juice that Yachi had dropped off a few minutes ago.
“Why not?” he says. “Tsukishima and I are.”
You level a grin at the blond, who’s tuned back in at the sound of his name. “Don’t you want a night off, Tsukishima?”
Keiji doesn’t hear what his friend’s answer is. He’s too busy dragging his gaze slowly down the length of your body while the taller man’s talking to you. You shift slightly, and his eyes find yours. You’re flitting your gaze between his and Tsukishima’s, trying to stay engaged with the conversation but also clearly distracted. Keiji just stares, his eyes unyielding on yours whenever you meet them. You drink urgently from your cup, chugging until it’s empty and then reaching back to make another, a grimace tugging on your lips.
He looks away, because he can hear Bokuto storming into the kitchen.
“Hey, my favorite pals!” He slings his arms around Keiji’s and Tsukishima’s shoulders, and Keiji tips forward into you. You yelp, barely managing to steady your drink on the counter. He slips his arm around your waist to catch himself – definitely not for any other reason – and he hears you gasp in his ear at the contact.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, head swimming with alcohol.
“No, you’re not,” you whisper back heatedly. But Keiji can feel you leaning into him, too, your fingers brushing on his arm.
It fills his chest with a giddy excitement – the realization that you can’t help yourself, either.
He decides in that moment – in the mere milliseconds where Bokuto’s straightening and exclaiming in Tsukishima’s ear that the friend group should collect by the couches in the living room, the two of you completely unnoticed – that he doesn’t want to stop doing this. He doesn’t want to stop provoking you, even though he very well should. Because he can see that you don’t want it to stop, either. Because you’re searching him with wide eyes and the kind of attention that he could get high off of.
Because, in a single morning alone, Keiji’s learned to recognize when you’re turned on.
The flush of your cheeks and the tug of your bottom lip between your teeth. The way you hug yourself, like you’re worried you might do something with those hands if you don’t. The uneven pattern of your breathing, your chest rising and falling with attempted recovery.
God, he thinks he’s turned on, too.
He swallows, leaning away and letting Bokuto sweep the three of you away into the living room. You’re still pressed to his side unwillingly, your body heat making him shiver with excitement – you smell the way you did this morning, like warmth and the laundry detergent of the sheets he’d fucked you into. Like the memory of your tears and the way you’d begged him not to stop, the memory of your walls fluttering around him and the way your back had arched when you’d come–
He scrubs drunkenly at his scrunched eyebrows, stumbling to wherever Bokuto had guided him and throwing himself down on the couch. Even with his eyes closed, he knows that the body that lands next to him is yours.
When he opens his eyes, the world a little blurry and tilted, Kuroo and Yachi have joined the group – Hitoka’s on his other side, and Bokuto’s taken the armchair, Tsukishima and Kuroo sitting awfully close together on the floor. It always happens this way – the group of you always end up in your own corner, the rest of the party carrying on without the host needing to entertain. The music is always thumping just loud enough that everyone has to raise their voices to be heard, but it’s never annoying. Never too much, never overwhelming. It’s why all these people always come back – Bokuto Koutarou’s parties are always the perfect escape.
He’s starting to understand why, tonight.
The night goes on like any other. Yachi rambles about her current dissertation progress, clearly excited to talk about her graphic design and marketing ideas. Bokuto engages her excitedly, asking if she could help him make some recruitment flyers for the volleyball class he’ll be teaching next semester. Kuroo whispers things to Tsukishima, the smirk on his lips pressed to the blond’s ear and Tsukishima’s cheeks burning with a cherry-red blush.
Which leaves Keiji with you. Surrounded by friends who are much too drunk and distracted to care what he does.
So he settles into the couch, spreading his legs to get comfortable – at least, that’s what it looks like. No one questions why he never intrudes on Yachi’s space, why he angles his body toward yours, why his knee bumps yours and then stays there. No one asks why you suddenly look nervous or why you silently decide to let his thigh press against yours. Why your own thigh, radiating gentle warmth, presses back after a moment – although it’d be completely in character for you to make some snappish remark about respecting personal space.
No one asks why your fingers twitch on your leg, your pinky brushing up against his leg, stretching toward him and then retracting.
No one asks about the slight bulge in his jeans. Or the arm he stretches across the back of the couch – in your direction, not Yachi’s.
Your breath catches, and you lift your cup to your mouth quickly. “Cut it out,” you hiss, hidden, and he smiles down at nothing.
“‘m not doing anything,” he breathes back, unheard over the music.
“Bullshit.”
He laughs softly, but he knows you’re right. So he extracts himself, standing carefully and pointing in explanation toward the hall when Bokuto looks up at him curiously. He pushes through the crowd, rounding the corner and taking the stairs up to the second floor. The music is quieter here, and he knows that no one else would venture this far – because everyone knows Bokuto, but no one knows Bokuto. Not like the group of you.
He disappears into the bathroom by Bokuto’s bedroom, clean and uncrowded. His phone screen reads 11:08 when he checks it – endless parties just like this, and tonight, he’s barely managing an hour and a half in the same room as you. He stares at his reflection in the mirror, breathing deep. His vision’s still a little blurry, and his head is still swimming. His cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are heated, betraying how you’re affecting him.
He fixes himself in his jeans so it’s a little less obvious and then runs his fingers through his hair with a sigh. Now that he’s alone, he can see that he definitely needs to sober up a bit. He needs to act right, because he knows the stakes are high. His brain feels clearer, and it’s sinking in that he’s pushing the line with you. That there’s something about you – something about this morning – that makes him want to forget the rules, when he really shouldn’t.
Maybe he’s just too drunk. Maybe he’ll be better about this when he’s sober.
The memory of you crying under him flashes in his mind, and he has to shake his head, leaning his hands on the counter. Maybe those memories won’t come when he’s in control enough to stop them. He has to hope that they won’t, because right now, his mental faculties aren’t listening to him.
Right now, he’s thinking about how you’d squirmed in his lap when he’d fingered you. About how your head had knocked back lightly against the wall when you’d come on his tongue, sweet and warm and wet enough to make him just a little bit obsessed with you. About how you’d looked up at him with wide eyes while you’d jerked him off, asking if you were doing okay. Asking for his approval.
Keiji’s breath comes hard now, and he shakes his head again in a weak attempt to clear it.
The way you’d moaned like a proper porn star when he’d pushed into you for the first time.
The way you’d felt around him, velvety and tight and like no one he’d ever been with before you.
The way you’d clung to him, desperate and scared when he’d threatened to pull away – pleas on those plush, pink lips and tears in those pretty little eyes. Bullying him rudely to his orgasm.
“Fuck,” he breathes. He needs to get it together.
He thumps himself lightly on the head a few times with the heel of his hand, silently begging his boner to go away as he turns to leave the bathroom.
You’re standing on the other side of the door, a frown on your face as you lean against the wall.
Fuck.
“What’re you up to, Akaashi?” you demand drunkenly, your lips pushing out in a whiny pout that makes his cock twitch in his jeans.
Fuck.
“What?” he says, trying to slip past you toward the stairs. You get in his way.
“We decided t’be normal,” you slur, stepping close to him. Your perfume clouds his brain. “You’re not bein’ normal.”
Your chest bumps against his when he tries to move past again, and he finds his hands on your waist before he can think it through.
“And you decided t’follow me up here,” he breathes tightly, walking you back quickly into the wall. Your eyes go wide when your back bumps against it, but the gasp that falls past your lips is because he’s pushing his hips against yours, still half-hard. “You did this.”
“I didn’t-I haven’ done anything,” you try, glancing down in hazy surprise at where he’s pressed against you. “You’re the one who keeps touchin’ me and– and teasing me.”
“Yeah? Is it fucking with you?” he coos, mocking. “Welcome t’the club.”
Your eyes search his. “'Kaashi,” you whisper, slurred. His eyes drop to your lips.
He doesn’t like it when you say his name like that. Soft and pleading.
It makes him want to do terrible things to you.
“Careful, Y/n.”
He doesn’t mean to say it like that. He’s actually asking you to be careful, because he’s not in his right mind and you’re making it worse. You’re making everything worse, and he’s more than happy to blame this on you. But the way it comes out – the way he talks to you – is with a tone he knows better than to use outside the bedroom.
He watches the tension leave your body, and you start to blink up at him rapidly, your face burning and radiating heat into the very limited space between you. He watches your demeanor change – watches you swallow nervously and break eye contact, watches you purse your lips and breathe shallowly – and something in him aches for you.
For the first time all day, he regrets sleeping with you. Because now he’s not sure he can ever recover.
“Uhm,” you start, voice shaky. “Maybe we should go back-”
“Akaashi! Y/n!”
You gasp, and your hands find his chest. You shove hard, and he stumbles back toward the opposite wall with wide eyes. You both turn toward the stairs, watching Bokuto trip and fall up the last few steps. He looks down the hall with wide eyes, giggling loudly when he sees you.
“There you are!” And then he narrows his gaze at you dramatically, examining the situation as he stands. “Oh, no-” He pouts, crossing his arms. “Are you two fighting? This is a party! We’re with friends!”
Keiji sobers instantly, eyes flying to yours as the reality of the night hits him. As he realizes how close you’d come to getting caught, and on the very first day at that. You look just as alarmed as he feels. He doesn’t know how he could ever have explained what’s just happened to anyone else. How things had gotten that far.
He turns without a word and brushes past Bokuto. He barrels down the stairs, ignoring Bokuto’s cry of ‘eh?! where’s he going?!’ and heading straight for the door. It slams behind him, and he races out of the building and toward the street.
He swears loudly on the entire walk home.
–
It isn’t until noon on Sunday that you wake up, groggy and disoriented. You slap your hand around on your bed blindly for your phone, the sunlight that’s streaming through the window making the room feel hot and making you groan. You retrieve your phone from the depths of your bed, squinting at it with a growing headache and a serious case of dry-mouth.
There are some texts from Kuroo and Yachi, asking if you feel as positively terrible as they do, and an all-caps text from Bokuto to the massive group chat, thanking everyone for coming to the party. There’s even a text from Tsukishima, asking if you got home alright and if you know where Akaashi had gone.
Akaashi.
You roll over and bury your face in the pillow, groaning loudly. He’d left so abruptly, and you’d even texted him – multiple times – to drunkenly ask where he’d gone and if he was okay. You check those texts now, clicking into the thread.
[11:16 PM]
You: whewred yiu go>?!?!
You: are yoim okai???
[11:59 PM]
You: akaaaaaashiiiii
You: whyaw didn yoo leave so sunddnly?
[12:39 AM]
You: at lest tellme if tju got ahaome safew
[9:19 AM]
Akaashi: im fine thanks
Your lips twist into a scowl, and you throw your phone down, minorly annoyed by his response. He’d run out of the party without a single word, after teasing you all night and then pinning you up against the wall and fucking with your head. And now he’s going to act cold to you, like he hadn’t admitted to wanting you last night?
Whatever.
You kick your legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the throbbing pain in your head as you stumble down the hallway to shower and get ready for the day. You make a pot of coffee and rummage through your fridge for something that’ll fix your hangover, and then you settle down at your desk and check your personal email, just to see if the new video with Akaashi had been received well.
There’s a string of emails sitting right at the top of your inbox, the last received at 10am.
[10:00 AM] Account Updates (Oct. 22) – New Followers: 2,139; New Comments: 608; New Video View Count: 87,903
[9:36 AM] Congratulations! Your new video has made over $500.
[5:02 AM] Congratulations! Your new video has made over $400.
[3:47 AM] Congratulations! Your new video has made over $300.
[1:59 AM] Congratulations! Your new video has made over $200.
[10:29 PM] Congratulations! Your new video has made over $100.
You stare at the subject lines, your head swimming.
“Holy shit.”
You log into your account in a rush of adrenaline, unable to believe this is really happening. You click quickly into your profile and scroll down to the section for profit information.
$529 dollars, made off of the video of Akaashi fingering you.
That’s almost everything you have in your bank account – doubled in one night.
That’s rent.
That’s rent.
“Holy shit.” You sit back and stare at the number for ten minutes, watching in growing shock as it flicks to $535 and then to $541 in that span of time. You’ve got 137 message requests sitting in the top right corner – 137 more opportunities to make money, if you just dedicate an hour or two a day to sending off quick and flirty one-liners to the horny men flooding your inbox.
Your hand reaches for your phone, because you have to tell Akaashi the amazing news – but then you remember how odd his last text had been. You frown slightly and put your phone back down. You don’t have anyone else to talk to about this – and you want to talk about this, to marvel and wonder at how this could have happened – but you don’t want him to ruin your mood, either.
So you don’t. You don’t tell him – if he wants to know how the video did, he can look for himself. He’s a collaborator on the account now.
You just roll your shoulders back and pull up your video editing software, getting to work.
You have money to make.
–
“Are you okay?” Yachi says the next morning, watching you with thin amusement as you yawn so wide that your jaw cracks. You nod sleepily, following her into the coffee shop.
“Just a long night. ‘m okay.” You scrub at your brow, suppressing another yawn while you wait in line. You’d spent most of yesterday editing the other two videos and responding to messages, and then you’d taken three hours to record solo content, staying up until nearly 3am editing those videos, too. You’d hoped that the solo content wouldn’t lose you followers, actually, since it had been clear just how well-received the partner content is.
But the work had been worth it, because you’d posted one of the solo videos last night and woken up to 500 more followers and another $300 in profit, both from the video with Akaashi and from the spillover of the new followers going back through your old videos and the new solo video. It turns out your solo content is good; it just hadn’t gotten enough traction to make any money. Now, there’s a lot of traffic to even your first couple videos, and every video is bringing in money.
So, even though you’re falling asleep while standing in a coffee shop at 9am, you feel that every moment of sleep lost was a moment of incoming financial peace.
“D’you know what you want yet?” Yachi asks, peering at the menu. “I’m not sure.”
“You get the same thing every time,” you state simply, only smiling when she shoots you a sideways glance. “But I can go first, if you’re totally not sold yet on your medium almond milk vanilla latte.”
“Yes, please,” she says brightly, and you cut past her to get to the counter. You order your drink and a breakfast sandwich, feeling for the first time in weeks that there’s no crippling guilt when you spend the money. It feels nice, being able to give yourself even this small treat.
“Y/n!”
You flinch at the booming voice, already identifying its owner. You turn, stepping off to the side to let Yachi order while you smile at an excited Bokuto. The man bounds up to you, arms swinging, and you’re left wondering how he could possibly have any energy this early.
“Hi, Kou – How was your Sunday?”
“Oh, you know.” He shrugs. “Spent it cleaning vomit out of my rug. But I slept like a little baby, so I feel great today!” He glances past you. “Hitoka!”
The little blond woman flinches at the volume, much like you had, and turns after she pays, joining you with a grin. “Kou! Still on to talk about those recruitment flyers later?”
“Oh, God, yes! I need you!” Bokuto seems to almost vibrate in place, and you let them talk, keeping an ear out for your order while you shut your eyes to let out a deep yawn.
“Hi, Yachi.”
The yawn dissipates in your throat. You snap your head around, finding Akaashi hovering at Bokuto’s shoulder. He’s smiling politely down at Yachi, one hand tucked into his fall coat and the other gripping an extra-large coffee cup. The tired look in his eye tells you he’d lost sleep over something, even though neither Bokuto nor Yachi comment on it.
“Hi, Akaashi,” Yachi says. “We missed you at the party after you left.”
“Yeah, sorry about that,” he laughs quietly. “I started to feel pretty sick, so I left.”
“Aw, that’s unfortunate,” she commiserates. “Are you feeling better?”
“I am, thank you.” He nods, his body language and manners betraying that well-spoken, gentle demeanor that everyone speaks so highly about. You wonder how many people know that Akaashi’s a complete mess before he’s had coffee and anything but gentle in bed.
He turns to Bokuto now, speaking softly. “Ready? I have to teach.”
The silver-haired man nods happily, waving at you and Yachi. “Gotta go! See you lovely ladies at lunch!”
You wave him off, flicking your eyes to Akaashi. He’s got his gaze on you as he passes, emotionless and bordering on disinterest. He doesn’t say a word to you, and then he’s gone, leaving you in the wake of his silence and his annoyingly attractive cologne.
You frown slightly, only pulled away by the sound of your name at the counter. You collect your drink and breakfast, finding Yachi scowling deeply beside you as she stares out the door.
“What an asshole,” she grumbles, only shrugging when you bite out a surprised laugh. “He didn’t even say hi to you! That’s so rude.”
“That’s just how he is,” you mutter, staring down at the lid of your cup.
That’s just how he’s always been. So why does it feel so much worse now?
–
It happens again, only twenty minutes later.
You’d left Yachi at the crossroads separating the Linguistics building and the Marketing building, waving and wishing her good luck with her morning of teaching and dissertation work. You’d trekked up to your office, dropping your things off and heading back down to the first floor quickly in order to make some copies of the handout for your Syntax discussion. You stand in the administrative office while the copies print, and then – after a full minute of arguing with yourself – you make the copies for Akaashi’s section, too. Because the two of you had always had that system, and you wouldn’t allow him to see that he’s affected you enough to impact your professional relationship.
You leave them in both mailboxes and head to the elevator, your coffee sipped slowly as you make your way down the long hallway. There’s an open classroom door on your left, a quiet voice slipping out and echoing in the empty hall.
“...the exponence of morphological features will arise differently depending on the language and its family – take agglutinating languages, for example-”
You glance toward the room, knowing that soft, steady voice anywhere.
Akaashi’s turning his back to the classroom, lifting his right hand toward the chalkboard, when you see him. He’s shed his fall coat, folded over the back of his chair now, and you take him in properly as you pass, as though in slow motion. He’s wearing his standard black slacks and white button-down, but there’s no accompanying sweater vest on top today, completely changing his cozy, boy-next-door vibe into something much more flustering.
He’s got the top two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled haphazardly up to his elbows, which you know is a public speaking habit of his. His left hand sits tucked into the pocket of his slacks, a few thin, silver bracelets stacked on that wrist and his tattoo easy to spot on his right forearm as he lifts it to the board. His hair falls into his eyes a bit, and his glasses sit neatly on his face, perfectly completing the dreadfully sexy professorial energy he’s exuding.
You’re hit with a wave of attraction, worsened when his gaze finds yours through the open doorway. He holds the eye contact as he turns, and you see it’s that same, detached look he’s giving you. But whatever he’s seeing on your face – likely mortifying, given the warmth flooding your face – has one of his eyebrows lifting, a scowl pulling on his lips. He tears his eyes from yours, finally pressing the chalk in his hand to the board in front of him.
“Languages like Korean, Japanese, and Turkish – although in different language families – bear their exponence in a transparent manner, with morphemes stacking in a particular way depending on how the morphological features are assigned and collected…”
You pause just past the door, out of sight, and feel entirely out of place with the strange gnawing sensation that’s beginning to form in your chest.
–
You try your best not to let him get to you throughout the day, but you still find yourself sitting in your office half an hour before lunch, anyway, wondering if you should try talking to him. You know he’s across the hall, and you wonder if maybe you just need a few minutes alone with him to figure out why he’s acting so strange. Had the party really screwed things up that much between you?
You stand and head to the door, stepping into the hall and even making it as far as the single step to his door, your hand raised to knock, before you stop. You hesitate. Maybe he’s upset with you, for whatever reason. Had you done anything bad at the party? No, you don’t think so. It had mostly been his doing, even though he’d blamed you for it outside the bathroom. You don’t think you’d actually done anything except be there, and he can’t really be mad at you for that.
Still, you turn back to your office, suddenly uncertain about confronting him. You return to your desk, settling down with a conflicted sigh and opening your laptop to keep working until lunch.
Your phone buzzes on the desk.
[1:45 PM]
Akaashi: what is it?
Your heart jumps, and you type quickly.
You: nothing
Akaashi: you were going to knock
You: it’s fine
Akaashi: just tell me.
You groan, trying to figure out what to say. ‘I wanted to see if we’re okay’ is completely unhinged and a little bit crazy, and ‘Just checking on you after the party’ is entirely out of character for you. So you just sigh and type up the best excuse you can.
You: was just gonna tell you the first video made over 500
You: and my other stuff is making money now too
You: my rent for november is covered
You: so.. thanks ig
There’s a minute or two of silence before he answers, a minute or two that feel distinctly longer.
Akaashi: …
Akaashi: you were seriously coming to say that to me?
Akaashi: out loud? here?
Akaashi: really, y/n?
You bristle, filled with an irrational anger. Obviously, that’s not what you’d been going to his office to talk about, because obviously you know better. But you hadn’t been able to come up with anything better to tell him, and now you’re being scolded for it.
And how dare he say that to you, after he’d been all over you on Saturday night? In front of all your friends, no less?
You type an angry response.
You: well i didnt DO it, did i?
You: unlike you, i have decent judgment of what should and shouldnt be done in public.
Akaashi: excuse me?
Akaashi: wtf is that supposed to mean??????
You: use that brain of yours and figure it tf out.
Akaashi: you have decent judgment of what shouldnt be done in public?
Akaashi: yet you just LOVE to keep your windows open
Akaashi: dont you, y/n
There’s a piece of you, larger than you’d ever admit, that loves to be the person who makes Akaashi Keiji’s perfect little walls come crashing down.
You: at least thats done in the privacy of my own home
You: not the privacy of someone else’s
You: especially not with all our friends right around the corner
Akaashi: oh go to hell
You: see you there, freak.
You throw your phone down and let out an irritated scream that echoes off the walls of your office. You’re certain Akaashi’d heard it, but you can’t bring yourself to care what he thinks or doesn’t think of you today.
You work until lunch, distracted and angry while you respond to emails and grade a few assignments. When Bokuto texts your small group chat asking about lunch, Kuroo’s expected response of ‘We meet every SINGLE day, Bokuto!’ coming in only seconds later, you slam your laptop shut and pack up.
Akaashi’s leaving his office at the same time as you. He frowns instantly when he sees you, and you scowl openly at him.
“Think you might have a banshee in your office,” he says tightly, pulling his door closed and walking off ahead of you. “There was a demonic scream echoing in the hall earlier.”
You roll your eyes, following him to the elevator. “Worry about your own office, Akaashi. There’s an icy bitch inhabiting your desk.”
He snorts, jamming his finger against the down button. “That’s real classy, Y/n. Can you afford lunch today, or do you need a loaner?”
You whip your head around, staring up at him in shock. His eyes slide shut right away, jaw clenched, and he lets out a deep sigh. When he looks at you again, his gaze is full of regret.
“Sorr-”
“I’ll take the stairs,” you snap, turning on your heel and marching toward the stairwell.
“Y/n-” You hear him follow behind you, even as the elevator dings with its arrival. You throw the door open, ignoring as it slams against the wall, and stomp down the five flights of stairs. He barely stops the door from shutting in his face, his voice echoing in the empty hallway as he flies down the steps after you. “Y/n, come on-”
“Fuck you,” you spit, refusing to look at him even as he’s catching up to you on the landing between the third and fourth floors.
He wraps his hand around your bicep, spinning you around to him. “I’m sorry, okay? That was fucked up-”
You snatch your arm back. “Why did you follow me, Akaashi? You want your 20% now or something? Sorry, I have to transfer it over to my bank first, if that’s fucking okay with you.”
His face scrunches up in irritation. “That’s not what I was saying-”
“You want me to cover your lunch? How’s that? You worried I’m not good for my word?” You spin back around, continuing your march. He sighs angrily behind you.
“You’re so fucking insufferable sometimes,” he snaps.
“Then cut your losses and get out while you can, asshole.”
He’s silent for a moment as he follows you, and then he’s bitter with his response. “You need me.”
You whirl around, cornering him against the wall by the fire exit on the first floor. Your voice drops to a hiss, rage seething in your veins as you lean up into his face. “I’d rather be homeless than fuck you again, Akaashi Keiji.”
He grits his teeth, and he takes your face in one hand, fingertips digging into your cheeks and squeezing tight. You let out a quiet noise of surprise, eyes widening marginally. His eyes are dead of emotion now, but you can see in the fluttering clench of his jaw that he’s angry with you.
“Don’t-” He squeezes your face and pulls you closer, breath fanning out over your lips. “-make threats you can’t follow through on, Y/n.” He lifts his brows knowingly. “You need me.”
You shudder in his grasp, eyes flicking between his and chest heaving with angry breaths. There’s a moment of panic in your chest, because you do need him. You do need him, but he doesn’t need you.
Then why is he so adamant about keeping you?
You scan him quickly, realizing that his chest is heaving, too. That he looks just as frustrated – that his eyebrow is twitching and that his eyes are searching yours. That he’s swallowing hard, waiting for your response.
He needs this, too. You don’t know why, but that much is clear to you. And it’s enough.
“What’s wrong, Akaashi?” you murmur, watching his eyes drop to your lips when you respond. “Worried I’ll find someone else to fuck and throw you away?”
His fingers tighten on your face, but you see it – the panic that you feel, reflected in his eyes. It makes your chest swell with satisfaction, and something else you can’t place. Something like relief.
“Shut up,” he hisses. “Shut up, Y/n-”
His phone rings in his coat pocket, loud and jarring and ripping you right out of this moment with him. His eyes widen, and you raise a hand to smack his arm away, and then you stumble back as he fumbles for his phone.
It’s Bokuto, if the muffled screaming on the other end is enough to tell you anything.
“Hi, Bokuto,” Akaashi mutters, the heat in his voice gone – the polite, sweet, soft-spoken walls coming right back up, brick by brick. “Yeah. I’m on my way.” His eyes flick to you, empty. “Yeah. She’s with me.” He stares right into your eyes, that dead expression solidifying on his face. “Yes. I’ll tell her to check her many messages.”
You pat your pockets quickly, wondering how you could have been so caught up with Akaashi that you’d missed something. Your eyes go wide when you look at the screen – it’s been ten minutes since you’d said you’d meet them for lunch, and Bokuto’s spam-called you six times.
[2:36 PM]
Kou: Y/N!!!!!!! ARE YOU OKAYYYYYYY??????
You type back a quick response.
[2:41 PM]
You: yes omg sorry im omw now
Kou: PLEASE DONT BE FIGHTING WITH AKAASHIIIIII
You: we’re not i promise!!! be there soon
“We’re not gonna have time to eat,” you mumble to yourself – you both need to be in Syntax in twenty minutes. Akaashi brushes past you, heading out the fire exit door.
“Walk fast and eat faster, then.”
You follow behind, sighing heatedly. “I hate you,” you bite under your breath.
“Yeah, well-” His long strides don’t have any intention of accommodating you as he heads to the dining hall. “-I’m not so fucking fond of you, either.”
By the time lunch is over, even Kuroo’s texting you asking if something had happened.
–
Tuesday morning doesn’t go much better.
You’re still angry from the day before, short of patience as you get ready to bike to the LEM meeting and already itching for another fight by the time you settle into one of the chairs in the lab room. Other people file in slowly, and you manage to mask your anger long enough to smile at everyone and ask about their weekend. Your advisor pats you on the shoulder in a fatherly way when he enters, sighing deep as he settles in beside you.
“You’re not presenting today, right?” he asks, checking his phone for emails idly.
“No, I don’t have the pilot data yet,” you mumble regretfully. He just shrugs, shaking his head.
“You have a lot going on. No need to stress about it just yet.” And then he eyes you over his bifocals. “Have you figured something out, though?”
You warm, because Akaashi’s cologne is drifting into the room, just over your shoulder. You know that he’s heard it, because he lingers for just long enough before moving to the TV that you can tell he’d been caught off guard.
“Yes,” you say under your breath, your ears burning. “I figured something out, thank you. I should be good to start data collection next week.”
“Good to hear.” Your advisor nods, and you let out a steadying breath. “Okay,” he says, louder and to the group, clapping his hands. “We have Keiji for updates first, and then-” he points between two of your other cohort-mates. “-you two can fight over who goes next.”
You watch Akaashi go straight into his 20-minute run, explaining some updates he’d made to his theoretical framing and some more thoughts he has for his dissertation. You, as usual, are convinced of his logic, but there’s something about the way he refuses to look at you – cyan eyes passing over you like you’re a ghost – that makes your blood boil. Something about the way he nearly rolls his eyes when he accidentally does meet your gaze, because he can certainly see the burning anger all over your face.
Maybe that’s why – even though you don’t have a single piece of criticism to give him – you open your mouth when he asks ‘Any questions?’ in that gentle tone you hate so much.
“I have one.”
Everyone’s head whips around to you, because you never speak during Akaashi Keiji’s Q&A session.
But it’s Akaashi’s reaction that spurs you on. His eyes fly to yours when he hears your voice, and you watch shock, confusion, irritation, and – finally – vague interest flit across his face in a matter of milliseconds.
“Okay?” he says, the confusion slipping through in the uptick of his voice.
“Your proposed analysis – what are the implications it has for research testing native Korean speakers?”
He lifts one eyebrow, and you feel the room shift.
“You’re asking me-” The other brow joins in now. “-how my research applies to yours?”
You clench your jaw, searching his gaze. He’d said it like he was offended, but you can see he’s pushing you. “I’m asking how your analysis can be used by other linguists in the field – not just to study the grammar of native Korean speakers theoretically, but to study the grammar empirically. With real data-”
“I have data-”
“You have judgments,” you snap. “Native Korean speaker judgments from your consultants. Two consultants, yes?” He nods, and you nod back. “Right. And you expect your two consultants’ individual grammars to speak systematically for the whole of the Korean grammar?”
It’s a cheap shot, but a valid one – for someone else. Not for Akaashi. You know this well enough, that the primary job of theoretical syntacticians is to formulate analyses and proposals of a language’s grammar. You know well enough that it’s not his job to figure out if his analysis will make the cut if tested with a large sample of speakers.
That’s your job. And the job of experimentalists more broadly. It’s your job to take his theory and prove it right or wrong. It’s only his job to craft his logic and evidence in a way that makes the argument worth proving.
And Akaashi knows that, too.
“What would you like me to do, Y/n?” he asks tightly. “Would you like me to run the experiment myself and put you out of a job?”
“Okay-” your advisor starts to cut in, but you speak over him.
“What about all the previous research, Akaashi? The research that’s tested syntactic analyses which differ from yours but still find supporting results? Would you like the field to throw all that away and believe you instead? How do you account for those findings? What’s the bigger picture?”
His eyes light up, molten hot. “What I’d like is a unified syntax of Korean case marking, which the field has been missing for decades. It’s up to someone like you to test my theory; it’s up to someone like me to take your results and update my analysis, over and over and over again until we get it right. That’s what linguistics is about.”
You lean forward, elbows digging into the wooden table. It’s quiet enough in the room that you can hear him breathing across the room, ragged and rough and irritated.
“If you want someone like me to go through the trouble of testing your theory, you should do a better job of convincing me it’s worth my time.” You glare hard at him, your heart skipping when you watch that wall come down. He looks exactly the same, poised and perfect and well-mannered, but his eyes betray how badly he wants to tell you exactly what’s on his mind.
So you smile at him, cold and mocking, and push him over the edge. “Or else linguistics will move on without you.”
“Okay!” you advisor says, looking between you and Akaashi with wide eyes. “I think we get it, you two. Let’s move on to someone else, please – I’m too old for this.”
You stand quickly, the chair scraping across the floor, and barge from the room.
“Y/n!” your advisor calls just as the door is slamming behind you. A moment later, you hear his voice again, muffled. “Keiji!”
The door swings open, and the sound of the lab erupting in chaos echoes through the hall, your advisor’s ‘okay, okay, settle down everyone-’ muted by the door shutting again.
“What the hell is your problem?” Akaashi bites behind you, and you glance back while you walk, finding him stalking after you. You roll your eyes, heading for your office.
“You heard my problem. Your research is isolated and inapplicable-”
“Inapplicable-”
“Goodbye, Akaashi,” you snap, unlocking the door and shouldering your way inside. You throw it shut behind you, but his hand slams down on the wood, startling you. You whirl around with wide eyes and watch him slam the door, the frosted glass window rattling from the force. The two of you are left in the silence of your office, both of your breaths audible in the space between you.
“Inapplicable?” he hisses again, eyes glinting.
“What do you want me to say, Akaashi?” you bark, letting him get in your face. “You want me to just ignore that you’re not thinking about the consequences of your own research?” You poke him hard in the chest. “If you don’t take responsibility for the work you’re putting out into the field, then don’t expect me to be okay with fumbling to use your grammar to explain my data.”
He pushes forward, cornering you against your desk. “That’s exactly what your job is, Y/n. It’s your responsibility to figure out what speakers are doing, just like it’s my responsibility to figure out how to explain that. And you’re not stupid enough to believe otherwise. We need each other-”
“No, what I need-” You stand tall, feeling his breath mingle with yours in the space between your lips. “-is to not be handed another ‘grammar of Korean’ that’s been decreed into a fucking void.”
He doesn’t say a word, just letting his eyes flit between yours angrily. He’s breathing hard, just as hard as you are, and his eyebrows are twitching as he glares down at you. You hold your ground, whispering an admission to him.
“You might be a genius, Akaashi, but you really need to be put in your place sometimes.”
You watch in real time as his demeanor changes.
The anger drains from his body language and his face, leaving him with shock and a lip that’s curling in amusement as he stares down at you with wide eyes.
“Oh, is that right?” he breathes. “And-what? You think you’re gonna do that for me?” You start to protest, but he just takes a step forward, sudden and forceful, and you take a surprised seat on the desk with a gasp. He towers over you, that smile dangerous. “You really think you can do that, Y/n? When you aren’t even confident enough in your own work?”
Your brows furrow, offended. “What-”
“With your shy little smile and your uncertain little laugh when you present to the lab-” he whispers, breath fanning over you as you stare up at him. “With that fucking look you get in your eye,” he growls under his breath. “Like you don’t know what to make of your own research. Of your own skills. Makes me fucking sick.”
You try to stand, but he just leans down, planting his hands on either side of you. His nose brushes yours, and his eyes fill with a heat that isn’t anger. It’s something else, and you can’t place it.
He lifts his eyebrows. “You think you can put me in my place? That would mean we’re on the same level, wouldn’t it? Is that what you’re saying?” When you don’t respond, he speaks slower, like he’s talking down to you.
“Are you a genius, too, Y/n?”
You scowl at him. “I’m not beneath you, Akaashi. I never have been.”
He shifts, and you finally place it – that heat in his eyes, the one that burns through you and makes your heart race.
It’s excitement.
It excites him to fight with you like this.
And the smile that stretches across his face, tinged with what you can only describe as pride, is starting to excite you, too. Because fighting with him feels good. Because you can see that it makes him feel good, too. It feels good to be pushed like this, to show someone else who you really are and be accepted for that, good or bad.
Especially the bad.
This may be the first time you’ve ever been glad that Akaashi Keiji treats you differently.
He steps impossibly closer to you, and you find your thighs parting to let him into the space before you can realize it. His smile grows, and his breath hitches in time with the lurch of anticipation that fills you, because he’s leaning down over you, forcing you to collapse back onto your elbows.
“If you’re a genius, Y/n,” he whispers, carding his fingers ever so gently through your hair. You shudder, chest heaving with a gasp when he pulls taut, fisting your hair painfully in his hand. His eyes twinkle with that terrifying excitement that makes your veins sing for him, and you’re distantly aware that he’s hard against your inner thigh. “Then I want you to fucking act like it.”
The shaky breath you let out is laced with a moan, and his gaze flies down to your lips, his smile stretching into something wild and wicked. He meets your eyes again, that blue-green gaze piercing when he asks–
“Do you think you can do that?”
You shiver, the reaction visceral and entirely visible to him. He smiles and whispers ‘I thought so’, his breath forming goosebumps on your skin.
And then there’s a hard knock on your office door.
“Y/n?” your advisor calls, his blurry shadow visible through the window as he stands just on the other side of the door – on the other side of the terribly compromising position Akaashi has you in on your desk.
Your breath catches, and you struggle against him. “Akaashi-”
He pulls you up quickly with wide eyes, and you both frantically fix your appearances in silence for the half-second it takes you to call ‘It’s open!’ to the door. Akaashi latches onto your arm and drags you forward in a panic, stepping behind you to partially shield himself from view – you have to keep from snickering, because the door’s being pushed open cautiously.
Your advisor stands in the doorway, examining the two of you with wary eyes. “Are you both alive and in one piece?”
You and Akaashi nod. “Sorry for storming out like that,” you say. “I was… a bit heated.”
The old man snorts. “Oh, really? I couldn’t tell. We had to end early because no one could focus.” He looks over your head at Akaashi. “And you left all your stuff in the lab. Were you heated, too?”
Akaashi clears his throat. “Uh… a bit?”
Your advisor sighs and shakes his head. “I’m gonna start putting you two through hell if you don’t cut it out. Force you to say nice things about each other, or look into each other’s eyes for a full minute, or something.”
You laugh nervously. “We’re fine. Sorry.”
He rolls his eyes but moves on. “Did you both apply for Ling Expo? We talked about it in the meeting, but some members of the group went missing.”
You flush, shifting your weight. Akaashi’s fingers find the back of your shirt, tugging you back to where you were so he can remained covered.
“Yes,” he says behind you. “I submitted the abstract last week.”
You nod in agreement. “Me, too.”
The man sighs, nodding back. “We’re all going again this year, so make sure to block the weekend of November 15th off.” You both make noises of understanding, and he takes a moment to look between you. His eyes narrow as he examines you, and then Akaashi over your head, and then you again. He purses his lips and hums. “There’s something about this situation that makes me want to make you leave this door open, but I’m not your father, so…”
A rush of heat washes over you, and Akaashi coughs awkwardly behind you.
“Are you allowed to say that?” he mumbles, and your advisor throws his head back, giving a belly laugh as he shakes his head.
“It’s none of my business what you two get up to in your free time.”
You chuckle nervously. “Are you allowed to say that?”
His laugh, loud and booming and satisfied, can be heard down the hall long after he’s gone.
–
Keiji collapses into his chair, slumping down over his desk and burying his face in his folded arms.
“Fuck,” he groans, muffled and inaudible outside of himself. He thumps a fist on the desk twice, overwhelming embarrassment flooding every cell in his body.
What the hell was he thinking, cornering you against your desk like that? Why is he entirely incapable of containing himself when he’s alone with you? What had you done to him – what witchcraft has taken hold over him?
When he’d woken up on Sunday, he’d spent several hours in a puddle of dread, unmoving from his bed as he’d stared at the ceiling and contemplated what to do. He’d chalked most of his behavior from the party up to the alcohol, but he also knows himself well enough to know that he’d only acted that way because those feelings – those desires that had been threaded under his skin – were lingering somewhere unreachable inside him.
He’d decided by the end of the day that he would need to overcompensate in order to keep your mutual friends from catching on to the fact that there’s a live wire inside him that sparks dangerously every time he even so much as thinks about you. He would need to be more detached than ever if he were to stand any chance of keeping this arrangement with you a secret.
And then he’d overdone it, in that cafe yesterday morning. He’d ignored you deliberately, and he could feel almost instantly when your energy had shifted. And when he’d seen you pass by his class, he’d been a mix of surprised – because seeing you had thrown his heart into his throat and had scattered his thoughts like loose paper – and desperate not to let his students see that he’d lost his train of thought. So he’d scowled at you like you were the last thing he’d ever want to see, and, in the midst of rattling off knowledge that’s been sitting idly in the back of his mind for years, he’d felt a twinge of regret that he’d reacted that way.
And he’d known that you were coming to check in on him. He’d known – by the way you’d lingered at his door, by the way your weight had shifted, by the way your steps had sounded so uncertain – that you were confused. That you wanted to know why he was acting this way. But he’d felt an overwhelming panic at the idea that you might be able to sense his real feelings for what they are – that you’d be able to see just by looking at him that he’s almost concerningly attracted to you. So he’d lashed out over text, and then he’d lashed out at the elevator bay, because even when you’d called him an ‘icy bitch’, all he could focus on was the snarky edge to your voice and how badly he’d wanted to smother it.
When you’d threatened – emptily, but anxiety-inducing nonetheless – to put this arrangement to bed and move on from him, he’d lost his mind in that stairwell. He’d lost his mind, and he’d let his nerves show. And you’d latched onto them instantly, because, as he’s coming to learn, you can read him a little too well.
And that’s terrifying.
It’s terrifying to wonder, in a room full of all of Keiji’s peers – in front of his own advisor, for fuck’s sake – if his attraction to you when you level him with that challenging glare is as palpable to everyone else as it is to him.
It’s terrifying to wonder if you can see what a confused, muddled mess of a man he’s become since sleeping with you. Ricocheting between wanting you and hating you and somewhere right in the middle, where he feels both.
He’s found himself in that middle ground often over the last 48 hours.
And then he’d cornered you against your desk, not even ten minutes ago, and bullied you to your limit – forcing the admission of your own capabilities from your lips like psychological torture, entirely unable to hide how much that had excited him. How much it had affected him, watching you fold like that for him.
But you’d shown yourself to him, too. You’d shown him how excited you’d gotten when you’d realized how he was feeling. You’d shown him that this terrible, confusing knot of uncontainable want that twists in his gut when he meets your eyes–
It’s mutual.
And that – that is more dangerous than anything before it.
Keiji sits up, hands shaking slightly as he presses circles into his temples and leans back in his chair. He slides his laptop in front of him and opens it, navigating to the site for Ling Expo in order to clear his thoughts.
A small part of a much larger conference event that hosts multiple different departments all engaging in their own specialized events for three days straight, Ling Expo is held every year in mid-November and boasts the largest gathering of linguistic scholars in the whole of Japan.
At least, that’s what it says on the home page when he scrolls through it.
In reality, the LEM members – all students of his advisor – are carted away for a weekend to Tokyo’s largest hotel and conference center, regardless of whether or not any of them are presenting. He gets out of a Friday of teaching and spends three days networking, and – luckily – hanging out with his friends, because every department at this university has a group that goes.
Thankfully, it’s all paid for by the university. And, hopefully, he might not find himself in any weird academic standoffs with you this year. The two of you had always been careful not to let your rivalry become clear externally, because that reeks of a lack of professionalism, but there was always something that would tip the weekend into a mess of underhanded comments and awkward encounters in the extensive buffet line.
Maybe this time, things would be different.
Well, things are already different, so he’s not really fooling himself with this positive thinking. Because different could be good or bad.
His phone buzzes in his back pocket, and he closes the tab for Ling Expo while he extracts it. It’s a text sent to the group chat of the larger friend group, only ever used when Bokuto’s too impatient to text both of his smaller groups.
[12:17 PM]
Bokuto: DID YOU GUYS SEE THERES A NEW CLUB OPENING TODAY????
Bokuto: WE H A V E TO GO!!!!
Keiji sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The last thing he needs is to get caught in another terrifying encounter with you, especially at some crowded club with all his friends there to witness it, but he knows how Bokuto can get when he’s told no. So he just opens his calendar, checking what else he would have had planned tonight.
There’s nothing, but there is something for tomorrow night that catches his eye and makes his heart lurch.
‘Research Updates’ is blocked off from 8pm to midnight, seemingly innocuous. Just as it had been on Saturday morning, from 8am to noon.
He sighs, staring down at the scheduled time. Is that still happening? Surely, it would be, right?
But, things between you the last two days had been anything but cordial. And you had threatened to end the arrangement, even if it had been empty.
You text the group chat back, an agreement to go, and he sighs quietly.
He supposes he can go, too.
–
The booming music pounds in Keiji’s head as he squints around in the dark. There’s a pair of hands on his shoulders, guiding him through a sea of people he would rather not be pressed into at the moment. He’s glad he’d decided to change into jeans and a t-shirt, because the slacks-button-down combo would have him soaked in sweat already.
And he’s especially glad you decided to change into a slinky black dress that he never would have guessed that you would own. You’re pushing through the crowd just in front of him now, and he’s sneaking glances down at you as the group fights to find an empty booth.
“There!” Bokuto eventually yells, stretching one of the hands on Keiji’s shoulder out over the distance, locating a singular empty booth. Keiji flinches at the noise, but he follows after you, anyway. You’ve got two hands on Yachi, who has two hands on Kuroo, who has two hands on Tsukishima, who’s complaining while he parts the crowd with his massive frame and leads the group to the table.
Keiji contemplates putting two hands on you, too, because it’s objectively most efficient for keeping the group together. But he doesn’t know how you’ll react – not after his total lapse in judgment in your office earlier. He doesn’t know if you even want him to touch you, now that your head’s probably a bit clearer than it’d been while you’d been trapped under him.
But then there’s a rush of people bumping into him, and he loses you for a moment, so he reaches out as soon as he finds you again – he justifies it as listening to instructions, because Bokuto’s screaming ‘Grab onto her, Akaashi!’ in his ear.
His hands slide across your waist, and a shiver runs down his spine at how you feel under his fingers. You jump at the contact and glance back in panic, probably thinking he’s some weird stranger trying to make a move. When you see it’s just him, you relax a little, but then your eyes fill with nerves, and you’re whipping your head back around to face away from him.
The crowd sways and shifts, forcing the line of you to bunch up in order to not be separated. Bokuto stumbles forward at some point, propelling Keiji right into you. You yelp, tripping, but he catches you, hauling you back against his chest. His breath catches and his heart rate picks up at the feeling of you pressed against him – your perfume wafts over him, and he finds himself leaning down close to your shoulder to breathe it in.
“What are you doing?” you hiss, tensing when his left hand subtly leaves the safety of your waist and slides around you, nestling you back against him more.
“Nothing,” he mumbles back, swallowing and retracting his hand back to your waist. “Just-nothing.”
You glance up at him, hearing his fumble, but it must be too dark to see the flush that spreads across his cheeks, because you only look forward again and focus on following Yachi. He examines you while the group nears the shockingly still-empty booth – he realizes your dress is riding up your thighs, likely from the stumbling and shoving that’s happening in this crowd right now. It rides up enough that he can see the lace edge of your pantyline, and he has to swallow hard, distracted by a memory of lace in other ways.
He reaches down, shielded by the dark, and tugs on the hem of your dress, pulling it back down over your ass. You yelp, looking up at him with alarm.
“Akaashi!”
He shakes his head tightly, turning you back to the front and leaning down toward you. “Your ass was out – I was fixing it-”
You sigh loudly, turning your mouth to his ear. “You can’t just put your hands on me like that-”
“I can’t?” he bites, not an ounce of heat behind it. “You were fine with it earlier-” He grunts, because you’re driving an elbow into his gut.
“Dumbass,” you grumble, but he sees the warmth in your ears, and he smiles despite himself.
Tsukishima reaches the table, and the six of you pile into the rounded booth that’s certainly not meant for six. Keiji’s chest presses against your shoulder, and you’re kind enough to angle your body with his so that you’re not digging into his chest painfully. Bokuto calls out across the table.
“I’ll get drinks!” He disappears back into the crowd, and Keiji wonders for a moment if Bokuto can carry enough drinks for six people. Kuroo seems to have the same thought, the man smacking Tsukishima on the arm and pointing out into the ocean of bodies.
“Go with him!”
The blond shakes his head forcefully. “No fucking way – you go!”
Kuroo groans but pushes Tsukishima out of the booth so he can stumble back into the crowd. Keiji relaxes with a sigh as the four of you left fill the booth more comfortably. Yachi starts rambling brightly to Tsukishima about the club, making comments about the music and the dancing. The blond just blinks back at her with empty, unseeing eyes, nodding occasionally. Keiji gets the feeling he can’t hear a word she’s saying.
You shift next to Keiji, your thigh bumping against his, and he finds himself tracing his gaze over your body while you look out at the dance floor. You feel him looking, and you glance up at him with a raised eyebrow.
“Don’t tell me you’re about to ask me to dance,” you say, your voice barely audible to him. He just tilts his head and gives you a knowing look.
“I don’t dance, Y/n.”
“Oh, you’re so cool,” you mock, cooing at him. He narrows his eyes at you, excitement spilling into his body when he sees how you tense at the glare. It makes him feeler bold – bold, like he’d been in your office, even though he’d sworn to himself only moments after that he wouldn’t do that again.
He swears you’ve cast some sort of curse on him.
He brushes two fingers over your thigh, tugging at the hem of the dress before letting it snap back to your skin. “Where’d you get this?”
You warm, looking up at him with practiced disinterest, but he can feel when your breath changes. “I’ve had it forever.”
“I like it.”
You purse your lips, frowning up at him. “You’re being weird.”
“Am I?” he asks, letting those two fingers trace circles into your thigh and smiling when he feels the goosebumps on your skin. Your eyes flit around his face, and he can see that, under the confusion, there’s anticipation. You’re waiting for him to do something.
“Y/n, look!” Yachi yells next to you, and Keiji pulls his hand back into his lap. He watches as you try, still flustered by him, to follow your friend’s excited pointing into crowd. He tampers a satisfied smile, only pulling his gaze away from you.
It lands on Tsukishima, who’s watching Keiji blankly.
Keiji’s heart drops to his stomach.
The blond flicks his eyes between the two of suspiciously, and then his gaze drops to Keiji’s throat, because he’s swallowing nervously. Tsukishima lifts both eyebrows and then looks away, returning to Yachi’s excited monologue about the well-planned design of the club architecture and decor.
Keiji’s skin hums with adrenaline and anxiety. What is he supposed to do if Tsukishima questions him? Or worse – tells Kuroo?
As if summoned by the devil, Bokuto and Kuroo reappear – they’re holding two trays of shot glasses each, and Keiji stares in shock as Bokuto lines up five shots in front of Keiji.
“Those are for you!” his friend exclaims, doing the same for you. Keiji stares at the shots.
“This’ll put me in the hospital, Bokuto-”
“I have to teach tomorrow,” you add, giving a laugh of exasperation. Bokuto waves it off.
“A problem for tomorrow!” he yells, already picking up one of his own shot glasses. He holds it out toward the middle of the table. “To new experiences!”
Keiji sighs, lifting one of his up, too, to clink against Bokuto’s, and the rest of the table follows.
“To new experiences,” he mumbles, knocking the shot back.
–
Well, Bokuto hadn’t been lying about new experiences, Keiji thinks drunkenly.
His head swims as he stares down at the five empty shot glasses in front of him, wondering where his drinks had gone. You sway beside him, holding a cocktail in both hands as you sip at it – your shot glasses are equally empty, and Keiji’s not exactly sure where you’d pulled an extra drink from.
He watches through blurry vision as Yachi and Bokuto wriggle wildly on the dance floor together, far away enough that he can only tell it’s them by their ridiculous height difference. Kuroo and Tsukishima sit huddled on the other end of the booth, heads bent together as they whisper likely obscene things to each other.
Keiji had worried for about thirty minutes that Tsukishima would tell Kuroo what he’d seen, but the blond seems to have decided that it’s none of his business what happens in this club tonight. Keiji’s grateful for it, especially now that he can see Tsukishima slipping out of the booth, his hand tight in Kuroo’s and both their faces flushed from whatever they’d just talked about. They disappear in the direction of the bathroom, and Keiji snorts to himself.
“‘s one way to do it,” he mumbles, and you lean toward him heavily.
“Hah?” you say, your body pressed against his. “What’dya say?”
“Nothin’,” he slurs, shaking his head. And then he looks down at you, taking you in. Taking in the fact that the two of you have been left alone here in the dark, still visible but not noticeable. He shifts his body toward yours, pressing your sides together while he reaches to pluck your drink from your hands. “What’s this?”
“Hey,” you pout, reaching for it, but he just holds it behind him, forcing you to lean up into his face. Your eyes go wide when you realize how close his are, and he grins down at you, open and unfiltered.
“What is it, Y/n? Can I try?”
“No!” you complain, pressing your body against his as you stretch for the drink. Keiji slips his free arm around your waist, pulling you close.
“Just one sip?”
Your outstretched hand drops to his shoulder, and you say nothing about the arm he has around you. “You’re annoying,” you mumble, glaring hazily up at him. “Get yer own drink.”
He tilts his head toward you, the tequila in his breath mixing with the vodka in yours. “But I wanna taste yours,” he whispers, and your cheeks warm – he hadn’t meant anything sexual by it, but he’s not complaining if you’re taking it that way.
He lifts your drink to his lips, keeping his eyes on you and reveling in the way yours drop to his mouth, and takes a sip. It’s just a Vodka Cranberry, which he’d already guessed by the scent of your breath. He puts it back down on the table, letting you have it again. “Thank you,” he jokes.
“Whatever,” you mutter, cradling the drink again. “Why’ve you been so mean to me this week?”
“Aw,” he coos. “Did I hurt your feelings?”
“Yeah,” you say plainly, pouting. “You made me mad. Made me wanna do bad things.”
Desire spikes in Keiji’s body. “What kinda bad things?”
“Made me wanna be mean to you, too,” you say, oblivious to the way Keiji’s looking at you now. “Made me wanna hurt your feelings, too.”
“You did do that,” he says, laughing at you. “You were so mean.”
“Not mean enough!” you argue, leaning comfortably against him as he holds you. His hand gravitates from his lap to yours, the fingers he’d just had on your drink now cold and damp against your heated skin. You shiver at his touch, and he feels his jeans start to tighten. He draws small circles into your thigh with the pad of his middle finger, his intentions plausibly deniable even though his knuckles brush up against the hem of your dress every time.
“You don’t think calling my work ‘isolated and inapplicable’ is mean enough?” he coos down at you, watching with satisfaction as your lips part and you let out a shaky breath, because his middle finger is slipping once under the hem of your dress before completing the circle. He feels a shock of excitement fly down his spine and spread out across his skin, that live wire sparking in his chest.
He glances out briefly at the dance floor, confirming that Bokuto and Yachi are still jumping around and that Kuroo and Tsukishima have completely disappeared. He’s glad to know that he has more time with you. More time to slide his cold fingers across your flushed skin, more time to feel your body press tight to his. The thought of getting caught like this – with his arm wrapped around you and his fingers hidden under your dress – passes through his mind, and he can’t help that the live wire crackles dangerously, or that his jeans are uncomfortably tight on him now. But, still, he’s glad that no one’s seeing what’s going on over here.
He doesn’t want to share this with anyone else quite yet.
“Hey,” you grumble in his ear, low and whiny enough to make his cock twitch painfully. You grip his face with one hand, turning him back to you. Keiji stares down at you with wide eyes, his breath caught in his chest when you glare up at him and mumble, “You’re not payin’ attention t’me.”
He lets out a weak laugh. “Oh, I’m sorry – were you saying somethin’ important?”
Your pout deepens, and Keiji feels himself leaning toward you, his eyes fixated on your mouth.
“Yeah,” you say, nodding. “I was talkin’ about how you deserve to be bullied.”
He huffs in amused disbelief, just staring down at you. “Y/n.”
“Hm?”
“I have a question.”
“Mm?” You tilt your head, attention his. He starts running his fingers over your skin again, watching when you shiver.
“Are we still meeting tomorrow? Or was I too mean this week?” He swallows hard, hoping you’ll understand what he’s asking. If things are too tense between you – if the arrangement can’t be recovered, after all of his screw-ups this week.
Your eyes widen, flitting between his, and he grows a little nervous. But then your face warms, and you shift under his fingers, and your eyes drop quickly to his mouth before lifting again.
“I thought we were…” you breathe. “Are we not?”
His skin hums with the need to feel you underneath him again, the possibility of having that tomorrow night no longer hanging in the balance. But still, he has to check. “Not gonna find someone else to fuck ‘n throw me away?”
You giggle at his quote of your own words, and you shake your head. “Unfortunately for me, there’s no one else who meets all my requirements.” You grin up at him, your eyes full of humor, as though what you say next is stupidly obvious.
“‘s gotta be you, 'Kaashi.”
Keiji really regrets sleeping with you.
–
On Wednesday at 7:30pm, you find yourself slapping your hand around on the bedside table for the alarm that’s going off. You find your phone, shutting it off and tossing it down on the bed next to you.
You’d woken up at 7am this morning, dreadfully hungover, and dragged yourself to campus to teach. You’d stayed in the department until the very first moment that you were no longer needed, and then you’d Uber’d home, throwing your stuff on the floor in your foyer and climbing back into bed.
You repeat the process now, but you feel significantly better after the extra sleep. Instead of the hangover, however, your brain is burdened by the knowledge that Akaashi will be showing up at your door in thirty minutes. You groan, not for the first time today, at the memory of the humiliating things you’d said and done last night. At the way you’d draped yourself all over him and pouted up at him like an idiot, admitting that he’d gotten to you with his behavior this week.
At the way you’d admitted that there can be no one but him in this stupid arrangement.
You grumble the entire time you wait, stomping around the apartment until you hear his knock at your door.
When you wrench the door open, he looks mildly unsettled, and you know that means he’s as nervous as you.
“Hi.” He shifts his weight awkwardly, hoisting his duffel bag high on his shoulder. He flits his eyes around your face and then down to your pajamas, brows lifting. “Did you just wake up?”
“I took a five-hour nap,” you sigh, letting him in.
“Did you not eat dinner?” he asks, setting his bag down in the spot by the couch that’s slowly becoming his.
“No,” you mumble, wandering into the kitchen and digging through the pantry. “Not super hungry, anyway – just hungover.”
“Oh.” His voice sounds a bit tense, and you realize belatedly that he might have been asking if you wanted to eat dinner with him. You purse your lips, groaning to yourself. Things are still uncomfortable with him – how could they not be? You’ve spent the week bouncing back and forth between being insatiably furious with him and completely folding whenever he gets too close. Even if he seems to have reciprocated some of the confusing feelings wracking your brain lately, it can’t be easy to be dragged back and forth by your mood swings.
You emerge from the kitchen holding out a packet of smores pop-tarts to him, the strawberry flavor open in your other hand. He stares down at it and then takes it, eyes on yours. “Thanks.”
“Your leftovers from Saturday are still there,” you offer, nodding back to the kitchen. “If you want them.”
“Man, you really do hate kung pao chicken,” he jokes lamely, swallowing hard as he opens the silver packaging. You wander toward your room with an awkward sigh.
“Uhm… how many videos should we film today?” You flick your lights on and move to the closet, leaving your pop-tarts on the dresser. There’s a creak in your doorway, and you glance back to find Akaashi leaning against the door frame, his fingers tapping on the crinkly wrapper while he chews slow and drags his eyes around your room.
“Dunno… Three? Four?” He flicks his eyes to you and then away again. “Same deal as last time? Foreplay first, then sex?”
You nod, digging through your drawer full of lingerie. You look him over briefly, ignoring when he tenses under your gaze. He’s wearing baggy, light blue jeans and a form-fitting black t-shirt, tucked into his belt. You hum, plucking a simple white set from the dresser and then reaching into your closet for a pair of shorts and a baby pink graphic tee, a cute strawberry drawn on the front. You brandish the clothes at him in question.
“Girl-next-door enough?”
He nods, eyes lingering on the white lace in your left hand. “Sweet and innocent.”
You shrug jokingly. “Just like me.”
“Yeah, okay,” he snorts, shaking his head. You don’t move, and he lifts his brows at you as he’s lifting the chocolate-filled pastry to his mouth. “What?”
“Uh…” You give him an expectant look. “I have to change.”
“Oh–” He lifts off the door frame and turns in place, staring out into your living room. “Is this good?”
You roll your eyes and strip from your pajamas, tossing your shirt at the back of his head. He chokes on his snack upon contact, and you laugh while you pull the lingerie on. He clears his throat quietly.
“So… you think my research is inapplicable-”
You groan, your shoulders tensing in preparation for a fight. “Please, not now, Akaashi-”
“I’m just wondering if you meant that, or…” His voice is joking, and you know he’s just talking shit in order to fill the silence, but you’re still a little rough when you brush past him, fully dressed now.
“You know I didn’t,” you admit quietly, padding over to the spare room and hearing when he follows. “You said it yourself – I’m not stupid enough to believe that.”
“But you said it.”
“You say a lot of things, too.” You glance at him while you fluff the pillows on the bed. “What is this? Why are you picking a fight right now?”
He shakes his head simply. “Just making conversation.”
“Well, can you make conversation about anything else-”
“Like what?” he argues. “We can talk about research, or we can talk about what positions you want me to fuck you in today-”
“Okay,” you say, flushing. And then you swallow. “What… positions are we doing?”
Any heat that had been in his eyes melts away, and he lets out a breathless laugh. “Seriously?” When you shrug, a smile crosses his lips briefly before he’s smothering it. “Which one’s your favorite?”
Your eyes go wide, and you start to fluff the pillows more aggressively now, your face burning. “They’re all fine.”
“No,” he jokes, stepping close. You’d left your phone on the dresser by the door, and he brings it with him when he approaches you. “You definitely have a favorite.” He slips the device into your awaiting hand. “Tell me.”
You square your shoulders, scrolling through your apps to dim the string lights and change the color, bathing the room in a soft, pink glow. “It’s doggy,” you say without looking at him. “But they’re all fine.”
“Doggy,” he breathes back, nodding. “Understood.”
“Whatever,” you bite, gesturing to the bed in embarrassment. “Can we–?”
He lifts his brows with a grin, waving you toward it. “By all means.”
You sigh, climbing onto the bed and pointing toward the selfie stick you keep on the desk. “I’ll just hold the phone for this first part.” Akaashi goes to get it, and you slot the phone into it with ease. “Okay. Ready.”
He props himself up next to you, both of you leaning against the headboard. You click record and fix the zoom, centering yourself in the frame.
“Okay,” you breathe, settling for looking at him in the camera, because you don’t know if you’re brave enough to meet his eye right now. “We’re good. Uhm…” You think quickly about how this should go. “Just look at something on your phone, maybe, and then come in whenever you think you should.” He reaches for his phone on the bedside table, and you joke nervously. “Not your email, though. Nerd.”
He scoffs, shaking his head with a hint of a smile. “Dumbass.”
You smile, refocusing the camera until neither of your faces are visible. You mess with your hair, watching the ends of it flutter on the screen, and trail your hand down your chest, kneading your breasts slowly and letting out slightly performative sighs. Your fingers dance along your thighs and between your legs briefly, and you see in the frame that Akaashi’s thumb has stopped scrolling. You don’t turn to look at him, but you do smile to yourself, watching his wrist start to go limp as he watches you, distracted.
When you slide your hands under your shirt, your fingers moving the fabric as you squeeze and touch, Akaashi slowly moves to put his phone on the table. He shifts closer, turning his body toward yours, and his hand slides across your thigh. The touch makes you shiver, his palm searing hot on your skin and his fingers kneading at the inside of your thigh appreciatively. You hear him breathe in sharply, and then he presses his chest to your shoulder and drops his head to your neck.
The feeling of his lips on your skin is more intense than it had been on Saturday. You have no idea how, but you’re impossibly more sensitive tonight, and even the breath that fans over your throat between kisses has you panting. He sets two fingers on the wrist that you have hidden under your shirt, tugging your arm away from your body and angling you so he can fill the space.
His hand disappears under your top, and a quiet moan falls past your lips – because he’s cupping your breast, his palm warmer and larger than yours. You start to tremble, your stomach flipping with anticipation and desire every time his fingers move against you. You don’t know why everything feels so different tonight than it had only four days ago, but it feels like Akaashi’s experiencing the same.
His breath is ragged in your ear, and his lips are shaking slightly on your skin, even though all he’s done is touch you. His hand moves over your body almost nervously, fingers exploring in a way that falsely reminds you of anxious inexperience.
You turn toward him. “What’s with you?” you whisper, looking him over with wide eyes. He lifts his head, and you see that his pupils are blown wide. His cheeks are flushed slightly, and his lips are parted and wet.
“Nothing,” he says, shaking his head. And then he tugs on your shirt. “Take this off.”
You hand him the camera stick, and he makes sure to keep you in frame when you peel your shirt off and toss it to the end of the bed. You kick your shorts off, too, while you’re at it, leaving you in your matching lingerie. He hands the camera back and scoots ever closer to you, his hand sliding across your body impatiently while he presses himself to you. You let your head drop and lean your weight against the headboard, letting him explore as he pleases.
When his fingers start to dip curiously between your thighs, that nervous anticipation is firing up. You spread your legs, breathing hard as you struggle to keep everything in frame, and he wastes no time, his middle two fingers sliding over your clothed core.
“Oh-” you moan loudly, much louder than you’d expected, given that he’s barely touched you.
Akaashi notices it too, it seems, because he lifts his head to stare at you, wide-eyed. “What was that?” he breathes, and you shake your head, your lips pursed in embarrassment.
“I was faking it,” you try, despite knowing what he’d told you last time about that.
He lifts his brows, and you see that it doesn’t matter, because he doesn’t buy it. “Liar.” He touches you again, circling your clit roughly through your panties. Your eyes widen, and your lips tremble when your breath comes out. He stares down at you in wonder, watching with a growing smile as you react much more intensely than you had on Saturday. “You’re sensitive today,” he notes quietly, a little satisfied.
You don’t bother denying it, not when he can clearly see how your body is reacting to him. “So are you,” you just whisper, eyes dropping to the front of his jeans. He’s already hard. “I haven’t touched you at all.”
He shakes his head, his fingers massaging into the wet spot in your panties with purpose. “‘s not a prerequisite.”
You lift your brows at the admission. “Good to know.”
He rolls his eyes. “Not like you’re gonna do anything with that information.” He pushes your panties to the side and touches his fingers to your soaked core, and you both gasp at the feeling. He breathes hard, eyes heated as he stares down at you. “You’re not brave enough.”
“Don’t-” you hiss through gritted teeth, resisting the urge to moan when his fingers push experimentally against your entrance. “-tempt me.” You reach your free hand toward his jeans, fully intent on unzipping them and touching him, but his hand comes down on your wrist – a smack of admonishment, gentle but firm. He narrows his eyes at you when you look at him in shock.
“I’m not gonna make it that easy for you, princess.” He pulls your thigh open over his legs to free up more space for himself, and then he’s dropping his head back to your neck and nudging against your entrance more seriously.
You’re wet enough that it only takes one try for both fingers to push into you, pressed against your walls and stretching you out.
You gasp, your head falling back and bumping against the wall. “Oh, my God-”
Akaashi’s no better, his mouth open against your throat and his breath sharp and jagged. “Oh, fuck,” he breathes, his voice distracted and stunned. “Fuck.”
“I’m,” you start, swallowing hard when he starts to move. “I’m not gonna last long-”
He groans, curling his fingers inside you and pressing hard against that spongy spot that makes you nervous. “I want you to squirt for me,” he breathes into your ear.
Your heart jumps into your throat. “What?” you say, high-pitched and shaky. “It’s-That’s not easy-”
You’re lying. It is easy for you, scarily so. And with the length of Akaashi’s fingers – with the way he knows how to press up against that spot every single time – it’s going to be so embarrassingly easy that you’re worried you might never live it down.
“I want it,” he breathes, persistent. He sounds a little urgent, bordering on desperate. “I want you to make a mess on my fingers.”
You whine, squirming against him as he picks up speed. You feel it forming, that pressure that’s different from the normal coil in your navel. “Uhm-I-” Your breath picks up, and his palm slaps against your skin when he slams his fingers into you again. The sting of it, repeated twice more, shoves you closer and closer to that dangerous pressure. “Mm-I’m gonna-” you heave, your body trembling in his arms and your hands struggling to keep the camera straight.
“Give it to me,” he whispers, groaning when your walls start to tighten around his fingers. “Be good and give it to me.”
You black out.
You black out, and you have no idea what happens when you do. You can’t feel anything, your entire body numb and light, floating on nothing. You feel your muscles spasm sporadically with the aftershocks, but you have no idea what had happened to get you here. Your hands are limp on the bed, but you can’t bring yourself to care if the camera had captured the moment. You feel Akaashi’s fingers still inside you – still moving – but you can’t do much more than listen as he pants in your ear and whispers ‘fuck, fuck, fuck,’ against the side of your head.
When you finally come to, you realize that you’re lying in a puddle. And Akaashi is hovering over you, his face flushed and his eyes full of disbelief and a burning heat.
“‘zzat good?” you slur, your head slumping against his shoulder, and he laughs against you, shaking his head.
“Holy shit, Y/n,” he breathes, laughing harder. “That was-fuck.” He jostles you gently. “Are you… Let me get you some water,” he says, shifting you, but you groan in protest.
“Did you come?” you breathe, dazed, and peel your eyes open to look at him.
“No.”
“Then take your pants off,” you say, plain and direct. He looks into your eyes for just another moment, gaze tracking you and analyzing your energy, but you just level a frown at him. “Do you want to come or not, Akaashi?”
His brows lift, and his eyes flick down to the soaked blanket under you. When his gaze finds yours again, that heat is back.
He stands quickly, leaving you to shake the numbness out of your bones as he strips and moves impatiently to get the tripod. He sets your phone up with practiced fingers, and you sit up, shaking your head to clear it and sliding your panties and bra off.
“God, that was intense,” you breathe with a laugh. He glances back at you, a smile tugging at his lips.
“You sure you’re good?”
“Super good.” You nod once, and then you beckon him toward you. “Hurry up, before I start to care what you think again and get embarrassed that that just happened.”
His burst of laughter echoes off the walls, and you feel pride at having drawn it out of him.
And then he climbs over you, and everything that’s not him fades into the background.
His eyes are steady on yours, but he moves with a decided lack of control, and that – his urgency – makes you more nervous than anything else. You lie back against the pillow and spread your legs for him, watching with bated breath as he shoves his boxers off impatiently and slots himself between your thighs. He leans over you, and one of his hands clamps down over your mouth while he lines himself up at your entrance.
He takes a breath, eyes flicking to yours, and you see the anticipation in them. Like he’d been waiting for this all week.
You’d been waiting, too, you realize.
He sinks into you in one press of his hips, and your back bows off the mattress. You moan loud against his palm, your eyes rolling back, and the groan he lets out – unfiltered, desperate – embeds itself into your skin. You struggle to breathe, to find your lungs when all you can feel is Akaashi inside you.
Your eyes focus and unfocus, searching uselessly for him while he slams his other hand down on the headboard to steady himself before setting a pace that makes your vision flicker. Your hands fly up, too, pressing back against the headboard to keep you from crashing into it.
Akaashi’s hand falls from your mouth when he realizes that you’re not making noise, and it becomes clear that you can’t. Your mouth just hangs open, breath ragged and short while you gasp. Your eyes meet his, and he grins down at you.
“How’s that, princess?” he teases, panting tightly. “Still wanna find someone else to fuck? Or am I really the only one?”
He’s taunting you, torturing you. It makes some part of you angry – the part that hates him, so distant right now – and you try to argue.
“You’re only bitching-” You gasp sharply when the head of his cock bumps against your g-spot, scarily accurate like last time. “-because you got what you wanted-”
His next breath comes in a low growl, and he angles his hips so that he can hit your weak spot more easily. Your body shakes with each slam of his hips against yours, but you hold onto a shred of your sanity.
“You talk a lot of shit for someone who’s so needy for me-”
“Look in the mirror, asshole,” you bite, using every ounce of your energy to keep this up. But he presses two fingers against the seam of your lips, shoving them into your mouth. You choke around them, and he moans, because your walls flutter tightly around his cock at the feeling of his fingertips hitting the back of your throat.
“How ‘bout you shut the fuck up and get me off,” he snaps, gritting his teeth when your tongue curls wantonly around his fingers. “Maybe if you’re good at it, I’ll let you come again.”
You whine, despite yourself, and feel that twinge of need – the one that had reared its ugly head on Saturday. The need to give him what he wants, to fold for him and do what he says.
And then it hits you–
That this is what you’d felt all week.
That the gnawing in your chest and the frustration in your bones and the disorienting need to get his attention – good or bad – is exactly this. This need to bend to Akaashi Keiji’s will, because he’s got you wrapped around his finger.
You’re filled with an overwhelming rage, and you nip your teeth against his fingers – not hard enough to hurt, but definitely enough to shock his system.
Akaashi’s eyes go wide, and he hisses and draws his fingers from your mouth, wet and dripping saliva on your skin. “What the fuck?”
“You’re doing this on purpose,” you snarl, one of your hands leaving the headboard to shove against his chest. He stops moving, sitting up on his knees and staring down at you in confusion.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
You shove him again, and he catches your wrist, his eyebrows furrowing.
“You’ve been messing with me all week on purpose,” you spit, and then you sit up, startling him. You use the moment to latch onto him and roll him onto his back, swinging your leg over his waist and straddling him. He stares up at you, wide-eyed, as you try to take control of this. “You’ve been hot and cold, and rude and flirty,” you snap, lifting your hips just enough to sink down onto him. Your breath catches in your throat, and you watch his eyes roll back briefly, a quiet moan slipping past his lips. You plant your hands on his chest, finding a rhythm in his lap that has him gripping your waist tight. You grit your teeth and talk through the waves of pleasure, the ones that start in the crown of your head and make it hard to focus.
“You teased me at the party. And then you acted like I didn’t exist at the coffee shop.” You struggle to keep your breath, your movements growing unstable. His eyes search yours, alarmed.
“What-”
“You acted like I was a burden all day on Monday, and then you fucked with my head in the stairwell.” You glare down at him, hating wide-eyed way he’s watching you. “You fought with me in my office – you liked fighting with me-” You thump your fist weakly down on his chest while you bounce in his lap, angry – but not angry enough. It’s starting to fade into something else. Frustration that he’d played you, and confusion that he looks so confused. “And then you treated me like I was the only thing you could see at that stupid fucking club last night.”
The humilation creeps in – the embarrassment that you’d let this happen. You’d let him humiliate you. It makes your eyes prickle, and you squeeze them shut angrily. Akaashi slides his fingers roughly into your hair, holding tight when you try to shove him away.
“I hate you,” you say, choked and upset and refusing to look at him.
“Listen to me-”
“I hate you-”
“Listen to me.” He fists your hair tighter, jostling your head with enough urgency that your eyes fly open to find his. He’s glaring up at you now. “I’m not doing any of this on purpose.” You’d stopped moving in his lap at some point, too overwhelmed, but he bends his knees now, angling you against his thighs. You gasp when he starts to move, thrusting his hips up and using his one-handed grip on your waist to keep you steady.
“You think I wanted this?” he barks, snapping his hips up and bouncing you roughly against him. “You think I wanted to lose face at that fucking meeting? You think I wanted to fight in the stairwell like that?” His face twists into an angry scowl, and it’s your turn to be confused. “You think I want to get drunk and be unable to keep my hands off you? Huh?”
What-
What?
Akaashi’s hand slides out of your hair, dropping to the base of your throat. His fingers wrap around your neck, and your stomach flips with desire when he squeezes tight. You sigh in relief, the feeling of his palm against your throat when you swallow heavenly. He uses his grip to pull you close, until your nose brushes his. He sets a brutal pace with his hips, fucking up into you while he stares you down angrily.
“You know better than that,” he hisses.
You start to shake over him, your desire mounting. “I-”
“You do know better, don’t you?” he whispers, his voice dangerously even. His eyes burn with anger. “Why are you acting like that? You told me you were smart.” His voice shakes a little, and you can see him struggling to keep up – his cheeks flush and his ears burn red, and he’s starting to pant, broken in a way that makes your stomach flip.
“I am,” you whisper, a bit whiny now. “I am smart – you’re just too confusing.”
The anger in his eyes solidifies into something worse. Something cruel and wicked.
“Then stop trying so fucking hard,” he snarls, slamming his hips up into you. You dig your nails into his shoulders, his sharp inhale clear in your ears. “Stop trying to figure this out.”
You shake your head hard. “I won’t. I can’t-”
“Oh, you can’t?” He mocks, and the edge in his voice kicks and shoves you right to your orgasm. “You won’t, is that it? Even though I just told you I’m not doing this on purpose?”
You squeeze your eyes shut. The idea that Akaashi’s just as affected as you are – just as much a victim to whatever this is as you are – fills you with a terrifying feeling. A feeling close to freedom, close to something that makes you want to throw everything away and give in to him. Because it’s not his fault, either, then. Because – if he’s not doing this intentionally – then there’s no one to blame.
And if there’s no one to blame, then you’re going to stop fighting the way you feel around him.
“Look at me.”
Your eyes open without your permission. Cyan stares back.
“You think I’m doing this on purpose?” He’s breathless and frustrated, searching your face. “Look at me.” His eyes are filled with emotion – that same caution you feel, not wanting to give into this if you’re not going to give in with him. His grip tightens on your throat, and he pulls you close, whispering into the breath of space between your lips.
“You know me better than that.”
When he falls, he takes you with him. And, as much as you want to fight it – kicking and screaming – you don’t.
You just wrap yourself around him and fall.
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BORIS JOHNSON RESIGNS AS MP. Thoughts? The people howl for a new update to the Big Dog the Clown saga.
Yes this was not on my personal bingo card; my most recent Big Dog event was that a friend of mine works for air traffic control and recently had to delay BoJo's holiday flight by four hours, and on being told that this particular plane had to be prioritised for a runway slot because it contained an Important Clown promptly pushed it to the bottom of the priority list. Lol. And then all this! What larks.
Okay not a lot of detail yet still but LET'S TAKE A LOOK AT THE EVENTS OF 9TH JUNE, 2023 and you know what? It's been a while. Let's do it properly.
7.15am
Another day dawns in the reign of evil Grand Vizier-turned-PM Rishi Sunak. He's a very boring flavour of evil, tbh. Say what you will about Johnson, but at least there was spectacle and showmanship to his clownshow. Something for the children to boo and hiss. An animate ham in a villain's wig, something to really enjoy as you sit back, relax, and savour a tall, cool glass of schadenfreude.
By contrast Rishi just gets sycophants - who are no less ridiculous, but far more grey and boring - who pretend he's a tech bro because "he understands AI" and they think that will make him a visionary and a man of the future and maybe some sort of Elon Musk figure, because that's obviously a smashing template to be copied in a leader of a country.
This briefing was presumably drafted using ChatGPT.
Anyway, this is what we thought the day would be: another dreary overcast washout, livened up by Downing Street's latest attempt at making Sunak seem like a good idea to stave off the hulking spectre of Labour's inevitable GE win next year. How trite. How tedious. How mediocre.
What a shame it would be if... something were to liven it up.
8.39 am
Fun fact!
When a PM's term ends, as their last act in office, they get to present an Honours List. This means they write a list of all the people they reckon have been Jolly Good Sorts who have done Good Clowning and Supported The Community, and nominate those people for honours. Honours here can be anything from an MBE/OBE etc, to a Damehood/Knighthood, all the way up to entering the Peerage i.e. becoming a Lord. Traditionally, people have been fairly reasonable with these lists. Apart from anything else, the outgoing PM can only write the list - the new Prime Minister has to sign off on it, and it's usually the case, of course, that PMs are deposed by the opposition party.
Why am I mentioning this? Well: Boris, you see, has now presented his list to Sunak to validate. You may be unsurprised to learn that it contains quite a lot of clowns.
Another fun fact!
If a sitting MP is given a Peerage, they cannot continue to be an MP. MPs are elected. Lords are not. So an MP offered a lordship right now would have to stand down if they accepted, triggering a by-election in their seat that... well. That anyone could win, couldn't they? Ordinarily. Except Labour's shadow is growing, isn't it? I don't suppose Sunak would be all that happy about losing, for example, any Tory MPs nominated for a peerage right now.
What fun facts.
At 8.39am, Politics UK reveals an as-yet-unverified report that Nadine Dorries and Alok Sharma have been removed from Boris Johnson's honours list, and will go back to vetting.
(They also reveal that Big Dog's dad has been removed from the list, because nominating your dad for a Peerage is "inappropriate". Sorry, Bigger Dog. Apparently even corrupt ghoul Rishi Sunak has a limit to what open corruption he will allow, which is news to us all, most of all Rishi.)
10.41am
Nadine Dorries decides she will play to her strengths, and appear on TV to do some Public Speaking, which always goes well for her of course.
Nothing, let's remember, has been confirmed yet at all. But she's here to put people's minds at ease! No power-hungry status-chasing pink maniac, she! She is very clear in her aims.
“The last thing I would want to do would be to cause a by-election in my constituency.”
Quite right, Nadine. That would be disastrous.
11.20am
Oh, it’s Tory think tank NRG’s conference in Doncaster today. Gideon George Osborne, pig-stupid former Grand Vizier and idiot fail-heir to David "pig-fucker" Cameron, gives a speech. Let's see some quotes!
On the Tories’ choices of chancellors since he personally fell on his sword over Brexit left the role:
“You can see when the partnership doesn’t work. The government's paralysed and the politics is terrible.”
Fair, but also you are a government, George.
On Tories who attack the civil service:
“We’re in charge of our country’s destiny. We should stop blaming others if we don’t get things right."
... right. But you just... Uh.
On Tory culture warriors:
“It’s really important that the Conservative Party is excited about the country we aspire to lead… and doesn’t get in to ‘we’re against all these groups of people’. We’re the inclusive people.”
Well, points for clearing that absurdly low bar, I guess. Christ, I cannot BELIEVE Suella Braverman is making George fucking Osborne look good-by-comparison.
1pm
Ooh. Nadine's attempts to put minds at ease have inexplicably not worked, can't think why not. She's such a reassuring and charismatic speaker normally.
But the rumour is now FLYING about that Nadine has indeed been dropped from the honours list, and specifically because Sunak wants to avoid a by-election that will lose him more seats at a time when he is desperate for even a mat on the floor as long as it's blue.
Sorry, Nads. Still; this morning you were very clear that the constituency comes first, so I suppose that's okay. The priority now is that she MUST stay in position, so the Tories can keep their numbers steady. It is VITAL she remains an MP. Let's remember her exact words!
“The last thing I would want to do would be to cause a by-election in my constituency.”
3.45pm
Nadine Dorries tweets her resignation.
The last thing she does as an MP is indeed to cause a by-election in her constituency.
3.50pm
Except this is Nadine Dorries we're talking about. She's found some flashy balls to juggle, look, and a boy to pour custard down her trousers.
Not five minutes after dropping the bombshell, she deletes the last tweet announcing her resignation, and tweets a new one.
The new tweet says, “it is now time for another to take the reins” as the MP for Mid-Bedfordshire.
The original tweet said, “it is now time for someone younger to take the reins.”
*
On Talk TV, Dorries says that "something significant did happen to change my mind", but doesn’t elaborate.
3.56pm
The whispers are whispering. The rumours are rumouring. The knives are sharpening.
Nadine's now-former seat is Mid-Bedfordshire, and has been Tory since 1929; a safe seat, which certainly explains how Nadine fucking Dorries managed to hold it for as long as she did.
An MP on the right of the Tory party says that if the Tories lose the Mid Bedfordshire by-election, it’ll open questions about Rishi Sunak's leadership CLOWNFALL 3: REVENGE OF BIG DOG LET'S GOOOOOO
3.57pm
Nadine Dorries is removed from the WhatsApp group.
I would love to know who leaked that image. I really should not have that image. Ah well. Now you do too.
4.12pm
Good tweet alert!
5.08pm
Phew! What a day. Let's see how Rishi's getting on.
He approves the rest of BoJo's honours list. Shall we take a look at our newly-honoured citizens? Shall we see what familiar names crop up?
Honours for staff at centre of Partygate Jack Doyle, Rosie Bate-Williams and Shelly Williams-Walker (and a lot of other terrible and disgraced people who were loyal to Johnson, and some of Carrie Antoinette’s friends).
Damehoods for Andrea Jenkyns and Priti Patel.
Knighthoods for Jacob Rees-Mogg, Conor Burns, and Michael Fabricant.
An OBE for Kelly Jo Dodge, Parliamentary hairdresser.
Also honours for Ben Houchen, currently at the heart of a media storm about dodgy property deals. His huge regeneration project in Teesside is subject to a government investigation regarding the governance, finance and value for money.
*
(Interesting point – Tory MPs Allister Jack and Nigel Adams were offered peerages, but decided to wait, since accepting now would trigger by-elections.
Why were they offered at all, do you think?)
*
So … this means Michael Fabricant is now Sir Michael Fabricant. Like, actually. Genuinely.
Nice one, Rishi. Thank goodness you understand AIs.
5.44pm
The Guardian’s Pippa Crerar - journalist who brought down Big Dog one Partygate reveal at a time - tweets her guide to he honours list:
Martin Reynolds, former PPS, invited 200 officials to drinks in Downing St garden. He told officials to "bring your own booze", later adding: "We seem to have got away with it".
Shelley Williams-Walker, getting a Damehood, was No 10 head of opps & now runs his office. At No 10 party the night before Prince Philip's funeral she was dubbed "DJ SWW" for her banger playlist.
Jack Doyle & Rosie Bate-Williams, who get OBEs, were press spox who repeatedly denied the parties happened
Dan Rosenfield, who gets a peerage, quit in mass exodus of senior No 10 staff as anger over Partygate grew. Former chief of staff faced reports he was among senior Downing Street officials who attended a Christmas quiz when restrictions were in place.
Shaun Bailey, who ran unsuccessfully for London mayor, gets a peerage, and Ben Mallett, a close friend of Carrie Antoinette's who ran Zac Goldsmith’s disastrous mayoral campaign, gets an OBE. Both are in this picture of a lockdown-flouting party at CCHQ:
What a sea of punchable faces.
7.58pm
But we've been so focused on Nadine! She's fucked up her juggling, look, but she's sliding around on the rollerskates, ever so distracting. But here's the thing, Tumblrs, here's the thing:
Among all of this, what's the Chief Clown doing?
The Privilege Committee reveals in their draft report that Boris Johnson misled Parliament, and recommends a sanction of more than 10 days.
Does that sound too little? Are you wishing it were smething more meaningful? Let me help put it in context.
This sanction would be enough to trigger a by-election in Johnson’s seat.
8.02pm
Boris Johnson
QUITS
as an MP
The committee said Johson had “impugned the integrity” of the House of Commons. Fascinating! I didn't know its honour had ever been pugned.
He accuses the inquiry of trying to “drive me out”!!!!
"It is very sad to be leaving parliament - at least for now - but above all I am bewildered and appalled that I can be forced out, anti-democratically, by a committee chaired and managed, by Harriet Harman, with such egregious bias".
Worth noting that the committee has a Conservative majority, mind. But you mustn't let things like facts get in the way of your feelings, BlowJo. You never have as a politician. Nor as a journalist, come to that.
(Also SIDE NOTE – “at least for now”?? What are you planning, Big Dog?? I suppose Nadine is leaving an empty seat...)
8.41pm
Christopher Hope of the Daily Telegraph reports he’s heard rumours of a THIRD Tory MP potentially resigning – and another Johnson loyalist at that. Lol. Trololol. Lmao, even. Perhaps rofl.
11.43pm
And finally, the day is wrapped up with the Guardian revealing their front cover for the following day:
Big Dog is OUT, hot trans bloke is IN.
Not a bad finish.
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chapter 4
pairing: hoshina soshiro x f! reader
genre: romance, angst
wc: 5k
summary: you've loved soshiro since you were seven. he will always place his duty above you.
chapt 1 / chapt 2 / chapt 3 / chapt 4 / chapt 5
When you blink open your eyes, you find yourself back in the Hoshina family estate.
The garden is exactly as you remember it. Bonsai trees, neatly manicured. The white gravel ocean raked with ripple lines. Heat shimmers off the ground, harsh summer sun bearing down on the tiled roof. A young man with dark hair and sad, violet eyes sits across you.
“Soshiro”, you cry, fumbling to your feet.
He looks right through you even when you’re standing right before him.
He’s wearing the navy hakama he reserves for formal occasions, the family crest embroidered in gold thread on the back, a ceremonial katana strapped to his hip. Something’s about to happen, you realise, the compound bustling with servants carrying paper lanterns. No one pays you any notice as you float behind him down the familiar corridors of the house, a ghost.
His father approaches, severe lines running through his forehead. “You know your duty”, he claps his son’s shoulder with a heavy hand.
Soshiro’s shoulders slump, an invisible weight bearing down on him.
His duty awaits outside the estate’s gates.
A young woman, clearly noble born, waits for them to greet her with her chin in the air, dolled up in matrimonial white, surrounded by a retinue of servants. She tilts her chin higher to assess her groom as he offers her his arm before bowing her head demurely, letting him help her up the stairs.
The sun in your eyes forces you to turn away. Another woman catches your gaze, the profile of her face backlit in the blue-grey dusk. Rough hands, a cheap, cotton yukata, she hides in the shade. Her anguish is apparent in the defeated curve of her mouth.
She’s you, you realise, with even sadder eyes.
This is a dream, you tell yourself. A shitty, crappy excuse of a dream that you probably caused by drinking one too many cans of beer. You really should take better to maintain a healthy REM cycle, maybe pick up some meditation or exercise, because heaven knows your psyche will suffer if your subconsciousness decides to torture you in your sleep too.
You close your eyes.
You still don’t find yourself back in your bed. Instead, the stench of manure hits you, then the scratch of straw under your feet. That sad girl - you, in another life perhaps, kneels before the same dark haired boy, Soshiro, still as a statue.
“The horse is saddled. We can ride somewhere, far away where no one knows either of our names, leave all of this behind. You don’t have to get married to a woman you don’t love -”
He’s carved of marble in the moonlight, doesn’t move to meet her gaze, not even when she tugs at his sleeve. “I am but a second son, but even I know my duty to my clan.”
“And what about love?” she asks. “What about me?”
Neither of them notice you when you tumble out of the stable into the night. But there’s nothing but darkness looming before you, the moon nowhere to be seen, and when you turn back, the stable has disappeared. In its place, a familiar, wooden hut, where a fire grows. The heat of the forge stings your face, ash flying, the smell of burning steel in the air.
This time, Soshiro’s in the lacquered leather of a samurai warrior from centuries past. “Is it ready?” he directs his question at the woman in the forge.
Wordlessly, she hands him the sword in her hand, red hot from hammer and tongs. He weighs it in his hand, swings it once, twice, flashing quicksilver in the dim light of the blacksmith’s forge. You recognise the blade. You’ve seen it hung up in one of many sitting rooms in the Hoshina estate, captioned as belonging to a Hoshina ancestor who never returned home.
You understand why her voice quivers when she calls out to him before he leaves. “My lord”, she says. “Will you ever lay down your sword?”
“Perhaps in another life”, he replies.
In the shadow of the forge, the violets in his eyes wither and die.
You cannot bear to watch this play out before you again and again, a twisted loop you’re powerless to stop. There is nothing you can do to shock yourself awake, a ghost in every lifetime you freefall through, so bone weary, you stop running, sink to your knees. Wherever you are, the nightmares stop once you close your eyes. The damp grass is cool against your back, the darkness becomes soothing. It’s easy to lose yourself to a deep, undisturbed sleep.
(wake up)
The thrum of your heartbeat starts to still. You think you hear a faint echo. It sounds like Soshiro.
For the first time in your life, you hesitate to answer.
(please, wake up)
“But it’s comfortable here”, you say to no one at all. “I’m so tired.”
The neverending grind of work, of long hours spent hunched over glowering flames and complicated weapon blueprints. The dull ache of heartbreak, the painful lesson of learning to be okay alone.
“Let me sleep”, you whisper.
The darkness holds you close, blankets you. It’s too easy to let yourself just be, no one to disappoint, no one who disappoints. You let yourself be pulled beneath the tide, the endless ebb and flow lulling you into a dreamless slumber.
Perhaps you could be content like this.
Perhaps not. You think of the menagerie of plants you’ve gathered, they depend on you for food and water. There’s a pottery class on Sunday that you’ve been excited to attend, an abstract pot that you want to attempt. You’re supposed to meet your mother for tea, you’re looking forward to feasting on peaches, in season in the dying weeks of summer.
Your eyelids are still heavy with the weight of sleep, but you force them open. A streak of pain that shoots through your right side, but you slowly sit up anyway. A sea of hydrangeas, shimmering violet-blue in the early morning light stretches before you.
An achingly familiar voice calls your name. You lift your face to meet the rising sun, feeling its warmth flicker through you.
Your heart begins to hum.
You’re not in your own bed when you crack your eyes open.
The room is too white, too pin-neat. There are clear tubes running from your arms, bandages restricting even your slightest movement, not that you really can do much other than shift about the too-narrow bed you’ve found yourself in, the sudden brightness disorienting you.
“Oh!”, an unfamiliar voice exclaims. “Call the doctor, she’s awake!”
Your head threatens to split open. It hurts too much to stay awake.
You fall back into a dreamless sleep.
You drift in and out of consciousness after that, the pull of sleep still irresistible, but you stay awake for longer periods of time. Doctors poke and prod at you, nurses fuss over you. It’s hard to recall any conversations you have during this time, your memories melding almost into your dreams.
People ask you questions about your name, your age, where you’re from. It feels as if you’re stuck underwater, it’s a struggle to gasp for enough air at times to answer them, but you think you find enough brain cells to rub together in the cotton wool jumble in your head, mumble the right answers so they go away.
Your parents show up to visit you.
‘’Llo”, you mutter. Your father looks strangely old, your mother tired.
You’re pleased that your mother brings chopped peaches for you, less so when you realise you have no ability to swallow solid food just yet. They disappear for a hushed conversation with the doctors, leaving you with little distraction so you drop back off to sleep.
The next time you wake, the room is dark.
Even in the dim glow of machines beeping, you make out the faint outline of a boy you know too well, curled up uncomfortably in a plastic chair. “S‘ro”, you mumble, half asleep.
A flurry of movement. He appears by your uninjured side, staring at you wide-eyed, as if he doesn’t believe you won’t disappear. You wonder if he’s another figment of your dreams because he stands so still drinking his fill of you, until he remembers to breathe again.
“Hey”, he says hoarsely.
“Mmph”, you grunt. In your vague, rambling train of thoughts, you register surprise that he’s even here. “S’ work?”
His laugh is wet. “Are you seriously askin’ me ‘how’s work’ right now?”
You frown. Why - why is Soshiro even here?
“I’m here for you, silly”, a warm hand settles on your left arm. “Go back to sleep. I’ll seeya later.”
You start to stay awake for longer stretches at a time.
Your parents gently fill you in on your situation. You were touch and go for a while, your mother recounts tearfully, your head injury making the doctors doubt you’d ever wake. You had to be cut open to stop internal bleeding in your gut, fix a multitude of shattered bones in your right hip and leg. Burns, on your shoulder and arm which required skin grafts, extensive medication to keep infection at bay.
Everyone treats you like you’re made out of glass even as your condition steadily improves, aided by the wonders of kaiju regenerative technology. Your parents fuss over you like a child, tucking you in too tight beneath starched hospital sheets. The nurses refuse to let you shower, only allowing you sponge baths which you detest.
Soshiro’s the worst of the lot.
At first it's endearing how protective and sweet he is. The doctors give him a wide berth, most of the nurses terrified of him, though he swears that he’s been utterly polite when you question him about it. He doesn’t allow you to do anything yourself, not even hold your own cup of water when you drink. Your bedside is overflowing with colourful greeting cards, half of them signed by him, and he brings you a fresh bouquet of flowers during each visit.
“That boy is besotted with you”, one of the nurses who isn’t intimidated by Soshiro trills in with her unsolicited opinion. “It’s adorable.”
He’s not”, you deny, frowning. “We’re just friends.”
It’s a little too much. The only visitor who doesn’t smother you is Sochiro, who snaps back to his usual self the minute you show a little of your usual snark. “Did you break your head too?” you ask, when he arrives bearing a hamper of fruit.
“Impertinent brat”, he snaps back. “I’ll have you know my father put me up to this.”
You grin. “I suppose that’s where your brother got his manners from. Pity you don’t have any.”
He glowers at you, but doesn’t storm out of the room. Instead, he brandishes a small, silver knife and starts peeling fruit. “I never wanted a younger sibling”, he grouses. “Should’ve dropped Soshiro in the drain the minute he was born, then I’d never have to deal with your smart mouth -.”
“Aww”, you coo. “Hoshina Sochiro, Captain of the Sixth Division, getting soft in your old age.”
“Shut it”, he snaps, while stuffing perfect wedges of fruit into your palm.
It reminds you of the easy friendship you had with Soshiro, not the way he’s behaving, almost as if he feels anything more than friendship for you - which he’s confirmed to your face that he mostly does not. It confuses you, the tender way he treats you, the lingering stares when he thinks you’re asleep, and you much prefer him to go back to the way he was before.
“Stop it!” you finally burst, when his smothering becomes too overwhelming. “Treat me like your friend - not like I’m some glass figurine you’re trying to keep safe.”
A plastic chair screeches back. He stares at you. “Do you even realise how close you were to dyin’?”
“Sorta”, you reply, though some gaps remain empty in your memories, “but I’m okay now, and ‘sides, what happened was just bad luck -”
“No it wasn’t just luck”, he replies. “It wasn’t. It wasn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
Something shutters behind his eyes. “It’s my fault you’re hurt.” He angles himself away from you. “I crashed into your building.”
“The kaiju threw you into the building”, you correct. “It wasn’t your fault.”
He lunges forward to grip your bed rail, his sudden intensity scaring you. “I could’ve been the cause of you dyin’-”
“My head’s pretty hard”, you try to diffuse the building tension with a joke. “Would take more than a fallin’ building to kill me.”
He makes a strangled sound of outrage in his throat. “Don’t. Just - don’t.”
His tone is devoid of its usual lightness. He’s - he’s angry, scared, face twisting into a scowl, body coiling, as if preparing for an attack. “You’re upset”, you murmur. “Don’t be.”
“You could’ve died.”
“Hey”, you beckon him forward, lifting your uninjured hand off the bed to place it on top of his. He grasps at it, a drowning man clutching at a lifeline.
“It’s okay”, you say gently. “I’m okay.”
“Promise me you’ll stay safe.”
“I’ll try my best”, you offer.
An angry sound escapes through his clenched jaw, his face strained. You brush the skin of his wrist with your thumb until the too-quick staccato of his pulse steadies.
“Go to sleep”, he finally says. “Just stay safe.”
After that, something shifts. Soshiro resumes the mantle of his chaotic, goofy self.
“I’m gonna yell at you when you’re better”, Soshiro huffs the next time he visits. “A daikaiju -it was a nine on the fortitude scale, y’know - decides to attack near you, and you not only choose to stay put, you run back into a collapsing building for whatever reason -”
“I was trying to save some of the blades -”
“How about you focus on savin’ your own damn skin -”
You sniff, deliberately closing your eyes. “I’m going back to sleep.”
“Oi”, he grounds out. “Stop pretendin’.”
The reappearance of the playful banter you’re used to sharing with him puts you back at ease. “Don’t you need to sleep too?” you ask, staring pointedly at the purple smudges beneath his eyes. “In a bed, not a hospital chair that’s going to give you a crooked neck.”
“S’fine”, he always replies. “Still way more comfortable than sleepin’ out in a forest durin’ kaiju hunts.”
“Still”, you insist. “You don’t have to visit me so often. I know how busy you are with work.”
He squints at you. “Do you not want me to be here?”
“That’s not what I’m saying and you know it -”
“Sometimes work can take a backseat.”
You beckon him forward, place a hand against his forehead. “No fever”, you pronounce. “That’s odd - the Hoshina Soshiro I know would never say that unless his mind is addled by illness-”
He pulls away with a splutter, cheeks a furious pink.
But awkward moments like this remain, no matter how much you try to keep your conversations light, breezy. There’s a tension Soshiro carries, especially apparent in the broad lines of his shoulders. He’s nervy, jumpy almost, the unguarded hitch in his breath when he draws in just a little too close. There’s something he’s keeping in, deep inside his chest that keeps trying to explode out of him whenever he’s not careful.
There’s a glimpse of that when you tell him of your plan to move back to Osaka to continue recuperating under your parents’ roof. You’ll miss your apartment where you navigated much of your young adult life, the routines you’ve built for yourself. But you’re tired of living in the hospital, sleeping on a too-hard bed, without much privacy from nurses who pop in and out of your room at odd hours at all times. Your parents agree to ferry you to check-ups and appointments, and they even got your brother to transport your plants to make you feel more at home.
“You’re not leavin’ for good, surely”, he frowns.
“I’m not sure”, you shrug. “Izumo Tech does have offices in Osaka, and there isn’t much tying me to Tokyo anymore.
There’s a sudden lull in the conversation as Soshiro falls silent, face stricken. He opens his mouth as if to speak, once, twice, before shutting it deliberately, Then his face slackens into a childish pout.
“Don’t go”, he whines. “Who would I hang out with when I’m off-duty?”
Caught off guard from this sudden change in mood, you refrain from pointing out that you’d each taken turns to studiously ignore the other before. “You’ll survive”, you pat his hand. “And, on the rare occasions you actually find the time away from work, you’re always welcome to visit me in Osaka.”
“I will”, he replies, so seriously that your traitorous heart skips a beat.
“I doubt you’ll get enough time off work”, you brush him off lightly before changing the subject.
You don’t expect him to visit, not when Osaka is two and a half hours away from Tokyo on the shinkansen, but he turns up at the doorstep of your parents’ apartment with roses, dusty pink like the flush up his neck.
“Hoshina-kun”, your mother exclaims. “Come on in!”
Something is up. Your mother bustles around, ushers him into your room, lays out before him an offering of cut fruit. Surprised at the tableau before you, you blink, looking up from your book.
“Don’t you have to work?”
“I do have days off, y’know.” He says, easing you into your wheelchair.
“Thought you said killing kaijus isn’t a nine to five job”, you remind him pertly.
He tweaks your nose. “Don’t be smart”, his eyes crinkle as he laughs, rolling you out of the confines of your parent’s house to a nearby park to enjoy the crisp cool autumn breeze, settling you down in the shade beneath a sprawling gingko tree.
“Well, how’s work?”
He considers you with a sideways glance. “I refuse to answer”, he says primly. “If I do, you’ll make use of it to accuse me of being obsessed with my job.”
“Aren’t you?”
“This is exactly what I mean”, he throws his hands out dramatically. “Shouldn’t you just be happy I’m here -”
“Actually”, you tease. “Isn’t the train fare really expensive? Can you afford that on your pay?”
“The Defense Force’s generous enough to give me food, clothing and a roof over my head”, he replies drolly. “So I think my bank account can take the occasional hit.” Then, he shoots another mock glare your way. “Anyway, I don’t wanna talk about work or anything related to work.”
“Then I guess there’s nothing else to talk about”, you tap your chin thoughtfully.
“Idiot”, he wrinkles his nose. “We haven’t even talked about how you’re doing.”
“Me?”
Exaggeratedly, he takes a look around. “I don’t see anyone else I could be askin’ about -”
“You wanna hear about my boring doctor appointments?”
His eyes are wide, earnest. “I wanna hear about everything.”
The sudden seriousness of his demeanour catches you off-kilter. Haltingly you tell him about the long check-ups that take hours, the doctors being optimistic about your progress, the physiotherapy sessions you’ve started. You’re slowly starting to walk again, a few steps at a time, giving you hope that you’ll be on your own two feet by the time of your brother’s wedding at the end of fall, even if you have to rely a little on crutches.
“I’m talking too much”, you say, looking down at your lap.
“Don’t stop”, he urges. “Keep talkin’.”
A snort. “You’re gonna get sick of the sound of my voice”,
“What a silly thing to say”, his gaze holds yours, steady, sure.
There’s something impossibly soft in his eyes, a tenderness in the curve of his mouth. You don’t dare to put a name to it yet, don’t even dare to look too closely at it lest you lose yourself to daydreams that can’t possibly be true. Yet, in the purpling dusk, even though the seasons dictate that there be no summer flowers this late in the fall, there’s a bud of hope in your heart that starts to unfurl, petal by petal, twining itself between the ribs of your chest.
(i like you)
(i’m sorry)
You remind yourself that your heart is not quite healed. Stitches remain, fleshy scars pink and raised. Ventricles working overtime to compensate for the damage he’s wrought just months prior. Mercilessly, you prune those hopes like unwanted weeds, chopping away at errant stems and leaves.
“I’m tired”, you break away from his gaze. “Shall we call it a day?”
He makes it difficult for you to safeguard your heart.
Once a week, he makes the trek from Tokyo to Osaka without fail, appearing at your parents’ door with a bouquet of flowers and a bag bursting with fruit, whatever is in season - peaches and peonies, apples and chrysanthemums. Picnics when it’s sunny, cafes or supermarkets when it rains. Your mother has a sudden change of heart regarding him, always asking you when he’s coming to take you out next.
“Seriously, don’t you have work?” you demand. “You can’t keep coming down here, it’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?” he asks quietly.
“It is”, you reply. “It’s a waste of your time and money.”
With careful, calloused fingers, he tilts your chin up to meet his gaze. “What must I do to make you believe it’s really, really not.”
You flinch, cramming your thrumming heart back into the confines of your chest. “You’re ridiculous”, you say as calmly as you can. If your leg weren’t still broken, you’d flee in the other direction, put as much distance as you can between you and Hoshina Soshiro, for fear of losing your heart again to him.
He’s relentless, a quality that makes him an excellent swordsman and soldier, though it does not bode well for your heart. You spend the next few weeks keeping your conversations light, unsentimental, refusing to allow that unnamed emotion budding in his eyes flourish any further, he remains undeterred. You catch him watching you sometimes, with something you don’t dare to name that bleeds into you, spreading the seeds of hope deep in your gut.
“I’ll be back next week to see you”, he always says. “Stay safe.”
You should tell him to leave you alone, let you replant your heart in another pot, give it a chance to learn to stop looking towards him for his light. But the words choke in your throat, and it’s all you can do to look the other way.
You don’t get any respite even at your own brother’s wedding.
It’s too large, too crowded an occasion, your parents booking out a banquet hall in an upscale hotel to cram in their swarms of guests. As the younger sister of the groom, you’re expected to greet each and every guest, thank them for their attendance even if you’d much rather be at home, warm and snug in bed. Instead, your head threatens to split open, your hip’s on the verge of falling apart. You curse your stubbornness in insisting against bringing your wheelchair, the crutches you lean on cutting into the tender flesh of your underarms.
“Did anyone tell you that you look beautiful tonight?”
As it was in your dreams, he’s in a haori, deep blue with golden thread, but this time he looks right at you. Your mouth goes dry and you can’t seem to swallow your heart back down your throat.
“Save your flirting for my cousins”, you retort, turning away. “They’re all aflutter at meeting you tonight.”
He doesn’t let you flee. An arm loops around your waist, sears through the silk layers of your kimono and smoulders. “You’re cranky cos you’re tired, so let me help you.”
You blame your capitulation on the absence of your wheelchair, not because you’re light headed from the sudden surge of helpless affection in your gut, as much as you refuse to allow yourself to believe his words. You let him steer you into your seat, palm flat against your back, heat suffusing into your skin.
“I’ll be here if you need me”, he says simply.
You don’t need him, you want to say, you can’t, but your mouth can’t seem to form the words when he leans in, tucks a stray strand of hair behind the shell of your ear, his touch feather light.
“Vice Captain Hoshina!?” As you foresaw, a gaggle of younger cousins goggle at him, drag him away for selfies and autographs. You don’t get a chance to speak with him again once the wedding starts, the seating plan placing him with his parents and other business associates of your parents, a few tables away.
The sheer scale and grandeur of your brother’s wedding isn’t what you’d have chosen for yourself, the cavernous ballroom feeling too large and impersonal, speeches dragging on for too long, but your brother and your new sister seem to radiate contentment, though you suspect the champagne toasts might have helped.
As the sister of the groom, you’re the target of your older aunts’ inquiry as to ‘when it’s your turn next’, never mind that you burrow into your seat, trying to disappear from sight, and when that fails miserably, try to divert their attention to anything, anyone but yourself. If you had full use of your legs, you’d make a hasty retreat by now, but you’re so painfully slow on your crutches that you’re sure even the oldest grandma questioning you on your dating status (or lack thereof) would be able to catch up with you.
“Ladies”, a smooth voice cuts in. “How are you all doin’ tonight?”
A boyish smile with a cheeky snaggletooth works wonders on elderly ladies, you learn. It gives you the chance to slip away to the bathroom, splash water on your face, shackle your heart back in place.
This brief reprieve doesn’t last long. Soshiro emerges from the shadows, pushing off the wall to pad quietly behind you.
“What are you doing here?” you demand. “You should be back inside -”
“I’m here to make sure you’re safe”, he replies. “Unless you don’t want me to make sure you don’t fall and crack your pretty head open?”
“Stop it”, you say crossly, your crutches clacking loudly on the floor as you speed up, trying to put some distance between you two. “You’re giving everyone the wrong impression.”
He follows right on your heels. “Perhaps I’m givin’ the right impression -”
“Just - just stop, Soshiro.”
You burst through glass doors to push your way onto the open rooftop in the hope that the nighttime air will cool the heat rising in your cheeks, but you miss your step, crutches sliding on marble tiles and oof -
Warm arms wrap tightly around you. You tell yourself it’s the shock of your almost-fall that makes you sag against a broad, lean chest, compliantly allowing Soshiro to tuck your face into his shoulders, settle an arm beneath your thighs, carrying you over onto a seat. A thick, rich fabric rests on your shoulders - his haori, you realise, the warmth from his body seeping into your skin.
“Are you hurt?” he drops to one knee in front of you.
The intensity of his gaze flays your chest open, exposing your beating heart, its stitches frayed. The spectre of the girl with sad eyes haunts you, leaving you terrified that you’ll suffer the same fate as her in this lifetime too.
“I need you to stop”, you shove him back, a trapped animal brandishing its claws. “I want you to leave me alone. I don’t want your pity -”
“Pity?!” he falls back on his haunches, gaping at you, incredulous. “Is that what you think it is?”
“What else could it be?” you demand wetly, eyes stinging. “Nevermind, I changed my mind, I don’t want to know -”
“Haven’t I made it obvious these past few months?” he asks, and you shake your head stubbornly, no. “What I feel for you - I’ve been goin’ crazy from the moment they told me a buildin’ fell on your head, so fuckin’ terrified I was goin’ to lose you just as I realised how stupid I’ve been -”
Your head swims. “I don’t -”
“I’ve loved you since I was eight. I just didn’t realise it til I nearly lost you.”
You push aside the clouds of anger and fear blurring your vision. You see Hoshina Soshiro kneeling before you, slicing his chest open with your blade to reveal his heart, pressing it bloodied and beating into your waiting hands.
In this lifetime, in this moment, he is yours and you are his.
There is no guarantee that this will remain. Duty will always call upon him, and he will answer without fail. That is his destiny, as much as he is yours. Realisation crashes into you, relentless waves pulling you underwater. You will have to share him with the rest of Japan, possibly the world. This too shall end, be it tomorrow or years down the road if fate smiles down on you both.
But even if his heart belongs to you for no more than a day, it’s enough. It’s all you’ve ever wanted.
“You love me.”
“Yeah”, he murmurs, moving so impossibly close that you see the violets in the depths of his eyes in full bloom. “And I kinda think you love me too.”
Instead of answering, you tug him towards you, tangle your fingers in dark hair, let your lips press against the seam of his lips. He doesn’t give you the chance to breathe, arm curling around your waist, his hand cupping your face so he can tilt your chin up to pour himself into you. You drink him in, greedy to take what you can get, mouth open against his, lost to the raging current of want, of love that pulls you beneath the waves.
“I think I do”, you say softly.
Hoshina Soshiro smiles at you, wider and brighter than the moon.
a/n: i hope this chapter soothes the anxiety from last week heh :>
squeal at me pls! muacks always <3
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ミdaddy issues
part one | part two
🍓pairing: recom!miles quaritch x human fem reader
🍓tags: nsfw, interspecies relationship, temporarily one-sided attraction, second-hand embarrassment, vaginal sex, oral sex, (v brief) anal fingering, dirty talk (it's quaritch, come on)
🍓word count: 14k (there's literally nothing i could say to excuse this)
masterlist
Miles Quaritch is the kind of man whose reputation precedes him.
Everyone has heard of him. His ruthlessness and his skill are legendary, his authority absolute. The army guys talk about him like he’s the stuff of myth, the scientists talk about him like he’s the biggest bastard to ever walk the earth. Even before he had returned to life as a recombinant, he was positively infamous. Now though, his return has raised his reputation to near mythological status.
But it’s not just his name and reputation that is known around Bridgehead City. Recently, your crush on him has become equally as infamous.
It’s not your fault. It's not like you’re trying to make it obvious. The man is just so damn fine, blue or not. In the beginning, all you do is appreciate his form from a distance. It’s not like you see him all that often, anyway, so your admiration is mostly contained to quick glances in corridors and across the mess hall, whenever you spot him talking with his squad or walking with any of the higher ups.
It’s perfectly innocent! There’s nothing wrong with having a little crush on someone that will never notice you, after all.
The problem is that your crush, while innocuous, isn’t exactly subtle.
“Quaritch, huh?” It’s Anjali that asks, an older, pretty microbiologist with a sometimes off-puttingly blunt manner.
You pause, but don’t look up from the microscope you’ve been peering into. For a moment, you consider denying it. But what’s the point? If she’s asking, that means that she’s already noticed your shy, flustered glances in the colonel’s direction.
“Yeah,” You sigh, a little defeated. “I guess.”
Because you’re so focused on the plant specimen you’re studying, you don’t notice the way all the others in the lab start looking over, clearly eavesdropping. If you had, you might have backtracked – maybe you would have downplayed your embarrassing little crush.
“He’s just...” You fiddle with the glass slide beneath the lens, still fighting not to make eye-contact with Anjali. “He’s very handsome, isn’t he?”
Anjali snorts. She’s an older lady, with her grey-streaked hair scraped back into a severe bun, accentuating her harsh appearance. She’s working on her own report one desk over from you, but you can still see the way that she’s peering over her glasses at you.
“Is he?” She asks archly. “I wouldn’t know. I can’t see around his enormous sense of entitlement.”
You laugh a little awkwardly, and duck your head back down. God, you don’t know how else you expected that conversation to go. Everyone knows that Quaritch’s overzealous attempts to exert control over Pandora was what caused the whole war and resulted in the human population being forced off-planet all those years ago. Damn, you know that too!
But it’s not as though you like him as a person or anything! He’s not even really the same man as the one that did all that. Your fascination with him is really just… aesthetic appreciation.
“I just think he’s attractive, you know?” You mumble, embarrassed. “I don’t know what he was like as a human, but… I don’t know. There’s something about the- the height, and the muscles-”
“Oh, spare me.” Anjali mumbles sourly.
“You asked!” You snap, mortified. “I’m just saying-!”
That’s when another voice cuts in.
“He could break you in half with his pinkie finger.” Dr. Geiszler points out from a desk behind you. He’s not even trying to pretend that he’s not listening in, leaning right over his workspace as he eavesdrops.
Your eyes widen a little, and for the first time you realise that nearly everyone else in the laboratory has been listening in the whole time. Your face grows hot with humiliation, and you shrink a little in your stool. Oh fuck, why did they all look so interested?
Geiszler watches your reaction, and then his face slackens in an expression of realisation. “Oh shit, you’re into that.”
You genuinely can’t think of anything more humiliating right now. They’re all looking at you as though you’ve just grown an additional head.
“Oh, fuck off!” You say reflexively, scowling at them all. “You can’t pretend like you haven’t ever thought that the Na’vi are sexy!”
Anjali looks as though she’s just sucked on a lemon, but several other scientists start shiftily avoiding eye contact.
Geiszler just snorts. “That’s different. We’re not talking about just any Na’vi here, we’re talking about Quaritch!”
“He’s old enough to be your father.” Anjali points out, clearly disapproving. “Maybe even your grandfather.”
“So?” You say without thinking, before realising that this isn’t really an argument that you want to get into. “I mean- Not in his current body! No, fuck, I don’t mean- fuck. Look, can we just forget about this? Pretend I never said anything!”
Mercifully, they go silent at that, though you can still hear the faint sound of someone snickering in the back of the lab. They may not say anything more, but you’re all too aware that they’re still looking at each other and smirking. Laughing at you.
You hunch your shoulders and keep doing your work. You wouldn’t feel embarrassed or guilty over something as stupid as a harmless little crush that you can’t control. You wouldn’t.
Bridgehead really isn’t all that big, so you see the colonel semi-regularly. It’s always from a distance, but it’s still enough to give you a good look at those long legs, those big muscles, and that lithe, narrow waist. If you’re truthful with yourself, you go out of your way to organise your paths crossing.
You’re not even a fully-qualified scientist just yet. You don’t actually have an official title – you’re more like an intern. You work under the highly decorated scholars in xenobotany, running tasks and projects for them as part of your doctorate degree. You had been allowed out here to Pandora as part of your degree, in order to get the experience you needed to qualify, and it has treated you well so far. The whole internship position means that you have a little bit more freedom with regards your schedule, which works just perfectly for you.
So, yeah. What started out as innocent admiration has turned a little… stalkery. You’re willing to admit that. But it’s harmless!
So what if you know Colonel Quaritch’s schedule off by heart? So what if you linger around the areas that you know he frequents at opportune moments, like just after his workouts or drills? It doesn’t really matter if your eyes linger around his big biceps and his sculpted chest, especially when his deep blue skin is all heat-flushed and sweaty, right? And it surely doesn’t matter if you wander past the Recombinant areas of the base far more frequently than you need to, right? It’s not as if anyone is going to notice.
It doesn’t really matter how much you stare, because the colonel is utterly oblivious to your attention. He never notices you, not even once. And that’s fine too, you tell yourself. It makes it easier, in fact! You can admire him all you want if he never looks at you, after all.
It gets a little bit more challenging to hide where your attention is straying when other people start to figure it out.
It’s like your little crush is an inside joke in the science department. The scientists on base tend to be pretty good at minding their own business (mostly because they’re usually so damn focused on their own work and little projects), but in this case you’ve become an endless source of amusement for them.
You can see the way the entire xenobiology department giggle together when you perk up at dinnertime as soon as the Recombinant soldiers enter the mess hall, and you know that they’re nudging each other when your attention strays to the Colonel as he eats. He’s got such sharp teeth, and your eyes fixate on him as he licks the sorry excuse for food he’s been served off his canines.
When you start dressing up a little bit more, the science guys start sharing smirks. It’s a little bit humiliating, but honestly you think you’re starting to lose your sense of shame. You start wearing tight little pencil skirts and thin blouses, under the guise of professionalism, and you start to do your makeup a little bit heavier too. Quaritch never so much as bats an eyelid in your direction.
“Not that I’m complaining, per se,” Geiszler drawls one afternoon, leaning lazily against the worktop as you painstakingly organise tissue samples. “But aren’t you trying a little too hard?”
“Shut up.” You grumble, chewing on your stick lip-glossed lower lip. “It’s just a skirt.”
“Right.” He drawls, eyes trailing down over the length of your body as you shift on your uncomfortable little stool. “And the makeup?”
“It’s not breaking any uniform protocols.” You say simply, scratching just under your eye.
Geiszler sniffs, amused. “Is it true you’ve been following around the xenobiologists when they go to check on the recoms?”
You peer very closely at the tissue sample in your hands, a little more closely than entirely necessary. “Maybe.”
“Jesus.” He lets out a short, disbelieving sort of laugh. “Fuck. Why? D’you get off on being ignored or something?”
That’s a little crass, and you raise your head to scowl at him. He really doesn’t need to rub it in like that – it’s pretty damn obvious that your crush is unrequited. It’s cruel to point it out like that.
“It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t notice,” You mutter, aggravated. “I’m just- I just like looking, that’s all.”
Geiszler snorts again, but he appears to be somewhat sympathetic now. “Right. Just looking.”
Finally, you tear your attention away from the samples so you can scowl at him. “What do you want, Dr. Geiszler?”
“I want to put you out of your misery.” He replies simply, leaving his elbows against the worktop and smirking at you. “Recoms are being sent out tomorrow. Just a small run – Ardmore wants to put those new bodies to the test before she sends them out after Sully.”
“Why are you telling me this?” You ask as though you’re not hanging onto every damn word.
“They’re heading to the lowlands, at the base of the mountains,” Geiszler levels you with a significant look. “You know what that means, right?”
You perk up instantly at that, your eyes growing wide.
“Panopyra.” You breathe.
Your entire damn doctoral dissertation is centred around the unusual, jellyfish-like plants that grow on other Pandoran plants. It hovers somewhere between plant, animal, and fungi, having evolved a primitive sort of nervous system. It grows a cuplike body that collects water from dew and fog and condenses it down into a thick, syrupy sort of liquid. That liquid is then collected by the native Na’vi for use in their healing drinks. It is that medicinal property that fascinates you so much.
“Yeah, I thought that might get your attention.” Geiszler grins. “You’ve run out of the samples you’ve been using, right? You’re not gonna be able to write any more of your thesis without more specimens.”
“Yes,” You breathe, your brain already scrambling to think of all the things you need to do. “I need- oh, I need some cuttings of the sensory tissue, and I need a lot more samples of the internal liquid. The stems, too-”
“Right, right,” Geiszler interrupts, nodding. “The problem is, it’s just the Recoms being sent out. They’re not bringing any of the science team.”
Your shoulders sag a little at that. How are you meant to get a proper sample if there’s no one qualified to take samples going on their reconnaissance trip?
As if he knows exactly what you’re thinking, Geiszler’s smile turns a little sly. “If you want those samples, you’re gonna have to ask the big man in charge of the mission to bring some back for you. And you’re gonna have to ask real nicely.”
Colonel Quaritch’s office is empty when you call at it, and so you’re forced to go searching for him.
You find the recoms in the little recreation room just off the hangar designated for soldier use – Na’vi-sized beanbags had been thrown into it as an afterthought for the recom soldiers, and it’s almost comical to walk in and find so many of them sprawled across the squishy chairs. Some of them have instead decided to squeeze them into the regular armchairs, with one Na’vi-sized body occupying an entire sofa. They’re playing poker of all things; they’ve been provided with a set of over-sized playing cards and everything.
They’re a rowdy bunch, shouting and roaring with laughter, and so they don’t immediately spot you when you edge your way into the room. For a moment, you think that the colonel isn’t here. But then you take another look, and you spot him.
Quaritch is standing to the side, his spine taut and his shoulders back and straight. It’s a very formal position just for watching his squad relax, but there’s a certain softness to his expression as he watches them that you’ve never seen from him before. Your heart skips a beat; this is the most unguarded that you’ve ever seen him, and your eyes fixate on his face eagerly as you try to drink in all the details.
It’s Fike that notices you first.
“Aw, man,” He groans, tilting his head back dramatically before gesturing at you with his cards. “Not another checkup. We told the other doc, if something feels wrong we’ll tell you-”
“Ah, no.” You’re beginning to get flustered. Fike’s exclamation has drawn the attention of the other recoms, and all of a sudden you feel as though you’ve been placed under a spotlight. “I’m- I’m not actually a doctor!”
There’s a very brief pause, and then one of the female soldiers sits up from her beanbag to squint at you. You think this one is Walker.
“Why are you here all the time, then?” She asks. “Weren’t you here for our checkup yesterday?”
Oh. They had noticed. Embarrassed heat is beginning to build in your cheeks, and you can’t help but dart a quick look over at where Quaritch is still leaning against the wall. For the first time ever, he’s looking right at you. The realisation sends little jolts of electricity racing up your spine. His expression is entirely neutral, almost bored, but that doesn’t matter. He’s seeing you.
“I was just, um, shadowing the xenobiologists,” You say quickly, “For my internship.”
One of the other recoms turns to another and mouths 'internship’, and they both start to snicker. You pretend not to notice.
“And what does the intern want with us?” Fike asks, already having turned back to his cards.
It’s terribly embarrassing having to stand here and have these 9-foot-tall soldiers basically look you up and down before disregarding your entire existence. But you’re here now, and you have to push through.
“I’d..” You begin, before your throat goes dry and you have to clear your throat before trying again. “Could I please speak to the colonel?”
All the snickering and whispering dies down for a moment as the recoms look at you before swinging their heads around to look at their superior officer. There’s a moment of silence, but then the subtle sniggers start right back up again.
“So polite,” one of them whispers, and you feel yourself burn with embarrassment. But it doesn’t matter how many of them are sharing smirks or whispers, because Colonel Quaritch has pushed himself off the wall and is beginning to step towards you.
Oh god, he’s so big. You have to actually tilt your head back just to look at his face as he comes to a stop in front of you, and you begin to fidget nervously with your fingers. Up close, he seems so much bigger. Every movement has the skin around his muscles flexing, and you have to work hard not to stare like an absolute moron.
He doesn’t crouch or bend down to make it easier for you to talk to him. Instead he just raises a brow, clearly waiting for you to speak.
“I, um- hello,” You start off clumsily, growing flustered under the weight of his intense, golden gaze. God, does he even realise how intimidating that is? “I was wondering if- I mean, I heard that you’re being sent out into the Pandoran lowlands tomorrow, and I was wondering if you might be able to bring me back something-”
God, you sound like such an idiot. There’s no way he doesn’t notice the way your voice trembles, or how you can’t quite meet his eyes, or how you keep stumbling over your words, but he just watches you evenly with no expression on his handsome face.
You fumble for the datapad that you brought with you, tapping clumsily at the screen before holding it up for him. His eyes dart to the photograph that’s being displayed, but he still doesn’t speak.
“This is panopyra.” You say, and your voice grows a little stronger. This, at least, is something you feel comfortable talking about. “It’s a plant that’s displaying characteristics of a new line of evolution toward a primitive nervous system. My entire dissertation is focused around my research into this plant, and I really need some samples. The body of it is hollow, and it collects a liquid inside-”
Finally, Quaritch speaks.
“We ain’t bein’ sent out to do gardening.” His voice is deep and rumbly, edged with that Southern drawl. It has a hint of danger, even when he’s not actually threatening anything.
“I know!” You say hastily. “I know that. I just thought- I thought that maybe if you happened to see one, you might be able to take a sample of the liquid inside of it and, um… and bring it back.”
You end up trailing off a little pathetically, feeling overpowered by his intense stare. God, he looks so unimpressed with you right now. You bite your glossy lip and try not to shrink into yourself entirely.
At last, Quaritch sighs and holds out his hand. “Give me that thing.”
You hand over the datapad at once, your eyes growing wide at the possibility of him actually accepting. Asking for this favour had served the dual purpose of fulfilling your work needs and getting to talk to him, but you hadn’t actually expected him to agree.
He squints at the photograph on the screen, and swipes lazily through the mass amounts of text accompanying. “I ain’t reading all that shit. Give me the run-down on it.”
You had actually written ‘all that shit’, but no matter.
“It grows similar to a fungus, so you’ll likely find it attached to trees or other plants,” You rush to explain, excitement beginning to bubble up into your chest. “You won’t be able to take an actual sample of the tissue without damaging it, so forget about that. What I really would like is a sample of the fluid that collects inside the cup on top, see?”
His eyes follow you as you reach up on your toes to point out what you’re referring to in the photograph, and his ears flick back in acknowledgement.
“It poisonous?”
You hesitate a moment. “...No.”
Quaritch shoots you a look of obvious disbelief. “You wanna try that again?”
“It’s not poisonous.” You say, a little bit more convincingly this time. “But it does have a sort of defence system. Just… don’t touch the little tendrils.”
Quaritch’s face is set in stern disapproval, but he isn’t saying no.
“I’ll provide you with the instruments you need,” You continue, starting to bounce a little on your toes at the prospect of him agreeing. You really need these samples. “Oh, I’d be so grateful!”
There’s a muffled sound from somewhere over your shoulder, where the rest of the recoms are no doubt watching and listening with great interest, but you don’t turn. Quaritch’s gaze flickers only momentarily towards them, and they silence instantly. God, he’s so effortlessly commanding.
When he looks back to you, he just sighs through his nose and hands you back the datapad. “Fine. Send me the details.”
For a moment, you just stare at him. It takes a beat to register that he’s just agreed, and then a wide, beaming grin begins to grow across your face.
“Thank you-!” You start to squeal, but he cuts you off with a quick wave of his hand.
“Cut that out,” He grumbles, already beginning to scowl as he steps back. “Never let it be said by Ardmore that I was unco-operative with the goddamned science department, yeah?”
You’re not willing to press your luck any further than you already have. You just nod, a little frantic, before sending him one last smile and scurrying your way out of the room. The laughter from the rec room follows you all the way up the corridor, but you don’t care – you’re getting your samples and you just had your first conversation with Quaritch. He looked at you, he spoke to you. He knows you exist!
You’re smiling to yourself the entire way back to the lab, flushed with the pleasure of your success.
For the next couple of days, you’re waiting on tenterhooks for the recoms return.
You still work away on your projects and your research, but you’re hyper-attuned to everyone that comes and goes from the lab. It’s not as though you’re really expecting the recoms to come into the lab, but you’re listening desperately for any news of their return.
The day before they’re due to arrive back to base, Geiszler comes to irritate you at your desk.
“Go away.” You grumble before he can say a word.
“Oh, come on!” He laughs. “I come bearing gifts!”
That catches your attention, and you raise your head from your work to squint at him. He’s standing there with a stupid sort of grin on his face, the kind that makes you uneasy, and his hands are tucked behind his back.
“What?” You ask suspiciously.
With a flourish, Geiszler pulls his arms out from behind his back. When you see what’s in his hands, you nearly scream.
“Oh my god, what the fuck is wrong with you-!” You hiss, whirling around to look frantically over your shoulders.
Mercifully, there’s no one around to witness the enormous blue dildo in his hands as he offers it up to you.
Geiszler is laughing, as though this is just the funniest shit he could have imagined. “Oh, the look on your face-!”
“Get that away from me!” You hiss, scandalised. “Oh my god, you do realise that I could report you for workplace sexual harassment-”
“But you won’t, because we made this specially for you-”
“We?” You hiss in disbelief. “Who the fuck is we?”
Geiszler waves that away as though it’s unimportant. “Me and some of the other guys in xeno. Look, it gets boring in the lab. We thought this was funny. It’s a Na’vi dildo, to scale. You’re welcome.”
“You are such an asshole.” You snap, mortified. “God, what is wrong with you!”
Geiszler just snorts, and places the big dildo on your desk, right in the middle of your papers. It’s almost comically large, made with bright blue silicone and featuring a prominent, squishy head. It’s even ribbed down the underside, with bumps that admittedly look rather attractive. Your face burns at the sight of it.
“Do you have any idea how hard it was to get that 3D-printed-”
“Take it back!” You pick it up and try to push it at him, but he’s already backing away with his hands up in the air. The stupid prick is laughing at you.
“Nu-uh! It’s all yours!” He’s already backing away, all sniggers. “You can imagine the colonel-”
“Oh, you freak! That is so invasive-!” You nearly drop the dildo entirely, both horrified and mortified.
Oh my god, it was to scale. This was the size of what the colonel was packing? It feels as though the silicone is burning in your hand, and you feel horribly hot and prickly. Oh, this was such an invasion of the colonel’s privacy. Whether it was the standard size of a Na’vi cock or not, the idea of using it while imagining Quaritch over you has you flushed and embarrassed.
Geiszler is still laughing when he ducks out of the lab, leaving you alone and absolutely humiliated.
After that, you avoid the lab. You know that the scientists all think that your crush on Quaritch is just one big joke, and you really don’t want to see them all smirking and sniggering when they see you, and you really don’t want to have to field any sly comments about the stupid dildo.
You’ve been too mortified to even look at it too closely, so you take it and hide it away under a load of papers in a separate work area that’s usually used as storage. You’ve been hiding away in this separate little work room for days now; you can’t do any important experiments here, but it’s as good a place as any to work on your dissertation and at least you can be alone here.
You’re in this little work area, typing furiously, when the door slides open behind you with a hiss.
“Geiszler, if you’re here just to harass me again, I will fuck you up.” You bite out without turning, your shoulders turning tense as you glare at your monitor.
There’s a moment of silence, and you hope that he’s taken the hint to go away and leave you alone.
“I’m not sure I appreciate that tone, girl.”
You turn so quickly that you nearly overbalance right off your chair, eyes wide and horrified. The workroom that you’ve practically claimed for yourself is small, with low ceilings designed for human use – that means that Quaritch has had to duck down to fit through the door, and remains standing hunched and visibly irritated, with one hand lifted against the ceiling so he doesn’t hit his head.
“Oh-!” You scramble to get off your chair and fix your skirt, tugging it down straight as you hope and pray that your hair looks alright. “Sir, I- I didn’t realise that you were back!”
Quaritch just grunts. He does not look particularly happy, but he sets a large sample container on one of the empty desk spaces. Inside, it’s filled with a clear liquid that could easily be mistaken for water, but you know better.
“Oh!” You gasp, jolting forward to take a better look. “Oh, such a big sample! This is amazing, thank you!”
Quaritch says nothing, his big alien face impossible to read.
“It better be worth it.” Another voice cuts in, and you jolt in surprise at the realisation that there’s another big blue figure ducking in through the door after Quaritch.
You pause, uncertain in the face of this newcomer and already nervous from Quaritch’s overbearing presence. Oh, god. He’s brought company. Why has he brought company? Another blue head appears over the shoulder of the first soldier, and your eyes dart between them. You’ve spent enough time watching the Colonel to recognise them as Corporal Wainfleet and Private Fike, though you don’t have so much as a passing acquaintance with them.
“I thought you said they were harmless.” Fike grumbles, before raising his hands up to show you rather brutal looking purple bruises along the backs of his hands. “Fucking look at this.”
“Oh.” You breathe, wincing. “No, I said they weren’t poisonous. I did tell you to watch out for the tendrils. The defence system is really quite amazing-”
“Oh yeah, it felt fucking amazing when it was stinging the ever-loving shit out of me.” Fike interrupts, though he appears to have lost interest in speaking to you in favour of peering curiously around the work room.
You can imagine that the place looks fairly dismal; you hadn’t been expecting visitors, so your research is scattered everywhere. Coloured sketches and photographs of cross-sections of the panopyra plant are stuck up on the walls all over, not just around your own desk. You’ve taken advantage of the desks that are never in use, piling your notes and research high all over the place. Writing your dissertation is exhausting work, after all – there is just so much to learn from these plants, so much potential.
“Well, I think that it is worth it.” You say, stepping towards the counter that Quaritch had placed your sample on and reaching eagerly for the beaker. “It’s difficult to get samples like this – there are so few excursions into the jungle these days. But one this size might actually be enough to fuel my research for the next two months at least! I might actually be able to finish my dissertation at last-”
No one is listening to you, you’re quite certain, but you don’t let that deter you as you babble away, raising the beaker to your eye level so that you can examine it. The liquid inside is pure and uncontaminated – the perfect specimen.
“Whoa,” Wainfleet is peering at the sketches on the wall. “You’re really into these weird little plants, huh?”
“They’re the whole reason I’m here on Pandora.” You say matter-of-factly, placing the beaker back down on the desk. “Everything I’m doing here, all my research, is all centred around them.”
It’s the most you’ve ever said in the presence of the recoms, and you find yourself mentally patting yourself on the back. You really are intelligent and driven, though you’re sure that the recoms would never have guessed it based on how moronically you act around Colonel Quaritch. They seem quite surprised to discover that you have actual interests other than their beefy commanding officer.
Fike and Wainfleet both poke around the work room curiously, snickering with each other as they peer blindly into microscopes and push around enormous reference books like big kids.
“Hey, careful with that!” You say reproachfully, though they pay you no mind.
Quaritch himself is still standing silently, taking in the room with alert but judgemental eyes. He doesn’t seem all that impressed by your work, but then again it’s almost impossible to read him. He makes no effort to chide his underlings at all, and they continue messing about unchecked.
“Took us a while to find you.” Quaritch speaks suddenly, and your attention is drawn to him immediately, a swoop of excitement juddering through you at the fact that he’s speaking to you. “You’re not in the lab with the rest of the science pukes.”
Your silly excitement at being on the receiving end of his attention dims a little at that. Science pukes? Seriously? You’ve worked damn hard for this degree!
“That’s not nice.” You say, then mentally curse yourself. It’s not quite the scathing reproach you had intended – it comes out a little wobbly and uncertain. God, why do you have to come across as such a sad little wet blanket whenever you’re in front of him?
“Not nice?” Quaritch repeats, sounding partially amused and partially disbelieving. “And when have I ever been known for bein’ nice, sweetheart?”
Good lord, he’s terrifying. You don’t normally have a difficult time standing up for yourself, but something about being on the receiving end of that bright yellow stare makes your stomach twist. You don’t know if it's fear or arousal, and you also don't know which would be worse.
“I just mean-” You start, trying hard to keep your voice strong and confident. “That calling people names isn’t nice.”
Calling people names isn’t nice. Fucking hell, you sound like a goddamn five-year-old. What is even happening to you? You swear you’re not normally like this. Has your brain just rotted thanks to all the stupid ogling of his big biceps you’ve been doing? You’re mortified.
“Jesus Christ.” Wainfleet’s voice calls out from somewhere behind you. “What the fuck is this?”
For a moment, you’re desperately relieved that they’ve called attention away from you. Quaritch is looking at you with scathing disbelief for that calling people names comment, and you’re quite sure that whatever he was going to say in response to that would be so biting that you’d wish you were dead.
But then you turn to look at Wainfleet, and you actually do wish that you were dead.
Because in his hand, looking almost regular sized against his much larger body, is that stupid, evil giant blue Na’vi dildo that Geiszler had given you last week. You had stuffed it behind a whole load of old papers on an unused desk and forgotten about it – it was just your fucking luck that these gormless blue bastards would unearth it accidentally as they poked around.
Mortification erupts through your body, so overwhelming that it roots you to the spot. No way. No way. No way.
“Holy fuck!” Fike bursts out laughing, and holds his hands up. “Give that here!”
Nothing can describe the sheer humiliation that sears through you when Wainfleet tosses the dildo to Fike. You just stand there frozen, watching the two enormous Na’vi soldiers throw a huge silicone dick between them in the middle of your workspace.
“Damn, the little intern’s a freak!” Fike says in mock approval, his voice dripping in amusement.
He makes a show of holding the dildo up to the light and peering at it, faux-admiring the bumps and ridges along the shaft.
“No, that’s not-” You start, and your voice cracks. “That’s not mine-”
You go entirely ignored as the two soldiers roar boisterously.
“Damn, you think of the Colonel when you use this?” Wainfleet asks, cackling as Fike throws it back to him. “Is this why you follow him around everywhere? You want the real thing?”
The humiliation is so intense that it’s actually difficult to breathe around it, stifling and choking. You glance at Quaritch, hoping that by some miracle he’s gone temporarily blind and deaf and has missed this entire exchange so far. The idea of him knowing that you’ve been following him around is shocking, and you feel yourself shrinking.
Quaritch has just pressed his lips together. As you watch, he gives a deep sigh through his nose.
Your stomach quivers with mortification. Oh my god. He knew already – how long has he been aware of your crush?
“No,” You choke out, your skin burning hot. “No, I don’t- I don’t use that, it was given to me as a joke-”
Quaritch is still so difficult to read, but even still he looks as though he would rather be literally anywhere else right now. His gaze flickers briefly over your face, which is all contorted in mortification as you just barely bite back tears, and he rolls his eyes with a sigh.
“Alright, that’s enough-” Quaritch starts, but it’s too late.
Wainfleet has just reached out and smacked Fike around the head with the dildo, laughing as he did so, and Fike stumbles back with a playful roar as he tries to escape the silicone cock. He throws his arms out to catch his balance, but his big hands splay across one of the work tables and knock some of your reference books to the floor.
But it’s not just the books he knocks into. His hand smacks into that precious beaker full of panopyra liquid, and you let out a startled shout as the force of the blow of his hand breaks the glass container, the liquid inside showering all over the desk with all your papers.
Everyone goes silent, as though the sound of breaking glass signals some kind of change in the atmosphere.
You let out a sound that’s positively wounded, jerking forward to the destroyed sample. You needed this specimen so badly – it was supposed to inform the research that you needed to finish your dissertation. How long would you have to wait for another sample like this one? You’ve been working on this research for years, and you were so damn close to the end. So damn close to being qualified, to stepping up the ladder and being taken seriously by your peers rather than just being seen as an intern.
“Shit.” One of the recoms mutter; you don’t bother looking up to see if it’s Wainfleet or Fike. “Didn’t mean to-”
Your eyes trace over the mess of broken glass, but then you realise what the sample has broken on and you feel your stomach drop to your feet.
“No!” You shriek, launching yourself forward.
The recoms all jerk in surprise at your shout, but you pay them no mind. It’s like they’re invisible to you now. All you can see is the way that your papers, your precious research, is being soaked through and destroyed by the liquid that has spilled all over the desk.
“No, no, no, no.” You breathe to yourself, biting hard at the inside of your cheek to keep from crying as you struggle to pick up your research, shaking it out in an attempt to get the worst of the wetness off.
It’s too late. Your research, all your painstakingly-taken hand-written notes, tears like wet tissue-paper in your hands.
You raise your head to look at the three recoms in your workspace, still clutching your destroyed research to your chest. You must look crazed, breathing heavily with wide and wild eyes, because Wainfleet and Fike share a wincing look with each other.
Awkwardly, Wainfleet reaches out and places the large dildo on the counter next to the ruins of your work. Everyone in the room struggles not to look at it.
Quaritch’s jaw is clenched hard, his ears pinned back against the sides of his head. He appears to be holding himself back from shouting, though you’re not sure at who. Slowly, he turns his head to look at his two subordinates, who are now standing with their heads ducked as they try not to make eye contact.
With trembling hands, you drop your ruined research back down on the counter. Your mortification is swiftly being overtaken by pure rage.
How fucking dare they? It would be one thing for them to mock you about your crush (that apparently Quaritch was already fucking aware of) but it’s entirely another for them to humiliate you by parading around with that stupid fucking dildo that you’ve never even properly touched. And then to go and destroy your sample, the one that you’ve waited so long for and that you needed so desperately for your dissertation? And to destroy a chunk of your existing research too?
“Get out.” You whisper, your fingers shaking as you pluck at the ruins of your papers.
Quaritch sighs through his nose. “Look, we’ll get you another sample of the damn thing. There’s no need to-”
“Get out!” You raise your voice for real, whipping your head up to shout at them. “God, you assholes! Get out!”
Fike laughs nervously, glancing towards Quaritch. That only sets you off even more. They have the audacity to follow their commanding officer into your workspace and mess around, ruining things, and now they’re not going to listen to you after destroying your work? God, they look down on you so much it’s sickening. They’re not even listening to you after humiliating you so soundly, choosing instead to look towards Quaritch as if his opinion matters so much more than yours.
Your rage is only fuelled by your earlier embarrassment, your face flushed with heat as you glare at them. Oh, you’re furious. You can’t remember ever being so humiliated and livid in your life.
“I want you fucking out!” You roar, and when they don’t move you reach for a reference book on the table beside you and launch it at them. “You’ve fucking ruined it-”
Wainfleet ducks to avoid the book that soars over his head, but you’re already reaching for another one. He throws his hands up in a gesture of surrender, but you’re so blinded by rage that you barely even see it.
“Oi!” Quaritch lets out a shout and steps forward with his hands outstretched as if to physically stop you. “Enough! You’ll be written up for assault if you keep this up-”
You let out an inarticulate noise of fury as you throw a second book, this one bouncing harmlessly off Fike’s shoulder. “I’ll be written up for murder if you don’t get the fuck out of here-”
Wainfleet lets out a sound that sounds like a nervous giggle that’s been choked back. You can imagine that it’s a little bit of a shock for them to see you go from shy and mild-mannered to absolutely fucking insane, but your crush on Quaritch really had made you act like a total idiot around them. You feel so stupid about it now – you had become so enamoured with someone who totally ignored your existence, shrinking into yourself like a goddamn wallflower because you were so shy around him.
But Quaritch is looking at you, for possibly one of the first times ever. Not just looking at you, but seeing you.
When you grab at a microscope to throw, heavy and metal and definitely capable of doing some damage, Quaritch lets out a sharp hiss and steps forward with a single hand outstretched towards you as though to physically restrain you.
“Get out.” He says without looking at his soldiers.
Wainfleet and Fike share a look with each other before practically scrambling to leave. They can’t seem to leave fast enough, though you have no doubt that they’re snickering together as they go.
“You too.” You grit out, fists clenched around the microscope as though it’s a weapon. “I want you gone too.”
Despite your obvious anger, Quaritch makes no move to leave. His big honey-coloured eyes trace over the broken glass on your desk, your ruined research, your big teary eyes. You probably look like a mess; you’re practically sweating from all the embarrassment, your hair is in disarray, your eyes are all swollen from the angry tears that are threatening to spill over.
“You need to calm down, darlin’.” He says, his voice low and a little bit rumbly. Ordinarily that might make you melt, but as it is you just feel as though he’s being condescending. “It’s just some goddamn plant water. You’ll get more on the next run.”
“Oh, fuck off.” You snap without thinking, your chest still heaving with poorly stifled emotion. “It’s not just about the sample and you know it.”
Quaritch’s golden eyes cut towards the big dildo on the counter, and you feel your temper flare all over again.
“It’s not about that either!” You snap, embarrassed and defensive. “This research is my life! Without it, there’s no point to me even being here on Pandora. Your fucking knuckleheads have just destroyed months worth of work. Do you have any idea how much harder I have to work than the fucking men out there?”
You gesture towards the door to the main laboratory, where you’re sure they’ve walked past all the overwhelmingly male scientists working away. No doubt they can hear the shouting, but no one has been brave enough to come looking to see what’s wrong.
Quaritch’s expression doesn’t so much as twitch as he watches you rage, and he doesn’t interrupt.
“Do you have any idea how difficult it is just to claw my way up to equal standing with them? They laugh at me enough already, that’s why they gave me that stupid thing-” You wave at the dildo without looking at it. “Just because they knew that I liked you. They laugh at me for having a stupid crush on you, and I… I’m so sick of people looking at me like I’m just pathetic, because I work so hard! And now you’re here, and you’ve just ruined my work-”
Quaritch lets you rant until you run yourself dry. You’re breathing heavily, exhausted and furious and so fucking sick of the sight of him.
“Look, kid.” He says at last, when you pause for breath. “You’re sweet. Pretty. Smart, clearly. But I ain’t looking for anything like that. I need to focus on this mission-”
“Oh, what the fuck.” You breathe, staring at him in total disbelief. “Is that the only part you fucking heard? I have a crush on you, that’s it! All I wanted was for you to look my way, and it took a giant fucking dildo for you to actually acknowledge that you knew about how I felt? You’re such a dick-”
“Hey,” He barks, stepping forward. He’s so huge, his bulk alone throwing you into shadow as he looms over you. “Watch your mouth-”
“No!” You snap, although your voice is a little thin. He really is an intimidating bastard. “No, you don’t get to tell me what to do! God, I am so sick of men thinking they can tell me what to do-”
Quaritch’s chest erupts in a little rumbling snarl, and you have to fight not to flinch away from him. He’s like a beast, lip all curled up over his fangs as he growls at you for your attitude.
“So what, your solution is to hide away in this miserable little room?” He demands, stepping forward just so he can look down his nose at you. “Some of those dickless little science guys were mean to you, so you’re gonna lock yourself away like this?”
“It’s not-”
“What’s the point in dressing up all pretty in those little skirts with all that makeup if you’re hiding away in here, huh?” He continues, insistent as he keeps pushing forward until you start to back up. “Maybe that’s why they don’t take you seriously. You need to stand up for-”
“That’s for you!” You shout, temper flaring up all over again. “I do that for you, because I thought you might look at me!”
Quaritch pauses at that, blinking as though you’ve just taken him by surprise. It infuriates you; how could he be so stupid, especially when he has known about your crush all this time. It’s not like it was subtle.
Suddenly, you feel absolutely exhausted. It’s like every ounce of your energy has been leached out of you, and you turn your head and sigh. The amount of emotions that have washed through you in such a short space of time has left you feeling drained and drawn, and you just want to be left alone now.
“I don’t want to look at you anymore.” You say tiredly, turning away from him and burying your face in your hands. “Just get out. Go away.”
There’s a long pause, but mercifully Quaritch doesn’t try to argue any further. You’re still turned away and facing the wall, so you hardly hear his quiet footsteps as he turns on his heel and marches out of the room. The door whooshes closed behind him, leaving you alone and hunched in the middle of the room.
In hindsight, you may have overreacted with the recoms a little bit.
You had been careful to back up some of the most important points of your research to your hard drive, so you hadn’t truly lost as much information as you had initially feared. It’s more of an inconvenience than a tragedy, really. The loss of the sample does sting quite a bit, but you’ll get more. It just might take another couple of months – the wait is frustrating, but there’s nothing you can do about that.
All you can do is try to recoup some of the notes that you’ve lost, and struggle to write more based on the samples that you’ve already studied. It’s very difficult to come up with any new material when you don’t actually have anything to work with, but all you can do is your best, as usual.
Geiszler creeps into the small workroom a few days later.
For several days after the incident with the recoms, none of your colleagues have dared to say a word to you. You’re sure they had heard the shouting, the glass shattering, the sound of you throwing books. If they had somehow missed all that, then they surely would have noticed the recoms that had stalked from the workroom, all agitated and pent up from the argument. Yet none of them have even asked you if you were okay.
“Still avoiding us, huh?” Geiszler asks, his question accompanied with a nervous laugh.
“Fuck off.” You bite out without looking away from your computer screen.
“Ouch.” Geiszler mutters. “I suppose I might deserve that.”
You can hear him approaching, but you still refuse to turn around. You just keep stubbornly working away, acting as though you’re too busy to spare him any attention. Unfortunately, Geiszler doesn’t let your inattention sway him; he just settles in a stool nearby, fidgeting with his fingers.
“I, uh… heard about that little blow up you had with the Colonel.” He says, clearly a little awkward. “I wanted to apologise. Upon reflection, the, uh… the dildo thing might have been a little inappropriate.”
You fight the urge to sigh. God, what did you do to deserve being surrounded with morons like this?
“Yeah, no shit.” You mutter, finally looking up to glare at him. “Why are you here? All I want is to be left alone.”
Geiszler, to your gratification, looks positively shame-faced. He’s looking down at his hands as he twiddles his thumbs, sighing.
“Wanted to apologise, I guess.” He mutters, shrugging.
“Yeah, well, whatever.” You mutter, finally abandoning your attempts to appear busy as you turn to him. “Plenty more Na’vi on Pandora, right?”
A nervous giggle bubbles out of his chest, as though he’s not certain if he’s allowed to laugh or not.
“Yeah, yeah, right.” He says, starting to grin. “And, uh… are you.. Are you strictly Na’vi-sexual, or are you-”
You burst out laughing, turning to look at him in disbelief. “Na’vi-sexual? There’s no way you just fucking asked me that.”
There’s a bizarre sort of blush on his face, but he laughs along with you anyway. “Right, right. Well, you can’t blame me for wondering, right? With your crush, I mean.”
Your smile fades, and you look back down at your work scattered all over the desk.
“I don’t want to talk about that, actually.” You murmur, “I think I’ve made enough of a fool of myself as is.”
Geiszler nods awkwardly, looking distinctly guilty.
“Yeah. You, um,” He breaks off, scratching uncomfortably at the back of his neck. “You look nice.”
You just raise a sardonic eyebrow at him. You’ve gone without makeup today, and you know that going bare-faced makes you look younger, but who were you kidding with all that makeup, anyway? You’ve abandoned the sleek pencil skirts and pretty blouses, too. Under your lab coat you wear a simple sort of sundress, one that stops just below the knees. No heels, either, just sneakers.
“Yeah, well.” You shrug a shoulder lazily. “No one to impress.”
Geiszler’s smile twists as he nods again. “Sure, sure. Um… look, I was wondering-”
You never do get to know what it is that Geiszler is wondering. The sound of the door to the workroom hissing open cuts him off, and he falls silent as the two of you look to see who has just encroached into your space.
The sight of Quaritch’s big blue form ducking in and then straightening up has the two of you stiffening, staring at him in disbelief.
You’re absolutely rooted to the spot at the sight of him, but when he turns to look at you, you whirl around and immediately feign being busy. You grab blindly at papers and datapads, and peer unseeingly at your computer screen as you try to look preoccupied. What is he doing here?
Geiszler, meanwhile, doesn’t even try to pretend that he’s not gawking stupidly.
Quaritch glances his way, and his expression drops into a sneer. “What’re you looking at? Get outta here.”
Irritatingly, Geiszler scrambles to do just that. He sends one last glance towards you before practically fleeing from the room, nervously ducking around Quaritch’s imposingly large figure.
Your eyes bulge a little now that you’re left alone with him, and your eyes dart around frantically around the room in search of something to do. Why is he here? Why the fuck has he come back? It’s been days since your embarrassing breakdown in front of him, and you’ve been blissfully unaware of him since. You’ve basically just locked yourself up in this room, working on your research. You’ve even taken meals here – it’s a much more productive use of your time than wandering around the base after Quaritch in the hopes of catching a good glimpse of his ass in his camo.
Fighting to resist the urge to look his way, you tap urgently at the datapad in your hand.
“Do you need something, Colonel?” You ask icily, your attention focused down on your pad. “I’m very busy.”
There’s a momentary silence, but you’re not willing to look up to see his expression.
“Was that one of the cockless little deadbeats that’s been giving you a hard time?”
Giving you a hard time. God, it sounds as though you’re a bullied little kid. How embarrassing.
“He’s the one that gave me the dildo.” You say simply, tapping on the datapad screen. “But he’s not so bad, I guess. Just a bit of an idiot. That doesn’t answer my question.”
The next pause is much longer.
“Haven’t seen you around.” Quaritch drawls, his voice slow and even. “Couldn’t get away from you, before.”
Oh my god, this man is just determined to humiliate you.
Pursing your lips, you turn and march towards the specimen fridge in the corner of the room. It’s really just a mini fridge; a low, hip-high box that contains various biological specimens, and you kneel down and stick your head inside in an attempt to look busy.
“Not like there was any need to come see you.” You call out simply, your voice slightly muffled from inside the fridge. “You made yourself pretty clear, before.”
“Oh?” His voice is closer, though his steps are so light that you can’t hear him approach. “About what?”
“About me.” You snap, though you keep your head firmly buried in the fridge. It’s so much easier to talk to him when you can’t see his face. “Just go back to ignoring me, please.”
There’s another long pause, and you keep staring blankly at the bright white wall of the mini fridge. But then a touch comes to your hip, and you jolt in surprise.
Quaritch’s hand is big and hot, the heat of it searing through the fabric of your labcoat and your sundress. It engulfs your whole damn hip, curving around towards your lower stomach.
“What’s with the change in clothes, sweetheart?” His voice has dropped an octave, rumbling into you as you feel him shuffle closer. “I thought all those little skirts were for me.”
Your fingers clench around the door of the fridge. What the fuck is he doing? All that time you had spent dressed up, made up, simpering like a damn idiot at him, he had barely even given you a sideways glance. But now, after screaming and crying at him like a lunatic, he’s making a pass at you while you’re wearing a simple dress with no makeup. What the fuck?
“I’m not trying to impress you.” You say simply – you feel braver inside the fridge.
“No?” His thumb strokes over your thigh, and you feel the hem of your dress hitch higher. “Well, I like this little number. Better than the others, maybe.”
You swallow thickly, staring blankly at one of the little labeled test tubes beside your face. You don’t answer, but you don’t protest either. Quaritch seems to take your lack of response as encouragement, because his whole hand drifts from your hip to just under your dress. You jerk as you feel the skirt being flipped up over your ass – but you still don’t pull away.
“Hey, kid,” He murmurs, his voice soft and a little condescending. “I gotta question for you.”
His hands are moving slowly, as though waiting to see if you’re going to kick out or try to stop him any way. You know you probably should (where is your goddamn self-respect), but for some reason you allow the touch to travel all the way up your thighs.
Your belly tightens, heat flooding between your legs. Oh god, why aren’t you stopping this? You’re already embarrassed enough about the show of yourself you’ve made in front of him – this is surely going to make it worse by making you seem like a total slut. But then again, you’ve been desperate for him since you first locked eyes on him. Maybe you are a slut.
“What?” You breathe, your voice trembling a little as his big fingers leave red-hot trails over the bare skin on the back of your legs. A large palm strokes over the inside of your thigh, the soft calluses tickling your sensitive skin.
“That dildo. You ever use it?”
The question startles you enough that you jolt, the top of your head smacking into the top of the fridge.
“What?”
He chuckles, and then you feel those big fingers curl around your cotton panties. “You coming outta there?”
“No,” You blurt, grabbing at the sides of the mini fridge. “No, I’m very busy.”
There’s a sharp tug to your underwear, and you gasp as you feel him pull the back of your panties up so that they’re wedged right up between your ass cheeks, the fabric stretched taut and tight over your cunt. You’re admittedly wetter than you’d like to be, and you feel your cheeks burn at the thought of him noticing.
And yet, you still don’t pull away. If anything, you’re holding your breath, waiting to see what the fuck he’s going to do next.
When you feel warm breath on your exposed ass cheek, you nearly choke. Oh my god, how closely is he looking at you right now? Is his face pressed right up between your legs? It sure fucking feels like it.
“Answer the question.”
You swallow thickly. “I, um.. I don’t-”
His hand twists, and you gasp as your panties are pulled up further. The message is clear – tell the truth.
“Once,” You choke out, mortified. “Just once! I just- I threw it out after, I didn’t-”
You don’t even have time to fully process the fact that you’ve just admitted that. It had been a moment of total weakness, your decision to smuggle that stupid dildo back to your room. Or maybe it had been morbid curiosity – you just wanted to know if you would be able to take it. You had binned it straight after, mortified by your own weakness.
There’s a sharp pain on the soft pudge of your ass, as though he’s just nipped at you there. Your thighs twitch together, horrified by the little electric zap of arousal that jolts between your legs.
“Could you take it?” He wonders, and you can hear a grin in his voice.
Holy shit, is this happening? Are you dead? Hallucinating? Have you just lost your goddamn mind?
Emboldened by the fact that he can’t see your face where you’ve stuffed your head and shoulders into the fridge, you mumble, “Pervert.”
Two hands grip at your hips, and you let out a wheezing, startled gasp when you feel a wide, rough tongue lick a stripe across your pussy through your panties. His spit soaks through the delicate fabric, making it cling to your already sticky cunt.
“Whatcha say?” He mumbles, his muffled words vibrating against your clit. He sounds smug, the bastard.
Your thighs clench around his face, but he just reaches up and pushes them back open again with no effort.
“What are you doing?” You gasp out, dropping your forehead down onto the tray of the fridge and making the sample test tubes clink together dangerously.
He huffs a short laugh and pulls his head back to nip right at the juncture of your ass and thigh, making you jolt away from his mouth. “What, you don’t like it? Want me to stop?”
“No!” You blurt, reaching back to try and grab at his head to keep him in place.
He knocks your hand aside, but you can feel him laughing. “Get your head out of that goddamn fridge then, before I drag you out.”
You feel like staying inside the mini-fridge just on principle, but you can’t bear the thought of him pulling his mouth away from you. Not when he’s finally started to touch you, after so long of you yearning for it.
Slowly, you pull your head out. No sooner have you started to move then Quaritch uses his grip on your hips to pull you out. You let out a startled sound as his big hands grab at you and flip you, throwing you on your back in front of him. The display of casual strength is unexpected and very, very attractive, and your legs spread eagerly before he even moves to open them himself.
When you actually get a look at him, it nearly bowls you right over. His pupils are so blown that they’re swallowing his irises, leaving just a thin ring of gold around the edge. His ears are held high and alert, and his mouth is quirked in that infuriatingly cocky little grin right now.
Fuck, he’s just as horny as you are. The realisation is shocking.
“Fuck, all this for me, baby?” He asks, hooking his fingers into your panties and tugging them right off with no effort.
You don’t put up a single ounce of fight, arching your back with an excited gasp as you’re left exposed in front of him with your dress all hiked up around your waist.
He lets out a soft groan as he reaches a finger out and drags it through the folds of your cunt, clearly marvelling at the wetness that has collected there. That same finger slips inside of you and you moan, wanting more, wanting to roll up into it, wanting the ache inside of you filled to the brim.
“Look at you, kid, all sexed up like this.” He says, pulling that finger out and admiring the glistening slick on his hand.
“You’re just a-” You gasp, heaving for breath as you struggle to regain yourself. “A dirty old man!”
That makes him laugh, a low groan of a sound that makes your eye twitch. Holy fuck, does he like being called names?
“Oh yeah?” He rumbles, sounding delighted. He doesn’t wait for you to answer before he’s licking at you again.
He flattens his tongue and guides it up, sliding across your slit before enveloping your clit in his mouth and sucking. You’re arching into his mouth, breathlessly stuttering his name as your hips twitch. His hands on your hips are so big and so strong, holding you so firmly in place as his mouth devours you.
The flat of his tongue is rough and textured like a cat’s, and you let out a low gasping sound as it catches against your clit. Two of his fingers push into you as his tongue works over your clit, as thick and meaty as a well-hung cock. He must feel the flutter of your cunt around his fingers, because he growls low, his powerful form all but vibrating with tension.
Oh god, he’s so big. You had known that, of course, but it’s so different having him all up in your space like this, your legs thrown over the bulge of his biceps as his big head worms its way between your legs, licking insistently at you. The bulk of him is enormous, simmering sexuality about to boil over - it’s insanely arousing to you, the sheer energy of him sending your head spinning.
The onslaught of sensation from the wet heat of his mouth has your head dropping back to the floor, staring up at the ceiling as your eyes go wide. You’ve never felt anything like this before, and as much as you don’t want to give Quaritch the satisfaction of knowing that he affects you like this, you can't help the way your back bows as he licks and sucks at you.
He grins against you when he feels you shiver against his mouth. When your thighs clench closed around his head he groans softly against you. Embarrassed, your legs spring back apart, but Quaritch reaches up and grabs at your thighs to prevent them from spreading too wide.
“Squeeze if you want to.” He grunts, before devoting all his attention to licking and sucking at you once more. He tugs encouragingly at your thighs, and when you wrap them tentatively around his head he gives an appreciative little hum.
You shiver, chest heaving. When he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks, his textured tongue rasping over the bead of nerves, a strong white current washes over you and you arch into his mouth as you come.
You can’t speak, can’t think. The feeling is too overwhelming, too all-consuming before the come down eventually starts and words are coming out, your body shaking.
“Oh fuck, god – oh my god,” you sob, slapping your hand over your mouth, biting down at your palm. “Quaritch– please, shit.”
You jerk your hips up, partially in an attempt to escape from the relentless stroking of his rough tongue over your oversensitive clit, but Quaritch moves with them. He’s basically on his knees following your cunt like a dog as you try to twitch away, using his huge hands on your ass to keep you pulled tight against his mouth.
He goes on licking at your clit and the swollen puffiness of your cunt, and when the rough texture catching against your most sensitive spot gets too much for you, you have to push at his head. He pulls back just slightly, but then continues to lick at the insides of your thighs, as if to lap up every last glimmer of your slickness.
Your head rolls on your neck, all boneless and loose as you wheeze for breath. Jesus Christ, you’ve just come so hard you can’t feel your toes. Colonel Quaritch has just eaten your pussy so goddamn good that you nearly blacked out. What the fuck?
Your cunt is still pulsing with the aftershocks of your orgasm when you feel Quaritch’s big fingers pressing inside of you, testing the stretch and slickness.
“You never answered me,” He murmurs, his tone almost conversational despite the huskiness of his voice. “And I hate repeating myself. So tell me; could you take that dildo?”
“Yes,” You sob, twisting your body around as his thumb rolls over your too-sensitive clit. “Yes, I could take it.”
“Yeah?” He says and it comes out on a purr, the vibrations rumbling in between your legs. “Think you could take me?”
You hardly have any idea how you’ve gotten into this position, but you’ve been imagining this for months now. You’re not stupid enough to throw away this chance.
“Why don’t you come and see?” You breathe, leaning back and arching your back boldly. You can hardly believe your own bravery, but maybe your own horniness is just making you stupid.
But Quaritch laughs, as though he finds you stupidly amusing, and his hands drop to his belt. You watch with wide, eager eyes as he flicks open his cargos and pushes them down and oh! There it is.
You push yourself up to get a better look, mouth falling open a little bit as you get a look at his cock. It’s big and blue and ridged, just like the dildo, but you hardly think it’s fair to compare the two. Quaritch’s cock is real, and looks velvety soft to the touch with a prominent, purplish head. Opalescent precum is beading at the tip, tinged slightly blue and glowing a little bit, what the fuck? He’s so hard that it looks a little painful as it strains against his stomach, though he’s still grinning so slyly that you would never guess.
You want to touch, but you don’t get the chance. His big paws for hands close around your hips and flip you again so that you’re on your hands and knees once more – he seems to like you in this position, because his hands grope insistently at the soft flesh of your ass as he grinds his hips into yours, the thick hardness of his cock rutting against the inside of your thighs.
He’s rough with you by human standards, but never enough to hurt. Just enough to send a little thrill up your spine when he pulls your hips into his, the thick ridge of his cockhead beginning to prod at the entrance of your cunt. It’s hot and large, but your mind feels like liquid, too drunk on all the pleasure he’s given you so far to deny more.
You choke weakly, but you don’t try to wriggle away. You can do this, you can take him. He’s prepared you well, you’re relaxed and so wet, and you had managed to take that dildo inside you, if only for a brief time. You try to stop tensing and relax yourself as you take shaky breaths.
Quaritch pushes his cock in a little further, almost unbearably slow. You feel yourself being stretched open, small stings of pain shooting through you as you drop your forehead to the ground and grunt. One of his big thumbs strokes over the small of your back, the motion soothing and unexpectedly sweet as he slips another inch inside.
“Oh, fuck.” You squeak, eyes wide.
You can feel little bumps and ridges squeezing their way inside as he penetrates you, your lungs seizing up. Quiet cries and gasps fall out of your mouth as you adjust to the feeling of his cock filling you up. No human had ever given you this overwhelming sensation before, the feeling of being impossibly stretched open beyond belief. Not even that stupid goddamn dildo had come close to this.
Every time you think the length of his textured cock has finally ended, he’ll push a little more of himself in. You keep your eyes tightly closed as you continue panting heavily. He’s going incredibly slow too, careful and deliberate in his movements. You had stupidly thought that you would adjust quickly, but it feels as though you’re just barely hanging in there.
Then, finally, Quaritch pauses. It’s a mercy, because your breaths are coming in wheezing pants now as you clench up around his cock, tightening up around the intrusion in flutters. You must be tight to the point of causing pain, but he just lets out a rumbly sort of groan against your back. His hands tense around your middle, impossibly long fingers holding you in place.
Right as you begin to accept the size of him, he uses that grip on your waist to pull you away from his cock and then back down onto him again. It knocks the wind right out of you. You gulp wildly for air, soundlessly. You can’t even cry out, you’re so stunned.
“Fuck,” Quaritch moans. “Like wet velvet, honey. Well done.”
Before you can process or even think, Quaritch pulls out and then pushes back into you, again and again. Every bump drags against your walls and snags on every sensitive part of you. It feels like you had never been fucked before this, the sweet, dull pain and overwhelming sensations of Quaritch looming over your body ruining you.
He huffs and growls as he begins to thrust up into you, no longer slow and careful. Each time he pistons his hips, it’s powerful and keeps you from taking deep breaths. The way his body presses into yours, the way every part of you touches his burning skin, is intoxicating.
His need, his hunger borders on bestial. His wet breath condenses against your skin as he ruts into you fervently, destroying your thoughts. You’re totally at his mercy, whimpering pathetically and whining.
It’s all too much, his size, his pace, his sharp teeth nipping the back of your neck and shoulders. He’s like a wild animal, his hard cock burying itself inside you over and over again. It’s the first time that you really begin to appreciate that Quaritch isn’t human anymore – it extends far beyond his looks and into his behaviour and instincts as well. There’s no reprieve; you can only accept his intense pace.
Unbelievably, your abdomen is tensing again, reeling up tighter and tighter. You’re on the brink of coming again, but it feels like it’s impossible. You’ve never been so pleased by a partner before, hardly ever able to come at the hands of someone else, and you’ve never come so quickly twice in succession before. You feel like you’ll die if you come again, it was too much. Everything was too much.
“Come on, mama, let me see that back arch.” Quaritch mutters to you, his voice thick and growling as his big hand settles across your shoulderblades and pushes you down.
All you can do is obey, shivering as his big hand keeps your upper body pinned to the floor, his other hand using its grip on your waist to pull your ass up higher so that he can pound into you at a better angle.
“I’m going to-” You gasp, your thighs trembling as you sob against the floor. “Oh, god, oh fuck, oh shit, I’m going to-”
“Gonna cream on me?” Quaritch grunts, his pace taking the air out of you. “Go ahead, kid. Go on. This is what you’ve been wanting, isn’t it?”
His hips slam into your ass with every thrust, every drag of his cock working those ridges against the sensitive nerves inside of you. You can feel him twitch inside of you, a sure sign that he’s approaching his own release. The thought makes you moan as the strength behind his hips sends you skidding forward on every thrust before getting yanked back by his hands.
Your lashes are all clumped together from tears, your mouth hanging open stupidly – not only are his thrusts knocking the air from you, it feels as though they’re knocking the thoughts from you too. It feels as though he’s giving fucked stupid an entirely new meaning. Your entire world has narrowed down to the sensation of his cock rutting between your legs, his balls grinding against your clit. Your release is winding up in your belly, and you feel your eyes roll and toes curl as it approaches.
“You been watching me, wanting this. If I’d known what a little spitfire you were, maybe I would have given it to you sooner-”
He rocks into you, his pace now rough and deliberate as he claims you in short, fast strokes. Your little workroom is filled with the unmistakable sound of slapping flesh, his hips snapping against your ass with every feral grunt. He has you pinned so firmly beneath him, every thrust feeling as though it’s punching right up into your chest. It aches, and that ache spreads throughout your pelvis, your belly. It’s warm and sweet as syrup. It feels like he's going to break you in half. You think you might want him to break you in half.
“Look at you go.” Quaritch mumbles, seemingly to himself, and then you feel the broad expanse of his hand slap against the soft flesh of your ass. It seems like he just wants to watch it jiggle as he ruts you like an animal.
He leans forward, his sharp teeth grazing the shell of your ear as he murmurs to you.“This is what that limp-dicked bitch from earlier wanted with you, you know. Bet he imagined you just like this, all stretched out and wanting on that dildo he gave you. Little pervert. He wouldn’t know what to do with you. Think he’s outside listening? I bet all those cockless motherfuckers are listening right now, trying to imagine what you look like. Let them hear you, honey. Go on.”
It’s too much for you. Your elbows give out, your face smushing against the floor as Quaritch uses his grip on your hips to pull your ass back against him, his huge torso plastering itself against your back. His cock is spearing into you so deep that you feel as though you’re going to feel him inside you like this forever, feel the ghost of his cock plowing into you long after he’s gone. You feel every ridge, every vein, every throb.
“Oh god, oh fuck, shit, please!” You wheeze, shuddering as he fucks you into the floor. “I need to come, I need to come-”
You’re cut off from your babbling when one of Quaritch’s big, thick thumbs hooks into your mouth and presses down on your tongue. You moan, closing your eyes and sucking desperately at his stupid blue finger.
“Fuck, you’re hungry for it, ain’tcha.” Quaritch snickers, but he sounds breathless and a little disbelieving. “And here I was thinkin’ you were such a shy little thing.”
Just as suddenly as his finger had pushed its way into your mouth it’s removed, and you almost whine at the loss of it. But then, to your shock, you feel the spit-slick pad of his thumb stroking over the exposed rim of your asshole. He presses inside, the blunt thickness of his fat thumb wiggling inside as your whole body clenches around the intrusion hard.
With an overwhelmed scream, your entire body pulses like a heartbeat and your vision goes white. Your orgasm rocks through you like fire, as relentless and merciless as Quaritch’s rocking hips as he continues to fuck you through the quivers of your release.
“There you go,” He coos at you like you’re a goddamn animal. “Oh fuck, you needed this, didn’t you?”
Choked moans and hitched breaths bubble out of your mouth uncontrollably. It’s like he’s just been waiting for you to come, because now he loses that edge of controlled restraint that he’d managed to maintain. His thrusting is sloppy, uneven – he’s unmistakably nearing his own finish.
“That’s what I’m talkin’ about, darlin’.” He snarls. “Look at you gushin’ all over my cock.”
You yelp as he buries himself deep inside of you one last time, a rumbling snarl tearing its way out of his throat. You can feel the ridge of his pubic bone against your ass, his muscular thighs bracketing your own. He is rooted to the hilt, burrowing as far as possible, and you choke at the sensation of impossible fullness.
Quaritch hisses like an animal when he comes, and you squeal at the feeling of his hot come splashing inside of you then overflowing. It’s so hot that it feels as though it’s burning, but Quaritch just keeps going, the squelching shamefully loud in the quiet of the room.
Soon you’re forced to reach back and slap at his hip, gasping for breath and whimpering under the onslaught of his spent cock rubbing so insistently at your hypersensitive sex.
“Enough, fuck! Enough!” You wheeze, your forehead dropping down against the floor in surrender.
There’s a pause, and then Quaritch stops moving, his slowly softening cock buried deep inside and staying there. The heavy weight of him feels good, and you go lax on the floor as his big hands hold you up so lazily. Your chest is still heaving as you try to regulate your breathing, and Quaritch makes a couple of condescending cooing sounds to keep you quiet as he rolls you over beneath him.
“Ow, fuck.” You breathe when he pulls out of you, leaving you awfully empty and clenching around nothing as you feel the wet dribble of his come spill out of you.
He pauses, glances down at your cunt. You can imagine you look nothing short of ruined right now, but Quaritch seems to be immensely satisfied at whatever he sees. He chortles a soft laugh, and reaches down to stroke his fingers through the sticky mess he’s left between your legs.
Your head lolls on your shoulders as you swat at him, grumbling at the electric shiver that the oversensitivity sends through you. He just snickers at your weak attempt to smack his hands away, unphased, and closes his hands around your waist before bodily picking you up to hold you against his chest.
You groan, unhappy to be moved. “Jesus Christ, gimme a minute.”
He ignores you, snorting another quiet laugh before standing with you, unbothered by the way you hang limp in his arms as he carries you towards one of the desks. His breathing is slightly laboured, and he practically drops you on the surface of the desk as he reaches for the respirator that he seemed to have abandoned when he first came in. His determination to fuck you through atmosphere that he struggles to breathe in is admirable; the Na’vi may be able to breathe oxygenated air for up to an hour, but it can be a challenge and that’s without strenuous physical activity.
Still, you can’t help but snicker yourself.
“What's wrong, old man?” You crow at him, grinning as you lay splayed out and exhausted on the desk below him. “Out of breath?”
Quaritch takes deep breaths from the respirator, clearly trying to regulate his body again after so long without proper air, but he still manages to choke a faintly disbelieving laugh.
“You used to be so sweet.” He mutters, slapping lightly at your thigh. It’s not a harsh smack, just enough to have you jolting a little under him. “What the hell happened, huh?”
“You didn’t look twice at me when I was sweet.” You grumble, reaching down to push the skirt of your dress back down self-consciously. “So don’t go acting like you’re disappointed.”
Quaritch snorts. Respirator abandoned, he leans down and nips at your shoulder, grinning against your bared skin as you jerk and cry out ow, fuck.
“Mm, I like a bit of fire.” He mutters, allowing the respirator to hang down around his neck as he licks over the little bite mark he’s left. “But you’re wrong about me looking. I can’t say I didn’t like those little skirts.”
“Oh.” You breathe, starting to smile. “Okay.” A little flustered now, you start to push yourself up into a sitting position, embarrassed about your spread legs. “Um… where’s my underwear?”
Quaritch grunts as though he doesn’t care for the question in the least. “D’you need them?”
“Yes!”
That big, stupid smug grin again. You’d dearly love to smack it off his face, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t still send butterflies fluttering in your stomach. He doesn’t make any effort to seek out your lost panties, but you can’t be too irritated with him when he keeps nipping so insistently at the base of your neck, leaving hot twinges of pain-pleasure in the wake of his mouth.
“Asshole.” You say, though without any heat. Your eyes slide closed, enjoying his rough tongue against your collarbones. “Hey. You never told me why you came looking for me, anyway. Was it just to laugh at me?”
Finally, Quaritch raises his head. This close, you allow your eyes to trace over his face; his features are so alien, big and bold and more expressive than he intends. His ears twitch, and you fight back a smile at the sight. Sweet.
“Brought you more of that damned plant water.” He grunts. “It’s on your desk.”
Your eyes widen, and you immediately try to sit up, pushing roughly at his chest. “What?”
Quaritch allows you to push him away, though it’s not without an irritated sort of groan. Still though, he doesn’t look annoyed as he steps back to allow you to scramble off the counter he’s had you propped up on. If anything, his swishing tail reveals his sense of satisfaction.
Your knees nearly buckle when you hop down on the floor, but Quaritch’s enormous hand wraps around your elbow and keeps you upright. You don’t pause to try and regain your balance – you’re too busy trying to stagger over to your own messy workspace, your eyes wide and fixated on the sight of a sample beaker perched atop your desk.
“No way. No fucking way-!” You crow, your face splitting into an irrepressible grin. “Holy fuck!”
If possible, this sample is even bigger than the one that Wainfleet and Fike had smashed all over your notes. You take it in with disbelief, your hands reaching for it eagerly.
“A sample this size will let me do all the tests I need for my dissertation and more,” You breathe, awed. “I can- oh, wow. I’m going to finish my whole thesis. I’m going to get my motherfucking PhD.”
Quaritch’s mouth quirks, clearly amused by your foul mouth. He leans back against one of the spare desks just so he can watch you fuss over the sample he’s brought.
“Do I get something in return?” He asks, and you can feel his big golden eyes dropping down over the length of your legs. His gaze feels even more heated now, as though knowing exactly what’s under your dress has lit some sort of fire in him.
You snort, stepping over to the sample fridge with the beaker clasped very carefully in your hands.
“You certainly do not.” You say archly, hoping to maintain an aura of aloofness as you tug the fridge door open and place your precious sample carefully inside. “As far as I’m concerned, this sample can be considered reparations. If you bring me a sample of panopyra sensory tissue, however… then we can talk about rewards.”
You half wonder if maybe that was too bold, but Quaritch’s next chuckle holds an edge of heated delight. It seems like he wasn’t lying about liking a little fire. You’re so distracted by the careful tucking away of your sample that you jolt when you feel huge blue hands coming to land at your waist, tightening over your hipbones.
When he leans in to murmur in your ear, you shudder helplessly at the rumble of his chest.
“Sounds good to me, sweetheart,” He mumbles, a hand reaching to stroke boldly over the curve of your ass. “And maybe next time we can get going without you wearing this damn fridge as a hat.”
#no one look at me i'm so serious#miles quaritch#na'vi quaritch#quaritch x reader#recom quaritch#recom quaritch x reader#quaritch x human reader#avatar x reader#avatar way of water#awow#avatar 2#na'vi x human#terato
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Spooky season is here and I was just thinking about that tiktok (maybe) of the couple at the haunted house where the guy pushes the girl onto the feet of the ax wielding haunt and then the girl and haunt have a conversation that ends with the girl chasing the asshole with the ax and the haunt happily following her.
But make that Steddie. Steve as the girl. Set between seasons 3 and 4, but in a world where Steve going on a date with a man is surprise not a thing of revulsion (as in people would surprised that he was dating a guy having been a ladies man in high school, but no one would give him shit about it). Because it's my sand box, damn it. I make the rules here!
*
Steve wasn't sure what possessed him to go on this date with Jeremy. He didn't like haunted houses. He had seen too many real horrors in his life be frightened of fake ones. But Robin said he could pretend to be scared and cling to the guy's arm, maybe even get a kiss out of it.
What he wasn't expecting was for it to actually terrify him. He was clutching Jeremy's arm the whole way through, chanting in his head "don't hurt them, it's not real." Over and over again whenever the urge to push the actors away or in one extreme case when they were in the haunted hospital break the doctor's nose.
The actor looked too much like Dr Brennan, and while the patient on the gurney wasn't a girl or even had shaved hair, but Steve's protective instinct went into overdrive. It took every ounce of self-will Steve had to keep clutching Jeremy's arm.
They finally hit a room that didn't look so bad. It had a wood floor and four garish statues, one in each corner. Their fog machine was working in high gear but seemed to collect around one figure in particular.
It held an ax over its head, its mouth open in a silent scream. The robes that gathered around its sandled feet were perfectly rendered in stone. The sleeves of the robe revealed a couple of bat tattoos on the right forearm.
Steve was entranced, he let go of Jeremy's arm for the first time since they started and took a step toward it.
It was then the actor jumped off his pedestal and swung his ax down.
Jeremy did the inexplicable. Maybe even outright despicable thing. He pushed Steve forward into the waiting arms of ax murder. Steve stumbled landing on the actor's feet.
"Whoa!" the actor asked. "Are you okay?" He put the ax down and helped Steve get to his feet.
"Did he really just shove me at you to save his own ass?" Steve asked in shock.
The actor cocked his head to the side. "That's what it looked like to me. I hope that was a friend and not a date..."
Steve winced. "Sadly, the latter."
"Fuck, dude," the actor said. He spotted the ax. "You want to get revenge?" He picked up the ax and handed it to Steve.
Steve laughed. "Hell yeah!"
He ran after Jeremy, very plastic ax in hand, the actor cheering him on.
The next room was holding Jeremy so that he wouldn't be split from Steve and gotten lost. It was full of evil clowns. Something that apparently Jeremy was terrified of, judging by the screaming he had been doing.
The actors spotted Steve coming at their prey with an ax and Eddie cheering him from behind, they immediately clocked what had probably gone down. They let Jeremy pass them and two of the clowns broke off to chase him out of the haunted house, gaining cast members with each passing room (still enough remaining to scare other patrons but obviously gaining a crowd to hound this guy.)
He exited the haunted house screaming obscenities at Steve and the actors. The crowd laughing and pointing. He got into his car and drove off.
The smile slid off Steve's face. "Fuck. There goes my ride home."
The ax murder laughed as all the other actors went back inside. He pulled off his hood to reveal a mess of dark brown curls and grey face paint around his eyes on his lips. "I've gotcha, big boy."
"Eddie Munson, right?" Steve asked when he finally placed the face.
"Aww," Eddie cackled. "You do remember me."
Steve scoffed. "Kinda hard to forget."
Eddie's grin grew big. "Duly noted." He scratched the back of his head. "I am sorry about the shitty date though."
Steve shrugged. "It turned out more fun then I thought it would."
Eddie cocked his head again. "True. It's not every day you get chase away a bad date with plastic ax."
Steve handed it back to him. "Shouldn't you be getting back? Won't the other patrons find it odd when the room is empty of scares?"
Eddie smiled slyly. "Who says I left my post unattended?"
Steve's eyes went wide. "How many more of the statues are actors?"
Eddie leaned forward into his space. "I'll never tell," he said sing-song.
Steve laughed.
"Just let me inform my boss I'm taking you home and clean up this makeup, I'll get you home, Stevie," Eddie said.
"You don't have to do that," Steve mumbled. "I'm sure I could call someone."
Eddie shook his head. "Nah, I've got you."
"Thanks."
Ten minutes later Eddie was back on the pavement standing next to Steve. He was back in his usual shredded black jeans and leather jacket. But he wore a denim vest over top of it.
"I like the vest," Steve murmured. "I like pins and things."
"Patches," Eddie said.
Steve hummed his confusion.
"The other things are patches," Eddie explained.
Steve smiled. "That's cool."
Eddie pulled up to Steve's house without asking for directions.
"Should I ask how you knew that?" Steve asked as he got out of the van.
Eddie just waggled his eyebrows as he got out of the van too.
"You gonna walk me to the door, Eds?" Steve asked with a smirk.
"These woods behind your house are pretty fucking scary, dude," Eddie said with a huff of laughter.
Steve just shook his head and bit his tongue to avoid saying exactly how much.
They got to his door and Eddie pressed a kiss to Steve's lips.
It was sweet and warm. "What was that for?" Steve asked, breathlessly.
"Isn't that what you do at the end of a date?" Eddie asked with a teasing grin. "Walk them to door and give them a kiss good night?"
Steve laughed. "Yeah. Yeah it is. Good night, Eds."
"Good night, Stevie."
Eddie walked to his van. "If you want to go on a date that doesn't end you chasing your date with an ax, you know where to find me."
Steve grinned. "I might just take you up on that. Provided it's not another haunted house."
"Don't worry, baby," Eddie said with grin. "I'm loyal. Just a one haunted house kind of guy."
Steve shook his head and unlocked the door. Before he close it behind him he could hear Eddie celebrating, cheering and hollering.
Robin was never going to believe him when he told her how his date went.
But that's okay. She was right. It was fun.
*
Tag List: @spectrum-spectre @estrellami-1 @zerokrox-blog @artiststarme @swimmingbirdrunningrock @gregre369 @pyrohonk @a-little-unsteddie @chaosgremlinmunson @itsall-taken @goodolefashionedloverboi @messrs-weasley @chaoticlovingdreamer @maya-custodios-dionach @val-from-lawrence @i-must-potato @danili666 @carlyv @rozzieroos @wonderland-girl143-blog @justforthedead89 @emly03 @bookworm0690 @bookbinderbitch @littlewildflowerkitten @redfreckledwolf @scheodingers-muppet @mira-jadeamethyst @vecnuthy
#my writing#stranger things#steddie#ladykailtiha writes#haunted house#bisexual steve harrington#steve's date is a jerk#eddie to the rescue
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༊*·˚ FOREVER WINTER (IF YOU GO) — task force 141 x reader
07 — DISTANT MEMORY I USED TO KNOW
featuring. simon 'ghost' riley + johnny 'soap' mactavish + kyle 'gaz' garrick + john 'bravo six' price + (non-endgame phillip graves)
warnings. nsfw, fem!reader, fmmmm, enemies to lovers, slow burn, polyamory, ghostsoap, pricegaz, alerudy, heavy angst, requited unrequited love, graphic violence
series masterlist. read on ao3. read on wattpad. fanfic playlist.
<- previous part | next part ->
Quickly switching to the main channel once more, you go to report the status of your target, when black consumes your vision.
Pain sparks in the back of your head, your head unnaturally twisting to the side as you fall to your knees, forehead colliding with the harsh concrete as all of the oxygen within your lungs leaves you in one thick swoop.
“Sweetheart?! Sweetheart, what’s your status?!” You can hear Price barking out through the comms, but all you can see, hear, feel, is the sparks in the darkness behind your eyes, the cool, rocky surface of the ground on which you lay. That, and the all-consuming ache your body’s become.
Your hand claws at the floor, an attempt to right yourself, but the very new feeling of a boot’s sole presses against your skull, crushing your cheek between it and the rocks.
“Now it’s clear why you got Colonel,” a nasty, nasally voice spits out from above you. Above? Beneath? You can’t tell, not with the world spinning, not with everything within you falling apart at the seams. “Thanks for confirming what we all knew.”
Even with your centre of gravity out of whack, your words never seem to fail you. “That your,” you suppress the urge to vomit everywhere from the onslaught of nausea, “Commander’s a bad lay?”
The man’s – a Shadow’s – boot presses further against your skull, and you can’t stop the pained groan that falls from your bloodied lips. When you cough, you can hear the red liquid splatter across the floor. He laughs, coldly, unamused.
“No. That you’re a filthy whore who slept her way to the top,” he seethes, and your chest heaves with every intake of breath.
“Real. Fucking. Original,” you manage to grit out, through every flash of pain in your head. Your stubbornness was going to get you killed. Right now, even, maybe.
…Hopefully not.
Struggling to open one eye, you manage to allow yourself a small sliver of vision. You know where your small, hand-held pistol sits, hidden beneath your vest. If you can distract him well enough, all you’d need is one shot.
He grinds the heel of his boot into the nape of your neck, and you find yourself hacking up even more blood. Not a good sign.
“How does a combat medic even make it to Colonel?” He continues, sneering, ignoring your grunts of pain and frequent squirming. “Was your pussy that good?”
“Jealous, Corporal? Wanted his small prick up your ass instead?” You goad, every word a struggle to get out, but worth it nonetheless. He doubles down, looking up to the roof to calm himself down with shaky breaths.
The short, two second window allows for you to slip a trembling hand into your vest, grab a hold of the small pistol, raise it, and pull the trigger.
Your eyes flutter shut once more as the revolting feeling of a corpse on top of you has you freezing up. You can’t even check for more threats, not with every nerve ending in your body feeling as though they’ve been frayed, the truest form of torture you’ve ever experienced.
It’s then that you fall into a state of limbo. A grey area, an unknown, a state of something that can only be described as a loss of self. The crash you’d been anticipating. A pain-induced one, maybe?
“Love! Love, shit, fuck, hey, hold on!”
In the floaty, intangible abyss you find yourself floating in, you’re unsure if the words are even spoken in reality. If they’re just a figment of your imagination, a taunt, a way for the gods to mock you before you fall into their clutches.
Graves escaped, the thought comes to you through your haze, as what feels like phantom hands clutch the nape of your neck and your hip, an alarm bell ringing through the blankness of it all. He’s free. He survived.
You will never belong again.
“Ghost Team, I have Sweetheart, she’s in pretty bad shape,” the words are more certain, this time, your consciousness slowly coming to. You think someone’s carrying you against their chest, a potent smell of cinnamon and gunpowder surrounding you that has you instinctively curling in closer to the source. “We need exfil, now!”
You think you let out a small whimper from the confusion, the agony of it all, because the person holding you shushes you with a soft sound and tightens their grip around the back of your head, squeezing your outer thigh. A princess carry, then.
Attempting to open your eyes, the instant light that floods them has you burying your head into a chest, the fabric blocking your vision. It, too, has that distinct, comforting smell.
“It’s okay, Sweetheart, I got ya.”
…Gaz.
Gaz is the one holding you, the one carrying you to exfil, the one who, embarrassingly, saved you. Out of the four of them, you suppose you were grateful it was him that had seen you passed out. A body on top of you.
Oh. God.
“What,” you croak, your voice broken and throat sore, “What. I – are we safe?”
“You’re safe with me, love. Won’t let anything bad happen to ya. You probably have a concussion so imma need you to stay awake for me, yeah?”
But sleep. It sounded so nice. You haven't slept since. Since you met them all. Since everything, since your life got ruined.
Whatever he says next goes unheard. Whatever pleas are made.
You let slumber take you in its icy grip.
*
“It’s a myth, ya knob. Only gotta wake ‘em up every few hours.”
“Brushed up on ya first aid knowledge to impress her? Real smooth, Soap.”
“The two of you – quit it. She’s wakin’ up.”
“Great.”
“You shut your mouth too, Simon.”
With a small groan, you try your best to gauge your surroundings. You’re moving, that much you’re sure of – by the thrum of the engine in your core and the distant whirring, you’re in a helicopter.
You think your head’s resting in someone’s lap – a hand in your hair, stroking against your scalp, soft and sweet.
Eyes fluttering open, you quickly adjust to the neon lights of the roof, finding yourself face to face with Gaz. So, you figure, you’re in his lap, his hand in your hair. He’s good, you think distantly, a proper damn masseuse.
His brows are furrowed, bottom lip forming a small pout as he glares at who you gather is Soap to your left.
When he looks down, however, a grin quickly replaces the expression and the hand in your hair starts rubbing smooth circles into the base of your skull. If this is what Heaven is, you suddenly understand man’s desire to reach it.
“There we are,” he smiles, voice lower and smoother. “Sleepy head.”
You shoot him the world’s weakest glare. He, dutifully, doesn’t comment on its lacklustre effect. “I promise. I don’t usually have to get saved,” you petulantly point out, but the edge is dulled as Gaz continues to play with your hair. And that intoxicating cinnamon seems to have you on a leash.
“Didn’t think you did,” he reassures, and you accept the confirmation with a steady breath.
You try and pull yourself up, using your hands to do so, when a soaring pain through your left shoulder has your breath hitching and your head falling back into Gaz’s lap. It’s only then that you realise that someone’s got your bent legs in theirs, too, and when you try and get a look, you see it’s Price.
“Try not to use that arm,” Price jerks his chin to your aching arm. “You got grazed.”
It hits you, all at once, what has just transpired. What you failed to do.
“He escaped,” you croak, looking up to the ceiling even when it starts spinning. “I tried to take him down. I did. But. He escaped, I’m…” you swallow, a heavy thing, “Sorry.”
“Hey, no, lass,” Soap chimes in, and with a secure hand at your non-wounded shoulder, Gaz helps you sit up, head resting against his shoulder, “Dinnae ken why yer sorry. It was one against ten.”
Your head pounds, a relentless rhythm, and when you look down, it’s to find Price’s hand fall onto your thigh and give a comforting pat. When you turn to him, he gives you a small smile. “You did good. We have to finish up another loose end, but we’ll take you to the nurse on base –”
“I want to go,” you interrupt, sitting up straighter with a small wince. It’s a small helicopter, obviously meant just for the 141, with bolted metal as far as the eye can see. “I can’t. I have to be useful.”
“No.”
The final member, the worst one, the man seemingly out to get you.
Ghost.
“What do you mean, no?” You quip, shooting daggers at the man who sits beside Soap on the other side of the chopper.
“Did the concussion give you hearing loss?” He asks, cold, and you feel as though you’re buzzing with energy, “Or do you just hate hearing the word no? We don’t need you on this mission.”
“Didn’t realise you were taking over the duties as Captain,” you grit, your headache increasing tenfold, even with Gaz’s hand at the base of your nape a soothing presence, “How does Price feel about his Lieutenant’s new role?”
Both you, and Ghost, shoot a look to Price. He unknowingly tightens his grip around your thigh.
“We can discuss this on base,” he commands, allowing no room for argument. “We head for Chicago in two hours.”
Your brows furrow. “Chicago? Why?”
Soap’s smirk is dirty, excited as he simply says, “We talked to a… friend. She gave us the information we needed.”
“Information for what?” You ask, narrowing your eyes, leaning further against Gaz as more pain shoots through your body. He doesn’t say a word about it.
“Graves didn’t tell you…?” Gaz asks, looking down to you with barely concealed shock.
You look around at the four men. “What? What’s going on?”
“The last missile,” Price folds his hands together, leaning forward to meet your eyes with serious blue. “We’re heading to Chicago to dismantle the last missile.”
*
“There we go, doll. Right as rain.”
The woman gives you a kind smile, securing the bandage around your arm, the disinfectant and tape underneath it along with the shot of morphine she’d given you easing the pain. She pulls off her latex gloves, a ring adorning her wedding finger.
“Thank you…” You trail off, not seeing a name badge on the nurse.
She places her hand on your good shoulder and gives you a soft squeeze, her smile warming. “Sarah. My name’s Sarah. I’d say that I’ll see you around, but… I hope not.”
You let out a laugh, and she lets out her own chuckle.
Sarah’s gorgeous, with dark features, black hair cut short to her head, graceful in her movements. A gold necklace rests on her collarbone, the pendant in the shape of a K.
The 141’s base is, well, almost exactly how you’d imagined it. Busy, well-stocked, off the grid.
Gaz and Soap had been lenient to leave you in the Med Bay by yourself, but Price and Ghost had made them haul ass to the conference room. You were all running on a very tight ship, time seeming to fall through your grasps with every breath you took.
“Thank you, again, Sar–”
“Colonel?” Turning where you sit on the white, hospital-issued bed, your confusion doubles when you see a woman you don’t recall having met before. She seems kind, motherly, almost, but steely in a way that only came with being in Special Ops.
“Hello to you too,” Sarah rolls her eyes, and you watch as the stranger looks to the nurse, her expression immediately easing into something loving.
“Hey, love,” the blonde woman says, pressing her lips to Sarah’s cheek, before pulling back and watching you.
“Who are you…?” You ask, feeling bad for ruining what seems to be the couple’s greeting. But also. You just got here, and couldn’t be expected to understand everyone and everything on base.
Inclining her head in a small apology, the woman extends her hand to you, which you take with a firm grip.
“Kate Laswell, Station Chief,” she greets, and recognition sparks in the back of your mind. This was the woman that had found out about Shepherd and Graves’ off the books treason. It feels as though a rock has gotten stuck in your throat as you pull away, not breaking eye contact. “You want to come on this mission? You’ll be with me.”
You immediately look to Sarah, expecting her to object, as a normal nurse probably would.
Instead, she just gives you a cryptic, knowing look. “I know how you soldiers work. If I tell you to rest, it’ll just give you more of an incentive to get yourself shot again.”
Your smile is the brightest it’s been in years.
“What’s our role?” You ask, standing up from the bed with the smallest of winces. Morphine has its limits, you suppose. Sarah starts cleaning up the supplies, and when Laswell encourages you to walk beside her with a hand at the dip of your back, you do just as much.
“We’ll be locating the missile,” she explains, low as the two of you walk through the crowded hallway. Her hand doesn’t leave its position on your back, and you’re grateful. “And you’ll be telling me everything you can about Graves and the Shadows.”
You fall into pace beside her, embarrassed by the difficulty of the task. Sarah had said you’d suffered a minor concussion, and a pretty hefty cut on your temple which she’d patched up as best she could. Being a combat medic, you knew most of your diagnoses anyway, but it was nice having it cemented by the kind woman. The bullet graze was at risk of infection, and a general pain in the ass, but it was durable with the tending in Med Bay.
“I’m surprised the boys aren’t the ones interrogating me,” you jest, more of a seeking for reason than anything. Why would they have Laswell do the talking, when they seemed so… interested?
She shoots you a look – a mystery for you to uncover. “Price told me that you mentioned a… questionable difference in authority and age. Gaz said just as much, and while they may be brutes,” she smiles to herself, telling of her history with the team, “They’re good men. Think they’re looking out for you.”
The only person, in hindsight, who had ever looked out for you was your mother.
You blink away the burning in your eyes, swallowing, before adjusting your smile once more. “I think they’re… wary of me, more like it.”
Her brows shoot to her hairline. “You don’t think that Gaz finding you unconscious with a dead Shadow atop of you cemented your allegiance? The two Sergeants haven’t shut up about you since they arrived. Only stopped talking when Price threatened them.”
“He threatened them?” you choke on a shocked laugh, getting lost in how… nice it is, talking to another woman. How safe, how it feels like you have someone to trust. The 141, you think you can trust them, but there’s something so different in the camaraderie of women. The inherent safety you feel with one in a position such as herself, that niggling in the back of your mind gone.
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” she looks to you with a smug grin, pushing open the back exit of the compound with a nudge of her shoulder. The wind slashes against your face, a strand blowing into your mouth, making you wince and spit it out.
“Fucking hate that,” you mutter, Laswell immediately quipping, “The worst.”
You think you and Laswell are going to get along quite well.
“Fuck, Sweetheart, there ye are!” A now all too familiar Scottish lilt calls, stood with the rest of the 141 by two helicopters. You stand across the field, but you can’t help the smile that creeps onto your face when both him and Gaz come bounding over, Gaz adorning what appears to be a wetsuit underneath his standard uniform.
Bulky arms wrap around your waist, and you find yourself being lifted off of the ground, Soap pressing you against him with a strong hug. A surprised giggle leaves your lips, and you see Gaz stop just in front of you both, hands on his hips.
“She’s still injured, you dolt,” Gaz goads, and Soap responds by squeezing you harder.
“Aye, that she is,” Soap grunts, letting you down a touch gentler as you find your footing once more. He smirks. “But… She still owes me one for that dirty move back in Las Almas.”
You playfully punch at his shoulder. “Wasn’t patching you up enough? Not leaving you for dead?”
“I don’t seem to recall…” He trails off, his dimples deepening when you punch him again, harder this time.
“Good to see you up and ready to go.” The wind whistles through your ears, the near-dusk light brushing you all in sensual blues as you meet the Captain’s affirming grin.
Even when you try and flatten your mouth into an authoritative line, the smile seems unable to leave your face. You fold your arms. “I seem to remember you all wanting me dead or nowhere near you, just a day ago.”
Gaz raises his hands in defence, teeth on display as he swings his arm around your neck, pulling you in. “Don’t group me with ‘em. Trusted you the moment I saw you.”
“And who’s to say we still don’t want those things?”
Right. Ghost.
Laswell, standing behind you all, seeming to cast her calculative gaze over the five of you, narrows her eyes at the Lieutenant at the exact same time you do. “If you can’t play nice with the Colonel, Ghost, we can and will swap you out.”
That has you instantly ready to protect the woman’s six.
“Someone seems to recognise my rank,” You look to Laswell as Gaz unravels his arm from around your shoulders, and the woman simply shrugs, hands in her vest’s pockets.
“I just recognise another woman deserving of her power when I see one,” she says, and you might’ve proposed at that very moment if it weren’t for her wife just a few doors away.
“Sergeants, Lieutenant, go ahead and check over the supplies. I’ll catch up in a moment,” Price orders, and when both Gaz and Soap go to answer back, he raises a hand, raises his brow, too. “That wasn’t a request, boys. Go.”
They do just as much, both Gaz and Soap waving back at you as they jog back over to the helicopters.
Just you, Price and Laswell then.
“Kate, a minute.”
…Or, well, just you and Price.
Leading you with a hand on your elbow, Price pauses by a quiet section of the base’s wall, looking around you for any stragglers. Not seeing any, he moves both his hands to rest on your shoulders.
“The deal we made,” he begins, and it’s like a blow to your side. You lift your chin, straighten your posture, clench your jaw. “We – I would like it to extend until Graves is officially KIA. If we can plan a takedown properly, not rush it as much, we can do it. But it’s only right if you do it right alongside us.”
He subconsciously squeezes your flesh, but it’s a grounding motion, one you find necessary.
This feels like more than just that. This feels like an offering – a sense of stability for your foreseeable future. A way for you to find your feet, with a community, a support system to help you restart this path your life has diverted to.
“Yes,” you say, earnest, eyes not straying from Price’s for a single moment. “Yes – thank you.”
“I’d argue that we get the better end of the bargain,” Price mutters, and it’s so quiet and human that you think you might’ve imagined the words. You go to push, ask what exactly he means by that –
“Captain! Hassan has entered the building!”
He breaks eye contact, finally, and your eyes catch on his profile in the night of dusk – the slope of his nose, the angles of his jaw.
He is, all things considered, a beautiful man.
Your heart thunders, and you pull away, his hands falling from your frame like weights. With a small, delicate smile, you raise your hand to your head in a faux-salute.
“Good luck, Cap.”
His responding smile is softened by the dreaminess of it all, the light, the nervous buzz in the air. He raises his own hand, then, a mocking of your movement.
“See you on the other side, Sweetheart.”
taglist. @lilpothoscuttings @jng-yuan @iruzias @insatiablekittie @1wh4re1nova @kaoyamamegami @supernaturalstilinski @inthemiddle0feverywhere @msecho19 @nogood-boyo @alfa-jor @lalashhyl @letmeapologise @honeybeeznutz @1mawh0re @oreo-cream @lalashhyl @someonepleasedateme @letmeapologise @uhhellnogetoffpleasenowty @inarabee
author's note. i have TWO very specific. but huge. plot twists thatll happen WAY later in the fic. im very curious if anyone can guess em before hand! both of which HAVE been hinted at. a part of me hopes that you guys miss it!! :p
#🤍 : forever winter#⌨️ : love's writing#cod mw2#ghost cod#cod x reader#ghost mw2#john soap mactavish#mw2#simon ghost riley#soap cod#tf141#tf141 x reader#john price#kyle gaz garrick#captain price#price x reader#gaz x reader#soap x reader#ghost x reader#gaz garrick#cod#kyle garrick#gaz mw2#gaz cod#soap x ghost#soapghost#call of duty x reader#task force 141#task force 141 x reader#cod smut
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Sparks fly
Sirius Black x Pureblood slytherin!Reader
Summary: Dating a Black was not the problem, the problem was that is Sirius, a known bloodtraitor.
Genre: Hurt/comfort and secret relationship
CW: talks about familiar problems, blood status and arranged marriages
Word count: 1.2K
This is part of my Speak Now (Marauders’ version) collection
“I run my fingers through your hair and watch the lights go wild. Just keep on keeping your eyes on me, it's just wrong enough to make it feel right”
Sunny days were not common in Hogwarts, the usually humid weather of the Scottish highland made it hard for students to enjoy the large grounds surrounding the school.
Nonetheless, whenever the clouds weren’t pouring rain or blocking the sun you have been finding yourself in the same place for the last year.
You were sitting by the black lake, in a remote spot seldom crowded by students. It was at times like this that you felt genuinely happy, the sun illuminating the lake and the weather hot enough for you to discard your coat. Though you could argue the cozy spring weather was not the main source for your happiness, but the man whose head was resting on your lap, your fingers running through his beautiful dark hair.
You never meant to fall for him, really. He was hotheaded, a pain in the ass, arrogant, a womanizer and everything your parents would hate for you -which was anything but a respected pureblood heir-. Falling for a Black was not the problem, the Black family was a well bred pureblood family, all of them except your boyfriend. Falling for a Black was not the problem, falling for Sirius was.
You both were aware of the implications of the relationship so you did what was the most logical thing, kept it a secret to everyone. At first the secrecy wasn’t that bad, it was even thrilling at points, sneaking out and stolen glances had been fun for a while. Until it wasn’t enough, you wanted to be able to hold his hand in public, or display a little bit more of PDA than appropriate when girls were shamelessly hitting on him.
But if your friends were to find out about your relationship with Sirius it wouldn’t end well, they’d be against it, probably stop talking to you and tell your parents, which would end with you getting disowned or betrothed to one of your cousins to keep the family name clean. And if his friends found out he’d probably be mocked relentlessly for dating what he swore to hate, and maybe his friends would be sceptical of you, or just disapprove entirely of you.
“A penny for your thoughts?” Sirius's voice broke your train of thought and your eyes fell on him.
He looked beautiful, his head resting in your lap and your hands on his hair. His gorgeous grey eyes were filled with concern when he looked at you.
"Sometimes I wonder if this is all worth it, you know, the hiding. Don't you get tired of it?" You asked him, your tone making your boyfriend realize just how serious you were.
Sirius sat upright to be able to look you in the eyes, his thigh touching yours and his hand on top of yours, stroking it lovingly.
“You know I love you right? It doesn’t matter what others think of this, of us.” He said, his free hand gesturing between you two. “I will love you regardless.”
“I know, I love you too, so much.” you whispered while resting your head on his shoulder, Sirius placed a kiss on your temple. And just like that every single worry you had dissipated.
Oblivious for both of you, another group of students had decided to explore the less visited parts of the school grounds, therefore being aware of the whole exchange.
───✥───
“You are joking right?” James asked, dumbfounded at the news that had just left Remus’ mouth.
“I couldn’t believe it either, apparently Barty and Snape saw them together on the school grounds.” came Remus’ reply.
James and Peter were hanging out in the common room when Remus delivered them the new hearsay that was going on around Hogwarts. As if on cue Sirius appeared in their peripheral vision, skipping down the stairs with a happy whistle and making his way towards them.
When he saw their shocked faces looking up at him he stopped dead in his tracks. “What?” he inquired.
James started on an incomprensible ramble along the words of ‘how, when, why…’ just to be interrupted by Peter. “Are you really dating Y/N? like, the pureblood slytherin Y/N?”
“How do you…?” Sirius' mind was racing, unable to process a single thought, how did they know? Who else knew? Where were you?
“I ran into Lily and Marlene, and they told me that Barty and Snape had seen you two on a date. Everybody knows, rumors fly at hogwarts” Remus explained.
Sirius' worry grew, if everybody knew, that meant your house knew. And if they did it was only a matter of time until your parents got the news. The interrogation that he was going to suffer at the hands of his friends was nothing compared to the reactions you’d get from everyone in Slytherin.
“I need to find her, I’m sorry. I’ll explain everything later, I promise.” Sirius ran from the room, leaving behind three very confused marauders and James shouting “So it’s true?!”
───✥───
He found you outside. The former gentle weather was now replaced with heavy rain.
You were sitting in the same spot of your dates. Sirius heard your sobs before he saw you.
You were drenched by the rain, your hair sticking to your face, your eyes red and swollen from crying.
“Y/N” he spoke softly when he reached your side, his arms pulling you into a hug. “It’s okay, baby.” That made you cry harder and your arms to tighten around him.
“They know Sirius, I can’t go back to the common room, they are going to have my head.” You said in between sobs. As soon as the news had reached the slytherin common room so had the threats, namecalling and hexes. “I’m sure Evan has already sent an owl to my parents, I’m going to get disowned, Siri. I don’t have anywhere to go.”
Sirius could feel your pain through your words, when shit had hit the fan at his home he had the Marauders to have his back. You didn’t have anyone except for him.
“You can sleep in my dorm tonight, don’t go back to yours.” he said while soothing your back.
“Do your friends know?” he nodded. “They hate me, I can’t go to your dorm.” you said, trying to hide your face in his chest.
“Hey, none of that. They don’t hate you, they’ll be surprised, maybe a little bit apprehensive about the whole thing, but they’ll give you a chance, and they are going to love you.” Sirius' voice was assertive, he was trying to reduce your self deprecating thoughts at a minimum.
“What about my parents?” you said, more calmed now, sobs turned into hiccups.
“We are going to figure it out, you and I, together. We’ll find a way.” Sirius' hand came in touch with your face as he tried to dry your tears.
“Okay, yeah you are right. I love you Sirius.”
“I love you too, forever.”
Sirius leaned in for a kiss, soft and filled with love. You wondered then how wrong this was when it just felt so right.
Author's note: Thank you for reading! Likes, comments and reblogs are welcomed and very appreciated To be part of the taglist Dm me or send me an ask <3 Series' taglist: @feral-posts @izuoyarmin @aremuslupinsim @yourfavgay
#sirius black x reader#marauders x reader#marauders fanfiction#marauders era#sirius x reader#sirius black#sirius black x you#sirius black x y/n#sirius black fanfiction#sirius black hurt/comfort#remus lupin#james potter#the marauders era#the marauders#marauders#sirius fic#sirius fanfiction#sirius x you#sirius x y/n
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Dr. Ratio x Aventurine
warnings: none
word count: 1.1k
a/n: inspired by this artwork here, done by @kimeoshi
description: Ratio creating an Aventurine sculpture, fluff
the statue's pose was nothing if not an intricate one, but he wasn't fully incapable.
the life-size statue, needed, simply some finishing details. using cold tools in his hand to shape the fingers, add details to the hair... the tool flipping to sit between his fingers when he decides to press his fingertips into the statue's face, his eyes closing… drawing from his memories. Ratio finds himself yearning, forefinger smoothing out the bridge of the nose, thumb shaping the lips. in any other situation, it would feel illegal to stare at those lips for so long. his plaster covered fingers tracing the curve of the lips he likes so much, wishing the statue could depart them at his touch like the human version of it does. he is but a spectator enveloped by his own work.
satisfied with his work, and knowing he needs to step away, perfection doesn't exist, Ratio walks off, leaving the statue to dry.
an acceptable time later, Ratio's hands are clean from the plaster, his step firm, walking into the room full of statues... of himself mainly. except for the one in the middle, the one that looks like it is dancing, freshly completed. Ratio stands, extending his arm to hold the statue's extended one, the other one moving to the back. is this how it would feel like to dance with him? his posture returns to normal. Ratio steps closer... he needs to know if he got it right, gazing at the plaster lips. thump, thump, light sound informing him someone is approaching. like a flash of lighting, Ratio covers the statue with a plain white sheet and turns to face the person about to knock on the door. ... there is no knock, the door opens without a warning.
"it is polite to knock," Ratio says not even looking at the person entering, his gaze on the book he quickly fetched.
"indeed, but in the room of clay models, I doubt you'd be doing something in need of knocking" the blond man jests and flashes him a bright smile. his relaxed steps echo in the room, mentally reminding Ratio to place some rugs on the floor. Aventurine gestures to the sheet covered model, "this is the new one?"
Ratio quickly attempts to make a convincing excuse. "I'm unsatisfied with it, it is not for your eyes, dear gambler."
"you, unsatisfied? I assure you it is perfect, may I see?" Aventurine's hand resting on the sheet ready to tug it. Ratio reached out, putting his own hand over his. "don't"
Aventurine's eyes sparkle, smirking, "oh... you made something that isn't... appropriate~"
Ratio shakes his head, keeping his cool, despite the gambler getting under his skin immediately. "it is perfectly appropriate, the statue isn't nude."
Aventurine steps closer to him, ignoring the clay man under the white sheet, "this makes it even more interesting, who would you make out of clay and marble, that would make you this defensive?"
Ratio blinks, gulps, can he not just drop the topic? by instinct, from observing the lips for so long on the grey-white man, his eyes drop to Aventurine's lips, scanning if he got it all right.
"... weak attempt at a distraction, doc" Ratio's ears barely register the words.
"it's you." he settles, coming clean, in the simplest terminology.
Aventurine tilts his head, Aeons he is so pretty, "I'm the distraction? or are you..."
Ratio moves past the statue, so he doesn't block Kakavasha's view, and in a swift movement pulls off the sheet.
Aventurine observes his likeness in silence. "I was told my eyes are the money piece, in this form, you don't get to enunciate them." his arms crossed across his chest as he looked over the details.
"I'm unsure if I got your lips right."
"ahh, so that's why you're not satisfied" Aventurine turns to face the taller man. "why not test?"
"I am not kissing my statue." Ratio coldly replies. in his mind that is true at this moment. yet, in a desperate time such as ten minutes ago, he'd happily press his lips against the cold unfeeling sculpture.
"who said kiss?" Aventurine gently takes Ratio's hands and presses his thumb against his lips. He takes the other hand and presses the thumb to the statue's lips, "go on. test."
Ratio is once again reminded of how human he is, and how human this man treats him. he can feel the flush in his cheeks, and despite it, he does trace... both lips with his thumbs. similar, almost there... "your softness, warmth... could never be replicated." his hand falling off of the statue.
Aventurine's voice turns softer, "is that so?" speaking against the thumb on his bottom lip. "also~ if you wanted to dance, you should've just asked."
subconsciously, Ratio steps closer, he cannot control being drawn to the brightness of Aventurine, like a moth to a flame... the most beautiful flame this moth has ever seen. the moth wishing this could be the only flame for him.
Aventurine's eyes soften, "is anything bothering your mind, Veritas?"
"I really..." Ratio seems distracted, focused, lost, and determined, his moth form jumping around the flame, "I really want to kiss you right now."
Aventurine smiles, stepping closer, "allow me to fulfill that wish" the smaller hand cups his cheek, pulling him down, the height difference painfully obvious as Ratio leans in. once their lips meet, it is no longer just about the kiss. Ratio's arms embrace him, and pull him closer, Aventurine's hand gingerly caresses his cheek, and the other hand seeks Ratio's hand on his back, taking it in his own. it becomes about holding each other, enjoying the intimate proximity.
how could he be so lost? his wings flapping around the bright form of heat. his mind fills with useless, obviously untrue thoughts, such as; I could die in this moment and I would never regret it, this is what perfection feels like, oh he is mine, please be mine. it isn't until the kiss ends that he realizes how much of his mind was preoccupied, he looks sad, feeling it was too short.
"don't pout," Kakavasha whispers.
"I fear I could never come up with enough words to describe you, no word could ever be enough. no word would dare to match the exquisite depths of your eyes, the lingering song of your laughter, the melody of you saying my name, the softer than cotton feeling of your skin under my fingertips, the way I can barely keep standing when you look at me like this after we kiss. although it will never stop me from trying, dear gambler"
"your poetic, romantic side outmatches me, doc." the blond man smiles, pulling the taller man in for another kiss. before their lips meet, he exhales, "I'm insanely fond of you too if it wasn't obvious already" he smirks and tilts his head up to meet the taller man's lips.
a/n: this beautiful artwork (linked in the beginning) had me writing this piece while I was still in bed and barely awake.
#hsr#honkai star rail#dr ratio#aventurine#veritas ratio#aventio#ratiorine#raturine#golden ratio#ratio x aventurine#fluff
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Like A Gold Statue
Adam Warlock x Reader
Summary: You help Adam wind down ;) for the first time.
Warnings: VERY MUCH 18+!!!, masturbation, a little voyeurism/exhibitionism, very little plot
A/N: fourth part to the Firsts series! If you haven’t read the previous parts yet, my masterlist is here! (Can be read as a stand-alone tho!) A few spicy chapters for y’all but we getting back into fluff soon!
taglist: @spderm4nnnn @nocturnest
[not my gif]
Y/n laid on her bed, legs spread. She and Adam agreed they wouldn’t rush into sleeping together, but after their steamy makeout session the week before — seeing the big, wet stain on Adam’s grey sweats from how she made him feel — her drive was kicked up to 100.
Seeing him in his underwear earlier that day didn’t help. Y/n didn’t mean to walk in on him changing, but she wasn’t sorry she did. Now she was aroused, & she had about an hour to do something about it before they were supposed to meet the other Guardians for dinner.
So there she was, laying on her bed, eyes closed, a hand tucked beneath the waistband of her sleep shorts. Y/n played with her clit, flicking it back and forth, playing with the pressure. She stroked it lightly and pretended her fingers were Adam’s tongue, teasing her.
“Ohh, Adam, yes,” she moaned.
Y/n pressed down, applying more pressure, and began to rub slowly.
“Yes.. yes.. mmm, yes.. Adam!”
“Y/n, what are you doing?”
Y/n opened her eyes to find Adam leaning against the door frame, arms crossed, with an amused smirk on his face. His pants were obviously tighter than they were meant to be.
“The front door was open so I let myself in,” Adam continued, eyes glued to her movements.
Y/n didn’t let his gaze stop her. Instead she explained herself. “I’m imagining your head between my legs.”
Adam bit his lip and watched as she continued pleasuring herself, each moan driving him crazy.
“You’re welcome to join me if you’d like,” y/n said, using her free hand to gesture toward the armchair across the bed.
Adam sat down, his erection clearly trying to break free from its fabric home. Now that she had an audience, y/n pulled her shirt over her head and kicked her pants off her ankles. Adam’s eyes widened at the sight of her for the first time. He pulled his golden cock out of his pants and began to stroke it slowly.
“Mm, Adam, you’re so big,” y/n moaned, eyeing his solid length. She dipped her fingers into her folds and spread them. “I’m picturing that big, golden cock right here.”
Adam stroked himself harder, pre-cum leaking from his tip. “You’re so wet for me already, y/n.”
Y/n dipped a finger into her entrance. “So wet for you.”
Adam watched intently as she added another finger, going deeper into herself. He stroked faster as she curled her fingers, her back arching as she did so.
“You’re so beautiful, baby,” he praised. She moaned his name.
Then she locked her eyes with his. “Adam, baby, take your clothes off for me. I want to see all of you while you touch yourself for me.”
The man obeyed, completely removing his pants & his shirt. He sat naked on her armchair, like a gold statue of a Greek god. The golden vein of his cock shifted as his fist worked its way to his brilliant tip.
“Baby, touch your breasts for me,” he commanded. His eyes were full of lust as she obeyed, rolling a nipple with her free hand.
Her other hand continued working at her wet centre, juices spilling out as she pumped in and out.
“Faster, y/n. Touch yourself faster for me. You’re so pretty touching yourself for me.”
“Mm, Adam… tell me what you want to do to me, please,” y/n asked, her breaths becoming uneven as she began to near her high.
Adam’s strokes quickened as he thought about the ways he wanted her.
“I want you in my lap, riding my cock. I want to stretch you out until you fit perfectly around me. I want to pull your hair as I fuck you from behind and suck on your neck, leaving marks for everyone to see that you’re mine.”
Y/n had never heard her golden boy talk so dirty. He was usually so pure & innocent. But she loved that she was the only one who got to see this side of him. Hearing him tell her that he wanted her as bad as she wanted him — knowing he was picturing railing her and leaving marks on her — was enough to drive her over the edge.
With a few more hard pumps y/n arched her back as she reached her climax, her legs trembling as she touched herself through her high. “Ohh, Adam!”
The sight of his woman sprawled across the bed, a panting mess from her fantasies of him, brought Adam to his own climax, and he came on his torso with a cry of her name. He leaned his head back in bliss as he came down from his high. When he brought his head up again he found y/n standing in front of him.
Y/n got onto her knees & looked Adam in the eyes. Without breaking eye contact she slowly licked the cum off of his abs. As she finished she stood up in front of him, licking her lips.
Adam leaned back in his chair. “I want to taste you.”
With an aroused smirk, y/n swiped 2 fingers through her folds, still slick with her juices. Resting a knee on the portion of the chair between Adam’s legs, she leaned forward and brought her fingers to his lips, her other hand on his chest to steady herself.
Adam took his fingers between his lips and sucked eagerly, relishing in her taste. Y/n moaned softly at the sensation before slowly pulling her fingers out.
Grabbing her by the hair, Adam pulled her into a rough kiss, both of them moaning as he sucked on her tongue. When they finally pulled away for breath, y/n stood up and walked to pick up her clothes.
Adam raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing?”
Y/n pulled her shirt over her head and made her way to the door.
“We’re late for dinner.”
#adam warlock#guardians of the galaxy vol 3#gotg 3#gotg v3#guardians of the galaxy#gotg vol 3#marvel#mcu#will poulter#will poulter imagine#will poulter x reader#will poulter smut#adamwarlock#adam warlock smut#adam warlock imagine#adam warlock x reader
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The Yule Ball, pt. 1
Severus Snape x professor!reader
omg wow two posts in one day? who am i?
i also wanted to post this because i asked about it a while ago lmao, but i'm going to split it into two parts and finish the end of the second part tomorrow after work, it's mostly done, i just need to tidy it up hehe. this isn't very long, however, in part two, it gets good of course. pls don't hate me :( </3
i hope you are all doing well!! :)
warnings: slight harassment? ew, karkaroff
The atmosphere in the Great Hall was sparkling and lively as loud laughter and chatter filled the wintry and festively decorated room. Several large round tables were dotted around the sides of it, laden with beautiful white centrepieces and matching silver cutlery and glittering glassware. Long, blue-grey curtains adorned with artifical snow hung from the walls between the majestic and mythical stone statues, as if imitating frozen waterfalls. A warm and fuzzy feeling settled in your body as you glanced around the gorgeously decorated Hall, a small smile finding your cherry-red painted lips.
You sat alone at a table in a silky, backless, long-sleeved dress with only a goblet of wine for company as you watched students and teachers alike dance joyously on the floor to a melodious tune. You had to bite back an amused grin as your eyes caught sight of Hagrid's hand slipping down to Madame Maxine's rear. She quickly swatted it away, and you couldn't help but chuckle quietly to yourself. Ever since the international schools arrived at Hogwarts, Hagrid seemed to be smitten with the enormous witch, and you could see why. Madame Maxine was stunning and classy; always dressed in the finest attire you could ever imagine - and of course, always carried herself with elegance. You envied her slightly as you watched the pair sway sweetly together.
Speaking of the international schools, a certain Headmaster had taken a liking to you during their stay and Hogwarts, and it didn't please you at all. In fact, it made you rather uncomfortable. Well, he made you uncomfortable. You shivered slightly at the thought of Igor Karkaroff and lifted your goblet of wine to your lips, downing the rest of it carelessly. You'd been avoiding him all night, and you hoped you wouldn't have to speak to him for the rest of it.
As you placed the goblet back down, you glanced around, catching sight of Minerva stood to the right of Dumbledore and Snape who were currently observing the dancing students. Though you were looking at the older witch, your eyes were magnetically pulled to the wizard dressed in all black - surprisingly without his signature cloak.
Professor Snape.
You'd spoken to him a few times, but not many - he wasn't the most welcoming man you'd met. In fact, he was rather cold and short with you, which wasn't too unsurprising since he'd taught you back in the day when you attended Hogwarts as a student. So, you knew exactly what he was like. In those days, despite his harsh and cruel attitude towards you and your classmates, you developed a silly little crush on him. You weren't exactly sure why - perhaps it was the mysterious aura that he possessed, or his deep, sultry and silky voice he spoke with, or maybe it was just the plain simple fact that he was... attractive to you. Gods, your classmates would have disowned you, had you admitted such a thing.
Regardless of your history here, being the youngest professor here was a little intimidating to say the least, and the need to prove yourself was overwhelming. At times, you felt as if you didn't deserve your post as the professor of Astronomy - how could a twenty-something-year-old be qualified enough to teach students less than ten years their junior? Doubting yourself was bound to happen, especially in the presence of such talented, wise wizards like Dumbledore, Flitwick and McGonagall - Flitwick was a duelling champion, for goodness sake. And what were you? Merely infatuated with the nightsky and everything that possibly dwells beyond it? Merlin.
A deflated sigh swiftly fell from your lips as you quickly stood up from your seat, beginning to reluctantly head over in the direction of your fellow colleagues. It's not like you didn't want to stand with them, you just felt awfully out of place, and you didn't want to look weird by sitting all by your lonesome all night. Being the new person at the new job was never fun.
As you neared them, your eyes were drawn to the gloomy Potions Master again. As if he could sense someone watching him, his deep black eyes flicked to you, and you quickly glanced away with burning cheeks, walking forwards to stop beside Minerva. Maybe your crush never went away, and you winced slightly at the thought.
Turning to Minerva, she looked at you with happy eyes, a smile gracing her lips. "Y/N," Minerva beamed, her shoulders relaxing in a cheerful manner, "we'd wondered where you'd disappeared off to."
You hummed happily at her words, your stiff body relaxing slightly. McGonagall had been your favourite professor when you'd studied at Hogwarts, even though you didn't exactly excel in her class of Transfiguration. She never berated you for your lack of skill in the subject and that was probably what solidified your preference.
You looked at the witch beside you, though a silhouette of a prominent nose and a mop of black hair clouded your vision. "Just needed a sit down, really." You replied with a soft voice, smiling as you linked your fingers together in front of your waist. "Also, I fancied some more wine, it's rather moreish." Minerva and Dumbledore chuckled at your light-hearted joke, but Snape did not. You swallowed awkwardly.
"Perhaps it isn't wise to be drinking in the presence of students, Professor L/N." Snape drawled in a demeaning tone from beside Dumbledore, side-eyeing you.
"What makes you think I'm going to get drunk?" You frowned, his subtle dig at you twisting your insides. Crush or not, he was getting under your skin.
Snape snorted slightly, "A history of misbehaviour at Hogwarts doesn't bode well." He said, turning his head to face you. You fought the itching urge to roll your eyes at his words, remembering that one time you had pranked his class.
"That was one time, Snape." You sighed, fighting hard not to groan. Apparently, he wasn't going to let this go. "And it was years ago now."
"I wouldn't want to take any chances." He sneered at you, and your stomach twisted horribly. Did he really despise you that much? It hurt to say the least, you thought he would've put that in the past and moved on, but apparently grudges are the next best thing.
"Right." You huffed quietly, and Minerva cast an awkward glance to Dumbledore who also looked rather uncomfortable. Yes, this was a terrible idea coming to stand with your colleagues. A fucking terrible idea. Snape always had to make you look childish. Suddenly, you pathetically wished that Karkaroff would suddenly appear and bother you so you wouldn't have to deal with this awful interaction. Anything would be better than this right now.
As if on cue, someone called your name. "Would you excuse me?" You sighed, casting an apologetic smile towards Dumbledore and McGonagall, purposefully ignoring Snape. Dumbledore also excused himself, leaving only the Heads of Slythering and Gryffindor together.
As you and Dumbledore walked off, Minerva turned to Snape with scornful eyes. "You shouldn't be so harsh on her, Severus," she huffed, "she's not a child anymore. Y/N is an adult, capable of making adult decisions. There's no need for such hostility."
Snape didn't reply, he only sighed heavily at Minerva's comment, prompting the older witch to roll her eyes at his petty behaviour. Though, underneath his cold and dismissive attitude towards you, there was something else. Something he did not want to unfold, nor understand. It wasn't a familiar feeling, and that was what worried him. And so, each time you spoke to him or looked at him, he had chosen to push that feeling away by being malicious to you. Snape wasn't fond of it, and he did resent himself slightly by acting so horribly towards you. Something inside of him tugged at his heart each time your face fell due to his sharp words, or the way he'd glare at you whenever you looked at him. It was the only thing he knew. Snape wasn't familiar with nor welcoming to feelings other than hatred or disdain.
The Potions Master cast his eyes over the crowds of students, absent-mindedly looking for your small figure. It's not like he wanted to check on you, he just wanted to see who had called for you, out of... curiosity. And there you were, chatting with the Weasley twins. Snape couldn't remember your exact age, but he was sure you were mid-twenties, perhaps early-twenties. Your youthful face and essence said so. As he observed you, his chest burned unusually as you laughed at something the twins had said, and it burned even hotter when he saw them hand you something. What were they doing?
"It's just a little something," Fred grinned goofily in his tuxedo as you held a small, neatly-wrapped box in your hands. It was a pale red, with a shining green bow. You looked up at them and smiled gratefully.
"Yeah, we just wanted to say thanks for being a brilliant teacher," George added after his brother, making you grin amused. The two of them always made you laugh in your classes, it was like they were the same person from how well they bounced off of each other.
"Oh, thank you, boys," you grinned, a little shocked at their kindness, "you didn't need to get me anything." Both Fred and George grinned together, their fluffy ginger hair bouncing a tad as they glanced at each other.
"You're our favourite, you know," George said, and Fred nodded with him, beaming. You chuckled at their silly smiles.
"Yeah, you're a thousand times better than any of the other professors," Fred agreed cheerfully, folding his arms against his chest.
"Especially Snape-" George interjected. Your heart skipped a beat at the sound of his name.
"Yeah, he's a right old miserable git, he is." Fred grumbled, nodding behind you. "He's staring right at us, too." Your stomach dropped the second Fred said those words, and you quickly whipped your head around, your eyes meeting with Snape's own fierce ones. As quickly as you looked at him, you turned back around, your face becoming hot and pink.
"Are you blushing, professor?" George grinned wickedly, glancing at his brother who also shared that same expression.
"No!" You answered quickly, gasping.
"Don't tell me you like that horrible arse," Fred laughed, his eyebrows shooting upwards.
"I wouldn't have expected you to fancy a Slytherin like him." George frowned, his nose turning up in slight disgust. "I mean, he hates everything and everyone, why would you-"
"I never even said I liked him! You two just assumed so!" You scoffed, folding your arms against your chest. The twins laughed at your reaction, glancing at each other. "Anyway, boys, thank you for the gift, but this conversation is over." Another hefty sigh fell from your lips as you looked between the two of them, smiling politely.
"Professor L/N," A raspy, deep voice came from behind you, and instantly, your blood went cold. You knew that thick accent very well. Fred and George Weasley looked like they were on the verge of busting out laughing. They knew of your dislike for the Durmstrang Headmaster, and you were sure that the majority of the school knew of his weird, little thing for you.
"Headmaster Karkaroff." You turned around hesitantly, fighting back a scream of utter frustration. He looked a little more groomed than usual - his messy, dark brown hair with specks of gray in it was brushed through, and his long goatee had been neatly manipulated into a sharp point. You were also surprised to see him dressed in such expensive looking clothing. The dress coat he sported was a creamy-beige, adorned with a shining black leather belt around his middle, accentuating his lanky figure.
"You look like you need a dance," The corners of his lips turned upwards into a mischievous smirk, and an uncomfortable shiver ran down your spine. "May I help with that?" Karkaroff held out his hand, and your eyes shot down towards it.
"Erm," you stuttered, "well-" You couldn't find the words at all, and it wasn't helping that you could hear the twins behind you snickering to themselves. Before you could even answer, Karkaroff had his hand grasping yours and tugging you to the dancefloor. You stumbled slightly at how fast he had pulled you, and with your other hand, you reached down to grab your skirt to hike it up so you wouldn't trip over.
As the pair of you reached the floor after winding through hoards of dancing students, Karkaroff spun you around a little too quickly, and you ungracefully fell into his chest with a squeak. "Sorry," you mumbled, using a hand to push yourself away from him, "I wasn't really expecting you to do... that."
"You know," Igor chuckled, ignoring your previous comments, "I've been waiting for this moment ever since I arrived here at Hogwarts." He admitted with a wicked smirk, allowing his rough, bony fingers to slide down your bare back, gripping you a little too tightly for your liking.
"...To dance?" You frowned, using your free hand to fidget with his hand that laid flat against your bare back, silently telling him to ease off a little. "Don't be silly." You chuckled awkwardly, casting a glance over to where you had previously stood with the other teachers as you and Karkaroff swayed. Only Snape remained, and your face grew as hot as a firepit as you noticed his eyes were already stuck on you. His face was the usual unhappy, scornful, sour frown.
"Oh, but I am not being silly, little bird." Igor murmured, pushing his face closer to yours. Instinctively, you pulled your head away from his, scrunching your nose up at the awful pet name.
"Little bird?" You repeated, almost choking the words out. You squirmed within his uncomfy grip, casting another glance to Snape, hoping that he'd have just an ounce of human decency to realise that you were asking for help. Surely, he wouldn't be that much of an arsehole to ignore the sign of a colleague in trouble.
"Yes," Igor smiled, making your skin crawl. "You remind me of a little bird - tiny, beautiful..." Your eyes widened at his words, and again, you glanced to where you had seen Snape. Your heart dropped like a rock as you noticed the empty space where he had previously stood. You knew he was a dick, but not so much of a dick to let you get taken hostage by a man you hardly knew - and didn't want to know. "So beautiful... why don't we ditch this party and head back to my quarters? I could show you around." Karkaroff muttered and pulled you even closer, grinning lecherously as he brushed his nose against the crook of your neck. Your breath hitched - but not in a good way.
"Igor..." Your voice was shaky, yet low, indicating that you weren't comfortable at all.
"How about we go somewhere more private?" Karkaroff's hands tightened even more as they slipped down to your hips, pulling your body flush against his. A quiet gasp left your lips as you pressed your palms flat against his chest, attempting to push him off of you. Your eyes flicked to where Snape once stood again, but he was no-where to be seen.
"Something caught your eye, pilentse?" Karkaroff hummed lowly, his eyes narrowing, evidently upset that your attention is busied with something or someone else.
"No." You quickly replied - almost too quickly. "I just need a refreshment, do you mind?" You forced yourself to glance up at Karkaroff's intense, wrinkled eyes.
"Oh, no, that can wait. I've waited almost the whole night for this moment..." Igor grumbled with a sneer as his grip on you became deeper and a little tighter, as if to say you weren't leaving until he deemed it so. That was until you saw that same sneer fall from his face, replaced with what looked like fear. Instantly, your brows furrowed together into a confused frown as you noticed his eyes dart from yours to something behind you, and so you turned around, curious to see why Karkaroff looked like he was about to flee.
"Karkaroff." Snape's deep, almost threatening voice reached your ears, and immediately, your mouth went dry as your heart leaped up into it. So... he did notice you? A rush of relief filled your body and your shoulders relaxed a tad. Snape glanced down at you, his thick mop of black hair framing his pale face. The blue-white light from above highlighted his prominent, handsome features perfectly, and you felt a sense of warmth prickle your skin, pooling in your stomach. You looked away, certain that if you kept staring, he'd assume you were weird or something along those lines.
Igor swallowed thickly, his bony fingers digging into the skin of your back in fear. You winced slightly at the sharp prod, catching Snape's attention. His eyes darted down to where Karkaroff had an iron-grip on you, and his lip twitched into the beginning of a sneer as he looked back to Igor's worried eyes. "Snape," The Durmstrang Headmaster greeted the gloomy Potions Master, clearly a little afraid of him. Apparently everyone was fearful of Snape, except for a select few, you realised. "What can I help you with?" Karkaroff's thick accent had slipped slightly, his voice wavering. You had to stifle a laugh at that - how was a man like Igor Karkaroff afraid of Snape? There was definitely something that you were missing here.
"Professor L/N," Snape ignored Karkaroff and shifted his bored expression to you, though you didn't miss the venomous look that he'd shot at the Bulgarian. You were still in disbelief that Snape had answered your silent cries for help, let alone actually come to save you from Karkaroff's slimy grasp. "I believe we have some important matters to tend to." Snape said matter-of-factly, arching a brow at you expectantly.
"Wait, what?-" You choked out with wide eyes. You'd been staring a little too hard at Snape, and so you stumbled over your words, unprepared. "Oh, right, yeah- the, erm, the... valerian root." You finished, turning a bright shade of red as Snape's brows furrowed at you in a judgemental fashion, as if to say 'seriously?'.
"Yes," Snape drawled, dragging his disappointed eyes from you to Karkaroff. You huffed quietly, embarrassed. "The valerian root." The Potion Master repeated, shooting you a glare. He held out his hand for you to take, and you reached out to grasp a hold of it, when you were suddenly tugged backwards by Karkaroff. Snape's narrowed eyes darted to the Headmaster's hand wrapped securely around your waist, his nostrils flaring in slight anger. This old, despicable man had no business holding a young witch like you in such a manner.
"That can wait, surely?" Karkaroff said, his voice low as he tucked you closer to his side. You shot a desperate glance to Snape, begging him to help you again. A frustrated breath shot out of his nostrils.
"Tragically, no." Snape quipped sarcastically, his dark eyes piercing a burning hole through Karkaroff. Snape looked furious - his body was rigid. He hadn't moved a muscle apart from his eyes to look at either you or Igor. "Professor?" He glanced to you, stretching his hand to you once more, and you took it happily, allowing him to pull you out of Karkaroff's slimy hands and to his safe side. Your cheeks flushed pink at the closeness between you two, and you kept your eyes on the ground as Snape shifted his hand to sit on the small of your back, guiding you away from Karkaroff.
Part 2! (wip) Masterpost
there is part 1, i hope you enjoyed it, and i hope it was sort of what you expected! i can't remember what i said i was going to do but this is what i came up with hehe. i'm always a sucker for jealousy.
let me know if you liked it/what you thought, i do apologise that it was kinda short, but it'll be finished tomorrow! <3
i hope you're all well! :)
#professor severus snape x reader#severus snape#pro severus snape#severus snape x professor!reader#professor!reader#harry potter#hp#hp fandom#pro severus#pro snape#severus snape x reader#severus x reader#severus x y/n#snape content#professor snape#severus snape fandom#snape fandom#snape#snape x y/n#snape x reader#snape x you#severus snape x you#severus snape x y/n
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Man imagine bustomer walking in and just seeing a bigass human monster long arm legged cat with a zipper??? Just staring.
Customer: *pays for item and rudely hands the money*
Lynel: *whispers behind them menacingly* …Say keep the change.
Customer: *shits their pants and on the brink of tears* mommy…
Lynlas tricks/enjoys messing with customers by pretending to be a statue propped up in Witch Reader's lobby/living room. In a normal household, a cat human creature held together by zippers may seem like an outlandish choice for decoration, but it feels right at home in the witch's possession.
-
"What a peculiar figurine...."
Aged fingers map the teeth of the zipper scaling the length of the statues face. They trail to its mouth, curled in a wide grin - unsurprised by the give of its teeth given the zipper's impression of there being something else underneath. The illuminated iris of its singular visible eye pokes through the shroud of darkness that is its sciera. Curiosity blossoms a new as attention is directed towards their right eye. A tab dangles from the sealed lid - small, hole circle scars in the skin indicating some of of former injury. The point of a needle, perhaps?
"Pardon me...."
The collector stiffens- Entering from the kitchen, floorboard's creak with each tap of your advancing steps. Standing before the older gentleman, you present him with the cup of tea requested from your lists of refreshments for guests. A smile dawns your face, yet it does not reach your eyes- They point away from the man, knowing and calculating. The watchful gaze of someone waiting for another to misbehave.
"Do you like them? Lynlas has been with me for some time now. They are the best companion one in my line of work could ask for."
The name of the figure lingers on the collector's tongue. "Lynlas....I beg you- I'll pay ten - twenty times more than what I came here for. It would be a marvelous addition to my collection."
Your face tightens, smile shrinking into something akin to a grimace. "I'm afraid they are not for sale."
You stumble - grounding a foot backwards as his hands perch onto your shoulders.
"Money is not an issue for me. Name your price, I insist!"
Your eyes once again dart towards the figure - a flicker of panic flashing over your otherwise relaxed expression. "Sir, please refrain from putting your hands on me. They do not want you-"
"Surely you can bare to part with it! You can fill your home with similar novelties with the money you'll gain-"
"Agh!"
Scolding white pain shoots through your hands, bleeding down your arms as scorching liquid seeps into the sleeves of your shirt. The tea cup crashes to the floor with a loud crack - your body falling to its knees along with it. The agony is fleeting, hurt morphing to terror as the tear of a zipper racks through the walls of your living room.
"Lynlas.... It was an accident."
Nails scrape along the wooden floor, bones snapping and cracking into place as the statue reaches its full height.
"Lynlas.... He is a senile old man. Do not attack him."
The collector turns as hot breath fans the nape of his neck. A long, greyed tongue unfurls from the backs of pointed teeth.
"Didn't you hear, old man.... I'm not for sale."
"LYNLAS!"
-
The feline's ears press flatly against their skull as they scrub blood out of your prized rug. Sniffling, it looks up at you - eye wet with tears.
"I'm sorry for ruining your favorite rug again, Master... Can I still sleep in your room tonight?"
#Lynlas my oc#yandere#yandere imagines#yandere headcanons#yandere insert#yandere scenarios#yandere x reader#yandere x you#yandere oc#yandere blurb#yandere hybrid#yandere drabble#witch reader#yandere teratophilia
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Does the End Justify the Means?
CX-2 (Clone Assassin) x Reader
Summary- CX-2 never planned on forming a relationship, but once he did he had to protect it. Even if it meant killing hundreds to keep you away from Hemlock.
A/N- SPOILERS FOR THE BAD BATCH FINALE. I feel like people forget that deep down, CX-2 is still a clone being forced to serve the Empire. Maybe I'm delusional though!!! MENTIONS OF BURNS AND TORTURE!!
Word Count- 5,253
"You know, CX-2. There was once a time where I considered scrapping you. The very cloning program that made you..." Hemlock started. "You were hard to control. My methods had little effect on you. Considering you had little to live for, well that didn't help."
CX-2 stood, arms crossed behind his back. He listened intently, staring at the grey border of the wall.
"You were too, hmm. Rebellious should I say?" He walked slow circles around CX-2, studying him. "That was until I found your little secret out." Hemlock laughed at his own wit. "Who knew a medic trainee would have an Assassin Clone falling so hard!" He seemed to think the situation was hilarious.
Silent, CX-2 contemplated killing Hemlock where he stood. It wasn't possible though, he was smarter than that. He probably had a weapon on his beloved as they spoke. Perhaps Scorch was with her now...
He didn't want to think about it, so he didn't. Opting to stare back at the wall again.
"Truly, I created you better than that. The problem with you clones is your loyalty. It would typically disgust me. Though, unlucky for you, this all plays out in my favor." CX-2 swallowed hard at his words.
There were not many things that scared CX-2, but the thought of Hemlock hurting you consumed him. Striking him with a never ending fear.
"You will bring me Omega. Unless, you want an accident to happen. That would be tragic, wouldn't it?" The man asked, taunting the clone. All while fiddling with his gloved hand.
For the first time in many minutes, CX-2 spoke. "I will retrieve the girl."
"Good, I do not doubt your abilities." Hemlock stepped closer, right in The Assassins face. "Dire consequences are at stake..."
CX-2 made sure his next stop was Pabu.
CX-2 had no intentions of forming any friendships, especially not a relationship. You, however, came natural to him. In one of Hemlock's attempts to have complete control over CX-2, a burn was implemented on his waist. He remembers the day vividly, as it was the first time he'd met you.
You were only on Tantiss because of your mother. She worked for the Empire as a medic, a famous doctor of some sort. While you never had the knack for the medical field, you enjoyed helping people. It was in your blood after all.
CX-2 was taken to a special room for clones of high status. You were there by sheer accident. A mishap guided you to his side.
"Uhm, hello sir." You introduced yourself. "I'll be your medic today. What's your name?" You asked, a little nervous to be assessing a clone by yourself. He wore black armor, head still covered. You'd never seen that style before, maybe he was new?
CX-2 just stared up at you, a hard gaze. Out of fear, you started to breathe a little heavier. He could have killed you there and no one would have batted an eye.
"Sir, is something the matter?" You pressed on, trying to mask yourself with professionalism.
He continued to stare, eventually pointing at the chart In your hands.
"Of course, uh. CT-4340?"
CX-2 didn't say a word, just tilted his head. You looked at him with doe eyes. "Are you CT-4340?" you hesitated.
"My code is CX-2." He commanded out, a modulated voice appearing.
You almost jumped at the sound. "I uh, seem to have the wrong chart. I am so sorry, I should get a higher official-"
Under his helmet, CX-2 resisted the urge to roll his eyes. His shoulder dropped, annoyed. This caused his side to jolt. The pain of the burn on him was strong, but he withheld any reaction.
You, on the other hand, seemed to notice the very small twitch his waist gave out. "Where are you hurt?" You asked, the words now flowing with a motive in mind.
CX-2 instinctively started unbuckling his chest piece. You flushed slightly, ashamed you couldn't be more serious in the situation. "Do you need help?" His head rose quickly, falling after looking at you for a second. He didn't respond, just continued to take his upper armor off.
Guess not...
The second you saw his skin, you suppressed a gasp. It looked gruesome, like something had repeatedly been burning him. With a deep breath, you shoved down any lasting fear.
Getting to work, you prepared bacta and bandages.
He was still, almost too still. You'd seen plenty of procedures and medics fixing up clones. There had been wincing, complaining, and fidgeting on lesser injuries. You would have expected tears and need of an anesthetic for any other man. But he was still...
You prayed you didn't hurt him more than he already was. You knew your hands were clumsy with inexperience. If you did, he made no effort to tell you nor pull away.
From then on you saw each other more and more. While your mother made sure you got plenty of experience working on clones, you were extremely busy. Never getting a second to actually talk to CX-2. A particular encounter with a clone in the hangar would change this.
You were helping a trooper with a broken arm- Simply wrapping it to prevent further injury. You crouched down, examining the break.
CX-2 was just passing by, heading to see what his next mission was. He barely took note that a soldier under his command broke an arm. Why would he? Clones die everyday, including ones under CX-2.
He did however take note of you. He recognized you immediately. He surprised himself, why would he care about some medic? He'd never remembered the ones that had worked on him in the past.
At this, he stared at you. He took in your silhouette, something deep down told him to bask in your every feature. So, he did.
Of course you felt the beaming eyes of CX-2. It made you nervous. Was there something on your face? Did you make him mad? It distracted you.
"Ow!" The clone exclaimed in pain, face screwing. He yanked his arm up. It was an accident, you were sure. A response to the pain you caused unintentionally. CX-2 didn't seem to think this when he saw the clone raise his arm to hit you.
It all happened so fast, you didn't have time to lean back or even register what was happening. The next thing you knew was that the unidentified clone was on his back. CX-2 stood over him, a vibroblade at his neck and foot on his chest.
Falling onto your butt, you gasped and regained some sense. "CX-2...."
He slowly turned around to face you. The two of you looked at each other. His hand still expertly rested centimeters from killing the clone.
Adrenaline pumping, you spoke. "it's okay. It was an accident."
He pushed the clone back with his foot, hand raising. With the vibroblade still wielded, he stormed to you. Your heart pumped viciously, though not in fear. If he was going to really hurt you, he would have let the clone hit you.
No, your heart thumped in your ears in anticipation.
He grabbed you by the forearm with his free hand, careful of the blade. He yanked you up, off of your position on the cold floor.
You briefly noticed eyes around the hangar now in your direction. You grew nervous, only at their judgmental looks.
The quickness of it all made your head spin. You stepped out, trying not to fall. His hand still gripped your arm, he stood unmoving. He let you catch your balance, just watching you.
"Excuse me, what is going on here?" A vice admiral questioned, appearing from your left.
CX-2's modulated voice said your name. It was harsh and cold, but you somehow knew it wasn't directed at you. "She is my medic."
"And? What gives you the right to attack a clone for no reason?" The admiral demanded.
CX-2 didn't like being questioned. Before you could get a single word in, CX-2 pulled you with him as he turned to leave the hangar.
"Wha-" You decided not to protest, the man was on some kind of mission. One he had made for himself the second he saw a threat to you.
He guided you two through the complex halls and levels of the lab. You were beyond lost, but he seemed to know where he was going. After a few minutes of paced walking, you stopped him.
"CX-2, where are we going? I don't want to risk getting reprimanded by the admiral." You were cautious, the smallest of complaints could get you reassigned. Tantiss was not for the faint of heart.
"You won't." He would make sure of that. He continued to walk, this time a little slower.
Finally, you found some familiarity in the halls. You noticed he was leading you to the very room you met in. The examining room for special operatives.
He pulled you into the room, making sure the door shut behind him.
"Examine me." He demanded.
You were dumbfounded, "Excuse me?"
CX-2 actually rolled his eyes this time, even when you couldn't see them. In response to your confusion, he removed his left arm's armor.
A gash that went from the top of his shoulder to before his elbow was present. "CX-2..." Your sadden voice spoke.
You didn't actually have clearance to be in that room, nor the supplies. But you worked nevertheless.
"Please, sit." You asked. He followed your instructions immediately, sitting up on the exam bed.
Just as the day you met, you retrieved bacta and med patches. You coated the wound in extra bacta, then prepared the gauze wrap.
"So," You held his arm up gently, starting to wrap it. "How did you get this? Was it your latest mission?" Your hands carefully worked, moving under his arm.
"No." Was all you heard.
"Oh, how did it happen?" You asked, trying to make conversation.
His skin twitched as a subconscious response when you smoothed over it.
"Better if you don't know." He kept his eyes on the wall ahead of him. "Sorry I asked..." You really were. He said nothing.
After a few more moments, you made sure the wrap was steady in place. "I think you're done!" You smiled at him. He dropped his arm at his side.
After, he promptly nodded, but gave little indication on what to do next.
You looked around, feeling a little awkward.
"So... What division are you from?" You tried to ease the tension.
"Project Assassin." He said, being short.
"I haven't heard of that, wha-" He inturpted you. "Tell me about you."
You blinked. You'd only seen this man a dozen times, many of those in passing. Even so, a shot of nerves flowed in you each time. There was something special about him. It was like your heart knew something your brain didn't. You weren't a child though, you knew 'love' was something of fairy tales. That there must be a perfectly rational reason you were feeling this way around him.
"What do you want to know?"
"Everything."
Though, if that were true, why did you sit up next to him and tell him everything?
From that day on, the only medic he allowed to work on him was you. The number of visits varied, depending on how evil Hemlock was feeling. CX-2 tried to hide the backstories from you as much as possible, sometimes even ignoring your questions.
Though, late at night, when he'd sneak into your room, he'd tell you the truth. At first he would listen. Anything you'd tell him, you had his full attention. Then, right before you fell asleep, he'd whisper his secrets.
He'd whisper them to the only person he ever trusted, you. Then, it was your turn to listen.
You cried for him, the pains he had went through. He was the perfect clone in your eyes. The only problem was how stubborn he was, no matter how hard Hemlock tried- you were still the only one who could persuade him.
Despite his grunts of protest, you'd just hold CX-2 some nights. Using your fingers to rake through his hair, cradling his head. You tried you best to give him the comfort he had never experienced before.
Everything was going so well. You would continue your training, he would continue his missions, and at night, you would talk and he would listen. You would spoil him with affections under the nights bask.
Of course, all good things must come to an end.
The day Hemlock found out about you was the worst day of CX-2's life.
CX-2 was called in for a meeting about his next mission, something he was used to. He only received orders from the highest of officials, so seeing Hemlock or Scorch was common.
"I have... a special mission of some sort. One I cannot risk incompletion of." Hemlock began.
CX-2 stood upright, ready for instructions.
"Now, despite what we have tried to instill into you- I do not want you to listen to any other orders. I think this particular mission requires your mindset." His words didn't effect CX-2, he'd heard worse.
"One of your fellow operative has been captured. Alive. I will not accept him risking our organization."
"My orders?" CX-2 asked.
"Find and neutralize him." CX-2 nodded at his words.
"You have 48 hours to kill him." Hemlock walked up to CX-2, arms folded behind his back. "If you fail, that...medic... you are so fond of? She will reap the consequences of what you sow."
It was impossible to cover up the way CX-2 breath hitched. If he didn't have a helmet on, Hemlock would see his eyebrows scrunch in anger.
"Yes, that's right. I know about her." Hemlock said, his voice mocking. "Oh, don't fret my little assassin. She will remain unharmed, that is... unless you fail your duty..."
"I trust you will locate him and rid the republic of any information?" Hemlock taunted.
"Yes sir."
How? How did Hemlock find out about you? He was so careful... He immediately headed to your quarters. Damned everyone else, he pushed through crowds and odd stares.
He banged on the door, fist closed. If you hadn't opened in the next 10 seconds, he'd shoot the door down.
"I'm coming, I'm coming." You 'tsked.'
"Oh, CX-2." You breathed out once you opened the door. Unsure if he was there for pleasantries or business.
He shoved his way past you, pressing the button to close the door shut.
"Wha-" He stormed around your rooms, it was quick considering there were only two. A bedroom and bathroom.
He held his blaster up as he checked every crevice of the room. His eyes glanced back at you quickly to make sure you were still there and alive.
"CX-2." You raised your voice. His head shot your way. "What's happened? You're scaring me..."
He paced up to you, removing his helmet as he walked. "He knows about us." Was all he managed out, throwing his helmet to the floor in favor of grabbing your cheeks gently.
Your face dropped, heart pounding in your ears. "How? I don't understand!" You started to breathe heavily.
"I just had to make sure you were safe." His gloved hands felt cool on your hot skin.
Your mind wandered, what would they do?
"I have to leave now." He said, dropping his hands. "No, wait. You can't just drop that bomb and leave!" You had so many questions, and you didn't want to be left alone freighted.
"I do not have time, if I don't complete my mission he will kill you." Your blood ran cold. "I am so sorry I brought you into this. I should have never stepped between you and that clone." He readied himself to exit the room, turning and putting his helmet back on.
"CX-2!" His shoulders dropped, he stood silent. You walked around to face him.
He let you reach your hands up and lift his helmet off. "I'm not upset at you. I only want more time..."
"I can't."
"I know." At your last words, you pulled him down by the collar of his blacks. Now level, you kiss him. Scared it would be your last.
The few seconds your lips touched felt like an eternity. All the time you needed with him...
Eventually, he pulled away. "I-"
"I know... please be safe..." You asked only one thing of him.
He nodded, placing his helmet back on snug. He then walked out your door, your thoughts consumed with wishes of his safety.
CX-2 would fulfill his mission, killing the compromised Operative. Though, that was only the first time he'd have to leave your grasp to keep you alive...
CX-2 reminded himself why he was currently headed to Pabu. 'Dire consequences are at stake' echoed in his mind.
He would capture Omega. He had no care for the innocent people he might have to kill. In his eyes, all of his actions were justified in the name of your well-being.
He never told you of his endeavors, now being sent on more gruesome missions than ever. He knew you'd be disappointed in him, but he also knew he had to always protect you. No matter the cost.
While expertly leading a fleet of soldiers, the only thing that let CX-2 think straight was you. He filled his mind with memories of your laughter. Of the times you begged him to choose a real name, even when he protested. When you first touched, when you first kissed.
He worried for you until the second he had Omega tied up on his ship.
Even after, he was anticipating his reunion with you. He had the girl, he had what Hemlock wanted. He could see you again.
And he did... Hemlock was consumed with his experiments and testing on Omega. So much he that didn't bother CX-2 for a few days. Oh, it was bliss.
The time you shared reminded you of before anyone knew you were together. You both still had your duties as clone and medic, but spent any free time with each other.
You laid in your bed, a glance at the clock scolded you for being up so late. You paid little mind to it, just enjoying the feeling of CX-2's arms around you.
With your head now buried in his chest, you let your hands wander. Slipping under the top portion of his blacks. He used to shiver reluctantly when you felt his skin, now it seemed like second nature.
You loved tracing his scars, the texture consuming you. While they were painful memories, they were treated with love and tenderness. He looked at his scars and thought of you, how you took care of him so nicely and delicately. Not Hemlock.
A light flickered from his panel brace. The one that rested on your nightstand. It lit up the room, and CX-2 immediately reached for it. he pulled away from you, but was careful to keep a connection with his leg still feeling you.
"I have to go." He said, standing to put his arm and chest armor back on.
While he was always quick and determined when hearing from Hemlock or Scorch, he was frantic here.
"Did something happen?"
"Nothing, do not stress. I love you." He gave you a quick kiss on the lips, and an affectionate rub of your thigh before putting his helmet on and leaving.
You sighed and leaned back when the door closed again. This was slowly becoming the new normal for you. You still savored every spare second you had together...
Just as you rolled over to fall asleep, the door opened. "Did you forg-" You jumped up, almost hitting your head on the baseboard of the bed. It was Scorch.
"Come with me. Now." He grabbed your arm and pulled you rough out of bed.
"Excu-"
"You are under arrest until further assessment." He forcefully put you in handcuffs.
You tried to resist, but put up no real fight in comparison to the trained clone. He grew tired of you and stunned you with his blaster.
You fell unconscious.
"You activated me?" CX-2 asked over Comms, like he would in any other situation.
"It seems we have another problem with our favorite girl." Hemlock said.
Omega...
"You see, she has managed to escape with the other children. Did I mention she also freed the zillo beast?"
CX-2 listened intently, not moving a muscle.
"You have been the only operative capable of capturing Omega thus far. I will see that you will find her again. Before she finds some way to leave the planet." CX-2 could hear the frustration in Hemlocks voice. It made him flicker a smile.
"Affirmative."
"Oh, and as a little motivater, I think it would serve you well to know your medic is currently held up in a cell." Hemlock went radio silent, leaving CX-2 to head to the exposed section of the base. The hole the Zillo beast left, and the way Force 99 was headed.
Your head throbbed, vision a little blurry. Raising your head from the cold of the floor, you noticed you were in a cell.
The room spun around before you sat up. Your whole body ached. Not to mention the confusion you were feeling.
Looking around, you saw other prisoners lining the walls. You knew exactly where you were. The hall where all the traitors and experimental clones were kept.
Were they going to experiment on you too? Was CX-2 okay? Did something happen to him that made Hemlock finally get you?
The building shook with a loud boom, it did nothing to help your nerves. It sounded like some kind of cannon went off.
"You okay?" A clone asked in the cell across from you.
"I don't know..."
With the effort and passion of a man whose entire reason for living was at risk, CX-2 and the other Clone Assasins were able to capture the rouge clones.
With his blaster barred in his hands, CX-2 guarded the three prisoners. He was occupied with the thought of what The Empire was doing to you.
You must have been so scared in a cell... He knew you didn't like small spaces. With his new fury, he closed his fist, doing yet another round of the platform they were on.
Boredom was unable to strike you, anxieties kept you busy. Your mind ran wild with the possibilities of CX-2. For a moment you questioned if he had just abandoned you as a whole, but quickly shunned yourself for bringing it up.
CX-2 loved you, and wouldn't dare leave you to rot.
"Look!" A clone yelled out, just as you saw a small girl and a storm trooper running by.
What were they doing?
They crept around the corner, swiftly blasting and taking out 2 storm troopers in the process. The girl got to work on the main computer that operated the cells.
"Hey kid, whats going on?" Someone asked.
"We're breaking you out."
Seconds later, your cell door opened. You slowly walked out, unsure what to do. What would CX-2 do in a situation like this? He'd probably tell you to keep your head down and blend in. Stay out of trouble, 'for his sake.'
You did just that, creeping out of the cell and hiding within the groups of clones.
Apparently, the 'storm trooper' was a clone, so was the girl. They were on a mission to free their three brothers, recruiting clones as they did so.
Was this the big mission CX-2 was called to? To capture the people they were here to rescue?
"We've checked all the cells, they aren't here."
You knew where they probably were... The training room. The very room that tortured and left your beloved marked. You didn't dare say a word. As much as you hated Hemlock and his 'methods,' worse things would happen if CX-2 failed his mission...
"Well... they could be in the training room." Damn, another clone had though the same as you.
They decided to head there, a few turning for an easier escape.
What should you do? Warn CX-2? You weren't raised as a soldier, you had no training. No fighting experience. You knew how to save and help, not attack and kill.
A small hand was rested on your arm, the girl from earlier. "Hi, I'm Omega."
You looked down to her. "I know it's kind of scary, but we have to fight for what's right.." If only she knew your true intentions...
"You're right... i'll come with you..." All you wanted was to find CX-2.
So, you did. Following them to the training room, they planned an attack from the lower circle.. You, however, had a new idea. To come in through the main balcony. The one that led directly to Force 99.
You managed to sneak away and climb the steps that brought you to the main doors.
"Hey, you! Are you supposed to be here?" A trooper stopped you.
"Yes sir," You gave him your chain code, "I am a medic. Hemlock has requested my services in the Training room." You lied, faking a confidence you never had.
"I never heard about Hemlock ever needing a medic in the training room..."
"Well if you want to ask him, while the Zillo beast is one the loose, he has new prisoners, and while his top experiment is lost- Be my guest. I just don't think he'd be very happy with you questioning his methods." You crossed your arms behind your back, something you'd seen CX-2 do many times.
"Fine." He moved out of your way, letting you head to your destination.
You walked to the door, ready to put your mother's clearance codes in. With a steam they opened, leaving you to witness a terrible sight.
The 3 captured clones were out, fighting. You got there in time to see the big clone burst out of the glass, tackling a special operative.
With the sound of the door, the man with a bandana looked your way. Along with CX-2, who rose swiftly upon seeing you. You distracted him long enough for the clone without a hand to blast him in his side.
You gasped as you watched CX-2 fall in your direction.
With an electrospear in his hand, the bandana man stepped to him. He only managed to zap him once before you ran in.
"No!" Your scream pierced out, you threw yourself onto CX-2. Using your body to cover his.
You didn't care if you died then and there, at least you'd die in CX-2's arms. You'd at least die together...
"No, don't!" You squeezed your eyes shut, prepared for a shock that never came. You felt a weak hand raise from under you to grip your clothes.
Tears streamed down your face violently. Pattering on CX-2's armor.
"You do realize the crimes he has committed..." The man panted out, he was also wounded.
"Please, it was for me... It was all for me..." You sobbed out. "Hemlock threatened my life..." You buried your head in his neck, holding him tightly.
"Hunter, no. We should kill them both now." The handless man spoke.
The man you assumed to be Hunter didn't have time to respond.
"I swear we wont follow you... Hemlock is probably on his way to his private ship... I swear..." Your words were muffled but they understood well enough.
"We are wasting time, lets go." Hunter commanded, the two of them left.
You gave out a whimper, "CX-2... Please... Stay with me." You pried his helmet off. He was in a rough state.
His eyes struggled to focus on one thing, but he still tried to find your face. "It'll be okay, just let me grab a med pack." You went to pull away, but he gripped you tighter.
"Let me.. hold," He coughed, "You.."
"You are not going to die on me. You wouldn't do that to me, would you?" You tried to joke. He shook his head, 'no.'
"Then let me do my job, and help you." He still held you tightly. "Please... you deserve to live..." He let you go.
It was only half a minute, you grabbed a medics kit that was nearby and began patching him up.
Making quick work of taking his armor and blacks off. It reminded you of the first time you'd done this to him. A very similar wound on his waist.
You forced him a pill, and squeezed out as much bacta as you could from its packet.
"Can you roll over for me, baby?" You asked, helping him get on his side.
He complied as much as he could, and you were able to patch up his other side.
"Okay, this will hold you over. I know the closest procedure room, a droid can give you a proper examination." You helped him stand, an arm under his own to keep his balance.
"You'll be okay, we'll be okay..." You whispered praises and words of affirmation to him. The walk was extremely painful for him, you could tell he was hiding most of it from you.
Lucky for both of you, a droid was able to identify where the blast was and give him a proper cleaning of the wound.
He was still woozy, but forced himself to stand. "We have to go. Tarkin is on his way.." CX-2 strained out. He was stubborn and refused any medication that would cloud his mind.
"W-where? Your ship?" You were scared, not just for CX-2, but your futures as well.
He pressed a few buttons on his panel brace as you picked up his helmet.
"Turn left." He instructed you all the way to his ship, even with the pain starting to blur his vision.
The two of you somehow managed to make it to his ship, you opened the door with his panel brace and sat him in the co-pilot's seat.
You clicked away, starting the ship up. Though, you did need some guidance from him.
You had never flown a ship before, but knew you had to take the risk to save CX-2. It was wobbly, but you raised the ship and let Auto-Pilot blast you into hyperspace. It had a set of coordinates in, ones you didn't know the location of.
A groan made you turn to your lovers direction, you were at his side immediately. Crouching down you spoke, "Hey, its okay... We're far away. You can take the pain medication, its just us two."
He peaked open an eye to look at you, his face barred disappointment in himself. Almost like he was a lesser man if he took the meds.
"Take them. If not for yourself, for me." You pulled them from your pocket. He did take them, minutes later he felt the relief.
You took another look at his wound, it was stable for now. You figured that he would need a cleaning and new bandages in a few hours. Hopefully his medkit was fully equipped on his ship. If it was, you'd be able to last many days without needing to land.
You stood, pulling his head to your breast. "Shhh, rest now. We are both safe."
He truly did feel safe in your arms, like he didn't have to always be on guard. A huge change from his normal. One he'd hoped he could live out with you for the rest of his life...
A/N- Thank you so much for reading! I got a little carried away with this one... I just had to get this idea written down!!!
Tags-(lmk if you want to be tagged as well!) @thethreeeyed-raven @knight-of-flowerss @dangraccoon
#tbb#star wars the bad batch#fanfic#star wars#tbb x reader#clone force 99#the bad batch#the bad batch fanfiction#fem reader#bad batch#tbb cx2#cx 2#eee#cx is NOT tech#as much as I would love to believe it ;(#partly established relationship#strangers to lovers#CX-2 x reader#cx-2 x reader#cx2 x reader#tbb spoilers#how do i tag this#tbb crosshair#tbb hunter#tbb omega#tbb wrecker#cx-2#CX2xReader#CX-2 x Femreader#WHY ARE THERE NO FICS OF THIS MAN
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