#this clocked in at around 1500 words

[aritany]

I'm sorry your writing strategy is WHAT?? I'm going to need a thorough explanation of this because I'm FASCINATED

[brian murphy voice] I DIDNT SAY ANYTHING WEIRD!!!

okay i did. but also! if it ain’t broke…

here’s how this crumbles cookie-wise. sometimes (as is currently the case) i feel like i am trying to hold onto a whole novel in my brain at once. this does not feel particularly good because the novel doesn’t belong in my brain it belongs Out There. so i make a very detailed outline and then i start at chapter 1, and i write to 100 words (give or take a few). then i move on to chapter 2 and write to 100 words. then to chapter 3 and so on until i have at least 100 words in each chapter. then once i’ve run through the whole book, i go back to the beginning and make sure each chapter is up to 200. then i’m usually in the Meat of each scene so i’ll get everything up to 500, then 1000, then 1500 and then usually i clock out of chapters around or just under the 2k mark.

this appeases the hyperactive part of my brain by making sure i’m never bored, and helps the project manager in my brain so i can keep track of many moving parts in the novel and also ensures that scenes at the end speak to scenes at the beginning since i’m (sort of) writing the whole book at once.

NOTE: sometimes i get lost in the sauce and write way past 100 or wherever im at, and that’s fine. it just means i probably skip that chapter during my next pass since it’ll be past my goal wc for each chapter of the run.

that is all. try it, if you want. i honestly don’t know how to write books any other way

[hier--soir]

a lover's pinch | four

joel miller x f!reader

pairing: professor!joel miller x f!reader rating: explicit, 18+ minors dni summary: after a conference in new york, you and j miller phd take things a step further. warnings/tags: au, university professor joel, age gap [20 something years diff], ethically dubious relationship due to inherent power imbalance, i think i describe reader as having sweaty palms about 1500 times so it deserves a warning, alcohol consumption, the plight of being a woman in academia, oral [f receiving], unprotected piv sex [IN A BED ??? GASP] for you filthy animals, prone bone, a little roughness and then not much at all, uhhh pet names during sex.... uhhmm intimacy errrrrr.... soft!joel... feelings... okay bye word count: 9.3k series masterlist | main masterlist a lover's pinch playlist a/n: hey folks, thank you so much for all your patience as i took my sweet sweet time writing this. we get to know our prof a little better in this one so a fair amount of dialogue for you but yeah anyways i hope you enjoy it, and i'd love to hear what you think! [and if i Fell Off because of the depression, don't tell me lol] A WORD ABOUT THE TAG LIST: i will continue the taglist for this part and for part five, and after that i will rely solely on my notifications account @hier--soirupdates so pls follow that and turn on notifs to be told when i post writing x this is part four of ALP. you can read the previous parts here: one, two, three.

Saturday.

The conference centre is vast.

A large space that protects you from the threatening clouds that loom over New York City, and exposes you to countless dense conversations.

An NYU teacher’s assistant is glued to your hip, parading you through the centre with a wayward index finger that points out the bar, the room where the keynote speech will be given [large, with an imposing stage], and the room where you will give your presentation [less large, with a far less imposing stage].

Your presentation.  

You fight the urge to pull up the email for the thousandth time while she explains how there will be fifteen minutes to set up beforehand, and advises on when the doors will open for guests, and reminds you that you have a strict allotted time of 20-minutes, do you understand?

But the email is branded on the inside of your eyelids after this morning’s flight was spent reading and rereading and rereading the words. So you nod and smile and placate her on the tour of the centre, as you run through it in your mind.

We look forward to welcoming you to NYU’s Annual Classics and Ancient History Conference. Our team was intrigued by the presentation devised around your translation study in Athens…

“Did you hear me?��

You wish she wasn’t dressed so casually.

Loose balls of lint are collected on the back of her cardigan like trinkets, weighty and threatening to fall off in a sort of bread crumb trail behind her every movement. It makes your dress feel all the more serious, all the more formal. Navy blue and a little tight, with sleeves that slant across the middle of your bicep and a hem that cuts modestly across your lower thigh. Professional, smart, sexy, but not too sexy. You and Nora spent two hours at the mall picking it out last weekend. And you can see people in suits, in blazers, in dresses, everywhere you turn, but your eyes keep returning to the TA’s cardigan. Little pills, sad morsels of broken fabric.

She says your name sharply.

“Yes,” you snap to attention, and clock her poor attempt not to roll her eyes. “You were saying?”

“It’s an open bar,” she continues from a few steps ahead, slowly back away while raising her voice to be heard over the countless others sprouting across the room. “And food is served after the Keynote.”

Finally free of her and her cardigan, you scale the edge of the hall, curious eyes glancing across faces familiar and not. You notice some other postgrads from UNE, and some professors from your alma mater. But it isn’t until three hours into the conference that you notice him.

You’re in a painfully long conversation with Professor Carmichael, an ancient history department head from Boston, when you notice them.

“Well you see,” he’s saying, slowly. “The First Roman Triumvirate was very unique. Surely you agree with me there, my dear?”

“Of course,” you nod amiably. A waiter floats past you holding a tray of glasses. You grasp one with a grateful smile, and turn back to face him with a sip of cold white wine moving down your throat. “The Big Three, it’s all very interesting. Although I must say, I am personally more interested in the second triumvirat—”

“Oh they all say that,” he waves his hand. “Everyone is so taken by Antony and Octavian that they forget about Crassus! So tragic.”

“A very tragic death,” you offer an exaggerated frown. “I agree.”

Carmichael hums, eyes narrowing as if you’ve said something wrong. Sipping your wine, your eyes float over his shoulder, determinedly trying to spot any sign of food, gaze spilling across countless faces and tables and waiters and professors until one set of people makes you pause.  Wild dark hair atop a floral dress floats in your vision, her pale hand hovering over the sleeve of a tall man in a suit. You watch the backs of their heads; the way the woman tilts her chin upward to speak to the man and laughs at what he says in return. That laugh. You frown, and feel yourself take a step forward, a step in their direction.

“Is something the matter?” Carmichael asks and you halt, flash him a sweet smile and shake your head.

“No,” you rush, practically tasting the opportunity to escape the conversation. “I’m sorry, Professor, I thought I saw someone waving me over. If you don’t min—”

“Always so many people to talk to at these things,” he says in a sing-song tone of voice, smiling obliviously. “All in due course, dear. You’ll find them later I’m sure.”

It’s not until fifteen minutes later that the tap comes on your shoulder. You turn and feel relief wash over you as you come face to face with Rachel, with her tangle of curls and bright orange dress. But then a jolt shudders through your frame, for you spot the man accompanying her; the man you watched her traipse around the room with, the man in the sleek black suit—Joel, hovering a step behind her.

“Rachel,” you blink. “Joel. Hi—”

“I didn’t know you’d be here!” Rachel says. Her eyes are wide, lips pulled back into a crooked grin that immediately sets you at ease. Joel, on the other hand, looks uncomfortable to say the least. You watch him tuck his hands in his pockets and then take them out again quickly, lips pursed together in a tight line as he glances between you and Professor Carmichael.

“Joel,” she grips the sleeve of his blazer and tugs him forward to stand beside her. You watch where her hand grazes him - the ease with which she jostles him around. “Did you know?”

“No.” He stares for a moment, lips parted and eyes darting across your face, shaking his head. “No, I didn’t know.”

“I’m giving a presentation,” you explain quickly, eyes darting between the two of them, fingers tightening around your glass every time your eyes settle on him. He trimmed his beard again; the hairs are shorter, neater—almost too short and too neat for your liking. His shirt is pressed and crisp, shock white beneath the midnight black of his jacket. He’s wearing different glasses. Tortoise shell glasses. Someone clears their throat to your right, snapping you out of your reverie. You apologise quickly, “This is Professor Carmichael.”

“Of course,” Joel nods, stepping forward to grip the older man’s hand. “Good to see you again, Professor.”

“And you, Professor Miller,” Carmichael chuckles, patting a shaky hand against Joel’s shoulder. “When was the last time we crossed paths? A year ago?”

“Must’ve been a year,” Joel smiles easily. His eyes slip to look at you every few seconds. “The conference in Ottawa.”

“The conference in Ottawa!” Carmichael cheers, nodding away. A weight sinks in your stomach like a cinder block as you watch the Professor gear up to wrangle Joel and Rachel into another conversation about Crassus’ untimely demise. But then Rachel slips away, called out to by someone across the room. And before Carmichael can open his mouth, Joel is speaking again, that honeyed drawl like music to your ears.

“Excuse me, Professor Carmichael,” he smiles again. Two of his fingers grip your elbow, tugging you a step backward. “Do you mind if I steal my star student for a few moments?”

Joel tilts your body to the left, and then the two of you are veering off into the crowd, wandering through throngs of people, his warm fingers pressed against the soft flesh above your elbow.

“Didn’t know you’d be here,” you say under your breath, glancing around warily, trying to spy any curious eyes that might notice the two of you.   

“Could say the same thing,” he murmurs, dragging you to a stop at the edge of the hall with his eyebrows raised. “When’s your talk?”

“At one. Overlaps with the Keynote, which I’m a little relieved about,” you smile, a pinched, tense thing. “Hopefully everyone will go to that, and I’ll have a smaller crowd.”

Joel’s eyebrows raise. You think you notice his shoulders stiffen. “S’that right?”

A persistent pang of hunger stabs through your stomach, you rub a hand over the front of your dress and nod. Curious brown eyes follow the movement.

“Here,” Joel reaches into his pocket and pulls something out. His fingers graze your skin as he tucks the shiny rectangle of foil into your palm. “They don’t put out any food until after the Keynote.”

It’s a granola bar. Peanut butter and banana. You stare at it for a moment, almost dumbfounded by the kindness of the gesture. By how attentive he is; how much he notices without you even having to speak.

“Thanks,” you say. Nestle it into your purse and give him an appreciative smile.

“Sure,” he nods jerkily. Adjusts the glasses on his nose. “I’m disappointed to miss it.”

“Oh?” you blink. Your eyes focus then, flitting downward to focus on the badge hanging from his lanyard.

Joel Miller, Ph.D.

University of New England.

Keynote Speaker.

“Oh, shit.”

“Mhm,” Joel squints at you. “Sorry if I don’t share the sentiment that everyone comes to watch me instead of you.”   

“Why didn’t you…” you gape. “You didn’t say you were giving a talk?” 

“You didn’t ask.”

“The Keynote speech is a big deal,” you say, as if he wouldn’t know.

“I was their third choice,” he shrugs you off with practiced ease. “First two weren’t interested.”

“Third time lucky then,” you smile, and he chuckles. Someone calls Joel’s name then, and you both spin to see Rachel across the room with a group of people, all eagerly waving him over. Something nasty curls in your chest – something bitter and unwarranted and cruel. You smother it with a mouthful of wine and a soft smile of farewell to him as he turns and walks in her direction.

A hand clasps down on your shoulder and you flinch, turning to see Professor Carmichael beaming.

“Where were we then, my dear?”

You eat Joel’s granola bar at the back of the hall five minutes before your talk and walk onstage with the taste of peanut and banana on your lips, brushing crumbs of dried oats off your fingers.

Fifteen people attend, spotted miscellaneously across the amassed rows of chairs. The slide clicker is damp in your palm, and your thumb hovers trembling over the button, awaiting each moment you need to press down.

“Working alongside some fantastic translators,” you tell them. “We focused on studying the disparities between how Greek texts are translated by men and women. Particularly, we aimed to delve into the way emotive language has been downgraded or elevated depending on the lens through which a text is being viewed.”

Professor Carmichael sits in the front row, those sun-spot covered hands clasped in his lap, offering an encouraging smile as you shift upon the stage. Rachel is a few rows back, and she nods intently whenever you glance in her direction.

“One of our main points of focus,” you continue. “Was to understand points of difficulty in translating while accounting for cultural nuances, and how the context of differing authors can impact upon this. In my next slide—”

It’s as you turn to glance at the display that you notice them for the first time. Three rows from the front, where a group of men sit. Two of them young, maybe around your age. You change your slide and watch them whisper in each other’s ears. One of them points at you. Or not you, rather—your legs.

And you yearn for it to be meaningless. A meaningless gesture between colleagues. Meaningless legs, meaningless dress, meaningless curves and slopes and dips and spins. But as you continue, you know it can’t be. The way they talk through your presentation, as if they aren’t bothered to be heard. The way they leer at you over Carmichael’s shoulder, grinning to each other. Your words in one ear and out the other—simply a talking point for them, a blue dress, something to stare at. Your dress feels hot, tight, and your chest feels hotter, tighter under the lights as those eyes glaze over you. You glance back towards Rachel. She gives you a thumbs up that doesn’t serve to cool your nerves.

“When translating word for word in our field, it’s uncommon,” you stutter to a stop, eyes flashing warily. “Sorry, it is not uncommon to find that narratological creativity dwindles.”

You hear a chuckle to your right and swallow down the urge to shoot daggers in the direction of the sound. “Translators struggle to maintain the in-depth imaginative expression that the original Greek text inspires. But through my discussions with Professor Samaras, we found that…”

It’s in the final minutes that you notice him. Tucked away in a back row of the room, arms folded across his chest. You pause for a moment, words caught in your throat. But Joel merely gives you a short nod. The faintest hint of a smile, of the corner of his eyes slanting upward, and it’s as if a cool breeze washes over you. Hands steady, knees lock, and you push through. You don’t look at any of their faces until it’s over.

And when it is, and scattered applause decorates the air, you can’t help but cast a smile in Joel’s direction. A smile that slips and wavers when you spot the broad expanse of his back, that sharp black blazer, as he slips out the doors without wasting a second.

The rest of your audience follows suit, a slim line that wanders out the doors without a second glance—spare Carmichael, who tells you he was quite taken with how you presented yourself, my dear.

You hear your own name and turn to see Rachel approaching, a burst of floral frock and swinging earrings. Her smile is wide and crooked, and you can’t help but smile back.

“That was wonderful,” she cheers, squeezing your shoulder. “I was so taken by how you spoke about the importance of linguistic quality assurance when translating emotive texts. Brilliant!”

Your face warms. “Thank you,” you shake your head quickly. “It was… thank you. That’s very kind.”

You glance over her shoulder, wondering if he’ll reappear – perhaps share her sentiments, maybe shower you with praise. He doesn’t.

She catches you looking. “Joel was in a rush,” she offers easily. “Lots of people wanting to talk to the man of the evening.”

“Of course,” you swallow thickly. Another smile.

Rachel stares at you curiously. “He’s very impressed by you, you know.” Her voice is warm, gentle—soft spoken like a mother who can sense the slightest flash of insecurity. You cringe immediately, feel your arms cross protectively across your chest. Don’t give the game away now. “Honestly, I think he read your comparative paper on the katabasis three times. Practically raved about it when I asked what it was.”

“Oh,” you blink, shifting uneasily under her gaze. “That’s… wow, I’m flattered.”

“He sees a lot of potential in you,” she says.

“Right,” you nod. “Well, he’s a grea—you’re both great teachers. I’m very lucky to be learning from the two of you.”

She doesn’t speak for a moment, and you fear your face grows warmer in the silence. Can feel the slick on your palms returning, the flash of heat in your chest, the longer you sit in it. You make a quick and tumbling excuse to flee the scene, spitting a mess of thank you so much and just need some fresh air, before you’re stumbling out of the hall and wandering outside on newborn deer legs. You snag a flute of something bubbly off the bar on your way, and find yourself on a secluded bench in the breezeway behind the conference centre.

You sit there alone and watch the grass, the way the light from inside shines out across the green. Feel the chill of the wind slip past you, rustling your hair and raising goosebumps on your bare legs. Sip dry Cava and contemplate how many more of these things you can feasibly imagine attending in your career. There’s a single text from Nora on your phone, asking how the presentation went. You tuck it into your purse, leaving the message unanswered.

By the time you hear the door hinges creak, the glass is near empty. You spy a shadowy form snaking its way down the path, headed in your direction.

“Mr Keynote Speaker,” you hum. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

“Funny,” Joel mutters dryly, knees cracking as he falls onto the bench beside you. A heavy sigh slips from between his lips, fingers lacing together in his lap as he gazes across the breezeway. You down the last of your drink and place it on the concrete by your feet. “Needed some god damn peace and quiet. All that chit chat drives me insane.”

You murmur in agreement and stare at the side of his face – the neatened beard, the thick frame of his glasses. Purposeful or not, the side of his body is pressed against yours. Thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder – he’s sat directly in the centre of the bench. Heat radiates off his body and it’s almost too warm, and yet you find yourself relaxing against him.

“First time at one of these?” Joel asks gruffly. He’s still not looking at you, his eyes trained on a pigeon pecking at a discarded foil wrapper on the grass.

“Is it that obvious?” you grimace.

“Only because I’ve been to twenty of the damn things,” he says. “Y’learn how to smell the nervous energy comin’ off the first timers.”

“Twenty?” you mutter. Feel your stomach curl and twist at the idea of doing this day nineteen more times.

“Somethin’ like that.” Joel glances at you from the corner of his eye. “Went to a lot during my second degree. Had to get good at talkin’, fast.”

“Ahh,” you say. “So, you weren’t always such a sweet talker then?”

He lets out a low chuckle, as if amused by the thought. “Sweet talker, huh? That what I am?”

You shrug, suddenly emboldened by him following you outside, by how close he is, by how open he seems.

“I suppose,” you say slowly.

“And what gave you that idea?”

“You here alone?” you offer a poor imitation of him, voice low and breathy with your awful take on a Southern twang. “Meet me in the bathroom.” You wink, quietly delighted by the way his lips have tightened into a flat line.

“Funny,” he says again, entirely unamused now.

Something warm shifts in your lower stomach. Something wet—a vivid memory of him on the ground behind you in the bathroom of a bar, of hands spreading you open, of his tongue pressing inside you, of The Eagles playing faintly in the background.

“You do that kind of thing often?” you ask.  

“Do what?”

“Approach young women at bars,” you wiggle your eyebrows, smirking. “Rob them of their virtue in the bathroom and then hope you never see them again.”

“You? Virtuous?” Joel rolls his eyes. You can see the corner of his lip curling upward. “Must be gettin’ yourself confused with somebody else.”  

“Maybe,” you smile.

“Sometimes,” he casts you a look, after a moment. “Not… often. And not young.”

“Younger,” you counter quickly.

“I didn’t expect you to be…” he trails off and shakes his head. “It’s not a thing I do, alright?”

“Of course not.”

“It’s not.”

“You don’t date then?”

He tilts his head at you curiously, eyes planted firmly on your face now. “Not for a long time.”

“Why not?”

“Been busy,” he grunts, clearly growing impatient by the line of questioning.  “Spent a lot of time studying. Working.”

“Where did you study?” you press.

“This twenty fuckin’ questions?” he snaps, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “Came out here for—”

“You came out here,” you interrupt. “Because I came out here.”

He glowers at you, but doesn’t try to deny it.

“Night classes at Texas A&M for my undergrad,” he grits out. You smile sickly sweet, pleased. “Did my postgrads part time at UT Austin,” Joel says.

Your eyebrows kick up again, the teasing pretence all but forgotten. “Sounds… unconventional?” you offer softly.

“That’s one word for it,” he agrees vaguely. “Spent the better half of a decade at school just to end up teaching at one. Ain’t that somethin’.”

“And before that?” you press.  

“Before that,” he continues with a wry grin, one full of distaste and frustration and resentment. “Was a contractor for a long time. Houses, buildings.” He rests a hand against his shoulder, fingers pressing against the muscle there, as if working out a decade old knot.

And for a moment you can see it. Can almost taste it. Collared shirts and glasses replaced with hard hats and hammers and dirt in the lines of his palms. Joel carrying a plank of wood on his shoulder, wearing a toolbelt. Joel on his knees, sweat shining on his forehead while he wields an electric drill.

Your dress feels too tight suddenly. Too warm.

“A contractor,” you say distractedly, and hope he doesn’t notice how your thighs press together.

“Mhm,” Joel nods. “With my brother.”

“You have a brother?”

He ignores that. “Where did you study?”

“San Diego State,” you flash him a grin. “Go Aztecs.”

“Good school,” he hums. “You’re a long way from California.”

Only a little further than Texas, you think.

“You did good up there,” Joel adds.  

Your smile dips and wanes into a scowl, uninterested in the change of subject.

“What?”

“It was…” you shake your head slowly, face warming as you glance down to your lap.

“What?”

“It just wasn’t what I expected.” You pick at a loose thread on the hem of your dress. “That’s all.”

“And what did you expect?”

“To be listened to,” you grunt. “Not gawked at by some ancient jerkoffs that were only there to stare at my ass when I turned to change a slide.”

Joel nods, quiet.

“I wanted it to matter,” you mutter. “Wanted to… fuck, I wanted to impress them.”

“I was impressed.”

“Oh yeah?” you snort, finally looking up. “You hightailed it out of there pretty quickly.”

Joel shakes his head and stares back at you, gaze heavy. His hands tighten into fists against his thighs, knuckles lightening to white as he squeezes. You shuffle on the seat—ignore the flare of heat that erupts where your shoulder nudges firmer against his. 

“I guess you could say,” he speaks slowly. “I’m tryin’ to keep my distance.”

You arch an eyebrow and attempt to swallow the laugh bubbling up your throat.

“Well, you’re doing a great job,” you smirk.

Joel laughs and your smile falters, mouth going slack at the sound. How rare it is, and how much rarer to have it all to yourself like this. For all of his sharp angles, his sweet talking, his harsh words, and harsher touch—that laugh is the cruellest part.  

He jostles his shoulder against yours a little. An acknowledgement; perhaps a glimpse inside. Something that says, I know, I see it, I feel it, I can’t stop either.

“You make it hard,” he says then, and his voice is soft—almost a whisper.

“How’s that?” You match his tone, as if you’re two little kids who’ve snuck outside to share secrets where no one else can hear them.

“You bein’ here,” he murmurs, eyes searching. “Startin’ to feel like you’re everywhere I turn.”

A breeze swims past and you shiver, locks of hair floating in a mess around your face until you pat them down. Joel moves almost imperceptibly, curling his side tighter against yours to shield you from the onslaught.

“I know the feeling,” you admit.

The muscle in his jaw ticks and he clears his throat, looking out across the green again. For a moment the pair of you sit in silence. Not as professor and student, but simply a man and a woman on a bench. Breathing the same air, soaking in a shared silence that only the two of you could understand. And there are so many more questions you want to ask him, so much more you feel compelled to know, but instead you settle for this—sitting on a bench together, shoulders and thighs and chests pressed side to side, two frames moulded around the welcoming shape of one another. For now.

“It gets easier,” Joel says then, jaw tense as he spares a glance back in your direction. “This stuff, these people, all the talkin’.”

You acknowledge him with a small smile, just the slightest twitch of your lip. Don’t bother saying, maybe for you. Maybe for a man.

“You know,” you suck in a breath and give him a lazy smile instead. “I think this might be the longest conversation we’ve had without ripping each other’s clothes off.”

“Mm.” He leans his head back to rest on the wall, eyes focusing up towards the sky.

“I like it,” you say quietly. Hear how vulnerability chimes in your voice – a wobble that begs to be ignored and understood all at once. “It’s nice… talking like this.”

Joel’s head tilts towards you, dark eyes locked on yours. He doesn’t say anything, but you can see that wariness in his eyes. The same wariness that poured out in flecks of brown and amber and gold in the light of your bedroom a week ago, when he told you he was fifty. A hesitant curiosity, an incessant suspicion, a bark of disbelief. You feel the desire to pluck the feeling out of him and swallow it whole. To lock it safely inside yourself and make it so he never has to feel it again.

So you lean in a press your lips against his. Painfully soft, just a whisper of two mouths slotting together. Chapped and dry from the wind, he tastes like bitter sparkling wine. You sigh into him, uncaring. Hook your ankle around his, place your hand on his thigh, and sink closer, deeper.

He pulls back an inch, mouth still hovering over yours, the tip of his nose pressed into your cheek.

“Shouldn’t do this here,” he warns quietly, eyes still closed. His breath is hot against your face, and you inhale the taste of mint and Cava and Joel.

“I know.” You grip the lapel of his blazer and kiss him again. Firmer this time, grazing your tongue along the seam of his lips until he welcomes you inside to taste behind his teeth. The frame of his glasses presses into your nose, your cheeks, and you smile into his mouth. Rough palms and lazy fingertips graze the skin of your bicep, your neck, until they find a home at the nape of your neck. His thumb presses against the hinge of your jaw, hot wet tongue working your mouth open until you’re whining, teeth nipping at his bottom lip and fingernails digging into the meat of his thigh.

Only when you move to press a hand beneath the collar of his shirt does Joel pull back again, this time to stand and take a step away from the bench. A tinge of scarlet creeps its way from the hollow of his throat to the apple of his cheeks. He clears his throat and glances over his shoulder, towards the door. When he looks back, there’s something new there. Some dangerous that flashes in his eyes and lingers when his gaze dances down the curve of your body against the seat.

“Where are you staying?” you ask, breathless.

For a minute he doesn’t answer. Simply stares, contemplating, broad chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. The lenses of his glasses are fogged, and you watch them slowly clear.  

Then— “The Pendry.”

Joel reaches into his pocket and retrieves something small and laminated. You take it from his outstretched palm carefully. “Fifth floor.”

You stare at it for a moment. Turn it over in your palm once, twice. Read the room number printed on the key card before tucking it safely into your purse. When you look up again, Joel is already walking back inside.

It’s nearing midnight by the time you arrive at the Pendry – a high rise in Manhattan West, the kind with a fancy lobby and a doorman in a neat black suit. The polar opposite of the hotel where your suitcase lies unopened across the city. You feel out of place in an instant, but you’re still in your dress, and the staff don’t bat an eye at your presence. The key card he gave you is hot where your fingers curl around it, plastic damp and foggy with the sweat from your palms. By the time you reach his door you have to wipe it on your dress before the sensor will recognise it.

A hollow beep echoes through the hall, and his door presses open with a soft hiss.

The room is enveloped in darkness. Moonlight shines in through a slim gap in the curtains, highlighting vague edges of the space. A desk against the wall, a large bed on the left of the room. For a moment you consider that he isn’t here—that he got caught up at the conference, sweet talking into the midnight hour with other professors and alums. You can hear sounds from the street, music and car horns blaring, even from the fifth floor. But nothing else. No Joel.

Tentatively, you take a step inside the room. And then another. Kick your heels off and feel rough carpet hairs sift between your toes. Holding your hands out into the darkness, fingertips ghosting the wall for support, you venture further into the room, only pausing when your shin thumps against the corner of something sharp and sturdy.

You spit a surprised curse and stumble into the wall, hands falling to grip your leg where it throbs and smarts.

“Jesus fuck,” you hiss, smoothing your fingers against the already forming lump.

A lamp flicks on, and the room lurches into view, tinged in a soft yellow light. You jump, eyes squinting against the sudden brightness. Bed sheets rumple and shift, and Joel is frowning at you from his place amongst the pillows, a hand raising to drowsily scratch his chin.  

“The hell are you doin’?” he rasps.

Heat flares in your face as you straighten up, mirroring his frown. He moves slow, a sluggish stretch out of bed, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers and a t-shirt, and he looks almost concerned. It gives you pause for a moment, eyes unsure of where to settle, as you note just how much of his body you’ve never seen before. The soft muscles in his legs, the dark hair over tan skin. You can see the slight round of his stomach through the thin fabric of the shirt.

“Were you asleep?” you accuse.

“Thought you weren’t coming,” Joel mutters, and the sound is a fractured medley of words and yawns. You feel a dull pang of disappointment in your chest as you watch him rub sleep from the corner of his left eye.

“Were you hoping I wouldn’t?”

He doesn’t respond.

“You gave me a key.”   

“I know,” he sighs.

“Of course I was going to come.”

He nods. Yawns again, hand snaking upward to cover his open mouth.

You turn your back on him slowly. Take a glass from the little kitchenette and let the faucet run a cool burst of water into it. Little specks of water splash up, dotting against your hand. Your feet ache from wearing those damn heels all day, but you wilfully ignore the pain, gulping down half the glass while staring at your reflection in the splashback. Blue dress, hair tucked behind your ears, charcoal smudged around the curve of your eyes.

Joel’s fingers wind around yours, peeling the glass from your clutch so he can steal the final few sips. He discards it on the counter and leans against it. You try to make out his expression in the shadowy light, wiping your water-dotted arm against your side.

“S’a good dress.” He looks more alert suddenly, eyes sharp and focused, wide shoulders squared.

“Yeah?”

“Mm.”

“Didn’t say anything about it earlier.”

“Was tryin’ not to think about it,” he says plainly. “And how badly I wanted to take it off.”

Your hand stills. That misplaced disappointment slips out of the room, an unwelcome third party, and you grin at him. A sleazy, sleepy smile, and walk backwards in the direction of the bed without taking your eyes off of him.

“So take it off,” you challenge.

Your heartbeat is a steady thrum against your breastbone as he crosses the room. Badoom, badoom, no less than three strides and he’s there, gripping your waist to turn you so his chest is against your back.

Your zip is a low whir in the air, spinning downward slowly, slowly, from the nape of your neck to the sloping base of your spine. Deft hands trace skin, grazing every mark, every freckle as they are revealed to him, until the material of your dress is a gaping smile across your back. You shiver as the air rushes to meet your bare flesh, and then careful—cautious—you feel a pair of lips press against the top of your spine, soft pink against steely vertebrae. You say his name, low and surprised, and he doesn’t say anything. Those hands push the dress down your arms, and you watch it tremble and fall, a mess of blue at your feet.

You can hear his breathing; the way it stutters and jumps as he traces the clasp of your bra, the arch of your spine beneath it.

“Take it off,” you say again, and feel a sharp scratch of desperation that perhaps this time he won’t deny you this. This something that you’ve not experienced even once, and yet you find yourself missing.

The idea of his skin against yours is something prophetic, something inevitable, something divine—something determined far before the two of you met in that bar. It’s out of your control or his, irrevocable—a beast bred from desire that claws and snaps at the bars of its cage, calling you kicking and screaming into each other’s arms.

His fingers pluck at the clasp, and you smile. Sigh in relief as your bra hits the floor and the weight of your breasts are borne to the increasingly warm air. Joel is still behind you, still not seeing you. But broad palms splay across your back, massaging and flexing into your skin as they roam your sides, your stomach, up your front to cup your breasts. You gasp, eyelids fluttering as he squeezes softly, palms warm and solid against the stiff peaks of your nipples.

“Fuck.” Joel’s nose buries itself in your hair, his forehead against the back of your head. Your legs shake, and you lean back into his chest, your body a soft and tremulous thing that would surely float away if he weren’t here to hold you up.  

His hands are on your breasts, sweet and tender and finally, and you wonder how long this wanting will feel like burning. Like nicks of flame that gloss over you and spit embers at anyone who dares to get too close—at him, sparking and sputtering as they collide in a spitfire symphony. This man who lives set ablaze in his own right. This man who welcomes your flame every time—swallows it whole, and lays kisses against the back of your neck with lips still warm.

Calloused fingers roll and circle your nipples, playing gently, listening for every gasp, every sigh, before diligently repeating whatever it was that called the sound forward. Your underwear is all but ruined, already damp and clinging to the slick skin between your thighs. And you can feel him against your lower back, albeit unmoving—not grinding against you, not pushing you down onto the bed, but waiting – for what, you can’t be sure.

You turn around faster than he can stop you. Hook fingers into the band of your panties and drag them down in a swift movement before straightening, holding his gaze all the while. And Joel—

He looks in pain. Dark eyes lock onto on your face and don’t stray. Don’t dip downward, don’t glance around the room. His hands hang by his sides, palms facing upward in a dejected fashion, jaw slack as he just—waits.

“Why won’t you look at me?” you whisper.

“You don’t….” he shakes his head. “If I look, I won’t be able to forget. And I—I can’t—”

There’s a flash of that memory again. Sweating in the dark bathroom of a bar in Portland. Joel wiping stained lipstick from your chin. The words I’m gonna remember this dripping from his swollen lips.

You take a step forward. Feel your nipples graze the soft material of his shirt. “And what if I don’t want you to forget?”

He says your name quietly, shoulders tense. But when you grip the hem of his shirt, he doesn’t stop you. Rather, he lifts his arms and lets you drag the fabric over his head. You marvel at the bare skin, eyes dancing across jutting collarbones and the soft swell of his stomach. Watch the way his chest rises and falls as stilted breaths flurry inside him before spilling into the air between you. Admire the trail of dark hair that rests between his bellybutton and the soft band of his underwear. His eyes don’t leave your face as you push the boxers down his legs.

“So handsome,” you say and Joel exhales, hands hovering a hairsbreadth from your waist. The weight of the moment hangs heavy between you. This moment of more. To be with him like this feels like more. To be naked feels like more.

You grip his hand and raise it to your breast again. Squeeze your fingers over his. His thumb flicks across your nipple and you gasp. His eyes darken, nostrils flaring as he fights to restrain himself.  

“Joel,” you whisper. “Look at me.”

Finally, he does. Those brown eyes flickering downward to rake in the sight of your body.

He’s on you in a second, mouth slanting desperately against yours while his hands drift aimlessly across skin, untethered in their access. Fingers pinching and grabbing and squeezing, teeth searing at your lips, and you gasp as his cock presses against your stomach. The long, thick weight of him, drooling and needy. Your fingers slip around him, rub softly over the underside of his head, the vein on the underside of him. Joel grips your wrist and pushes you backward a step, his lips leaving yours with a wet smack.

“Sit on the bed,” he orders firmly.

You wander backward, stumbling onto the edge of the bed when your calves collide with the heavy wooden base. He watches you, hand drifting to wrap around the base of his cock. He strokes himself gently, black eyes tracing vigilantly over every inch of your body. And you expect him to push you down, to crawl on top of you. Instead, you watch with bated breath as Joel drops to his knees in front of you. His knees crack as they bend but he ignores it, nudging your thighs apart so his broad frame can fit between them. Hooded eyes gaze between your thighs, roaming across all of the bare skin on show. Slowly, he lifts a hand and rests it gently on your mound. Calloused fingers stroke over the dark hair there, stroking through the short curls. You sigh and cant your hips up, but Joel only grunts, his free hand squeezing your thigh to hold you against the mattress.

Before you can process it, he’s leaning forward, nose nestling in your hair as his warm tongue parts your folds. You groan in unison, your fingers carding through his curls to hold him against you. He murmurs something that you don’t quite catch over the roaring in your ears, but you don’t care. Too caught up in a smooth slide of his mouth slotting against you. The flat of his tongue glides up and down your sex, smearing a mess of slick and saliva in his wake. You gasp as it flicks sharply across your clit, your jaw tensing at the harsh sensation. Joel notices—pulls back.

“Tell me,” he urges.    

“Slower,” you say quickly, voice feeble and desperate.

“Slower,” Joel repeats with a nod, and he massages your thighs as he licks into you, fingernails scraping your skin as his grip tightens and loosens and tightens and loosens. He traces slow circles around your clit with the flat of his tongue that have you gasping and bucking against his face. And when his tongue presses inside of you, you moan, fingers twisting in his hair and tugging.

“Fuck,” he growls into you, and he likes that. You do it again and his eyes flick open, pupils blown, gaze darting wildly across your stomach, your arms, your breasts, your face – watching, admiring, taking in every detail of the offering that you’ve laid so generously at his altar. The tip of a finger curls inside you and he grins when your thighs tense around him. He rears his head back to watch how you welcome him inside, eyes locked on the way your weeping cunt clenches and drips around one of his fingers, and then another.

“Yeah,” you sigh, nose scrunching at the slight stretch. “Yeah, like that, fuck.” 

“Look at you,” he mutters. “Christ.” And then the cut of his wet red mouth is back on you, lips parting to suck against your clit until you’re crying out, voice a hoarse shout as you speed rapidly towards your end.

“Shit, Joel,” you gasp. One of your legs kicks out straight and his hand drops from your thigh, one set of fingers working you open while the other comes up to part your lips, giving himself more access. As he lathes wet kisses against you, the coarse hairs of his beard scraping your inner thighs, you can feel it. That liquid heat that coils and stirs in the base of your stomach.

“Joel, I—ohh—I think I’m gonna come,” you whimper, hand shooting out to grip his shoulder. Your nails dig into the tense muscle there, using the leverage to rut your hips against his face.

He groans into your sex, fingers moving faster, unforgiving against that spongy spot deep inside that sets you alight. His teeth graze against your clit, the lightest brush, and your stomach is tensing, every muscle in your body locking up.

“Give it t’me,” he says gruffly. “That’s it, come on, baby.”

A choked gasp falls from your lips and then you’re coming, twitching against his face, pussy bearing down on thick fingers that stoke you through the high. Your hand leaves his shoulder to grip the back of his neck, holding his face against where you’re aching for him still. Joel moans, a low sound from deep in his chest, dragging his fingers away so he can drink down every heady drop of your orgasm.

Baby.

The word rings in your head, bouncing inside your skull, a fierce ricochet. Baby.

Trembling fingers feather across the cowlick at the crown of his head, twisting and petting soft wayward curls as his mouth pulls back, a wet drag across the skin of your hip. You catch a glimpse of his cock, heavy and throbbing between his thighs.

Joel’s teeth nip at the sensitive skin of your thigh, a sharp pinch that makes you flinch. Tired muscles tensing, face twisting up as he sucks and licks, hot tongue soothing over the stinging red mark. He breathes your name, mouthing the sound into your flesh once, twice.

“I’ve been tryna remember this,” he murmurs. “Only ever had it for a second.”

You whimper as he licks into you again, slowly. And you’re so sensitive, and maybe—maybe—it’s too much, too soon, but he doesn’t care. He grips your calf and tucks it over his shoulder. Holds it there in a vice grip.

“Wasn’t enough,” he says. Dark eyes look up and you’re rapt in them—bound and boneless simply from having those eyes on you you you nothing but you all he sees is you and he loves it, you can tell. Thrives on the way you melt beneath his rough fingertips, the wet drag of his tongue. “Remember that first day in my office?

Remember, remember, remember, how could you forget? I’m gonna remember this this this.

“Yes.” Your leg trembles against the side of face, the coarse hairs of his beard scratching your skin. The tip of his tongue lathes slow circles around your clit. A cruel, leisurely slip of flesh on flesh that has you gasping and twitching beneath his hands.

“I wanted this that day,” Joel rasps. “Needed it. But you were gone so soon, ‘n’ I couldn’t help myself.”

“What—oh fuck—” He flicks his tongue faster, hot swipes from side to side that have your thigh clamping down against the muscles in his neck. Your mind is a blur, eyebrows furrowed as you try to make sense of his words.

“Fucked my fist the second you left,” he growls. “My fingers in my mouth, the taste of you—Christ, couldn’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout it.”

“Joel,” you gasp, impatient. “I—get up here. Please, just—”

Strong hands push you up, push you back, further onto the bed until your head hits the pillows. His hair is a wild fray around his head, knotted and mussed from your fingers raking through it.

“I don’t have anything,” he says.

“I don’t care,” you say.

His knees press onto the mattress on either side of you and his eyes glance down your chest before he grips your waist and he’s turning you. Your stomach meets the sheets and you move to arch your back, to tilt your hips up towards him, but a firm hand rests on the small of your back, and keeps you down.

“Like this,” you hear him say. “Trust me.”

His chest is flush to your back, and you can feel him there, knuckles brushing the flesh of your ass, spreading you apart so his cock can press inside. The pillow swallows your wet gasp, and your eyes pinch shut against the stretch as he sinks deeper and deeper. Every delicious inch splits you open wider, further, carving out that space that’s just for him, and it’s more. Your vision blurs and you clutch at the sheets, fingers tangling in linen as Joel’s breathy groans fill the air.

“God,” he grunts. “Always so fuckin’—tight.”

You cry out as he begins to move, pressing you further into the mattress. The stretch of him is so broad—so deep—it has hot tears pricking in your eyes. Your legs are straight, almost clamped together, leaving the smallest gap for him to break through. His chest melts against your back, sweet sweat sliding from skin to skin. And his stomach is soft against the base of your spine, but his teeth are sharp where they nip and smart against the skin of your shoulder, your neck. He sets a pace that has you biting down into the pillow to muffle your groans. It’s almost overbearing how good it feels, how he surrounds you. Flat against the mattress, there’s nowhere to hide from the pleasure, no way to twist or curl your body away from how good it feels. A choked moan is muffled by the pillow.

And then his fingers are in your hair, dragging your head up.

“What are you fuckin’ doin’?” he grunts. You gasp, eyebrows furrowed and mouth ajar as you take take take. He pulls your hair harder when you don’t respond, presses his chin against your shoulder, lips curling against the skin of your neck as he speaks. “Don’t do that, not here. No more hidin’, I wanna fuckin’ hear it.”

He grips your hips and drags you upward so you’re on your knees, bracing against your forearms, and then his hand snakes around the front of your body, fingers dragging between your thighs as he begins moving again.

“Oh fuck,” your eyes widen in surprise, jaw hanging slack as he rolls his finger in expert circles over your clit. “Fuck, fuck.”

“Yeah?” he gasps.

“Fuck,” you repeat, mewling every time one of his thrusts sends your face forward into the pillows. “Yes, oh god.”

“Yeah, you fuckin’ like that.” Each word is punctuated by a thrust of his hips. “That’s it, lemme hear it.”

“Joel,” you cry out, voice cracked and broken. “So good.”

“I know, baby,” he grunts. “I know.”

“You’re so—deep,” you gasp.

“I know,” he soothes.

“I missed this,” you babble, mouth moving faster than your mind. “Missed you.”

“Christ,” he spits, pulling you up until you’re leaning against his chest. His fingers are a blur against your clit, cock a fast wet shift in and out in and out.

You tilt your head back against his shoulder, mouth hanging open as you press your ass back into him.

“Missed me?” Joel says, and his cheek is warm against yours. Wet. Your face is wet. “Gonna show me how much?”

“Yes,” you moan. His free hand grips your breast, squeezing and pinching.

“Need to get my fuckin’ mouth on you,” he growls.

“No,” you beg. “Joel, don’t—fuuuck, fuck, don’t stop.”

“Wanted to,” his hips stutter against you, losing momentum for a second. “Jesus, wanted to take my fuckin’ time.” You snake a hand behind his head to grip his hair again, to press his face into your neck. His mouth latches onto your skin, spit mixing with sweat where his teeth and tongue trace your roaring pulse. Your thighs are trembling, knees weak and wobbling against the mattress as he pistons into you, unrelenting, unforgiving.

“I’m—” your eyes start to roll back. You can feel your back arch and twist against him, toes curling into the sheets. “Oh my God.”

He says your name in a panicked hiss and pulls out.

You gasp at the loss, eyes flying open in alarm. He moves your body, not wasting a second as he lowers you down onto your back presses inside again, hands gripping the underside of your knees, holding them against your chest. Practically bent in half, you tremble in his grasp, eyes blurred and wet as you sob his name.

“Lemme have it,” he goads you, voice a dull vibration against your chest. “Bein’ so fuckin’ good for me, yeah, just like that.”

And it feels like something splinters within you as heat floods your senses, vision whiting out until all you can see is the soft edges of his curls against your chest, the wet smear of his tongue over your nipple. All you can hear is the words he speaks against your skin.

I’m close, he warns, and you say yes, say please, say I want it, because you do.

“Where?” You call the shots.

And you say, Inside, say, I want it, because you do.

Because you want everything. Everything he has and whatever dark matter is left after that. And everything is a naked thought, a stark realisation, a frighteningly bare streak of madness that zips down your spine and melts in your belly, and you can feel yourself tightening around him with the enormity of it. Can feel your body squeezing and sucking and holding it holding it holding it and with black eyes, spheres of a night sky’s pitch, he stares at you. Unruly eyebrows pinched tight. Mouth slick and swollen and snarling, white teeth grit like prison bars, keeping everything contained inside himself, just out of your reach.  

“Fuck,” Joel spits, pleading, desperate. “Don’t—”

But his hips are bruising against yours and you relish in the ache. The jut of bone amidst the softness of his skin, a reminder of the coldness in him, the determination, the impatience. And you know that you can only have so much softness until there is stone. But you cannot understand don’t, you never have with him, so you grind upward. Meet him thrust for thrust, and shiver in delight as a tortured expression passes over his face. And when you come again he curses, broad palms bearing down on you, holding your frame into the mattress as he pushes you through it, prolonging that naked thought, that fearsome idea. You only hope that he cannot see how your own everything spills. How it cools and congeals around him with its palms spread open, longing to receive as much in return.

Joel comes with a shout, hips dragging backwards so his spend can spill across your stomach and the puffy lips of your sex. He grips his cock, milking himself for all he’s worth until wet ropes of his come are smeared across your thighs too. You gasp and writhe against the bed, trying in vain to keep your heavy eyelids open, not wanting to miss a second. The shine of your slick on his thighs and lower stomach is clear in the dim lighting, and you smile at the sight of it – your claim on him. Chest heaving, he follows your gaze, fingers swiping across his skin before sinking into his mouth. He groans around his fingers and you stomach lurches as he lowers his chest to the bed, mouth drifting between your splayed thighs.

You cup his jaw and hold him still.  

“I can’t,” you murmur, and your voice is cracked and broken. “S’too much.”

And he agrees, tracing the marks on the inside of your thighs with his mouth until your eyes drift closed.

Time passes slowly after that. You don’t open your eyes for a while. Too fucked out, too tired, too tender.

There’s a warm glide of something soft and wet over your stomach, your thighs, between your legs—Joel cleaning up his mess. You almost wish he wouldn’t.

“Sorry,” you mumble a few minutes later. “I’ll go in a second.” But your eyes are closed, and the sheets smell like him.

You feel the mattress dip beside you. Hear a soft click as he turns off the lamp, and darkness swells around you once more.

“S’okay,” he says, and his voice is so close, as if he were whispering against the shell of your ear, breathing the words into you. “Don’t have to go.”

And it makes sense not to go. To stay, to stay, to stay. To sink deeper into the hotel mattress, and let the sounds of his heavy exhales lull you further to sleep. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t come any closer. But you can smell him. Can feel his warmth, a radiating sun that shines across the side of your body closest, and you sink deeper still.

You think of the katabasis - the hero’s journey spiralling down into the underworld. Of Orpheus seeking the safe return of Eurydice, his love lost too soon. Of Odysseus, guided by Circe to discover Teiresias on his quest for homecoming. Of Aeneid, venturing downward to meet his father and hear his true destiny. This descent into the afterlife, into the realm of the dead, wherein upon return our hero is irrevocably changed. But to stay, to stay, to stay. So warm it is here, you think, so lovely and warm to descend wholly into this wanting, this burning, this everything.   

“Is this a good idea?” you murmur, voice a drowsy call into the darkness. “For me to stay?”

Joel doesn’t respond.

tags: @lovely-ateez @nana90azevedo @stevie75 @evyiione @dameron-grant-spector @brittmb115 @ashhlsstuff @casa-boiardi @bbyanarchist @hopplessilse @joeldjarin @anoverwhelmingdin @bluevxnus @kelp-dreaming @prettyinpunk85 @spacelatinos4life @iluvurfather @mrsquill @sarap-77 @sunnywithachanceofjavi @alleyy-katt @zeida @mendessi @love-the-abyss @myrealmofchaos @a-roving-woman @punkshort @gracie7209 @whichwitchwanda @fellinfromthetop @bitchwitch1981 @suzmagine @@lmariephoto37 @harriedandharassed @cumberpegg @tonysttank @ourautumn86 @my-tearsricochet @shotgun-shelby @5oh5 @psychedelic-ink @what-is-your-wish @sugadolly @elissaaa @nobodycanseeinsidemysoul

thank you for reading! x

[verstappensrealwife]

Beyond a Contract - Max Verstappen x Reader

fluff

approx. 1500 words

warnings: kissing

max verstappen masterlist - here. f1 masterlist - here.

In the glittering world of Formula 1, where speed and glamour collide, a rumour swirls like exhaust fumes on the track: you, a rising star in journalism, are tasked with a mission unimaginable—fake dating one of the sport's most renowned drivers, Max Verstappen.

As the paddock buzzes with speculation and cameras flash with every calculated move, you find yourself thrust into a whirlwind of luxury suites and champagne-soaked celebrations, all while navigating the complexities of a relationship that exists only for the public eye.

But beneath the dazzling facade lies a tangled web of secrets and desires, as you and Max struggle to maintain the charade while grappling with the undeniable chemistry that sparks between you. With each staged photo-op and stolen moment, the lines between reality and fiction blur, leaving you wondering if there's more to this fake romance than meets the eye.

From the moment the charade began, you had no idea how intricate the performance would become. Every smile, every touch, meticulously orchestrated for the cameras, yet somehow, amidst the staged romance, genuine emotions began to bloom.

As you embarked on this journey of deception with him, the lines between fiction and reality blurred, and you found yourself drawn to him in ways you never anticipated. His charm, his wit, his passion for the sport—all of it fueled the flames of desire within you, until it became impossible to deny the burgeoning feelings blossoming beneath the facade.

With each stolen glance and whispered conversation, the facade began to crumble, revealing the raw, unfiltered connection between you. Despite the world watching your every move, you couldn't ignore the magnetic pull drawing you closer to Max, igniting a love that transcended the boundaries of the charade.

In the midst of the staged romance, amidst the glare of the spotlight, you discovered the unexpected beauty of falling for someone in the most unlikely of circumstances. And as the facade fell away, leaving only the truth of your love behind, you realised that sometimes, the most genuine connections are forged in the most extraordinary of circumstances.

As the clock struck 8 pm, the stage was set for the first PR stunt—a seemingly intimate dinner with Max Verstappen. Through the large panes of glass at the front of the building, cameras captured the scene, casting a soft, romantic glow over the dimly lit restaurant.

In the flickering candlelight, you and Max were caught in a moment of laughter, the genuine joy evident in the curve of your smiles. Despite the orchestrated nature of the evening, there was an undeniable chemistry between you, an electricity that crackled in the air.

Max couldn't tear his gaze away from you, captivated by your every gesture and expression. From the sparkle in your eyes to the way your hair fell in soft waves around your face, he found himself drawn to every inch of you. It was as if time stood still as he savoured the sight of you, relishing in the fantasy of having you by his side, even if only for show.

As the evening unfolded, he found himself lost in the illusion of your fake romance, unable to resist the pull of his growing admiration for you. And though he knew it was all a charade, a part of him couldn't help but wish that, just maybe, there was a hint of truth hidden beneath the facade.

The air crackled with tension as Max's proposition of carrying on the date in his hotel hung between you, his gaze unwavering as he awaited your response. Despite the contractual nature of your arrangement, there was a palpable undercurrent of something more—an unspoken desire that simmered beneath the surface.

Your heart raced as you considered his offer, the allure of the unknown tempting you to abandon caution and dive headfirst into the depths of possibility. Yet, lingering doubts tugged at the edges of your mind, reminding you of the boundaries you had agreed upon.

"Our contract doesn't say that's necessary," you replied softly, your voice tinged with uncertainty.

Max's shrug belied the intensity in his eyes as he leaned in closer, his voice low and husky. "I don't mind," he murmured, his words laced with a vulnerability that mirrored your own. "I think you can feel something more than this facade too..."

With his confession hanging in the air, the lines between reality and fiction blurred, leaving you to grapple with the weight of your mutual attraction. And as the tension between you reached a fever pitch, you realised that perhaps, just perhaps, there was more to this fake romance than either of you had dared to imagine.

With a nervous nod, you made a split-second decision to seize the opportunity presented by Max's invitation. Hastily settling the bill, you dashed out of the establishment, your heart pounding in your chest as you embarked on this unexpected turn of events.

As you navigated the bustling streets, your mind raced with a whirlwind of emotions. What had started as a simple contractual agreement had now morphed into something entirely different—a real, genuine date with Max Verstappen, the famous Formula 1 driver who had captured your attention in more ways than one.

Despite the nerves that threatened to overwhelm you, there was a flicker of excitement coursing through your veins. This was uncharted territory, a leap into the unknown, and yet, there was a sense of exhilaration in the air as you ventured into the next chapter of your evening with Max.

As you arrived at the hotel, a nervous energy crackled in the air between you and Max, the weight of the evening's events hanging heavy in the space between heartbeats. The grand facade of the building loomed before you, a silent witness to the unfolding drama of your unexpected rendezvous.

With each step toward the entrance, the anticipation built, a silent crescendo of anticipation and uncertainty. What lay beyond the threshold was a mystery—a realm where the confines of reality blurred, and the boundaries of your fabricated romance were tested.

As the automatic doors slid open, you stepped into the opulent lobby, the soft glow of chandeliers casting a warm, inviting light over the marble floors. Max's hand brushed against yours, a subtle gesture that sent a jolt of electricity coursing through your veins, igniting a spark of anticipation in the depths of your soul.

As the elevator ascended, the tension between you and Max reached a fever pitch, the anticipation crackling in the air like electricity. With each passing floor, the space between you seemed to shrink, until you were practically pressed against each other, the heat of his body searing through the fabric of your clothes.

With a subtle nudge, Max drew impossibly closer, his presence overwhelming yet intoxicating. You found yourself lost in the depths of his gaze, your breath catching in your throat as his lips descended upon yours with a fervent urgency.

The kiss was electric, igniting a fire within you that burned hotter with each passing second. Your heart raced, pounding against your chest as you melted into his embrace, losing yourself in the dizzying whirlwind of sensation.

But as quickly as it had begun, the moment was shattered by the ding of the elevator, signalling your arrival at Max's floor. With a sense of urgency, he dragged you out of the confines of the elevator, practically running to his room with a single-minded determination that left you breathless and exhilarated.

As you crossed the threshold into his room, the door closing behind you with a soft click, the world outside faded away, leaving only the two of you in a cocoon of intimacy and desire. And in that fleeting moment, as you stood on the precipice of the unknown, you knew that whatever lay ahead, you were ready to dive headfirst into the depths of passion with Max by your side.

In the soft glow of the hotel room, surrounded by the hush of whispered confessions and the warmth of shared embraces, Max and you found yourselves teetering on the edge of something extraordinary. With each passing moment, the boundaries of your contractual agreement faded into insignificance, overshadowed by the blossoming love that bloomed between you.

As the night unfolded, you discovered that what had started as a mere PR stunt had evolved into something far more profound—a genuine connection that defied the constraints of your fabricated romance. And in the quiet intimacy of the moment, as you gazed into each other's eyes with unspoken longing, you knew that it was time to cast aside the pretense and embrace the truth of your feelings.

With trembling hands and hearts laid bare, you made a silent pact to abandon the confines of your contract and embark on a new journey together—a journey defined by love, authenticity, and the promise of a future filled with endless possibilities.

And as the first rays of dawn peeked through the curtains, illuminating the room with a soft golden light, you knew that this was only the beginning of your love story—a story that would unfold with each passing day, leading you both down a path of happiness and fulfillment, hand in hand, as an official couple in love.

el fin.

Kindahatethisbutohwell

[bubybubsters]

Happy Birthday (Azriel)

A/n: Happy birthday @claireswritingcorner 💕🎉🎂🥳! This is for you!! Dear mutual, you've been so extremely supportive and it's an absolute honor to even be on the same planet as you. You're so sweet and light up my days with your amazing stories and posts. Keep being you and take care of yoursef! Thanks for being so awesome, you deserve the best of birthdays. From one of your moots and a forever loyal fans.

Credit and thanks to @animatedglittergraphics-n-more for the birthday dividers!

wc: 1500

masterlist

You awoke to soft kisses on your brow. Tender lips move south until the same kisses were being pressed to your collarbone and neck. You let out a soft breath, almost a whimper.

"Happy Birthday, love," your mates deep, husky voice drags you from any remaining grogginess. However, the moment you open your eyes a shining bright light penetrates and you close them again, groaning. "Hey, wakey wakey Y/n. No going back to sleep," Azriel murmurs into the shell of your ear.

You sigh and open your eyes again but now a veined, black wing blocks the light. You make a sound of contentment and send your thanks down the bond. Suddenly, the weight of your mate disappears and the sunlight comes rushing back.

"Azzzzzz..." you whine sadly.

He presses a quick kiss to your lips, "I'll be right back love."

As he leaves, you slowly sit up. With a quick glance at the clock you mumble a few choice words and jump out of bed. It's past 11:00am and you've missed training with Cass. Your weekly meeting with Rhys is in less than five minutes.

"Crap, crap, crap," you chant under your breath as you run around looking for half-decent clothes.

"Y/n!" Your mates' alarmed voice rings through the room. "What in the world are you doing!?"

You glance up to see a bare chested Azriel holding a platter of very good looking pancakes.

"I missed my meeting with Rhys and Cass is gonna kill me since I missed training! Why didn't you wake me!?" You curse, still trying to find a training boot from wherever Azriel threw it last night. "Az, do ya know wh-"

"Y/n," Azriel cuts you off, "It's your birthday. It's the day we celebrate you! I already talked to my brothers and they were willing to cancel any daily or weekly things that you usually participate in today."

You skid to a stop just as you spot your other boot, "Rhysand agreed to cancel our weekly gossip sessions!?" You ask, offended and incredulous.

Azriel rolls his eyes. "Get back on the bed and next time, let me join in on the gossip," he grumbles cheekily.

You smirk. "Ooooo, poor Azzie boy is sad he got left out! Think we were gossiping about you? That big wingspan of yours?" you question smugly.

He scowls, a soft pout forming despite his best efforts to frown. His shadows slide up your body, taking hold of your wrists and ankles and dragging you back to the bed.

You frown at them. "Hey! I thought you guys were always on my side in these petty situations!"

Azriel grins when you are dragged to sit against the headboard. "First of all, I am not 'sad to get left out' and second, the shadows are mad you didn't let them help with gossiping. They love drama."

He sets the platter of pancakes on your lap and you look down to see 'Happy Birthday Y/n!' written in chocolate syrup.

"No utensils?" you furrow your brows, looking again at the tray to make sure you saw correctly.

Your mate shakes his head, ripping off a piece of pancake and offering it to you. You smile as an idea pops into your head. You eagerly take his fingers into your mouth.

The sweet taste of pancakes fulls your mouth and you swirl your tongue over his fingers to get all the crumbs. "Mmmm," you moan seductively.

Azriel quickly retracts his fingers as pink climbs up his neck. He grabs more pancake and offers it to you again. Again you take his fingers into your mouth, tongue swirling around his fingers. You barely taste the pancakes, all you feel is heat spreading through your body. Again you let out an intoxicating noise as Azriel pulls his fingers from your lips.

"Stop that, I wanna actually celebrate your birthday! Not be stuck in bed all day," he hisses through gritted teeth.

You turn your mouth down and raise a brow in fake confusion as you look down to see what you're doing to him. "Stop what?" you ask too sweetly.

He all but growls in your face. "You keep that up and we won't be leaving this room."

"Oh?" you purr suggestively. You lean back, stretching your arms and back and succeeding in making your night shirt rise up to reveal your stomach.

Azriel practically whimpers at the sight, his eyes turning molten with lust.

A smirk grows on your face and you hide the mischievous glint in your eyes as you got to grab some more pancake. You rip off a piece and meet his eyes, extending your fingers to his mouth.

Azriel oh so slowly leans forward and sucks the pancake from your fingers.

"It's good, is it not?" You ask. "You're a very good cook Azzie."

He nods in agreement, jaw clenching tight.

You peck his cheek delicately but now, you're no longer teasing. "Thank you Az. I love you," you say lovingly.

The desire in Azriel's hazel eyes dims for a moment, replaced by pure love. "I love you too, my mate," he whispers.

Azriel beams at you, shadows dancing as he breathes out, "Happy Birthday, love."

A/n: The following are a few glimpses into the day of the readers birthday and how it was celebrated.

You smile at your mate from across the picnic blanket. He'd set up a whole picnic and made the food, even made the blanket for you. Often times you thought you didn't deserve him but right now you just reveled in his love.

Azriel was currently talking about how much he wanted to visit the summer court to see if his wings could get a tan. You highly doubted his wings could get tanned, considering they were black, but you let him talk for as long as he wanted. You'd found out he was quite the talker after you'd got to know him, it's just he didn't get a chance to talk.

You grab your mates hand tug him towards you so that you can lie down and put your head in his lap. He pauses speaking and asks, "Love, are you alright?"

You smile and grab his hand. "I'm great Az. I just like hearing you talk, it makes me feel safe," you reassure.

"Ok... so um... Cassian wanted me to get drunk with him and go to the autumn court to see how mad we could make..." Azriel continues.

You don't really hear the rest of his words, too busy studying his stunning his features. His eyes looked more green today, like the color of ferns. His hair was windswept from flying you around the city earlier and his lips were quirked into a one-sided smile.

"I love you Az..." you interrupt, just because you wanted to say it.

Azriel smiles down at you and pokes your nose. "I love you too, crazy mate. Now shut up and let me talk."

"So Azriel ended up holding his pee for hours because Rhys's father wouldn't stop questioning him about his shadows! It was hilarious! He was crossing his legs like-"

"I'm glad you found my embarrassment entertaining, Cassian," Az grumbles, hiding his face in your chest.

"Thanks brother," Cassian sends Az a wink and continues, "He looked like he was aroused by Rhys's dad! After the meeting we had to fly back to Windhaven and Azriel couldn't find the time before to pee so he peed on the flight back! I bet the plants got watered that day!"

Mor spills wine from her nose as Cassian finishes. "How come you never told me this!" She accuses, pointing a finger at Cassian and Rhys.

Rhys shrugs elegantly, putting an arm around his mate and kissing the top of her head. "Just thought we'd save it till the right time to embarrass poor Az."

You are holding back laughter as you imagine everything Cassian just told you. Az is still hiding his face and now his wings spread out to encompass the both of you.

"It was not funny," Azriel mumbles, looking up at you.

You can't hold back your laughter anymore. Azriel's face is tomato red and his ears and neck are tinged maroon.

"Stoppppp..." he whines, again hiding his face.

"I'm sorry," you mutter, "You're just so beautiful!"

"Am not! I'm literally the color of Cassian's siphons!"

You roll your eyes and kiss him on the cheek. "You'll be fine. I'm sure we'll all forget about it soon."

"No we won't, girl," hisses Amren. "This is something I will hold over your bats' head forever!"

Azriel groans into your chest.

"Y/n."

You turn to see Azriel on one knee in front of you, holding open a box with a sparkling ring.

"Az! Wha-"

"Shush... will you marry me?" He asks gently.

You blink, you hadn't expected to be married, considering that neither of you had any human background. Marrying wasn't uncommon among the Fae, it just wasn't something common for mated couples.

Then again... calling Az, 'Husband', did have a nice ring to it. No pun intended.

You smile at him, offering him a hand.

"Of course, I'll marry you Az."

A/n: I forgot if Fae marry... correct if I'm wrong please. If you made it all the way here, I thank you.

sorry for like, not writing.

ANYWAYSS! HAPPY BIRTHDAY CLAIRE MY POOKIE!

taglist: @thelov3lybookworm @profound-imagination @stargirl1714 @hieragalbatorixdottir

[kiiwiigii]

Abandoned

Demetri x Fem!Reader

Summary: Going to Italy over spring break was not what you had in mind, but Bella said she needed you. Until she didn't anymore, leaving you in the hands of a handsome vampire, who happens to be your mate.

Warnings:

Angst

Bella and the Cullens suck. (Ha ha. I'm so funny.)

Word Count: 1500+

Requested?: Yes!

heya thanks for answering my earlier ask about requests! Could I please request a demetri x reader angsty with fluff where they meet in new moon as reader tags along with bella to help and demtri is drawn to her cause theyre mates and volturi agree to let bella go and be turned later if the reader stays and reader is hurt that edward, bella and even alice agree to it so quickly so she feels abandoned and demetri works to earn her trust and comforts her about it at a later date? (If its too much or you end up tweaking it thats okay!!) <3

A/N: What kind of Volturi fic writer would I didn't do this trope? And for once it's not Alec-centric. I love it! Also, this is gonna be a two-parter.

I hated flying with a burning passion. But Bella insisted that I go with her for emotional support. I almost snapped at her to take Jacob instead. Emotional support animals were free after all. She just needed the paperwork.

Unfortunately, I don't think a big-ass werewolf-slash-shapeshifter would go over well if they were to accidentally transform. Bella was lucky that I even had a passport. In the end, it was Alice who convinced me, definitely playing the loyalty card pretty heavily. If only I had known that loyalty was not extended to me.

Italy was beautiful, but between the sweet relief of landing, Alice stealing a car, and getting caught up in the whirlwind that was the St. Marcus festival, I had barely any time to take it all in. The city was awash with hundreds of people, their red cloaks swirling about as they danced and celebrated.

Bella was diving out the car, screaming Edward's name. I dove into the crowds to follow her, making my way through the throngs of red cloaks to find her. It didn't take long before I was hopelessly lost. What had Alice said? Edward was going to reveal himself. What exactly would happen if he did? That was one thing I had never managed to get out of Bella.

Would he just… spontaneously combust?

No. That made no sense, he never would have come to the Volturi for death if that happened.

But where was the best place to do it?

I looked around desperately before my eyes landed on the clock tower in the center of the square. There. That was the prefect place. I pushed through the crowds, yelling Bella's name at the top of my lungs.

Demetri

"BELLA!"

He turned at the sound, and his dead heart seemed to beat for just a moment. Her voice sounded like heaven. Demetri scanned the square, eyes searching, desperate with hope that maybe, just maybe, she might be who he thought she was.

"Bella!'

It was closer this time, and through a break in the crowds he saw her. Time seemed to slow down as he took in the sight of her. She was by the clock tower, her chest rising and falling with the effort to breathe, as if she had just run a long distance. And given the beads of sweat along her brow and the trickles that dripped down her tantalizing neck, she had.

She was stunning. Beautiful. And more than everything that he had ever hoped for.

The other girl in front of him, Bella, turned around in both alarm and relief.

"Bella," Edward said softly. "Relax. He won't harm her."

"Demetri?" Felix asked, voice heavy with confusion.

"Stay with our… guests, Felix."

Demetri was next to the girl in the blink of an eye, stepping into her line of sight a moment later. She jerked back in alarm before making eye contact with him. And it happened. His whole world seemed to turn upside down. He grinned. She was his.

"Hello, principessa." He lifted her warm hands to his cold lips, enjoying the subtle taste of her skin. "I am Demetri. I will escort you to your friends. If you will follow me."

She raised a disbelieving brow at him, taking him in before landing on his eyes. She gulped a little and nodded her head. He held out his arm for her to take, and after a moments hesitation, she did so.

Upon arriving at the alleyway in which the others stood, his mate let go and hugged Bella tightly.

"You're alright." She breathed, her perfect voice hushed.

"I'm alright, Y/N."

"Good to have you back." It was Jane. "Aro has been wondering what has been taking so long. Let us continue."

He put a hand on his mates back, urging her forward silently.

Demetri found that he no longer cared what would happen with Cullen and his human, not so long as his mate stayed.

I was a moron.

Despite the seriously fucked up and dangerous situation that Bella had somehow pulled me into, I couldn’t help but blush as I felt this stranger's hand on my lower back.

'Demetri. His name is Demetri, Y/N.'

The gesture felt oddly warm and comforting. He felt oddly warm and comforting.

And I liked it. But also I didn't like it. He was making me feel all funny and I honestly didn't know what to do about it.

I glanced back at him, only to find him already looking at me, something akin to wonder in his eyes. He gave me a small smile and I turned back around, blushing harder. I liked that smile. A lot. I shook my head, following behind Edward and Bella, doing my best to not trip.

I had bigger things to worry about. Such as getting out of this situation alive. Alice had neglected to tell me much of anything, and I had only caught snippets of her conversation with Bella on the plane. All I knew was that the Volturi laid down the law, and they were not to be fucked with. I suddenly wished I had paid more attention instead of worrying about the death trap that was called a plane.

I grabbed Alice's hand, my anxiety spiking. She gave my hand a small squeeze, sending me another smile. But something was off. She wouldn't look me in the eye. In fact I couldn't recall her looking me in the eye since we had boarded the plane to Italy. And outside of his initial surprise to see me, neither had Edward. I frowned at the sudden realization, slowing down a moment and pulling my hand from hers. Demetri slowed down as well, gently pressing on my back for me to continue, but I stayed rooted in the spot.

"What are you hiding?" My voice cracked. "What did you see?"

Alice looked back at me, surprised.

"Now is not the time, Y/N." Demetri's lips brushed against my ear.

I really liked the way he said my name.

"Indeed." Jane turned around, her face blank.

Demetri tensed, angling himself so that I was out of Jane's eyesight.

"Do not worry, Demetri. I have no intent to harm your mate... As long as she keeps up."

She was so blasé about the whole thing that it took a minute for me to register what she said. Mate? I had a mate? Mates were a thing?

Demetri hissed at her and everyone edged away from the two of them, looking at Demetri as if he were a dead man. Jane just smiled.

"Let us continue. Demetri, do keep your human in line."

I wondered if my brain had just stopped working at that point because I would have normally said something back, but I couldn't bring myself to do much of anything. Demetri turned back around, looking at me as one would a spooked animal. And I was pretty close to a spooked animal. I was starting to hyperventilate, and I definitely wanted to run, but I couldn't get my legs to work.

"Y/N." He reached out, clasping both of my arms lightly. "I'm sorry. I didn't want you to find out this way, but we really must keep going."

I nodded, numb. Alice knew. How long had she known? And Edward hadn't bothered to say a damn thing to me either. Why? They couldn't bother to prepare me for this? I have a fucking mate. That's not something you can just shove under the rug. And Jane. Fucking Jane-

Demetri's hand slid into my own, the coolness of his skin breaking me out of my haze just enough to keep moving forward. I could feel myself beginning to shut down and disassociate, auto-pilot taking over. I could feel his thumb rubbing circles softly on the palm of my hand and decided to focus on that instead.

Jane pushed the heavy double doors in front of us open.

My brain refused to shut off, memories of the last 24 hours replaying repeatedly in my head.

Bella had been released under two conditions:

She was to be turned within the year.

I was to stay here, to be with my mate.

I didn't have a choice, not that it really mattered, because I would have given myself up in a heartbeat for Bella. But they had taken the deal with barely a thought. Even Bella. That's when I realized that she knew. She had known the whole time. And Alice. I kept thinking about how she had worked so hard to convince me to come. To be Bella's emotional support. I wasn't there to be her emotional support. I was there to be traded, like some dog. And it hurt.

I had lost everything.

My friends. My home. My family.

I would never see my mother again. My father had passed a little over a year ago to cancer, so my mother and I were already in the practice of mourning. But my mom, not only had she lost my dad, but now she would think I was dead too. How would she cope?

How was I going to cope? How could I ever trust anyone again? Bella and the Cullens had taken advantage of me. Of my love. My loyalty.

I wouldn't let it happen again. Never.

{Masterlist} // {Request Guidelines}

Taglist: @alecvolturi @lack-lust-3r @pawspurpaw @pooka167 @rosedpetal

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[roosterforme]

Right Girl, Wrong Time Part 10 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

Summary: You missed out on a lot of things when you lived in Chicago, because you didn't want to do them without Bradley. On a very important trip, you and he both visit the city together.

Warnings: Fluff, smut and swears

Length: 1500 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader (former fuckboy college student Bradley)

This is a sequel to accompany my story Old Habits Die Hard (you'll want to read that one first)!

Check my profile for my masterlist

Five Months Later...

"I can't believe we're willingly flying to Chicago in January," you complained with a bright smile on your face. 

"This was your idea, Sugar," Bradley reminded you, holding up both boarding passes for the airline gate agent to scan. "It's not too late to stay in Vegas or fly to Fiji like I originally wanted."

"No, no. We're going to Chicago together," you told him, taking his hand as you boarded your flight from Las Vegas to O'Hare. Bradley spun your rings around on your finger as you located your seats and settled in. 

"Chicago in January. Two days before a blizzard is due to arrive. Are we about to go on the shittiest honeymoon ever?" he asked, kissing your lips. 

You laughed and wrapped your arms around his neck. "Listen, we just had Elvis marry us yesterday on the Vegas strip. We had a quickie wedding after being engaged for five weeks, and I'm not even pregnant. Now we're about to get snowed in together in Chicago. You'll be stuck in a room with me for a week. I don't think a conventional honeymoon is what we needed, Beer Boy."

Bradley tipped his head back and laughed. "Actually, now that you mention it, being snowed in with you sounds like a dream, Sugar. What am I even complaining about?"

"I don't know," you whispered against his scars. "You get me and Chicago deep dish pizza around the clock if you want it."

"I want it," he confirmed. "You can feed me pizza naked in bed after we have sex. And then I'll get hard again, we can have sex again, and you can feed me more pizza. It sounds like the perfect week. Chicago in January is everything I ever wanted."

You were shaking with silent laughter as the flight attendant went over the safety instructions, and soon you were in the air. And then you fell asleep on your husband's shoulder. Bradley jostled you awake in time to see the city all lit up against a snowy backdrop as the plane descended into Chicago. 

"Are you ready for this?" you asked, standing next to him with your bags, about to walk outside to get a taxi. "It's three degrees out there."

"Yeah, I'm ready," Bradley mumbled, but he looked scared. "No problem."

Once you and he were outside, he was practically crying as you took care of hailing a ride to the hotel. "You have thin Californian blood now," you told him as he snuggled up next to you in the back seat. You kissed his icy cold nose and forehead as you headed through the city where you lived for four years during grad school. "It's embarrassing, Bradley. I married a Californian."

He shivered in your arms and said, "We're both Virginians, Sugar. I just hate being cold."

You were playing with his hair and kissing along his ear as he melted into you. Every time you thought about the crazy juxtaposition that your life had become, you felt tears in your eyes. You had missed Bradley terribly when you were living in Chicago and still even after you graduated with your PhD. So it just felt right that he was here with you now.

"That's where I got my second tattoo," you whispered as the taxi drove slowly down a side street. 

Bradley looked out the window and smiled. "Should be a historic landmark."

Your laughter filled the small space as he kissed you. Then he paid the cab fare, and you had never seen him move as fast as he did when he hauled all of the luggage inside to the warm hotel lobby. 

"Let's go get a good night's sleep," you told him as he carried everything to the elevator and then into the hotel room. 

"We're not sleeping," he said, shaking his head. "You're going to snuggle with me until I'm warm again, which could take hours, and then I'm fucking you for the rest of the night."

He wasn't lying. You pulled him into bed with you, and held his body close, softly kissing him and telling him how happy you were. 

"I love you, Sugar. I loved you ten years ago, and I love you today, and I'll still be loving you ten years from now."

Slowly and meticulously, he undressed you beneath the blankets, touching and kissing each new bit of skin as it was exposed. He took extra time and gave extra attention to your tattoos, just like he always did. 

"I've been in love with you since the first time you wore my bathrobe," he told you before pressing his lips to the valley between your breasts as you giggled. "No, before that. Since the first time I watched you put a bottle of beer to your perfect lips." He kissed his way up to your mouth, lingering there until you were sighing against him. 

"You've been in love with me since you met me then? Is that what you're trying to say, Beer Boy?"

He groaned as he slid his length inside you. "God, I fucking love it when you call me that. Every single time. And yes, Sugar, ever since I met you."

You made love to your husband all night, your hands and eyes roving over his body as you told him how happy you were that you both ended up at your class reunion in Virginia. That he was at the same bar as you that night last summer. 

When you both finally fell asleep, it was a long time before you woke up. Room service had already switched from breakfast to lunch, but Bradley got them to agree to send up a pot of coffee along with your lunch order. You and he ate all bundled up in bed together with the curtains open, the first flurries of snow falling outside as the storm moved in. 

"We need to head out soon so we can get back before it gets dark," you told him as he sipped his coffee. 

His expression looked unimpressed, but he nodded anyway. "Yeah. Let's go, Sugar."

The taxi dropped you both off at the edge of the park as the sidewalks were getting slick from the snow. There were only a few people out and about, and even in the middle of the day, the sunlight was struggling to break through the heavy, gray clouds. Bradley had his arm wrapped around your shoulders as you approached The Bean together. You stood side by side, examining if for a moment in silence. 

"It's just a big, metallic bean," you said, leaning into Bradley as the wind picked up.

"I knew it would be dumb as hell, Sugar," he replied, gesturing at it with his hand like there was no good explanation for what they were seeing.

You wrapped your arms around his middle and looked up at him as you started cracking up. "I'm glad I didn't see it without you. It was worth the wait."

"You were worth the wait. The Bean, maybe less so," he replied, kissing you as you took your phone out. 

After you took a bunch of selfies and texted some to Nat, you looked at Bradley and hummed. His cheeks were bright pink from the cold, and the tip of his nose was getting red. He was perfect, and he was all yours. 

"Have you given much thought to a little Bradshaw bean?" you asked as snowflakes stuck on his mustache. 

"Bradshaw bean?" he asked. His brow was creased before it started to smooth out. "Are you saying what I think you're saying, Sugar?"

You nodded and kissed his pink cheek. "Yeah, Beer Boy. A little baby Bradshaw bean. Just something to think about."

Both of you thought about it and talked about it as you stood in front of the giant bean in the middle of a blizzard. But you didn't need to make all of your decisions right now. You weren't planning on being without Bradley ever again. 

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

THANK YOU for reading along on this adventure with me! Beer Boy/Man and Sugar belong together, and I'm happy she gets to take him to Chicago, even if it's during a blizzard! I hope you had as much fun as I did! Thanks to @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls

Please visit the one-shot The Grateful Dad for some more Beer Boy and Sugar!

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[bkgsdoll]

⋆𖦹.✧˚ katsuki bakugou masterlist 🎀ɞ˚‧｡⋆

small thoughts hehe

drabbles [100-500 words] teasing nerd!bkg - wc: 199 summary: teasing your sheepish boyf during a study session on your bed :3 these are what titties feel like - wc: 285 virgin!bsf!bkg has no idea what to do when a girl wants him to touch her boobs.. so u show him what they feel like!

blurbs [500-1000 words] sensei!reader x pro!bkg - wc: 876 summary: your pro hero boyfriend comes into your kindergarten class for a q&a! cookies and studying - wc: 839 summary: popular!bkg visits nerdy!reader's dorm one night for a study session where he gets free cookies! (and a new friend) first hungover morning with kats - wc: 799 summary: title ! fluffy fluff c:

oneshots [1500+ words] all for you - wc: 5.3k nsfw - featuring kirishima - scream!au summary: there's been a masked serial killer running around your sweet town, targeting and murdering your friends left and right. however, you soon find out.. there's two killers-- and they're after you. but not in the way you thought. stupid girl - wc: tbd! nsfw - kinktober fic summary: you design a villainous costume for halloween, but when you try it on, your boyfriend comes home from a long day of hero work. though he's not on the clock anymore, he still has to catch this naughty villain.

headcanons bakugou's wife has too many pets! bkg with a reader who loves horror

mini masterlists sugar and spice , mini-series

[glorious-spoon]

your way or nothing at all [9-1-1 | Eddie Diaz | 1/1]

1500 words character study | mild angst | weddings | background buck/tommy, eddie/marisol | pre-relationship buddie | not quite a feelings realization for eddie but he's getting there

-

In the quieting dark, Eddie lingers by the tables, the empty chairs pushed together in a cluster for a conversation long since abandoned. It's late enough that people are starting to filter out into the night, and pretty much everybody left is crowded at the open bar or swaying on the dance floor. At the high table, Maddie has Buck's suit jacket draped over her shoulders and her cheek tipped against Chim's shoulder, and he's looking down at her with a dopily besotted expression that Eddie can clock even from here.

It makes him feel like—something, some kind of nostalgia for the wedding he never got to have with Shannon. That whole day felt like being hustled through a play that he never learned his lines to. Shannon was three months pregnant and deep in the throes of vicious morning sickness that was not improved by the catering or the stress of the day, so he spent their wedding night holding back her hair in the honeymoon suite his parents paid for and trying desperately to feel like he had a single fucking clue what he was doing. Trying to feel like a man and a husband and a father-to-be and mostly feeling like a complete fraud.

They deserved better. Both of them. Now, in this moment, after this day, it soothes more than it stings to watch Maddie and Chim hold onto each other so easily.

The song changes, and he watches a swirl of motion on the bar side of the dance floor, the particular energy that's easily identifiable as Buck even before he emerges from the crowd. Normally, maybe Eddie would gravitate in, but Buck's got a hand linked together with Tommy's, and they're laughing, and so he stays where he is. Just watches.

It's sweet, a little fumbling as Buck very obviously tries to figure out the logistics of slow-dancing with another guy. Tommy says something in a low voice and settles a palm on his hip, and Buck ducks his head, laughing, and leans into him.

It's sweet. It is. Eddie's throat fucking aches.

He doesn't know why, not really. Maybe it's the smile on Buck's face, wide and giddy and almost embarrassingly bright. He never smiled at Natalia like that, or Taylor. Maybe Ali, but the truth is that back then Eddie wasn't looking for it. Back then, he was so caught up in everything with Shannon, and he and Buck were barely more than friendly coworkers, as strange as that idea seems now.

He probably smiled at Abby like that. Eddie wasn't around for that relationship, only the aftermath, but he can imagine it. You don't hurt that badly when someone leaves you unless you really fucking loved them.

"You would not believe the line for the bathroom," Marisol says from behind him, and Eddie jolts like he just grabbed a high-voltage wire. He tries to spin it into something graceful as he turns to face her, but he's pretty sure it doesn't work, and also pretty sure that he shouldn't be feeling quite so jumpscared at the sight of his girlfriend. His heart is pounding. He rubs his knuckles against his sternum, and Marisol asks, "You okay?"

"Yeah," he says. "Sorry. You startled me."

"No, it's fine." She smiles at him, and it's pretty. She looks pretty, in a blue dress that looks black in this light, little metallic threads picked through and glittering. It hugs the curves of her body in a way that Eddie feels obligated to notice, and so he does, and when he looks her in the eye again she's smiling wider, and that's pretty too and Eddie—

Eddie still feels like a fucking fraud.

"I got you a beer," Marisol says. She's got a glass of wine in her other hand. White wine, lipstick marks on the rim.

Eddie smiles back and takes the bottle she hands him. "Thanks."

"I wasn't sure what you'd want." She grins at him, flirty. "You'll have to tell me if I made a bad guess."

He sips the beer. It's a lager, hoppy and astringent in a way that leaves a bitter aftertaste on his tongue. He takes another drink and smiles around the grimace his mouth wants to make. "It's perfect. Thank you."

The pleased relief in her smile doesn't make the lie feel any better. He takes another sip and sets the bottle down, and Marisol settles her hip against his chair, close enough that he can feel the warmth of her body. Close enough that he could wrap an arm around her thighs and pull her into his lap, if he wanted to do that. He shifts forward instead, leaning his elbows against the table, and she lets out a quiet sound and sets her glass down to sit in the chair next to him. The music switches over from Christina Perri to what Eddie is pretty sure is Savage Garden, and on the dance floor Tommy says something that makes Buck laugh and pull him closer.

"They're cute together," Marisol observes. "Buck and, um… Tommy?"

Eddie's fingers twitch on his beer bottle. "Yeah."

"I didn't know that he was, you know…" she trails off. Eddie looks over at her, and she adds, "Not that there's anything wrong with it! I just, I thought he had a girlfriend."

"They broke up. He dates guys too," Eddie says, more emphatically than is really necessary. Like this is a truth that he's always known instead of something Buck told him two weeks ago in the loft, quiet and careful like he was afraid of how Eddie would react. Like he was afraid of Eddie.

It was a date, we were on a date.

So it's new for Buck, too. Not just him. But still.

It feels like something he should have known.

"Okay," Marisol says. The corners of her mouth tighten, and she takes a pointed sip of her wine. "I didn't know that, is all."

I didn't know either, Eddie imagines saying, but the words strangle themselves in his throat just the same as, Actually, I don't like lagers, and, I don't really want company tonight, did. He wonders how the hell Buck does it—just opens his mouth and lets the truth spill out. Eddie can only manage that when it's for other people. Never for himself.

"Sorry," he says out loud. "It's been… a day."

Marisol's face softens a little, and he feels like shit about that, too. It has been a day, is the thing. He woke up in a bathtub, more hungover than he's been in at least a decade, and after that was a wild goose-chase through the desert to retrieve Chim in time for the wedding, and all that is plenty of reason for him to be off his game now. It's just that somehow it also feels like a fucking lie.

On the dance floor, Buck has his cheek pressed to Tommy's. He says something, and Tommy's shoulders shake with laughter, and then they both turn, moving easily together into a kiss. It's quick and tender, and Eddie abruptly feels like the worst kind of voyeur for watching it happen. He turns his head away and finds Marisol looking at him.

The music changes again. TLC, he's pretty sure, because Chim is deep down a very basic Gen X music kind of guy. Or maybe it was Maddie's pick, who knows. Anyway. It's a little more upbeat, but still slow enough to dance to.

"You, uh." He clears his throat, and finds a smile that feels almost right. "Come on, you wanna dance before they close it all down? They're playing our song."

"This is our song?" Marisol asks, but she's laughing. "I don't even think I was born yet when it came out."

Eddie shrugs and holds out a hand. "It could be our song. Maybe for tonight it's just a good song to dance to."

That must have been the right thing to say. She smiles, sets her wine down, and slips her hand into his, letting him tug her to her feet. They wind their way through the chairs to the dance floor, and under the string lights she settles easily into his arms. 

I know you're gonna have it your way or nothing at all, rasps the singer in a sweetly smoky voice, as Eddie closes his eyes, and sways, and breathes, but I think you're moving too fast.

I think you're moving too fast.

He breathes in, and out, and opens his eyes. Marisol smiles up at him, and he smiles back, then cuts his eyes away. There are still a handful of people left on the dance floor with them: Athena and Bobby, swaying together like they're in their own little world, a couple of Buckley cousins with their dates. Buck and Tommy are gone, though, and Eddie almost cranes his head through the crowd to see where they got to before he catches himself.

"To tell you the truth," Marisol says. "I really don't think this is our song."

"Alright, well, we can find another one," Eddie says, and she laughs and sways into him, and he holds onto her, and when he closes his eyes, it's fine; it all feels fine.

[husbandograveyard]

Part of my 2024 Kinktober - Masterlist here

Prompt: cockwarming Word count: 1500 Reader: afab (reader has a vagina and breasts), no pronouns, reader gets called 'love' Cw: domestic fluff, domestic smut, lazy morning sex, cockwarming cause why move, established relationship, voice kink if you squint, teasing from both partners

minors / ageless blogs interacting will be blocked

The curtains weren’t fully closed. 

It’s the first thing you notice in the morning, as a bright ray of sunlight manages to shine right onto your face, making you wake up at the bright yet warm sensation. The light gives your room somewhat of a cozy feeling, and you shift slightly, leaning into Toji a bit more.

He is lying behind you, one leg draped around one of yours and an arm loosely around your midsection. He makes a soft grumbling noise, a sign that he is awake as well -though barely. 

You make no attempts to move anymore, perfectly content with how you’ve settled in. You don’t have to work, and neither does he, so you can actually enjoy the absence of your alarm clock and settle in, enjoy the proximity, the cuddle, the intimacy, the- 

“Good morning.” 

Toji interrupts your thoughts with a squeeze of his arm and his deep, gruff morning voice close to your ear. It tickles a little, and you chuckle. 

“Morning Toji”, you mumble back, shifting again, so you can place a kiss on his arm. He murmurs an inaudible answer, and you close your eyes again, ready to rest just a little more. 

You feel yourself slipping away, while you feel Toji shift a bit- and then again. You smile at the way he grumbles a little, seemingly dissatisfied with the way he cannot seem to find a good position to continue resting in. Eventually he readjust you a little, pulling you even more into him, and you chuckle quietly. 

It is completely silent for a while, just your breathing, in sync with Toji’s. You’re feeling your eyelids grow heavy when you feel his hand wander a bit, shifting from holding you close with his arm around your waist, to a little lower, where the hem of your oversized t-shirt is. You take in a deeper breath when he slips his hand underneath it, resting it on your skin there, not yet moving. 

For a second you think he just wants to enjoy the feeling of you, skin on skin, the way he gently rubs his thumb but doesn’t move his hand just yet. But then he does let his hand wander, until it rests right underneath your breast, and you know just what is coming. 

You let out a small, content sigh, a silent sign for him that what he is doing is okay, but that he will have to work a bit to get you in the mood. You were enjoying a little extra time for sleeping, after all. Maybe you’d make it a bit of a challenge, you knew he would enjoy that if you didn’t push it too far. 

It takes a while for him to continue moving though. His breathing is deep and even, as if he himself isn’t entirely sure whether he’s in need of more sleep or up for a round of lazy morning sex. You aren’t exactly sure of what you want either, shimmying your body to press into him, settling in again. 

You would have been able to do so, if it weren’t for the obvious hardness pressing into your thigh. You couldn’t help but grin a little at the way his breathing hitched the second you accidentally grinded on him, and snickered when it happened again when you repeated the motion -not so accidentally. 

“Tease”

His tone was accusing, but you could hear the way he was smiling while saying it, and you couldn’t help but smirk in response. He matched your energy though, letting his hand slide up, playfully fondling your chest, letting the pads of his fingers glide over your nipples as he felt them harden under his touch. 

You couldn’t help but arch your back into his gentle, lazy touches. He took his time mapping out your upper body, as if he didn’t already know it by heart. There was a tenderness to it all, and you closed your eyes in bliss. You would be perfectly content laying like this all day, but you did feel Toji growing a little impatient, as his touches became more intense, precise and needy. 

You felt him moving his hips ever so slightly, rocking his clothed erection against your back, enjoying some friction. You knew that soon enough just friction wouldn’t be enough for him anymore. 

“How about you just put it in?” 

"Eh?" 

The way his voice rose slightly in pitch at his surprise made you giggle. You weren’t sure if he was genuinely surprised, or if he just hadn’t heard you properly with his mind clouded half by sleep and half by want. Either way, his reaction entertained you, and you just stayed quiet for a bit while he fully processed what you had said. 

“You serious?” 

“Hmhmm”  you muse, nodding your head slightly as you readjust it on your pillow. He chuckles, a deep rumble that you feel reverberating against your back. 

“Bold on this beautiful morning, are ya?” it’s the longest sentence he’s said so far, and the first proper display of his morning voice. The timbre helps turn you on more than any of his touches so far do. If you could bathe in that voice, you would. 

You’d almost think with him asking so many questions was a sign of him not being too eager, but the opposite was true. He just wanted to make it a game as much as you were. 

His hand let go of your breast and slid down over your tummy, effortless dipping beneath the waistband of the shorts you were wearing -stolen from his side of your shared closet. His fingers danced playfully along the fabric of your panties, touching you just about everywhere but the places where you needed him.

You shifted a bit, an attempt to make him touch you better, and he chuckled right next to your ear, the feeling of his lips on your earlobe sending shivers down your spine. 

“So eager, hmm? Where’s all the teasing gone?” 

You were about to reply when he pressed one finger to your clit, finding the spot so effortlessly, rubbing lazy circles over your panties. Your hips bucked up into his touch by reflex, and you let the softest whine escape your lips. He was right, he had somehow managed to turn the tables on you, though you were much too stubborn to ever admit to that. 

“Toji..” 

It came out much more needy than you had anticipated, and he just laughed again, but he did comply by now moving his hand underneath your panties, touching you with long, slow strokes. He circled your clit a few times, before sliding his finger down between your folds, towards your entrance. The arousal that had built up and gathered until now made this all unsurprisingly easy for him, but he couldn’t help but comment on it as he slipped one finger into your core. 

“Looks like I won’t have too much effort ‘just putting it in’, hmm?” You could hear his smirk in his tone, but you cut off your own reply with a moan when he curled his finger inside of you just right. Oh how you were looking forward to the next step. 

Toji didn’t make you wait too long, pulling his hand back all too sudden and readjusting you. It never ceased to amaze you how effortless his strength was. Lifting you up by the hips to slide down the shorts just enough, pushing your leg up and your panties to the side- it was only a matter of seconds before his tip was prodding at your entrance and you both let out a breathy moan as he pushed in -agonizingly slow. 

He filled you up so nicely, he always did, and the sensation of you stretching out over him was one you’d never not welcome. You groaned quietly, and Toji wrapped an arm around you, pulling you back into him, and down onto him some more. Your slick lubricated him just enough for him to bottom out without too much effort, and that was where he stayed. 

“You feel fantastic, love”, he mumbled against the skin of your neck, placing a soft kiss as he slipped the arm that was wrapped around you again underneath your shirt once more. You hummed in response, unsure if you wanted to agree, or tell him to move after all. 

It was quiet for a bit while you both settled into the sheets again, the silence only broken by your soft moans and whimpers every time one of you shifted to readjust, the slightest movement making his cock throb and you felt it every time. 

“Toji.. please.” 

“Begging already?” 

You huffed in response. He interrupted you before you could properly respond, talking as if you had just told him to get up instead of make love to you. You could hear the smile and teasing edge to his tone. 

“Five more minutes.” 

[lunesprite]

@dca-prompts @simpalert

Original prompt:

Trying this a different way this time! ~1500 words today. Takes a little bit to get there, but I hope you enjoy it!

______________

Nothing ever happens on Wednesdays. Well. Not from the hours of midnight to 6am at least. 

It’s the perfect night to come back. 

Around and above you, the lights of the pizzaplex flick off, casting your path in wells of deep shadow between islands of neon glow. 

It was unsettling walking to your office the first few times. Management wanted you clocking in no more than five minutes before your shift officially began, and unless you sprinted from the time clock, there was no way in hell even that would get you from point A to your office down in the depths of the place before it got spooky in the pizzaplex. You used your phone flashlight for a bit - speed walking between neon streams and the glowing eyes of the ever-watchful wet floor bots - but, well. 

Then Moon stole your phone. 

It was your fault, to be fair.  

You’d been late, you’d been hurrying, you heard a noise behind you and instantly thought ‘horror movie’ and whipped around and uh. Kind of flashbanged him in the face from two inches away. In your defense, no one had ever bothered to tell you what the other night security was, or tell you that it had a mischievous streak a mile wide. 

So you figured you deserved it when he stole your phone and spent a good fifteen minutes suspended above you, sulking like a kicked cat before you gave up and stumbled your way to your office in the dark. And there, in between staring at the screen static of a completely empty plex, you decided to write him an apology. 

One, you wanted your phone back. You’d just paid it off. 

Two, call you a sucker, but he’d been kind of… cute? You’d never seen an animatronic sulk before and he’d sold it so well you’d really wanted to beckon him down and pet him. 

You left that bit out of the apology. Which was a good thing, because when you’d clocked off in the morning and slipped by the daycare looking for the guy with your actually neatly written letter of apology, sealed with a sticker and everything, Sun looked at you like you were about to grow a second head.

And then, insisting that he was just checking it over for you, read the whole damn thing. Out loud. With acting. 

You hadn’t been allowed to leave the tiny table he’d plonked you down at. 

You’d been so mortified, your brain didn’t even register it when he whipped out your phone from somewhere and made you re-enact the incident with him - except Sun, wearing a hat also produced from places unknown, followed up the flashbang with dramatic wailing on the floor. Smote down, cruelly wounded, etc. 

Which was all well and good, you’d said. But Moon’s was a lot cuter. 

Yeah. 

You know in those choice games, where like. Sometimes it brings up a notice? ‘There will be consequences for this action’? 

There were consequences for that action. You still don’t dare go to the daycare during operating hours. 

Sun, the menace, had gotten this gleam in his eyes and started howling and you fled like literal hounds were on your heels. 

You hadn’t expected to clock in late the next day, the lights off before you even made it to the time clock, and then turn around to Moon right there. 

And. Look, ok. 

He was too big to be in that pill box of a room. So he was kind of scrunched up a bit. Hunched in on himself, his hat more crooked than usual, long legs and arms drawn in like. Like a cat, sitting behind you, with those big red eyes watching you. 

He was cute. And you didn’t know about his and Sun’s whole situation - that liar - so you just. Did what you’d wanted to do the night before. 

You reached out and pet him and that big cat just melted. 

He made the deepest, happiest purr, eyes dimmed in contentment and next thing you knew, you were on the floor with an animatronic oozed across you, his face in your hands and his claws kneading the shitty carpet. Only, worse than a cat, there was no way to move the big cute lug to go anywhere. 

Once Moon cuddled, you were stuck. 

But you worked things out. 

As much as the two of you enjoyed sitting in your office, his chin resting on your thighs as you watched the security feeds and idly pet him or wiped him down, he did have to do patrol, so you’d made a deal. 

Wednesday, when nothing ever happened, Moon could come flop on you. 

It wouldn’t take him long to show up tonight. After all, you’d been gone last week - vacation - and it’d taken a lot of pacifying to get your sulky cat to accept he’d have to go without cuddles for one week. 

You unlock your office, flicking on the light switch beside the door and leave it open as you dump your overstuffed bag beside your chair and set your drink on your desk. If you didn’t keep the door open, Moon would claw at it. The exact same way a cat would paw at a closed door, except his are titanium and explaining it to management is a lot more… awkward. They always seem to expect so much more from your answers when they ask. 

You only manage to get the screens turned on and dig out the wipes from your bag - the scrubby ones, a little treat - before the lights overhead go out, leaving you in only the faint light of the security feeds. And when you turn, you try very hard not to laugh. 

All you can see are Moon’s eyes, staring accusingly in at you through the window beside the door. 

“I’ve wronged you,” you say, as solemnly as possible. 

His eyes narrow. 

“Truly,” you turn, pulling out the starry blanket and new pillow wedged into your bag. “I have been a most cruel friend, to leave you uncuddled for a week.” 

His claws creep around the edge of the doorway. 

Almost everything else, you pull out from assorted hiding places in your office. Pillows. Not one, but two giant sleeping bags, spread out across the floor as you shove your chair to the edge of the admittedly small space. By the time you’ve finished, fluffing up the sturdy pillow you sacrificed from your old couch, Moon sits in the doorway. 

Now for the final bribe. 

Under his watchful optics, you set the wipes on the floor near the couch pillow. And then your drink. And then, with a wink, you reach into the bottom of your bag. 

And pull out a massive power cord which you hold out in both hands, head bowed. 

His eyes gleam, a quiet cackle hissing from his voice box. 

“As an apology, please accept this offering of a night of cuddles and charging - just as long as you don’t blow up the circuits again.” 

“No promises,” he hisses, already slinking inside and burrowing under the top sleeping bag as you huff out a laugh, pushing aside a bit of shelving to reach the heavy duty plug hidden behind it. You plug in the stupidly heavy cable and drag it over to the jingling blanket lump, grinning as he pops out his head. Just like a cat, he takes up 90% of any surface he deems his bed, and you drop the cable on him with a clunk as you clamber over him to the other side to your stash of wipes and drink. 

The screens flicker as Moon plugs in the cable, and for a second you pause, wipe in hand, before he slinks an arm around your waist and plops his chin in your lap with a soft purr. 

You laugh softly, checking over the security feeds for a second before you tilt up his face, smiling at his dimmed eyes and take the wipe to his forehead. 

“I thought you were gonna knock us offline there, Moony.” 

“Mmmm.” He hums, curling his lanky form around you until you’re hemmed in, his arms deceptively loose around you. “Still thinking about it.” 

“I guess I’ll just have to convince you otherwise, hm? Can’t clean you up all nice if I can’t see a damn thing.” 

You pat his head, settling back into your pillows as Moon mumbles something and, slowly, as the trash can fills with dirtied wipes - your eyes flicking to the screens each time you grab a new one - his purr evens out. 

It’ll be a long night. Somehow, you suspect he’s not going to let you up until the end of your shift this time.

With a fond sigh, you hook an arm around him in turn, fiddling lightly with his hat as he snoozes and turn your eyes back to the wall of security monitors. His fingers rest loose and light against your sides. Every now and then, his claws twitch. His inner machinery ticks and whirrs lazily. 

He really is a sweet thing, underneath all that mischief. 

You almost want to kiss him. But, ah. This is enough, isn’t it?

[thecameronchronicles]

Diner Girl

TW: bully!Rafe. Smut. Language. 

SUMMARY: Your starcrossed existence leads to high tensions and low inhibitions. 

WORD COUNT: 1500

REQUESTED

Hi!

I have an idea that you can totally disregard or even link something similar!

College Rafe who bullies reader and they are a waitress at a restaurant and he shows up with his friends and they have to wait his table. 

Idk if that is enough to go off of, or again, if u have something similar. 

You are so talented, thank you so so much lovely!

💙💙💙

*I HOPE YOU ENJOY THIS ONE!*

Diner Girl 

The day was already too long with low tips and ill-tempered customers. If not for the break taken halfway through your shift, you may have broken through that forced smile with one more "what can I get for you". But with an hour left until you could retire out of this uniform and into the comfort of the bubble bath that allowed you to push through the day, you were counting down every single second. 

And then the bell drew your attention to the door. It was common for a peer to venture in at this particular hour for a late night cup of coffee or even to find a means to sober up from an early night's events. But when you saw him enter with his band of equally misogynistic and narcissistic friends, you didn't care to hide your annoyance. 

"And to think, I was even going to tip you real nice." Rafe teased, bending himself over the counter as his blonde friend smirked at you at his side. "Here's one...use this to get some decent clothes..." He explained while offering a small collection of folded bills.

"Rafe Cameron doesn't like my clothes?" You feigned hurt before rolling your eyes. "How will I sleep knowing I don't have the king Kook's attention? Oh please Rafe ..like me..." You bent further towards him. Enough to taste the change in his breathing. 

"Kiss me..." You had no interest to actually act on this and yet you basked in his reaction to you. The way you could alter him from vile to vulnerable in a closed proximity was enduring. All while you realized it could bring some form of entertainment in the final hour of your shift. 

"Or you could just order so I can go home." You pulled back behind the counter. 

"I'll have you bent over overeasy...at least that's how the football team describes you...over...easy..."

This brigade of insults would continue until it seemed as if nobody else existed in the space around you. As "oohs" and "ahhs" came from patrons of the establishment and your co-workers, the heat only built between you. Comments of his silver spoon upbringing and your lesser than desirable poverty had been at the crux of most verbal blows. 

"You're just jealous because the best you're ever gonna have is the fifteen seconds with some drunk sorority girl who only thinks you're good because she is imagining someone else. Maybe you," You looked at his friend, offering a wink as he blushed. 

"And ten of those seconds would be you trying to figure out how to get her undressed."

"Believe me, I know my way around undressing a girl." His eyes fell down your physique as if doing so with his eyes. 

"Lucky for me, I never have to find out "

"I wouldn't be caught dead touching you."

"But you're dying to know how I feel, aren't you? Bet you're straining in your seam for me..." You chuckled. "Want to know how I'd taste...sound ..feel..." You were pressed at his chest, palm close enough to feel his raging pulse beneath your hand as you'd rounded the counter. 

"Maybe one of the other girls are brain dead enough to entertain the idea of you. But I'd rather be fucked by a hot poker than touched by you. Even by accident. God knows the germs you have..."

"At least I can afford to clean up. You're always gonna be a dirty little pogue." He spat as your brow arched. 

"Just one you're never gonna get." You teased his lips before pulling yourself to the exit of the restaurant. Apron left on the hook as you'd clocked out, you shuffled for your keys, wearing a smile of pride wide across your face. But you weren't allowed even two steps away from the rest exit before you were taken against the back wall of the diner. 

"Have your fun?" Rafe asked, knee set between your legs as you gasped. 

"Took it a bit far tonight, don't you think?"

"Only took it like you gave."

"I could have you bent over that counter and fuck that little attitude out of you..."

"I don't know, Rafe...Just s dirty little pogue…" You teased his belt. 

"I have quite a lot of attitude...".

"Good thing I can fuck you more ways than one then..." He kissed you harshly, the familiar fire quelling your need to rival him. But just as you'd found comfort in his lips, he had retreated and descended to your chest. The basic tee set over your torso was pulled to free your breasts. The bitter bite of the night air was challenged by the fervent need of his tongue and lips at your exposed skin. 

"What would your friends think?" You asked him as he looked up to you just long enough to notice the smirk across your face. 

"I don't give a shit..."

"Then take me back and fuck me on the counter..." 

"I don't care if they know about us. I don't want them to hear you. To see those little faces you make for me. Because if they have even a fraction of the same effect, they're gonna be just as driven to make them happen...and nobody gets to do that to you but me-"

"And the football team?" He scoffed. 

"I'm more than enough for you. You prove it everytime you wince for me when I'm inside of you. The pain of being bigger than what you're used to...and you love it...you love the pain..."

"I love how you feel..." You explained with your hand fisting at his shirt. "But I hate how you treat me."

He shook his head. 

"Then why are you so fucking wet?" You were lifted above the wall, the quick swipe made of his hand having now been used to guide your panties to the side as his other hand undressed himself. 

"Gotta be quick this time...but you're still gonna come shaking for me..." Before you could object, you were forced over his cock. That wince he spoke of had been released as a complete whimper of former confidence as you arched your back to his beginning motions. 

"Rafe!"

"Wanna come for me already?" You nodded. 

"A bit desperate tonight?"

"Always..." You confessed, submitting to him as nobody felt like him. Absolutely nobody. His greedy touch, still somehow compassionate, was addictive. Not to mention the dirty words he spoke that navigated perfectly to your clit as not even a brush of his fingers were needed to make you tremble. 

"Then come for me. But you're gonna make me come twice as hard, sweetheart..." He almost growled into your neck as your body built to a quick high that he delayed gratification to. 

"Rafe!"

"I think you should apologize. What you said was hurtful you know...gotta be held accountable for what you say..."

"You can't be serious..."

"I'm as serious as my cock is hard...so apologize or you don't get to come." 

"You won't just stop midway."

"Who said?" He wrapped his hand around the back of your neck. "I said YOU don't get to come. But I have your body at my disposal and there's at least half a dozen different ways I could use it to come...not to mention from behind...so be my good girl and apologize." You swallowed hard to the fire behind his eyes, well aware his threats were not empty. 

"I'm sorry...you're such a baby..." His jaw cocked as he forced you to the soles of your feet. Using this grip on the back of your neck, you were turned away from him. Skirt lifted and panties ripped clean off your hip. As you turned to face him, a smart remark on the tip of your tongue, you would feel him set the panties in this attempt. 

"Taste what I do to you and shut the fuck up while I prove it to myself." He grilled your hair harshly as he thrusted into you. Interlaced fingers stabilized him against the wall as you were both ignorant to his curious friends calling out in search for him. If either of you noticed, you didn't dnt dare even a glance,  as you were too wrapped in each other. The same way it has always been. Fingers leaving evidence in each other's arms as you came to that edge. 

"Fuck, this pussy missed me, didn't she? Already crying and now begging...You could learn a thing or two..."

"I'm not begging for you, Rafe..."

"That's okay...I just need you to scream for me." He battered you harder onto the wall as you unintentionally acquiesced. Whimpers and whines leaving you trembling as you bit your bottom lip against him. 

"I'm coming-" He took his hand around your neck from behind, guiding you to face him. 

"And you're gonna be really good for me and make me come first...then we'll see if I forgive you enough for being such a brat to let you come." You groaned before feeling him tease your clit with his thumb. 

"Pathetic." He spat as you groaned, refusing to beg, but the whimper accommodating the need anyhow. 

"So fucking tight...oh my God..." He grunted. 

"For me." He validated as you nodded. 

"For now." He clenched his jaw while kissing you to keep you quiet. His hands were at a war between your hair, hips, and breasts, until finalizing into the wall as he found his release. 

"Rafe!" You mewled as he redressed. 

"Maybe next time you should apologize..." 

TAGLIST: @hopebaker @iovdrew @penny4yourthoughts @magnificantmermaid @pickingviolets @lovedetlost @trikigirl271 @maybankslover @slut4starkey @slvtherinseeker @obxiskewl @bluesongbird @slut-era @ailee-celeste @camilynn @sweetestdesire @onmykneesforrafe @drews1love @phildunphyisadilf @belcalis9503

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[ohgriftwearereallyinitnow]

I wrote something but I honestly don’t have the energy to finish it. But I also really like it. Comments, reactions and replies welcome.

heres like 1500 words of Leverage ot3 angst

cw: canon typical violence, mention of blood/bodies/injuries/nightmares but nothing too graphic:

Eliot's wrist buckled under the force of his punch and he knew it was over. He knew it immediately, in the way that you do when unforgivable words leave your mouth and that tell tale silence falls. The twist in the movement had knocked the breath out of him pulling his focus to his cracked rib. It only took him a second to recover but in that time the pain in his wrist set in. The rest of his senses dulled as shock enveloped him, dulling the pain. He had two more guys to take out before the team was done, fifteen give or take already lay groaning on the floor. Alec was trying to fight one of them off, rather pathetically if Eliot were being honest. He stopped listening, focusing on the pain for one moment. A quick glance told him his right arm was useless, the pulsing ache he could ignore but he knew from experience that if he kept pushing he’d lose control real fast. He really didn’t feel like killing anyone today. Especially when-

A scream pulled their attention to the doorway and a burly man with a buzz cut and a nasty snarl of a smile on his face entered the room, a body draped over his shoulder. Eliot couldn’t see who it was. Then it hit them like a punch right to the solar plexus. Parker. Then Eliot saw it; the blood trail following the man into the room, dripping from the ends of her blonde hair. Suddenly he thought he was going to be sick. The fuzz in his head had become overwhelming. Everyone moved in slow motion.

“Eliot!” Alec dodged the bodyguard’s right hook and he didn’t even have the wherewithal to hide the shock from his face. He threw a terrified glance at Eliot when the guy pulled out a pistol. “I need a little help here! Come on!” Eliot had clocked the gun the moment the bodyguard walked in but then he assumed it wouldn’t be a problem. The situation had clearly changed.

The anger and panic in Alec’s voice sounded far away like he was yelling from a different room. Alec turned to the man with Parker over his shoulder.

“What did you do?!” The hacker lunged at the man and before anyone could react Buzz Cut lifted his arm. Two echoing gun shots pulled Eliot back into his body. He gulped in air as time caught up with him. A fire inside him shook what was left of the shock out of his system and finally he snarled, bright eyed and furious at the two men who had just taken the people he loved most.

A loud BANG echoed off the walls. This was it. He tasted blood. With everything left in his body he lunged at the man with the gun but he didn’t make it that far. A third gunshot. But maybe it was better that way.

##

Eliot was lying on his back. His hair was damp and his breath came in short, shallow, sharp gasps. The ground became soft around him. Someone was shouting his name in his ear. It was like they were right there-

“ELIOT?”

But...how?

“Eliot, you’re safe! You’re here with us.” The ground bounced beneath him like it was soft, like there were springs. A bed. Eliot couldn’t move. His thoughts were slow, he couldn’t figure out what was happening.

This time when Alec spoke it was with trepidation. “What’s wrong with him?”

Wrong with me?

“Nightmares,” Parker spoke from experience. She looked up at Alec and motioned him to move away. “Don’t touch him, he could get violent.”

A dream. Eliot opened his eyes. Alec and Parker pulled back in sync. They were ready for the man in their bed to react with the violence they’d become accustomed to, although never directed at them. It hurt him to think that they would ever be afraid of him. That they could even for a second think he’d do anything to hurt them.

He didn’t say anything, neither of them did. He just kept breathing. Nightmares were not a new occurrence for Eliot, he’d been having them since his service. What was different is how seeing Parker’s body and Alec shot affected him. He had just shut down, gone numb, something he promised himself he wouldn’t do again. He was not a hired gun. He was a hitter and a good one. For a team that needed him. Pure anger pulsed through him as he remembered the dream. Then his chest ached.

“E- Eliot,” Alec said softly. “Can you hear me? Are you awake?”

Eliot looked at him and then at Parker. Something in his stomach dropped. These are the people he most cared about. Parker took a measured risk and put her cold hand on his cheek. Eliot leaned into it, blinking at her. Just feeling their presence.

“You were-” he didn’t want to say it.

She shook her head. “I’m right here.” When he was sure she wasn’t lying he turned his attention to Alec, eyes wide. “Hardison,” Parker growled.

Alec’s eyes were glued to Eliot’s pale face. “You were sleep fighting - which really isn’t that weird - you do that all the time. But then you started yelling our names. I thought you were mad, I thought I pulled your hair in my sleep or put pressure on your cracked rib. But then you started…” Parker took his hand, steadying him. “You were crying, man.”

Eliot wiped his face and sat up. “I gotta-” he needed air. “I have to go.” When he got up Alec reached for him but he wouldn’t be pulled back. He needed room to think. All he could do was focus on their smell, their soft warm bodies next to him. Warm. All he wanted to do was feel the blood pulsing under their skin, feel their chest rising and falling. The ultimate signal that their breaths were still coming, that they were still here. Solidify that his dream was nothing more than that. A fiction his brain had come up with to deal with….

“Eliot.” Parker called, worry deep in her voice. He didn’t look back. In fact he changed into sweats - in plain view of the bed - and went out for a run.

Confusing her like this ached deep in his stomach. He’d promised never to give her mixed signals, she explicitly asked him when she was still struggling with voicing the things she was feeling. He insisted it was just as hard for him but he knew what she meant. She’d spent too many years yearning after abusive people, family who couldn’t decipher the difference between pain and love, relationships where manipulation was top priority. She’d become hardened, faced everything with a smile but she hadn’t let anyone in for years before them. She’d come so far since then. He’d promised he wouldn’t hurt her- or either of them - you don’t get into this business without needing to hide some scars yourself.

And yet. He never thought about how losing them would hurt him.

##

The run had given him time to think but it hadn’t calmed his nerves. He was still weighed down by the contents of his dream, still jumping at every sound. This was not good, a spring loaded hitter was dangerous. Every time he closed his eyes he snapped right back to seeing them both, lying still and covered in blood. It was hard to get close to people as a Hitter. He knew that, they knew that. But somehow they’d snuck up on him.

After three hours of running his chest was burning and he was legitimately worried his legs were about to give out under him. But he didn’t want to see them. Not because he didn’t want to see them, because he did. More than anything he wanted to collapse into their arms and let them take care of him like they often did in the comfort of their shared apartment. A role reversal that took him a long time to come to terms with but now treasured above all else. But he didn’t want to be reminded that he’d acquired such a weakness. Knowing that he had to deal with that, and that knowing he’d die for them at any given moment. It killed him to think about leaving them open to threats from all sides.

It wasn’t dying he was afraid of. It was losing them, not being a part of this thing they’d built. This comfort they’d fought endlessly to achieve. He coughed and his throat burned.

Entering the seemingly empty apartment from the front door always set off alarm bells in his head. He always felt the urge to check every bedroom for intruders and tense his shoulders for a fight. Today he was too mentally and physically exhausted.

Then just like that it hit him; he more than anyone could die tomorrow, he probably would. He had to tell them what they meant to him. He listened closely, waiting to hear the soft whispers of their voices. When he didn’t he wondered if they’d gone back to sleep. But Parker wasn’t the type to fall back asleep after something like that.

[tragical-romance-and-all]

Bruised Fruit

march x farmer | FOM

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

synopsis:

When a new farmer moves in she unexpectedly becomes intertwined with the local blacksmith. Both carry baggage that they can unpack together.

romance - slow burn

word count: ~1500

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This all started when I overheard two of the regulars at Three Horses Tavern talking about the farm up for grabs in Mistria. Apparently, word had been sent to the guild that the town was in disarray after the most recent earthquake. In exchange for helping around town, they were giving the deed to a house and plot of farmland. It seemed like a dream, this is all I’ve ever wanted, a home…

 And even better, everyone I spoke to about this endeavor sounded disinterested, as if it really wasn’t all that good of a deal. I figured we all have different goals at the end of the day. Besides, I know this is meant for me. It feels like something is calling me there. I felt even more cemented in this when I met the  Baron’s kin Adeline and Eiland. They were very welcoming and friendly, showing me around town. 

Now I’m just lying in my bed, in my house. My house. This is so cool! Today everything feels right. Tomorrow I will get the first round of crops in the ground. I shut my eyes and drift off into a blissful sleep. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I wake up to the sound of wind chimes and birds being shrewdly overpowered by my alarm clock. 6:00 a.m. sounded like a reasonable start last night but this morning I’m having second thoughts. Yet I still force myself up, feeling a bit more alive once I turn off the alarm and am greeted with the pleasant sounds of mornings in Mistria. I take a deep breath facing the window and I think to myself, “This is it, this is the fresh start that will stick.”

I get dressed wearing a white short-sleeved shirt, it’s soft against my skin. I pull on baggy overalls and a pair of socks. Pulling my hair from the front of my face I notice my roots could use some touching up. I had dyed my hair a deep purple a few weeks ago and my roots are growing faster than I expected. I’ll have to find out if the market in town sells hair dye. I tie my boots and head outside.

I had peaked in the tool shed next to the house yesterday, but now that I am really looking at these tools I see that they are not in the peak condition I had hoped for. For the most part, things were worn but still usable. Unfortunately, I quickly discovered the watering can has a quarter-sized hole near the spout on the bottom. Not to worry Eiland said something yesterday about the blacksmith carrying tools in his shop, I can check after I pick up the seeds. I grab the shovel and hoe and start my way towards town. 

After crossing the river, I see a cute cottage to my right. Just behind the fence shiny blonde hair and a bright smile greet me, “Hi you must be the new farmer! I’m Celine, it’s so nice to meet you!” 

“Hi, my name is Stella! I guess we’re kinda like neighbors.” I meet her with the same enthusiasm. It’s been a while since I’ve been around nice people. Celine goes on to tell me a little about herself. She grows flowers and makes beautiful bouquets out of them while also helping at her parent's shop. I share a little about myself but nothing too revealing. We wave goodbye and I continue into town. The market shop is quaint and exactly how I pictured it. 

“Welcome in! You must be the new farmer, we’re so happy to have a new face in town.” A jolly-faced man at the counter greeted me. He has the same bright smile as Celine. His friendly voice started again, “My name is Holt and that lovely woman over there stocking the shelves is my wife, Nora.” The woman turned around a waved at me and I reciprocated. 

“Hi Holt, my name is Stella and I actually just met Celine as well,” I said with a smile. He appeared to be elated at this, “Oh I just know you two will be fast friends in no time!” He practically shouted this and I let a giggle slip out. 

“You must be here for seeds though and not just chitchat, what can I get for you?” Holt’s customer service kicked back in and I had him help me pick out the best seeds for the spring. I got some turnip, potato, cabbage, and strawberry seeds. I let Holt know I would be back to get a cherry and lemon sapling later this week. I also asked about hair dye, Nora let me know they don’t typically carry it but if I ask Balor the merchant I met on my way into town yesterday, he should be able to get it. With everything loaded into my backpack, I left the market and walked north in the direction of the blacksmith. It was pretty nifty of Adeline to give me a map of town. “This is really helpful,” I thought to myself. 

I walk into the blacksmith, a little bell chimes at the top of the door. There is a subtle and unpleasant odor lingering in the air, a voice calls out from another room letting me know he’ll be right with me. The voice is rough but there’s a soothing quality to it. I turn to look at some of the merchandise while I wait. I can sit still but I must be looking at something new frequently. I hadn’t noticed the man the voice belonged to had approached me until I heard a scoff. I look up to see a young guy around my age. He has burgundy hair sitting messily atop his head with a headband tied around his forehead. I assume to catch the sweat, based off his muscular build I can tell he must be the blacksmith and not just some apprentice. 

“Oh, it’s you. The new savior farmer in town. That’s what everyone has been saying right?” His tone was cold and harsh. I could tell he already didn’t like me. He didn’t even know me, but then again that never stopped anyone before.

“I don’t know about anyone calling me that but my name is Stella and it’s nice t-” I try to get out quickly but as if he could sense my rapid onset anxiety he cut me off. “Listen, I know you just arrived, but I wouldn’t get to comfortable. You’re not gonna last around here.” 

I was taken aback by this, it’s as if he could see right through me. He knew my past present and future. He knew about all my failed attempts and of course, this one would be no different. At least he had the decency to warn me right? To give up before it goes too far. It always goes too far. 

I snap out of it when another, taller man joins us. I didn’t realize how tall until he stood next to us. He towered over both of us and the blacksmith already had some height on me. His intimidating stature was mellowed by his large grin and puppy dog eyes. 

“The names Olric, I hope my little brother March wasn’t being too rough with you,”

He put he hand up against his face, covering his mouth from March’s view and spoke as if his hand would block the sound as well. “Between you and me, it’s our fault. We didn’t socialize him right when he was younger and now he doesn’t know how to play nice. Don’t worry though he’s all bark and no bite.”

I could see March rolling his eyes but it didn’t stop me from letting out a laugh. In a more annoyed tone now March spoke again, “Whatever Olric. Anyway, new girl, Stella is it? Did you need something or did you just come in to bother us?”

I am reminded of the task at hand and share my plight of the leaking watering can. March pointed me to a shiny new copper can. I bought it despite it being the same cost as all the seeds I had just bought. But this is an investment after all. I walk home on a slightly different path than I came trying to become familiar with my surroundings. 

My mind drifts to what March had said, that I wouldn’t last here. What if he’s right? I don’t know how many more fresh starts I have left in me. What if other people in town agree with him? But Olric seemed so reassuring. Maybe it was just March, maybe he’s just a sour guy. He can’t really hate me, he doesn’t even know me. And I’m sure if he got to know me he would see that. I know I’ll just make sure I’m extra friendly when I see him. 

I smile to myself as I reach home again. Now to start the field

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thanks for reading! It's been a while since I've written anything but March has me so inspired right now.

[volterran-wine]

Hiii! This is the same anon that was asking if you got my marcus headcanon/story request or if it got lost but it was basically asking how if by some divine miracle marcus decided to entertain someone else romantically what would that look like? ik u have done similar headcanons before but for this one Im thinking abt the slowburn ANGST that this new relationship would face and all the push and pull that would inevitably happen :)

♝• �� 𝐏𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐜 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐀𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭

Ah yes, dear Anonymous, I do have this one in my Inbox already but another requester took the last story slot before you were able to grab it. It was first come, first serve, so I am sorry if there was any confusion.

However, there is another issue with your request. One I have not spoken about in depth on my blog before, so please do not feel singled out because I am replying to you;

You speak of Slowburn, a genre that needs at least 15+ chapters of fanfic to make it believable and an actual Slowburn in my opinion. In my longer fanfics I try to hit around 2500 to 4000 words a chapter to make them substantial enough. If I were to write an Imagine/Story with that trope I would have to condense it to around 1500 words (the average length of my requested stories), which means I would have to utilise time skips―which defeats the Slowburn trope.

If I were to sit down and write a 60 000 words request it would take up a large part of my time, something I cannot afford.

Moving on from your request now dear Anonymous, the next part of this is a more general PSA. I will get some longer Marcus Headcanons your way as a small apology from myself 🖤

I may be on medical leave right now, but I am slotted to return to work in October. Requests of this size would take away from all my passion projects as well as other requests for the blog.

A fair amount of times I have received highly detailed and long requests for fanfiction, the kind of stories that would take many chapters to fulfill. I will never do those. Those kind of requests are the same as asking me; "Nathalie, could you please spend six months of the year on my request?" And frankly, I do not have the capacity to do such a thing for the fandom―nor do I want to.

The only time an Imagine Request evolved into something bigger was a story surrounding Jane and Alec's turning, and the only reason I felt comfortable doing that was because I knew I could incorporate a lot of the writing into their dedicated fanfic. That and it was early on in VolterranWine's existence.

I am an adult well into my twenties with a full time job I'm returning to, a home I own that needs upkeep and renovations, aging parents I want to spend time with, and a group of IRL friends I try to see at least once a week, I want to get a cat. When this blog was made it was during lockdowns and I was partially laid off, life simply is not the same as when I was creating around the clock.

What I am trying to say, is that I cannot dedicate my entire energy reserve to requests like that, I do not have the spoons most days to do that.

Thank you, if you made it to the end of this monstrosity of a long post. Thank you for the support, but even Volterran-Wine gets tired.

[dancingtotuyo]

Crossed Wires (Javier Peña)

Molten | Javier Peña x OFC!Eleanore

Rating: Mature

Summary: Eleanore isn’t as immune to Javier as she’d hoped.

Warnings: fluff?, implied smut, heavy make out sesh, smoking

Notes: after three years, I finally revisted these two! My first Javi P fic 💕 written as part of the Crossed Wires universe but can be read as a stand alone

Written for @janaispunk’s 1500 kisses. I got this moodboard with a French kiss 💋. Shoutout to Jana for beta reading as well.

Words: 2990

Series Master List | Author Master List

Eleanore stared out the window, the one Javier replaced yesterday, as he replaced the gate hinges in front of the orphanage. She’d been caught speechless when he showed up with the new window. Replacing a few hinges, she’d expected, buying a new window she had not. He’d finished it yesterday and left before she could thank him.

Sweat soaked through the button down he wore sticking to his spine, she followed it down until it tucked into his dangerously tight pants. He’d been dressed in suits at the Embassy and the first time he stopped by. She was too distracted by the window yesterday to notice the fit of his casual clothing, but it was tempting to say the least.

He crouched over, shirt stretching across his broad shoulders, jeans hugging his ass. She bit her lip. Maybe she’d written Javier off too early.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

Eleanore jumped, letting the curtain fall back into place as Marisol laughed.

“You don’t have to sneak up on me like that.”

“I didn’t sneak and last time I checked this was a public area, but I guess you can’t watch his fine ass from your office.” The woman winked, pulling back the curtain to admire for herself.

“Marisol!”

“What? It doesn’t hurt to look. I bet he would let you touch if you asked.”

“Don’t you have better things to be doing?”

“Don’t you?” She quirked an eyebrow.

“Yes,” Eleanore said, turning on her heels.

“He kept staring at your office door yesterday. Even asked Gloria if you were seeing anyone.”

She turned back around. “Seriously?”

Marisol grinned. “No… I mean he was staring at your door, but I lied about the other part.”

Eleanore rolled her eyes.

“Just ask him out for a drink, Nora. Have some fun for once. When was the last time you got laid?”

“None of your damn business.”

“Meaning you can’t remember.” Marisol crossed her arms. Eleanore sighed. She needed to find non-work friends. “At the very least you should thank him for all this work he’s doing for free.”

“You want me to sleep with him as a thank you? Do I look like a prostitute to you?”

Marisol gave her a once over. “I mean you’ve got the figure for it. You’d probably make a killing.”

“As much as I’m enjoying this conversation, you have a class to go teach and I have to get ready for dinner.”

“Think about it.” Marisol backed away, a teasing grin plastered on her face.

She cocked her head to the side, eyebrow raised. “I’m not becoming a prostitute.”

A deep laugh came from Marisol as she turned on her heels. “Just buy the man a drink!” she called half way down the hall.

Nora sighed, pulling the curtain back just enough to peek. Javier turned around resting both hands on his hips, his shirt was unbuttoned temptingly low. His tanned skin glistened under the sun.

A door clicked open. Nora dropped the curtain scurrying away like a teenager before anyone else caught her.

She busied herself in her office after dinner. Javier was still outside as of 5 minutes ago. Marisol had popped her head in to let her know before heading out for the day. She shuffled the papers back and forth on her desk for the fifth time in as many minutes.

Chewing on a nail, she looked at the door and then the clock. Maybe she was contemplating asking Javier out for a drink. A single drink. That was it. And so what? It wasn’t a big deal.

She glanced in the small mirror she kept in her office. Little wisps curled out of her ponytail, haloing around her head. She pulled out the hair tie, doing her best to tame the curls with her fingers. She needed a haircut to thin it out. Pulling open her desk drawer, a single tube of mascara and clear lip gloss rolled about sitting untouched for months.

By some miracle, she applied the tacky mascara with minimal clumping. The lip gloss rolled on easily. “This is stupid.” She wiped the lipgloss off with her hands and then hastily reapplied as she changed her mind again.

Nora stared at herself in the mirror before banging her head down on the desk. This was stupid. She wasn’t in highschool anymore. She wasn’t trying to impress him, but every action and thought told her otherwise.

To her surprise, Javier was still out front as she exited the building. He toyed with the fence, inspecting its shoddy workmanship.

“You’re still here.”

“Yeah… this fence needs some major attention. Fixed the gate though.” He pointed over to it while inspecting the post.

Nora fought off the urge to whine like a 3 year old. If he didn’t turn around soon, she was going to lose her nerve.

“Can’t get to it today, or probably the rest of the week-“ He finally turned around. A slight grin cast over his face as she caught his eyes checking her out through their orange tinged lenses. He’d obviously noticed her pathetic attempt at tidying up.

“Don’t worry about it. Really. You’ve done more than enough.” Nora wanted to smack her forehead. Why did that sound like the start to a bad porno? Rugged, sweaty DEA agent helps the broke orphanage director.

Javier paused for a second, taking another look at her. Nora felt her skin heat under his gaze, or maybe it was the setting summer sun.

“You should wear your hair down more often. It suits you.” He smiled oh so charmingly.

And she blushed. She fucking blushed. Nora wanted to run for the hills right then and there.

“And I’m coming back.” He turned back around, back to business. “I can’t leave the fence like this, and I still need to fix your intercom.”

Eleanore took the opportunity to collect herself. “Well, I appreciate it. All of it.”

Javier nodded. “Least I could do.”

“I was planning to walk to this bar just down the street. It’s not much after all the work you’ve put in, but first drink’s on me.” Her tongue felt like sandpaper in her mouth. “As a thank you… if you want.” She managed to contain the string of profanities over her stuttering. Definitely a bad porno.

Javier looked almost surprised by the offer before a subtle smirk settled on his lips. She fought the urge to roll her eyes. “Yeah, I’d like that. Let me throw my stuff in the truck, and grab a fresh shirt.”

She nodded, pretending not to watch as Javier stripped off his soiled shirt. Visions of popping open the buttons herself filled her head. Nora had to physically turn around to rid herself of them, yet they still lingered. Maybe Marisol was right. It was time for her to have some fun.

“You ready, Ella?” Javier’s breath was hot in her ear.

She spun around, Javier’s face inches from hers, unshielded by sunglasses for once. It took .02 seconds for her to decide he had the prettiest brown eyes she’d ever seen. Amusement filtered through them, but heat simmered underneath.

It took every ounce of self control not to let her vision drift down to his lips.

“Eleanore.” She stepped out of his bubble, but the heat in his eyes only seemed to grow hotter as she set on her path. “Nora if you must.”

“Nora’s not even a part of your name.” Javier caught up with her, hand settling on her lower back as he guided her to the inside of the sidewalk. She considered protesting his touch, but the heat in other places changed her mind.

“I like Nora.”

Javier let out a soft chuckle. “So where’s this bar?”

“Bottom of the hill.”

Javier was teasing her. That much was obvious, and worse, she was eating it up. It didn’t matter that the moves came to him with ease, the brief touches over her thighs, brushing his fingertips across her shoulder blades, and that one time his index finger trailed her collar bone. Had he noticed the way her breath caught when that happened? Probably, he seemed to pick up on everything.

Eleanore excused herself to the bathroom after finishing off her second mojito. She felt Javier’s affect on her, the heaviness in her limbs, fog in her head, the slickness between her legs. He’d barely touched her. The less he had touched her, the more she craved it.

A piece of her thought that drinks with Javier would make her dislike him. She was a master at latching on to the little stuff, nitpicky reasons to not like someone, but with him, each one slipped through her fingers. Even in the midst of his well rehearsed moves, she found some sincerity in it.

She learned he was from Texas. He had a younger sister and a niece whom he absolutely adored. Javier kept plenty of pictures in his wallet, all too proud to show her off. This was his second time in Colombia. He’d been a part of the hunt for Escobar. He didn’t elaborate much, and Nora didn’t ask. It seemed like a sore subject. He was now the DEA attaché to the Ambassador, a promotion since his days hunting Escobar.

He’d made a passing comment about this time being different, doing better. She wanted to know more about that. Would time be kind enough to grant it to her?

She didn’t dwell on that thought for too long. She was focused on tonight. Tonight was about the short term, the release she hadn’t had in too long, but she was going to get it tonight.

Javier caught sight of her the moment she stepped back out. Nora squared her shoulders walking confidently over to him. She didn’t take her spot next to him. Instead, her hand glided across his shoulders, her lips dipping to his ear.

“You wanna get out of here?” Unoriginal, perhaps, but it would do the trick she figured.

His brown eyes met hers, boiling with heat. He rose to his full height making her sure her knees would buckle beneath her. “Do you?”

She nodded, tongue wetting her lips as her eyes flickered down past his lips to the dip at the base of his neck. He invaded her space further, pulling her eyes back to his and the breath from her lungs. Maybe it was the alcohol dulling her senses or the lust, but she couldn’t smell the sweat on his skin, just the faint ghost of aftershave.

His hands found her hips, following the belt loops around her. His thumb brushed under the hem of her shirt, catching soft flesh there. Chills shot up her spine while heat pooled low in her belly. Javier grinned, a rumbling starting in his chest as he caught the dilation of her pupils. He leaned in, lips closing in on hers. Eleanore pushed forward to close the gap but Javier pulled away at the last second, grin plastered on his face.

Her eyes instantly narrowed toward him. “What the fuck?”

Javier chuckled, keeping a firm grip on her waist. “Savoring the moment.” He grabbed a couple of bills from his back pocket, tossing them on the bar.

“Pretty sure this was supposed to be my treat.”

“You can treat me tomorrow night.” He tugged her closer, lips playing at her ear.

“I thought you were busy the rest of the week.” Nora quirked an eyebrow, ever aware of the increasing dampness between her thighs.

“I think my evenings just opened up a little bit.” Javier began to back her out of the bar. Somehow, she trusted him not to steer her in the wrong direction as her arms looped around his neck.

“Someone is feeling confident.”

“Call it a hunch,” he winked at her, swinging the door open.

The humidity of the night latched on to them immediately but neither seemed to notice as Eleanore turned around, walking side by side with him. Javier couldn’t stop staring, her mess of curls springing to life in the thick air, the way her skin flushed with the heat of the day and of need. He couldn’t wait.

Javier pulled her into the alleyway, pressing her against the brick, caging her in. She stared up at him, hands on his biceps. He dove in, nose pressed to her neck, hips nudging into hers. She let out a soft gasp.

“Tell me you want this.” He ran his nose up her neck, mustache tickling the soft skin along the way.

“Did I not make it-”

“Tell me.” He said with more weight. His growing erection pressed into her eliciting a faint moan from her.

“I want you, Javier.”

She barely got it out before his lips crashed into hers. He wasted no time, didn’t ease into it. It was as if he wished to swallow her whole. She let out a soft moan and Javier seized the opportunity to press his tongue into her mouth, teeth grazing her lip. Eleanore met his pace with the same fervor, hands wandering over his chest, popping another button open before slipping under his collar, taking in the warmth of his skin.

Eleanore’s nails raked over his tan skin and through his hair, leaving slight marks. Javier’s hair stood on end, tingles shooting through every hair follicle on his body. He doubled his pursuits, hands wandering her waist, hiking her shirt up as he searched for skin. Her muscles pulled and twitched with each graze against her stomach. His lips tipped upward against hers.

She wrapped her legs around him, creating more friction at her core. He pressed into her as Eleanore let loose another moan. Javier could listen to that sound on repeat. All the different ways he could pull that sound out of her flashed through his mind. It was all Javier could do not to peel her clothes off in the alley.

Somewhere in the gnashing of teeth and fury of hands, the need for air registered in his brain. Javier pulled back, chest heaving as he buried his forehead into her neck. “God, I hope you live closer than me.”

“Just a couple blocks.” Eleanore looked at him through hooded eyes. He pressed another kiss to her lips, much more chaste than the last but with a simmering promise behind them.

“Miracles do exist.” Reluctantly, he eased his body off of hers.

Her feet hit the ground as she ran a hand through her hair, a smirk painted on her swollen lips. Nora took his hand in hers, pulling him out of the alley. “Let's go, Romeo.”

She woke up just after midnight to an empty bed. It didn’t surprise Eleanore in the least. She’d expected it, anticipated it. So, she rolled over intent on getting back to sleep, except the smell of cigarette smoke wafted in through her open bedroom window. It wasn’t unusual for it to come up from the street, but this smelled stronger, like it was coming from her balcony.

Nora shot up, sheets falling from her naked form. She could just make out his silhouette against the city lights through the curtains. His shirt still laid on her floor, and before she knew what she was doing, she slid out of bed, pulling it on.

Her bare feet padded against the hardwood of her apartment. Her sliding glass door stood open as Javier’s back pressed against it, a cigarette glowing in his mouth. She took a second to admire him. The bare expanse of his back. His ass in the jeans that hug him just right. She had him once, technically twice. Now, she wasn’t sure she wanted it to be a one time thing.

An odd chill hit her as she wraps her arms around herself. She wouldn’t entertain those thoughts. He was still here. The night wasn’t over.

Eleanore stepped onto the porch, sticking to the opposite side of the patio. Javier raised an eyebrow at her. He held out his half smoked cigarette. She shook her head. Leaning against the brick, she breathed in the air, looking out over the city before them.

The two of them kept to their respective sides of the patio, silence filling the space between them. Javier couldn’t keep his eyes of Eleanore standing there in his shirt. She never looked his way, eyes pinned outward, teeth biting into her bottom lip. In the time it took Javier to finish smoking, he found himself wondering what was going through her mind, wishing she would tell him, wondering if he would ever be able to know.

He stubbed the cigarette out on the ashtray before easing forward, drawing toward her like a magnet. Nora’s eye snapped to him as he eased in, closing in around her. Her tongue poked out, swiping at her lips. “Javier…”

“Why don’t you like it when I call you Ella?” He rested his palm against the brick just above her shoulder.

She caught the smoke on his breath, hating how much she loved it. She cocked her head to the side, eyes roaming his bare chest, the way his body seemed so relaxed almost touching hers. Before she could stop herself, her hand went to his stomach, traveling over his chest, crawling up his neck. Javier’s head fell into her palm, eyes practically rolling back into his head as her fingers wove through his hair.

Eleanore felt her insides tighten. “I don’t want to talk right now.”

A grin spread across his face, slow and sweet like honey. “Okay,” he whispered as her thumb traced his bottom lip.

Javier surged forward, lips crashing into hers, stealing her breath once again. His fingertips traced the soft skin of her thighs where his shirt met them. He wasted no time working the buttons open one by one, letting his shirt drop to the patio floor before he carried her back to bed.

[sabookey]

I have a thought, about character creation. I hesitate to claim this thought is some sort of advice, it's just a thought, though I think it merits further exploration and practice to see how it goes. The thought is this:

I think sometimes, when a writer struggles to actually sit down and write, but has a lot of OCs, it's because you think of your characters too much as people. I think some people struggle to tell stories because they are more interested in coming up with people.

Let me elaborate.

I've always been very focused on character creation as the foundation of good writing. When I was younger, and just starting to write, I remember someone proposing the question - which is more vital to creating a good story - a strong plot, or a strong character? At the time, I answered strong characters, hands down. My argument was that a strong character can still carry a weak plot, but a strong plot can still be boring af if the characters are weak. I do still see some merit to that line of thinking.

When it comes to actually writing down my stories, though, I've always really struggled with first drafts. I would fill notebook after notebook with detailed notes on plot points, worldbuilding, and most of all, on characters. Elaborate backstories, personality breakdowns, strengths and weaknesses, hopes and dreams and fears and every other thing that you've seen on a character profile template. I would take my time with things like choosing names, and I would flesh out their families and the people around them because to know their relationships is to know them. I've been protective of my characters, cherishing them, as many of us do, as if they were my children, as if they were dear friends of mine.

But I have yet to complete any long form projects. I have yet to complete any rough drafts for novels. When I was younger, it was because I was determined to do my stories justice. I was determined to do my beloved OCs justice. I didn't feel my writing was strong enough so I just... didn't write for my original works. I would play around with fanfiction, and I read a lot, and eventually I got into writing RP. But I didn't do anything concrete with my OCs beyond making plans for their stories.

Then I entered a short story contest — NYCMidnight's short story contest. They go in four rounds, and give you a prompt, a word limit, and a time limit in which to write your story. You get a week and 2500 words for round 1, three days and 2000 words for Round 2, two days and 1500 words for Round 3, and 24 hours and 1250 words for Round 4. The first year I participated, I went 3 rounds before being knocked out. Last year, I wrote for the first 2.

Which means I've produced five completely original short stories for the prompts given. I was absolutely shocked by how productive I was in such a short span of time. You are given your prompt the moment your clock starts ticking for each round, so you don't have time to prepare ahead. Which means that not only did I have to come up with a plot very quickly, I was also creating characters on the spot.

When you have three days to write a story, you can't spend months carefully crafting a character. So when it came to drafting, I just started slapping very quick characters together that could do what was needed for the plot. My prompt is genre: ghost story, character: a best man, and subject: temporary? Okay, then I need a bride, a groom, a best man, and a ghost. My bride is (picking a random name) Victoria, she's checking out venues with her fiance, and she realizes the place they're checking out is haunted. And off we go.

And you know what? I figured out who Victoria is as I wrote. She's conflicted, she's on the verge of breaking things off. The ghost is reaching out to her, helping her come to terms with the end of her relationship. I didn't need to know her favorite color or her childhood trauma or her blood type to write the story. Some of those things might come out in the writing. Many of them just never become relevant.

Now, I'm not saying that character profiles are trash. I don't hold with blanket advice, and this isn't advice, remember, this is just a thought. But for me, doing these fast exercises even though I always had thought of myself as a planner not a pantser, showed me that I can still write a damn good story even without writing a novel's worth of notes and plans alone.

Getting back to the original thought... I guess what I'm trying to get at here is, sometimes I think authors can get so tangled up in the create-a-character stage, or the world-building stage, that we forget that we aren't meant to be writing a travel guide, or designing a fully-realized person.

At some point, you have to say okay, now lets put that person in some situations and see what they do. You gotta stick them in a scenario where they are not just spouting backstory at another character, but are making a choice. Okay, they have trauma. They have complex personalities. But what are they doing? What choices are they making and what waves are they making? That's where the plot comes from, and how you make it go. That's plot. And the plot is where the story happens. And you're just writing it all down as it goes, and that's your rough draft.

Every time i get stuck on a story, I instinctively reach for the background notes. I just need to know what makes them tick, I think, and that's how I'll fix it. But nine times out of ten, I don't, actually. That way leads to Not Writing (tm). And I still struggle with that more than I'd like for my bigger projects.

Trying (again) to bring it back to the initial thought... I just think it's interesting that the stories that were easiest to complete were ones where the characters were made up as I went along. I just wrote. Added new characters when needed. Oh, protag needs a friend to carry out a conversation? Guess we have a new character. They continue on their merry way, surprise, someone's stalking them, new character! Meanwhile the stories where I've outlined every character and know who each of them are, still sit unwritten.

That's not the sole factor in why a story has or hasn't been written out, mind you. It's more a comment on, if your OCs are too dear and you're taking too much time with designing them, you are losing valuable time that you could figure out who they are as you write their story. By you I really mean me. Or whoever might find this useful, I suppose.

Anyways. That's my thought. If anyone has any thoughts of their own about this, I'd love to hear them!