#vibes are all off on this hell site | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

just-some-random-blogger · 9 months ago

Text

Accidental Targ

Scene III: i told you to hold my hand! | Masterlist

Daemon Targaryen x Modern!Reader

Summary: After coming to terms with the fact you were in King's Landing some two thousand years before your birth, you get reunited with your friend and try to manifest your way back to the present. For the meantime, Harwin Strong is your bodyguard.

Word Count: 4k+

Warnings: fem!reader, time travel au, descriptions of reader's hair, incestuous gremlin!daemon, very sus and innappropriate boss-employee dynamics, low key sugar daddy!otto hightower vibes, crackfic, typos, etc.

A/N: GUYS I DID IT. I FINISHED IT 😫 Also, its come to my attention that perhaps the way i planned out everything geographically is ??? bad but no its not just roll with it AND!! remember yall voted for him ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ i have a feeling you didnt read the prompt fully but whatever HAHAHAA i honestly have no idea where i meant to take this fic, so ???? enjoy?? HAHHAAH

Shoot me if I ever say it again, but for now: gods bless capitalism, specifically for it desecrating a national landmark.

Where once I was one of the people who protested against the building of the High Garden Centre, girl, was I thankful that the old ruins of the fucking Red Keep laid there as a little ol' artsy featurette.

"What's that sound?" Daemon asks as we stand from our spot.

I turn to my side, never before so relieved to hear and see, no more than two blocks away, a rave spilling out of a club, the very one Libby and I were at before we got into this shit show. "That, my prince, is called EDM."

I hurriedly run to Libby's side to pick her up, but Daemon does that himself. He get down and pulls the blue haired woman on his back, and I help him. At the same time, I feel a buzz from my satchel.

My phone!

Daemon watches me as I frantically claw for my device. The amount of texts and call notifications that pop up on my screen is overwhelming. I decide to just let it go off and grab Daemon's arm, "come on."

We walk down from the ruins, shifting through the shrubs and foliage around it. I catch the sight a mall cop and feel agitated when he looks over. He couldn't care less though, the site was open to the public after all, and with a literal club being right there, we were the least of his worries.

We pass the rusty chain fence surrounding it, and draw near Harrenhal (the club). Once we're there, a bunch of men hoot and holler at me. I ignore them as they say something about my 'Targaryen' hair and it dawns on me they were probably calling me princess and lady because I was still in a fucking Targaryen era dress.

Still, I ignore the stupid fucks as they ask to see my pretty skirt, opting to walk faster instead. I was horrified by how loud and violent Daemon's scream was.

He shouted so gutturally that I couldn't understand a lick of The High Valyrian flaming out of his mouth. The vein on his neck popped out and I literally had to hold him back from charging and dropping Libby.

"Daemon, please!" I whimper, heart racing, "Libby's still on you-"

"Grab her and I'll fucking ram steel down- COME OVER HERE AND SAY THAT AGAIN. SAY THAT-"

Steel? I look to his belt. Fucking seven hells, he brought Dark Sister?

I look back at him with wide eyes, feeling nauseous now that I've caught how maddened he looked.

In a panic, I gently pat his face while pulling his arm back, "Daemon, please."

He doesn't look at me.

My voice gets softer and my eyes water, "Daemon, I beg you."

He huffs and clenches his jaw, still not sparing me a glance.

"We don't have time for them," I whisper and keep my hand on his cheek, "I'm just going to connect to the club's wifi from here, then I'll can call us an Ubor."

Daemon does not tear his gaze from the men, who eventually waddle away to whatever sewer they came from, still hollering bullshit as they did.

"Kesan daor nārhēdegon naejot nyetodha aōha irosh," Daemon mutters. I will not forget to slit your throats.

The relief that washed over me was unparalleled when I booked an Ubor set to arrive in 3 minutes. I whimper and rub my eyes, "okay, not long now."

Daemon finally looks at me, still visibly pissed, and adjusts Libby on his back.

I wipe my face, "we're just going to get in the c-" Fuck... I should probably prepare him for the car.

"Okay," I raise my hands, "we're going to get in a metal..." I motion to the space, "... there's going to be a- a- carriage? But with no horse... but and when I get in, you just get in with me, okay?"

Daemon's expression is now one of confusion.

I sigh and place a hand on his shoulder, "it's going to be okay."

His lips curl, "... OK."

I screw my eyes shut and shake my head rapidly, "I mean alright. Alright! ALRIGHT!"

Daemon takes in my visible frustration and nods slowly, "OK."

To be honest, Daemon was a pretty good Ubor passenger, save for the fact his sword nearly cut me, Libby, him and the fucking car seats when he tried to sit without removing his scabbard first. We were lucky the driver seemed to be used to... ren fair people.

He also seemed to be used to driving people to the ER. I was too relieved to think realize how fucked up that kinda is in the moment. Needless to say, I gave him 5 stars and an extra tip.

With Dark Sister in my grip and Libby in Daemon's arms, we finally made it to Lannister Medical Center.

The moment we get there, I run inside the ER and break down at the first nurse I see. I infodump everything, how Libby got attacked, how Harwin lost her, how some maesters tried to help us, how she lost a lot of blood, how I'm afraid she's going to die, how Daemon ended up carrying her, and I just keep going up until I saw Libby's blue hair scattered on a stretcher and the nurse told me to sit down.

I didn't have much fight in me left to argue, so I sit myself down on the bench. But then I see the nurse speaking to Daemon, who, seemed to be explaining what had happened, and I panic all over again.

Before I could stand though, another nurse was there to accommodate me. He did a checkup on me, asked me how I was feeling, and asked if I needed anything to calm down.

I told him I was fine and proceeded to answer his other questions. Daemon eventually came to my side and eyed him.

The nurse gives me a nod and offers a smile, "you seem to be physically well. Just let yourself relax. The doctors have your friend; they'll do their best to help her."

"Thank you."

The nurse nods again. He gives me and Daemon one last look before walking off.

I grab Daemon's hand once it's just the two of us. I look up and shudder, "we did it."

He looks down at me, violet eyes solemn. He brings a hand to my cheek and swipes at my cheek, "ȳdra daor limagon."

"I don't know what that means," I mumble.

"I said don't cry, pretty girl," he kneels in front of me, "worrying will not save your friend."

I stare at him, feeling my heart race and belly roll because of the look he had. He brushes my silver hair back behind my shoulders, only intensifying the flurry in my stomach. Just as I opened my mouth to speak, suddenly, my stomach growls. Oh.

Daemon turns his eyes to my belly as I clutch it.

"You want something to eat... prince?"

Daemon reaches a hand out, "lead the way."

I take his hand, grab Dark Sister, and hand it to him. He fastens his scabbard as we exit the ER and I go through my satchel, fishing for my wallet. Just before I get it, I remember that I blew most of my money on the Ubor.

"Fuck," I curse and turn to Daemon, "I don't have enough money."

Daemon rests his hand on his sword and simply stairs.

"I don't have coin," I clarify. I look around the road and figure our chances of riding a bus at this hour was nonexistent. I give him a look, "do you mind walking home with me?"

Daemon raises a brow, "as opposed to swimming home with you?"

I raise my brows and sigh, "Daemon-"

"Lead the way," he nods and points, "I am not one to tire easily."

I nod and slice through air to drive a point, "okay. No matter what happens," I reach out to him, "you have to hold my hand, okay?"

He looks at my hand then my face, his violet eyes sparkle with amusement. He chuckles but he links his fingers between mine (overkill if you ask me). I'm glad goosebumps don't form.

Daemon smiles softly, "you take me for a child, riña?"

"This child knows how to cross the street," I squeeze his hand harder than necessary and begin to walk off, "I'm not sure you do, kekepa." Grandfather.

Daemon laughs, full-on throwing his head back, "how hard is it to cross? You jus-"

His words go dry when an empty school bus passes us. He was so stunned by the yellow contraption, I had to tug his arm to continue walking.

Just then, a Megatron looking-ass truck drives down the street. I hiss and curse the 14 wheeler for emitting such horrible smoke, eyeing it as it drives away.

Meanwhile, I catch the prince's stunned reaction and almost feel bad for finding it funny. Almost.

We arrive at my apartment about 20 minutes later.

I press the elevator button and turn to Daemon, "don't put your arm between the door, okay?"

Daemon gives me a look.

The elevator opens and we step inside. Daemon gives me a look, "we have lifts you know."

I pull my head back, "you do?"

"At the wall," Daemon retorts as the elevator door closes.

"The wall?" I think for a moment, "ahh. You're right."

A beat.

I knit my brows, "wait, you've been to the wall?"

"Of course I've been to the wall."

The moment we get to my place, relief washes over me. I take my shoes off and scoop my hair in front, "fucking rip this dress off me."

Without a single thought between his brows, Daemon's reaches out to undo the ties at the back of my dress.

Just before he does this, I hear him walk in with his boots and nearly have a heart attack when he passes my threshold.

"OH, ABSOLUTELY NOT!" I turn and shove him back, "take your crusty boots off now!"

Daemon looks at me in bewilderment but walks back and doesn't protest as he removes his shoes. He places his shoes on the rack along with mine.

Not wasting time, he catches my arm and yanks me towards him. He spins me around and immediately undoes the back of my dress. I hastily begin to tug my dress down once I can.

He chuckles, "eager girl."

I rather literally jump out of my dress when I can. Pent-up rage overcomes me. I turn around and start kicking the dress away, releasing all my frustration and anger out on the thing. I curse 8th century Westeros and the Red Keep in particular and assault the object until I'm out of breath.

I proceed to jump onto my sofa and allow exhaustion to finally take over my being.

A second later, I catch Daemon's expression and realize, he probably thought he was going to get lucky when I asked him to basically strip me naked.

"Ahh," I get back on my feet, "sorry about," I point to the dress, "that."

Daemon says nothing as he steps closer. He reaches out for my hip and I swat his hand away. I shake my head, "this is my house."

He chuckles as I evade him on my way to the kitchen, which was not nearly as far as it should have been. The prince eyes the space, "yes. An impressive little room you've got." He follows after me, "I'd love to see the rest of it."

I look at him as I reach my fridge and open the door.

Daemon squints at the light that radiates on me. I cuss at the fact I only had cereal (no milk) and some vegetables that have gone bad. I grab the paper box and hand it to him. He blankly stares at it as I discard the vegetables.

Daemon's brows contort at he box, "it's cold."

I wash my hands, "yeah, refrigerators do that."

"Gra'-nola," he reads.

"Granola," I correct as I dry my hands on my shift.

I'm suddenly struck with the realization his grubby has have never seen antibacterial soap. I snatch the box from him and motion to the sink, "wash your hands."

Daemon turns to the sink and purses his lips.

For a second, I debate if he'd melt if he uses something antiseptic, but then figure I should still take my chances.

I prop the cereal on the counter and exemplify him how to wash his hands. Daemon, with slight reluctance, pumps some hand wash on his palm, opens the sink, and rinses.

I excitedly applaud him once he was done.

"A hand towel," he raises his dripping hands.

I look around even though I didn't have a hand towel. I shrug, "I usually just use my pants."

Daemon shakes his hands by the sink, "your pants?"

"Yeah. They're like clothes that you put on your-"

He grabs my shift and pulls me closer. He wipes his hands on it, "I know what pants are, princess."

I push him off and smirks as he dodges. I make a face, "well, I do so beg your pardon, your majesty."

The prince lets out a low laugh, "don't get too brazen, or I'll have you begging till you weep."

I quickly change the subject, "get that damned sword off your hip." I shoo him and rummage through my kitchen cabinets.

Daemon watches this and chuckles again. He tilts his head as he eyes my legs. He undoes his scabbard, sets it on my dining table, and pulls out a chair. He sits down just as I find a can of Sbam. Huzzah!

I grab a chopping board and open the can. A small smile spreads on the prince's lips as stares. But then, his expression drops when I shake, or try to shake, the processed meat out of the can.

I huff once I've succeeded, and I begin to cut the Sbam chunk, "you know this was in created during the war," I slice a piece, "it saved a lot of people from starvation."

"Which war?"

I freeze when he says this. I open my mouth then close it, unsure if recounting the details of world wars to him was a good idea, "you know what, never mind that."

Once I was done with the Sbam, I got a pan and heat it up. I get a plate and a loaf of bread, then place it on the table.

I click my tongue at the sight of his sword, "off the table!"

Daemon watches as I take Dark Sister and replace it with the plate and bread. I place the sword by the shoes and he takes the plastic wrapped bread. He feels the material and opens it, "what is this?"

"Bread," I retort, going back to my pan.

"No, I know that, but what's it wrapped with?"

I give him a quick look, "oh, plastic," I begin to cook the Sbam, "it's made of carbon... I think- I dunno- don't quote me on that."

Daemon opens the bag and takes a slice of bread. He pulls his had back, "it's sliced."

I beam and jump excitedly, "it is! It's sliced bread! Betty White is older than sliced bread! And so are you!"

Daemon ignores this as he sniffs the piece in his hand. He takes a bite then and makes a face, "why does it taste like that?"

"Like what?"

His brows knit and his eyes narrow, "like a pretender."

I burst into a laugh. I flip over the Sbam with a spatula, "imitation bread?"

"It wants so earnest to be bread," he pushes the loaf away and shakes his head, "but it clearly isn't."

I laugh even harder.

He snorts at my reaction. He smiles as leans back on his chair. A few moments later, he grows serious, "you ought to dismiss your royal baker."

Oh. My lips twitch and I chuckle under my breath, "ah, yes. My royal baker. Yes, I will dismiss my royal baker for making horrible sliced bread. Yes."

The Sbam was now cooked. I present it to him on a plate, "bon app-- ... I hope you like it."

Daemon leans forward to scrutinize the dish.

I press my lips into a line as I sit down next to him. I take a slice of imitation bread and fold in a slice of Sbam. I realize just how hungry I was after taking a bite. Through half-full mouth, I mutter, "it's good."

Daemon watches me and follows suit. He takes some bread and Sbam, then chomps.

I stop chewing. Wait, what if he gets an instant heart attack because his living fossil-self can't handle processed food?

He licks his lips and chews. I begin to grow more agitated as he makes a face.

"It's delicious," Daemon says, going in for another bite.

My agitation turns into shock, "really?!"

"Well, it's no roasted pork, but it'll suffice," he mutter between chews.

I let out a soft laugh and nod, "I'm glad it's enough for the prince."

"I'm honored the princess herself made it for me."

Aw, fuck. Who's gonna tell him?

There is a knock on my door. At the same time, my phone rings.

Daemon is alerted by the sound and I dash away to finally answer my phone.

"What is that?" the prince asks.

"It's my phone. Remember? You can call people with it."

Daemon narrows his eyes as I rummage my bag for my device. The knocking on the door gets louder.

I turn to the door, "just a minute."

I find my phone and feel my stomach drop at the caller ID. The banging on the door persists.

I answer the phone and head for the door, "hello?"

"Fucking hells!" the voice is worn and apparently worried, "where the fuck have you bee-"

"It's not you outside, is it?" I cut him off as I head for the door.

"What?! No! I'm in the fucking North, dammit! Your friends have been calling me nonstop, since fucking Sunday! -"

I open the door and my face falls. Standing before me is a man in a dark teal suit; his tie was loose, his stubble was thick, and he held what looked like a dozen bags in his hands.

"- You and Libby have been fucking missing for days! Where-"

"Mr. Hightower," I lower my phone as the man on the other end continues to chastise me.

Otto Hightower looks me up and down, then sighs, "out of the way."

Without another thought, I step back to let him in. He expertly slips out of his leather shoes then heads towards my sofa. He places all the bags on the coffee table. I follow after him.

I hear my name being shouted from my phone. I close the door and follow after Otto.

I listen in on the call again and I hiss when the voice pierces my ear drum, "Jon, calm down."

"CALM DOWN!? HOW CAN I BE CALM WHEN YOU WON'T TELL ME ANYTHING!?"

I begin to panic when Daemon walks over.

"Who is that?" Otto asks me. He notices Daemon, then makes a face, "who are you?"

I look at Otto, then Daemon, and dash over to the prince, grabbing his hand. I watch in real time the recognition and disbelief that floods the Targaryen's features as he watches the other slowly remove his tie.

"Libby and I got stuck in the ren-fair!" I reply to my phone.

"WHY DIDN'T YOU FUCKING CALL?!"

"MY PHONE DIED, JON!" I shout back a lie.

Otto's brow raises. He looks at me and mouths, "Jon?"

I ignore that and groan "LOOK! I'm fine! Libby's-- ... Libby's," I whisper softly, "in the ER-"

"THE ER-"

"I'M TAKING CARE OF HER!"

"WHY THE FUCK IS SHE IN THE ER?!"

"Libby's in the ER?" Otto mutters.

I raise a finger to answer my phone, "Jon, please. I'll explain everything tomorrow."

He screams my name and I have to rip my phone away from my ear again. I vaguely hear him rant about how I should explain why his sister is in the fucking ER.

"Jon, Jon, I love you but I have to go," I quip and immediately end the call. I turn on airplane mode and throw my phone on to the couch.

I release a breath and find myself pulling a smile as the man in the suit eyes me. He's about to speak, but Daemon beats him to it.

"What was that?" the prince asks, pulling me by the arm to face him.

I turn to him and make a face. It's Otto that answers for me, "her ex boyfriend."

I turn to Otto as he tilts his head and raises a brow, as if daring me to correct him.

I do, "my best friend's brother."

Daemon eyes Otto; the latter makes a face, "who used to your lover," he crosses his arms, "I'm offended you take his calls but not mine."

"And who are you?" Daemon hisses, stepping towards him.

Without missing a beat, Otto meets his gaze and scoffs, "who are you?"

Daemon's pulls his chin back and chuckles dryly. His expression screamed FUCK AROUND AND FIND OUT.

I jump in front of him, my back presses his chest. I give a nervous laugh, "Mr. High- Director- Mr. Director- sir. This is Daemon."

Otto watches as I grip Daemon's hands behind me.

"And Daemon," I barely look at him over my shoulder, "this is... my... employe-"

"Otto Hightower," he cuts me off, bringing his hand into his breast pocket, "Director and CFO of King's Landing Holdings."

I wince, fuck.

"King's Landing?!" Daemon laughs out loud.

Otto produces a business card.

"It's a company!" I turn around and wave my hands, "it's a company! An establishment!"

Daemon does not tear his eyes away from him.

"He's my employer!" I explain.

Otto offers a piece of paper between his fingers.

The prince looks at it and slightly pushes me away, "what's he doing here then?"

"That's hardly any of your business," Otto retorts, tucking his business card back into his pocket.

Daemon laughs and finally turns to me. He mutters something in High Valyrian along the lines of 'let me do something' and 'stabbing'. I frantically shake my hand and push him back.

He thankfully relents and I sit him back down on my dining table.

My relief is fleeting when I realize the only reason Daemon didn't refute was because Otto was trailing right after me. My stomach drops when I feel a hand on my back.

Otto is right behind me. He places a few of the paper bags he brought on the table. He opens them, "I bought you dinner."

I turn to him, intent to tell him he shouldn't have.

"Amongst other things," he adds.

Daemon barks, "we have dinner."

"How did you even know I was home?" I say at the same time.

Otto's eyes flick to him, to the plate of Sbam on the table. His face is blank as looks back to me. He decides to remove his coat jacket, "I suppose you'd-" eyes Daemon, "-also think a candle equal to a campfire."

"Mister Hightower," I helplessly mutter.

He hangs his jacket on the backrest. He turns to me, "and you were missing--"

My expression sours.

"-- what did you expect me to do? I obviously utilized my connections. I'm offended you'd ask me such a thing."

Daemon mutters something in High Valyrian again.

"Of course, I had come see you myself," he looks at me through his lashes as rolls up his sleeves. My eyes dart to his sleeve tattoos and arm veins. When I begin to scrutinize the hairs on his skin, I realize I've stared to long.

In a panicked frenzy, I begin to unpack one of the paper bags. He, himself, brings out a stack of food containers and places them on the table.

The smell alone makes my stomach grumble.

Otto steps away and comes back with plates and cutlery. He places one plate in front of me, and has a prolonged stare at Daemon before placing the other in front of Daemon. He says, "I would hate for prince Daemon to be reduced to eating Sbam for dinner."

My expression drops. Daemon does not move an inch.

Otto turns to me and pulls out the chair. I take a moment before sitting down, because, really, did I have any other choice?

Otto opens the containers one by one and my mouth waters as I see lobster, lamb, and lemon cakes. He serves me meat and veggies, "I would assume you're not hurt like your friend."

I watch as he places food on my plate. I gulp before responding, "I'm just... tired."

"Then, I would also assume you'll not be attending work tomorrow," he takes my hand, putting the utensils in them. He scrapes a chair to my side and sits down next to me, urging me to eat with a motion.

I look at Mr. Hightower, "oh no- I will! I will-"

"You won't," he raises a hand, "see to it you're well rested."

I turn to my plate, feeling a flurry in my stomach over his words.

"Are you not going to serve your prince?" Daemon cuts in, raising his brows.

The lamb I was about to eat drops back to my plate.

The two glare, as if willing the other to spontaneously combust.

Before anything else could happen, I stand and reach out to Daemon's plate. I squeak when both grab me by the wrist.

My throat tightens.

My heart races when Daemon stands, "release her."

Otto raises his brows and tilts his head, "sit back down."

I rip my wrists out of their grips. Thankfully, neither put up a fight.

They stare at each other for what felt like ages. My agitation rockets when I see my boss begin to fidget with his hands the way he did when he was annoyed and ready to do something drastic.

I give Daemon a panicked look and grab his wrist, "kostilus." Please.

Daemon clenches his fist.

I continue to beg him until he sits.

I squeak when he grabs my chair by the seat and pulls me towards him. He mutters, "kesan daor emagon ao va bona run." I will not have you near that thing.

I turn to Director Hightower; I could see his annoyance building.

Fuck.

"Miste-" "Enjoy your meal then," he speaks as he stands. He grabs his coat and points, "I've bought some first aid things. I'm sure your friend can help you put that away."

I move to stand but Daemon stops me. He looks up at Otto in disgust, "do mind the steel contraptions on your way out."

I snap at Daemon, eyeing him hotly. He places a hand over my legs, ensuring I do not evade him. I watch as Mr. Hightower heads for the door, and in a split second decision, I turn to the prince and kiss him on the lips.

He is evidently taken aback, but it only takes him another second to get into it. Once he's put his guard down, I rip away from him and chase after my boss just as he exits my apartment.

"MR. HIGHTOWER!"

Otto turns around. I huff as I meet him just outside my door, "I'm really sorry about him. He's... he's just like that."

"You're not responsible for the actions of others," he retorts, nonchalant.

"I know. But still-"

"You are responsible for the company you keep," he adds.

I brush my silver hair back, "and you're not responsible for my well-being."

He snorts and shakes his head, "I'm your superior."

I press my lips into a thin line, deciding not to get into this conversation right now, "that, you are, Director."

We stare at each other for a moment. I examine his well-ironed suit, noticing how he didn't bother to fix his tie or buttons any more.

"I'll-"

"Is he not-" Daemon kicks the door open.

My eyes widen, "DAEMON-"

"-fucking gone yet?!" he points Dark Sister in an offensive stance. I yelp when he swings his weapon and scratches the door.

Otto's fight or flight instincts kick in and he takes flight down the hall.

"DAEMON-" I scream. I duck down and grab him by the torso, "STOP IT!"

Daemon screams out in High Valyrian. He laughs and lowers his sword, "yeah, you better run."

#daemon fanfic #daemon targaryen fanfic #daemon angst #daemon fluff #daemon targaryen fluff #daemon x reader #daemon x you #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen angst #daemon targaryen x you #daemon x modern!reader #hotd time travel au #hotd au #daemon crackfic #harwin fanfic #harwin strong fanfic #house of the dragon fanfic #otto hightower fanfic #otto fanfic

405 notes · View notes

thelastofhyde · 6 months ago

Text

you cut your hair, and take some space (2)

pairing. narcos!javier peña x fem!reader

synopsis. an anthology of events that precede and procede the termination of you and your father's best friend's sexual relationship. this is part 2 of 3! (part 1)

warnings. no use of y/n! all spanish text is followed by immediate translation ( please note that i am fluent in castilian spanish, therefore some words/phrases may differ from that of other hispanic countries ), age gap , student!reader, dbf!javi, post-s3!javi, policeofficer!javi bc i said so, break up au, mutual pining, forbidden lovers kind of vibes, reader has a healthy relationship with her parents, violence, nondescript depictions of sa ( not javi ), pedro-ception aka there's a small cameo of another pedro boy, vomiting, mentions of pregnancy, reader is described to have hair and celebrates christmas ( but no mention of the reader's religious beliefs )! smut ( creampie, breeding kink through the roof, domesticity kink?? javi just wants to love and be loved and start a family, dacryphilia, indecent use of a credit card, spanking, dirty talk, prostitution kink?? i feel like i'm making these up at this point, + a hell of a lot more ) this fic is based on bsc by maisie peters except this has a happy ending bc im a sucker for mr. peña :( not all warnings listed here appear in this part, these are warnings for the fic as a whole !

word count. 14.3k

hyde’s input. hey... hey... how y'all doin'?🧍remember when i said part 2 would be posted a few weeks after part 1? yeah, that was a fucking lie. and, remember when i said it would be 2 parts in total? that was also a lie! the universe is praying on my downfall ( i had a fun mental health episode and fell into a black hole for a few months <3 ) unfortunately, i am very much still alive and kicking, so this is me trying to get the ball rolling again when it comes to posting fics. as the fic has surpassed 40k words, meaning it would likely crash the tumblr site for anyone trying to read it + tumblr will not allow me to post it as a whole due to it's paragaph-count limit, i've decided to post it in three parts. the fic will be posted in full on ao3 once all three parts are available on tumblr!

if you see any typos, no you didn't 🫣

“...wouldn’t have to be serious,” he’s speaking, finishing off a sentence you don’t quite catch the start of. “huh?” “this. us. it could be casual, y’know?”

Golden boy, you dropped the ball I am Annie fucking Hall

The year moves too fast.

It’s like you blink, and suddenly it’s Thanksgiving.

Leaves turn brown. Pumpkins are carved only to rot upon front porches. A gathering of friends, young adults getting their first taste at hosting a thanksgiving meal.

You’re put on dessert duty, which culminates in stressful tears and your mother’s hand rubbing soothing circles into your back, reassuring you that it’s okay, everyone burns their first pie.

No one at the party needs to know the pumpkin pie you brought was a product of your mother’s gentle care.

Then there is actual Thanksgiving, which you celebrate, as always, at your aunt's.

The highlight is, and forever has been, the road-trip out of state, your father making it his mission to deafen you and your mother with his horrific singing.

As they drop you back at your apartment, your father has no qualms leaning out the car window and calling after you.

“I expect to see you cheering me on at the Thanksgiving Touchdown event!”

Which brings you here, to said event, sweater sleeves tugged over cold fingers and a wandering pair of eyes who refuse to comply with your wants.

You want to focus on the ongoing football match- Fire Department vs Police.

Your eyes prefer to follow him, striding up the field, his hair soaked in sweat and his t-shirt long removed.

You’ve no valid reason to roll your eyes at the other women who seem to prefer spectating the sport of Javier Peña. You’re no better than them.

Yet, as one of them let’s out a joyous shriek as he takes a pass at the ball, your eyes roll.

"He’s a show-off, that boy.”

At least you have company. An older gentleman, who you caught struggling to pick his wallet up from the floor. He’d smiled as you returned it, and conversation had flowed easily from there.

As the whistle blew, commencing the final match of the local community services’ football league- or, Thanksgiving Touchdown, as your father so aptly named it-, he’d patted the empty seat next to him.

“Hmm?”

He points, and you follow the direction, realising he’s speaking about Javi.

“Him,” he says it with a teasing tone to his voice. It’s like he’s mocking the agent. “Think’s he’s God’s gift, takin’ his top off like that.”

The more you sit with the older gentleman, the more you enjoy his company.

On the field, your dad bellows something at Javi. He replies with a curt salute, and shoots off down the length of it.

He’s fast, agile, stealthy.

A force to be reckoned with, keeping pace with rookies half his age.

The vision of him, gun strapped to his leg and a tact vest on his chest, speeding down streets in the columbian heat conjures in your mind.

You wonder how it felt to know him then, if worry kept his companions awake.

It had certainly kept you awake in recent months, and that was with him safe, in Laredo, cooped up in some bachelor pad.

“Surprised he’s not thrown his top to the crowd of screaming ladies!” The gentleman continues his mocking, and it rouses laughter out of both of you.

A whistle is blown, your eyes return to the field and, though he’s quick to look away, you catch the tail end of Javier’s eyes on you.

Fifteen minutes pass, in which you do your best to not stare at him.

You’ve made worse attempts in the past.

Eventually, the man next to you coaxes you into getting him a lemonade from the food truck.

You oblige, of course, and deny his attempts to hand you cash, insist it’s on you.

He’s kept you smiling on a rather gloomy day.

You tell him you’ll be right back, smile, and realise you don’t know his name.

“Chucho,” he tells you, and waves you off.

You join the queue, keep your head down, ignore the gossiping women three spots ahead of you, claiming to have each shared an encounter with Javi.

You don’t need to know what he’s been up to.

You don’t want to know who he’s been up to it with.

It happens when you’re finally being served.

There’s no longer a queue, just you, smiling as sweetly as possible. The service industry is rough enough, nevermind on holidays.

You order successfully, both Chucho’s lemonade and a hot chocolate for yourself.

The guy working the truck- young enough, a bit too traditionally good-looking, with coiffed hair and a shaven face- he’s talkative.

Friendly.

Too friendly.

Till it crosses the border into flirty.

You’re not interested.

At all.

But it’s flattering, to feel wanted.

Even more so after a something that means nothing yet everything ends out of the blue and you’re left reeling over whether or not some part of you is to blame.

So you let him shoot you his dashing smile, and throw in unnecessary pet-names that just feel forced into every sentence he speaks to you, and write his number on the paper cup of your hot chocolate.

“Here you go, pumpkin,” he winks. The pet-name feels a little too on the nose for the season. Couldn’t he have called you sweetheart instead? “A sweet treat for that sweet smile.”

You wonder if he’s allowed to gift the free donut he slides your way.

Your stomach growls and begs for sugary release before you can fully bring yourself to care.

An awkward thanks. Hands reach up to grab the to-go cups, three fingers curling up the bagged donut.

He helps you get a grip on the beverages, placing them in your hands.

His touch lingers, more than necessary, fingertips brushing over your knuckles as if trapped in slow-motion.

“So, a pretty girl like you got a boyfriend, or are you gonna let me take you out to-”

Gasps fill the air.

Half the crowd boos.

Your father screams one name, loud and clear, down the pitch.

“Peña, get your head out your fucking ass and pick up the ball!”

Turning on your heal, the scene unfolds.

The ball, abandoned on the ground.

The players, scrambling to grab it before one another.

Javier, frozen in place, face an unreadable maze of emotions, eyes staring right at you.

They follow you all the way back to your seat, even as the game picks up again.

Even as you congratulate your dad on another victory for the police department, now the four-time consecutive champions of the Thanksgiving Touchdown.

Even as you head off to your father’s car.

Even when you’re home, curled under a blanket and watching a televised copy of Annie Hall, you feel his eyes on you.

The look of betrayal on Javier Peña haunts you even once you fall asleep.

If you don’t love me, What was April?

You’ve always been organised.

Everything has it’s place, from the books that line your bedside table to the memories inside your mind.

You compartmentalise.

Tucked deep into the right side of your brain, there’s a box.

It’s contents, memories you’ve yet to process.

Moments you know that, if you wish to move on, you’ll have to relive.

Caution tape holds the lid shut.

Fragile stickers cover every corner.

And, scribbled in bold red marker, April ‘99.

A late night.

You, wide awake, laying on your back and mapping out stars in his ceiling.

Javier fell asleep hours ago and now snores softly against your neck, muscled arm curled around your waist as his legs entangle your own.

The agent is a fiend for cuddling, and so often wraps himself around you like a vine.

You find yourself nestling your hand in his hair, and take note of the sharp breath he intakes.

Go still.

Worry you’ve woken him.

Relax when you feel him snore and press himself even deeper against your naked skin.

He’s tired. Exhausted.

Work was getting to him as of late.

He hadn’t told you that, but he didn’t need to.

You know him. You can read him.

Can tell in the way he moved slower against you.

In the way he let you take the lead, resting back against the couch to watch how your hips wound down on him.

In the way he got even clingier than usual, dragging you into the shower with him just to have you near, holding you from behind as you washed up the plates he’d used to serve you dinner (a trade-off he’d reluctantly agreed to months ago: he cooks, you clean), laying his head on your lap as you curled up to watch some cheesy horror movie- one you’re bound to fall asleep during and he’s counting on it, glancing up till he spots you slumped over and eyes closed, granting him the perfect excuse to carry you to his bed and nestle himself in beside you.

Unlike other nights, you’re trapped awake.

Something feels off, makes you queasy.

There’s something nagging at your mind.

It’s like you’ve forgotten something, misplaced something, and can’t even figure out what it is.

You just know its absence is wrong.

Javi mumbles something, dreaming away, and you feel the subtle press of his lips against your skin.

Fingers curl tightly into the fabric of your (his) shirt.

He can’t get you close enough, it seems.

Playing against his wants, you pull back, slowly, trying to catch a glimpse of his face.

There’s a pinch between his brows, furrowed in worry.

It’s not fair, you think.

Sleep is usually where you see him at his calmest.

It’s a selfish act, born purely from your own desire, but you find yourself pressing a kiss against his forehead.

His grip loosens, though slightly.

It gives you enough time to feel a stir between your thighs, a calling coming from your bladder.

So you do your best to slip out his hold.

It’s a struggle that leaves you topless and feeling a pinch of cruelty, standing over the bed as you watch his hand grabbing at the vacant spot you once occupied, your scent and shirt the only traces you leave behind.

You don’t bother turning on a light, make your way to his bathroom with practiced ease.

Pad your way across the cold linoleum floor, sink down onto the porcelain seat- he’d stopped leaving it up when your overnight visits became more frequent. You hadn’t asked- didn’t need to ask-, he’d simply done it.

Closing the door over, yet not enough for the hinges to squeak and the handle to lock, you pray the wood muffles noise of the flushing toilet.

When it stops, you wait a few seconds, until you’re sure there’s no rustling coming from his bedroom.

Then, you open the tap.

The water is barely a trickle, yet you tell yourself its enough.

Lather your hands in soap, sit them under the constant drip of cold water till you feel the suds wash down the drain.

It’s hard to stop yourself from sneaking a glance at the mirror, just as it’s hard to recognise the version of yourself you see.

Your hair frames your face, though messy.

Your eyes are bloodshot, yet carry less bags.

Your cheeks are rounder, fuller.

You look different.

You feel it too.

Yhen come the thoughts of Javier, and how he sees you.

Has he noticed a change?

Is he the reason for it?

Does he feel different, too?

Your stomach flips.

He’s not said anything. Or done anything, to make you notice a change.

But, then, Maybe it’s been subtle, slow, dragged out long enough it’s not drastic enough for either of you to take note of.

You eye the spare toothbrush he keeps in his bathroom, and try to remember when it became yours.

You don’t remember.

One moment, his toothbrush sat alone. And, the next, you were standing side by side, laughing as you raced to see who could make a foamier mess of the toothpaste.

Corazón, you look like a rabid animal, he’d called you once, laughing through tears as he wiped away the white suds dripping off your chin. You’re lucky that you’re just so cute.

You can recall, even now, how quickly his mouth had found yours that night, with no ulterior motive other than to bask in the minty taste of one another.

The stir in your stomach becomes more intense.

Eyes refocusing, you find yourself in the mirror again.

Only, sweat lines your forehead and your face seems drained of colour.

You make it only two steps back before you’re hurtling across the bathroom floor.

Your knees crash down first, harsh and unforgiving against the tiles.

The first wretch burns, has you coughing over your own gag.

In the dark, it’s hard to see what exactly comes out of you, but you know where it came from.

Your stomach.

Another wave of nausea hits, this one harder, and you’re gripping at the sides of the bowl, spewing into the water below.

A splash meets your cheek, but you’re too out of it to care, wave after wave of nausea leaving you a coughing, gagging, crying mess.

You feel lightheaded, only managing a moment to catch your breath before another wave hits.

It feels like you’re suffocating.

It’s in your throat, in your mouth, in your nose, in your hair.

It feels like it’s never stopping and you’re doomed to spend the rest of your days submitting to the horrors of throwing-

“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” warmth, against your naked back.

It’s a nice warmth, not like the one that has you covered in a cold sweat.

There’s a soothing motion over your skin.

Up, down, up, down.

You try to follow it, match your breathing to the tactile comfort.

“That’s it, baby,” cool air meets your neck, the hairs that stuck to your skin now pulled up and pushed back. “I’m right here, I got you.”

Eventually, all that’s left is the burning of bile at the back of your throat and the dull ache of eyes gone raw with tears.

You’re pulled into a solid mass, naked chest pressed to naked chest as you go slack upon the bathroom floor.

You’re exhausted, and covered in your own sweat, tears and vomit.

Javier doesn’t care, pulling you tighter against him and whispering sweet words you don’t quite pay attention to.

“Woke up and you weren’t there, corazón. Don’t do that again,” even in his attempts to chastise, he’s gentle, brushing the remaining strands of sweat-slicked hair off your face. You must be an awful sight, yet his expressions don’t give way. “You wake up, you wake me up too. ‘Specially if you’re gonna hurl, okay?”

You glance at him, swallow back a lump and deal with the realisation that dawned upon you ten minutes earlier, as you sat hunched over the toilet’s bowl.

“Javi,” he smiles at the way you call his name.

You feel sick all over again at the thought of that changing, everything changing, as you build the courage to speak.

He calls your own name back to you.

“I’m late.”

You await the sharp inhale.

And the unwinding of arms.

You imagine he’ll stand up, pace the floor.

Run his hands through his hair, rant over every thought he has.

Ways to get rid of it, the dangers of your dad finding out.

Then he’ll turn the blame to you.

That’s what men do, right?

He’ll ask why you weren’t safer, why you forgot to take that morning-after pill, why you played so fast-and-loose with your body.

None of it arrives.

He stands, yes, but only to pull you up with him, tired limbs leaning into his strong build as he drags you both under the heat of a warm shower.

You watch the remnants of your own vomit wash down the drain, and question how he can stand there, not disgusted with you.

He dries you off, delicate drags over your skin.

He’s rougher with himself, scarcely drying properly before he’s carrying you back to his bed, a replay of hours earlier as he lays you down, crawls in behind you and tucks you both under the soft comfort of his worn-out sheets.

Only, this time you’re wide awake.

He so easily nestles himself behind you, dragging you back against him and committing himself to the role of big-spoon.

His hands have always felt large, their touch always electrifying, but nothing compares to the feeling of him splaying one across your lower stomach, a subtle press into where part of him could be growing within you.

“Javi,” you whine, fighting off the sleep your overwhelmed body so badly needs. “I’m sorry.”

You say it because you feel obligated, like it’s your place to be apologetic.

After all, the blame is yours, surely.

“No seas boba (Don’t be silly),” there’s a fresh set of tears already sliding down your cheeks by the time he replies. “Don’t need to be sorry, baby.”

“But I-”

“But, nothing,” his tone feels final, one that tells you you’ll get nowhere arguing against him. “You’ve done nothing wrong, corazón.”

You fall asleep, eventually, soothed by his gentle breathing and the repeated motion of his thumb stroking over your belly.

Yhe next time you awake, there’s a crack of sunlight creeping through his blinds.

Javi’s still in bed, only he’s propped up on his elbow and staring down at you.

His smile stretches a little wider when he spots your open eyes.

Lips press against your own, soft and subtle.

A quiet greeting, a wordless goodmorning.

“I gotta go, corazón,” is met with a protest from you, rolling over to curl into his solid chest.

Expecting it, he wraps you up tighter in his arms, presses an array of chaste kisses to your head.

You don’t want him to leave this bed.

Or this apartment.

You don’t want him out, in the real world, where the hours you’ve spent cooped up together become more scandalous than the peaceful nature of them.

“I know, I know. Don’t wanna go either, baby,” you wonder if you spoke your thoughts aloud, or if Javi simply knows you so well.

Eventually, he peels himself away from you.

You watch him dress.

Tell him which tie to wear.

Help him tie it, the comforter pooled around your naked waist as you sit criss-cross-apple-sauce and Javi’s at the side of the bed, legs bent at the knee.

He thanks you with a kiss, then asks you to pass him his cologne.

It’s on the other side of the bed- his side of the bed- and you lean over to grab it.

You don’t bother handing him it, spraying it directly onto your own wrist and dabbing it into the skin of his tanned neck.

He lets you, a gentle smile on his face and eyes that pull you in for a hug, burrowing himself between your naked breasts.

He presses a kiss between them, hums in enjoyment.

“You’re gonna smell like me all day, cariño (darling),” he tells you.

“Good,” you reply.

Another hum, this time of approval, and a squeeze to your hip.

When he pulls back, he looks even more reluctant to leave.

Reality rears it’s ugly head, but he pushes it out your mind with the pressing of his hand against your stomach, the same spot he’d held onto all night.

Leans down, brushes his lips against it.

Your hands instinctually curl in his hair, and you like to think you leave it a little messy, enough to ward off any of the women he works along side, hopeful eyes hoping to get a taste of the handsome, unmarried cop.

“Stay,” he mumbles against your skin, as if you’re the one who’s about to leave. “Don’t go, ok? I’ll call around lunch.”

He keeps his word.

Calls you, a few minutes past two, interrupting whatever daytime TV you were pretending to watch.

Answering leaves you feeling lightheaded, like you're trapped in a daydream.

Listening to him croon down the line while your finger anxiously tangles in the phone’s wire as you stand in his apartment, it feels domestic, like you’re waiting for him to come back home, a place you share together.

The thought has you pressing a hand against your womb.

“How bout you, corazón?” He knows how to make you melt, picturing him smiling at his desk. “Have you ate yet?”

With a grimace, you admit you haven’t.

“You need to eat, baby,” you don’t like the fact he uses that pet-name, not right now. “There’s plenty in the fridge. Could make yourself a sandwich, or some toast. Might even have some of that pasta left over. You know, that one you said you liked? Oh, wait, maybe don’t eat that, don’t think uncooked salmon is good for pregn-”

You don’t want him to say the P word, so you cut him off.

“I’ll probably just have toast.”

He says ok, then you hear him take a bite of whatever his lunch is.

The call goes on a little longer.

It’s mostly him talking.

He tells you a quick story, something about one of the younger guys accidentally stapling his tie to an arrest warrant.

That rouses a laugh out of you, makes you forget all about the massive P word he almost said.

“I’ll be home soon, okay?”

That sounds nice coming from Javi.

Home.

Not his home, just home.

A place he feels his soul at rest.

A place he’d begged you to stay this morning, safe and tucked away.

“Was thinking we could drive out to the clinic, find out for sure if we’re pr-” he cuts himself off this time, like he knows you’re not ready to hear that word. “Then we’ll take things from there, okay? Whatever you decide you wanna do, corazón, you call the shots.”

He keeps his word, again.

Comes home barely three hours later.

He walks through the door and welcomes the way you coil yourself around him, humming in delight as he peppers a few kisses over your face.

“Still smell like me,” he says it with approval, takes a purposeful whiff at you as he pulls you tighter against him.

You still smell his cologne on him too, buried beneath a few layers of sweat and cigarette smoke.

Near clinging to one another, it’s a miracle you two make it out his apartment and down the elevator.

An arm around your waist, he guides you over to his car.

Pulls the door open for you, stops you from bumping your head on the way in.

He practically runs round the car’s hood, jumping into the driver’s seat and thrumming the engine to life with the turn of a key.

“You remember to eat?” He asks as he pulls out onto the street.

You nod, then audibly reply.

Tell him you did in fact eat toast, leave out the part where you spewed your guts again twenty minutes later.

The drive is quiet.

Not uncomfortable, just relaxed, with the radio playing gently and his window rolled down enough to let in some air.

At some point, his hand slides over the console and rests against your thigh.

You welcome it, covering it with your own.

As you watch out the window how he drives past the turning for the local hospital, he must catch your questioning gaze.

“They, uh,” he clears his throat, rings his hand over the steering wheel. A small stain of sweat marks it. “Know your dad pretty well in there. And me. Figure you’d rather he not find out about us like that.”

He’s right.

So you relax back into your seat, accept the fact you’re both driving out of town together.

At some point, the beginning notes of your favourite song play through the stereo.

You instantly perk up, sitting up straighter in your seat and tap your foot a little to the beat.

Javi says nothing, simply peels his hand off you to turn the volume dial up.

Seconds later, he turns his head and throws you a look just asking if he’s done good.

You smile, and thread your fingers between his own.

A soft squeeze before he pulls them up to his lips, eyes back on the road.

The clinic is bright.

And squeaky, each step you take making you a little more nervous than the last.

Javier, by all accounts, is solid as a rock, signing you both in, picking up a few pamphlets, buying you a can of soda, all while you curl up in some plastic chair and just focus on not spewing your guts out.

You only relax once he’s sat beside you, helping you get a sip of the sugary drink and wrapping a protective arm around you.

You don’t mean to but you fall victim to sleep, the past 24 hours getting the best of you.

You come-to likely not much later, but to the sound of a childish giggle.

Cracking one eye open, just slightly, you notice you’re slumped into Javier, head on his shoulder.

There’s a giggling little girl in front of you both, in purple overalls and with two pigtails to hold her curly hair.

One of her hands is on Javi’s knees, using him to keep herself standing.

“First time?” You snap your eyes shut as a stranger’s voice fills the quiet bustle of the clinic.

A confused sound leaves Javier.

“Yeah, could tell from the look on your lady’s face,” the man continues. “Same one my own wife had during our first visit.”

You want to pay attention to Javi’s response, but you’re a bit busy dealing with the fact he’s not correcting the man, telling him you’re not his lady nor his wife.

His thumb soothes over your hip, and you wonder at what rate you’ll melt away into a pile of nothing thanks to his soft touches.

“You hoping for a boy or a girl?”

You tell yourself to try harder, to actually pay attention.

You succeed, catch as Javi replies, “a girl.”

“Yeah?” the stranger seems genuinely invested, it almost makes you want to open your eyes, see him for yourself.

But you don’t want to ruin the moment.

“Wanted a boy, myself,” that same little girl giggles again and you can’t fight the temptation to peek once more, catch as she crawls into her faceless-father’s lap. “Doc told us it was gonna be a boy, too. Then this one came along and, wouldn’t ya know, not a boy.”

“Surprise!” the little girl squeals, and you feel Javi’s shoulder shake under your head.

God, you want to look at him, see if he’s looking at her with the same adoration that’s festering in your heart.

“Yeah, baby, you’re my little Sarah-Surprise,” the man coos and, despite his rough accent, it suits him. Like he was only ever meant to speak with gentle words and a soft heart, all for his precious daughter. “It’ll get easier, on your lady, just so ya know. Less scary, more exciting. ‘Bout to welcome our second one, and I’ve never seen my wife so happy.”

Javi’s still not correcting him.

It makes you nauseous for a whole new reason.

“Mr. Miller?” A voice calls out.

A nurse, you imagine.

A chair squeaks as pressure is taken off it, the stranger standing.

You peak your eye open in time to see him picking his daughter up, her little legs dangling off his hip.

He takes a few steps, till Javi interrupts him.

“What,” he clears his throat, and you wonder if it’s of emotion. “What are you hoping for this time?”

“A girl.”

Eventually, it’s your turn.

You’d pretended to wake up to Javier’s coaxing.

Shuffled into some room, reluctantly separating from Javi.

A smiley nurse handed you a cup, talked you through what you needed to do for your tests.

Took your blood pressure, complimented your earrings, and stepped out the room to give you privacy.

A short while and a reunion with Javi later, you sat in a doctor’s office, both a nervous wreck as you clasped each other’s hand.

“Mrs. peña,” again, Javier does not correct the doctor. And you realise it’s because he filled out the forms, he signed you in. He wrote you down as Peña. “You and your husband are not pregnant.”

What should have followed was a sigh of relief, from both of you.

But all you felt was led drop in your stomach and Javier’s grip tighten on your hand.

“You are, however, displaying symptoms of acute food poisoning, likely salmonella.”

The doctor continues on, detailing a prescription you’re being given.

But it falls on deaf ears, the world around you gone blank as you wrestle with conflicting emotions.

You’re not pregnant.

You should be elated. Jumping, and cheering, and dancing all over the place. Instead, you’re silent, letting yourself be guided back into the car by Javi.

This time, the drive is silent.

Not quiet.

Silent.

You watch him drive past the turning into your street.

He doesn’t explain that he’s taking you back to his place.

Getting you back in his bed, switching off the lights, he curls himself in behind you and splays his hand over your stomach.

Over your empty womb.

For some reason, you find yourself sobbing into your pillow, unaware of the tears from him that stain your neck as he tries to hush you.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” the irony of him repeating those very same words last night is not lost on you.

It’s hard to move on, when every month there’s a stabbing pain in your abdomen and a trickle of blood staining your underwear to remind you of April.

And so you keep it locked in it’s box, slapping another caution tape over it’s lid as you groan and roll out your own bed, trudging your way into your bathroom to check if the wetness between your thighs is your monthly visitor.

You played a game But I run the table

You’re avoiding your dad’s calls.

It’s not because he’s done anything to warrant your rejection, but, rather, it’s the forthcoming actions he’ll be guilty of.

See, you know why he’s calling.

Your mom let it slip, over brunch and a few too many glasses of wine.

He’s hosting another poker night.

He wants you there, as always.

Some baseless theory of you being his good luck charm.

Or, at least, that’s what you were until the last poker night he’d hosted, way back in March.

He slips away, phoned by your tipsy mother and obligated to drive three towns over to go pick her up because she misses him.

“Fill in for me, will ya, kiddo?”

It was less a suggestion, more of a pleading, his hands already scraping the seat back and awaiting you to plop yourself down.

He leaves you with his hand, his winnings so-far, and a kiss to the top of your head.

“Watch out for Peña,” he whispered, as if you hadn’t been keeping an eye on the agent all evening, clouded by his own cigarette smoke and sitting looser each sip of his whiskey, no ice. “His poker face is dangerous.”

He turns out to be no threat.

None of the officer’s are, really.

Rounds end and rounds start, and you father’s pile of winnings grow more and more.

It’s an ego boost, taking money from these cocky men who look at you as though surely you have no clue what cards you’re holding.

But, taking from Javi?

That’s something else, entirely.

Each time you win, he gets more agitated.

Flinging down cards, muttering curses, shoving his cash across the table.

All whilst glaring, at you, eyes black with ire.

And intoxication.

And something else.

Something you know all too well on Javier.

Lust.

Nearly an hour’s past since your father left, someone else leaves the table.

Says he needs the toilet, you point him in the direction of it.

You all call for a break, and then you graciously offer a refill on drinks.

It’s what your dad would’ve done, kept them all drinking and lowering their inhibitions, their focus disappearing alongside it.

“I’ll help!” One of the officers exclaims.

He’s on the younger side.

Practically a rookie, it’s only the second poker night he’s attended.

He’s sweet, with his large-framed glasses and his nervous smile.

You both make your way out of the basement- refurbished to be your dad’s man-cave- and head towards the kitchen.

You open the fridge, grab however many bottles of beer you need.

He heads to the liquor cabinet, pulls out a bottle bourbon.

You beat him at grabbing the whiskey, an unvoiced need to be the one who refills Javi’s glass.

Maybe, he’ll offer you a sip.

Conversation flows naturally between you, in spite of him being a near stranger.

He asks about college.

You ask about working with your dad.

You both agree on the fact he’s a pain in the ass.

He tells you about a new bar, downtown.

You tell him where to go to get the best club sandwich.

It’s light, it’s easy, it’s friendly.

You’re enjoying his company.

nNeither of you can tell who causes it, but one of you mispronounces a word and you both wind up in a pile of giggles, falling over yourselves and banging into counters.

His hands grip his sides.

You’re clutching your chest.

Through wheezes, he repeats the phrase that left you both in this state.

You laugh harder, louder, warn him to stop before you lose control of your bladder.

Something thuds in the hallway, your eyes shoot up to the kitchen entry and you swear you see Javi’s retreating figure.

Blink a few times, realise there’s no one there.

You both gather some decorum.

He grabs as many of the beer bottles he can manage, and looks at your empty hands in question.

You tell him to head back without you, that you just need to go to the toilet.

Parting ways, you find the both the downstairs and upstairs bathrooms occupied.

Sigh in frustration, only to remember your parents en suite.

It’s empty, because of course it is. No one would feel comfortable enough invading the privacy of your parents' bedroom.

You do your business, wash your hands, fix yourself in the mirror.

Decide your lipstick needs a little touch-up, your clothes need straightening out.

And, when you’re done and ready to head back down to the poker table, you hear a thud.

Pull open the bathroom door, expect to find your father struggling to put a tipsy, giggly, clumsy version of your mother into bed.

Instead, there is only a brooding look and disapproving grunt.

A firm grip, on your arm, dragging you right back into the bathroom.

The door slams shut, a little harsher than you’d like, the sound of it surely reaching the ears of those regrouping for the next dealing of the cards.

He doesn’t pounce, like he so usually does when he’s wearing that look of frustration.

He’s simmering in it, teetering on the edge of boiling anger as he smooths a hand over his chin, visibly clenching his jaw, swallowing back whatever it is he wants to say to you.

He takes one step forward, and you go one back.

Then two steps, which you also match.

Your hip smacks into the sink’s counter on your fifth step backwards and it’s enough to finally put his hands on you.

He tugs you right into his chest, one hand soothing over where you’d banged your hip.

It’s alarmingly gentle for his stoic features.

When he speaks, you nearly melt into a puddle, the heat of him invading your space, face inching close to your own, enough to have you questioning the sanctity of your parents en suite.

“What’s going on with you, huh?”

“Could ask you the same thing, officer,” you make the fatal mistake of giggling, but you’ll blame it on the fruity cider you’d helped yourself to.

He clearly finds no humour, not even as you fiddle with the top button of his shirt and shoot him your best look of innocence.

“Think you’re real fucking funny, don’t you?” His hand, warm and imposing, grips a hold of your face.

It’s almost painful, but you like it, squirming a little at the blunt stab of his nails and the way he smooshes your cheeks, forcing a pout onto your lips.

You try shake your head, his grip won’t let you.

“Sitting in a room full of men, making yourself the centre of attention,” he huffs a breath out of his nose, and you can’t help but compare him to an angry dragon.

He’s worked up, frustrated, angry.

And it’s hot. A turn-on.

“What’s the matter, Javi? Jealous you’re not the centre of all those men’s attention?” You’re poking the dragon, teasing him, and it’s an act that may leave you burned and scarred.

Or, as you’re hoping, it’ll win you the ride of a lifetime.

He doesn’t even grace you with a verbal response.

No, he scoffs, as though he’s in physical disbelief at the words you’re saying.

Spins you around, pins you to the sink’s counter, tugs your hair till you’re forced to stare at your reflection.

He’s right behind you, seething in anger, fire in his eyes.

His head dips between you neck and shoulder, brushing his lips against your pulse point.

“Not all of us are attention whores like you,” it’s fleeting, and he’ll deny it if you dare mention it, but he smiles.

Just a second, but you feel it, see it even though he tries so hard to turn his face into your neck.

It’s what lets you know he’s playing, teasing, egging you on to push him over the edge.

“I’ve been with real whores, corazón,” he confesses a sin you already know, eaves-dropping one too many times on your dad fishing stories of Colombia out of him. “Fucked them so often they started doing their nails in colours they knew I wanted to see wrapped around my cock.”

Involuntarily, your back arches, brushing your ass against him and providing him the perfect access to wind his hand up between your heaving breasts, all the way up till his fingers curl round the base of your throat.

In the mirror, the image is one of ownership, of Javi seizing your bodily autonomy. A whore and her gentleman caller.

It’s arousing to think about, Javi and his whores.

You wonder what positions he put them in.

How many rounds he lasted with them.

How often he made them cum.

“And not one of them took half the money you’ve taken from me tonight.”

Oh.

So that’s what this is, his pretty ego, bruised at the hands of you?

Poor Mr. Javier Peña, humiliated in front of all his peers round after round, hundred bill after hundred bill.

You almost taunt him for giving into the temptations of the fragile male ego, but you’re stopped in your tracks.

By him, hands squeezing at you a little tighter as he grinds the unmistakable outline of his hardened cock against you.

That single action changes the game, entirely.

Because this isn’t about you stealing his money and his ego.

No, this is something far filthier, that has your panties growing wetter beneath the skirt of your dress.

“I’m worth every dime though, aren’t I, officer?.”

The grip tightens.

He shoves you harder into the counter, so hard a tub of your mother’s moisturiser topples off.

The hard outline of him is still there, ever-present.

“‘S that what you like, huh, taking my money? Wanna be Javi’s personal little whore?”

Every ounce of feminism evaporates within you.

Who could deny such a tentative offer?

Certainly not you, reflection mimicking the way you eagerly nod, teeth biting down on your bottom lip in a failed attempt to hold back a grin.

Javi notices- of course he notices- and takes his victory, hips rocking even deeper into you.

There’s too many layers between you, a feat on which you both agree, yet neither of you do anything about.

You just savour the friction, instead, pushing and pulling one another to the axis of pleasure.

Your panties, soaked.

His jeans, tight.

“What’s it gonna cost me to get you bent over and stuffed full of my cum, corazón?” One hand leaves your body. The mirror snitches on him, exposing how he’s reaching into his back pocket. “This?”

He smacks something down, into the bowl of the sink.

It’s his wallet, and you watch the worn leather of it shine with the residue of water on the linoleum.

The hand at your throat pulses a squeeze, his knee nudges you from behind.

“C’mon, don’t be shy.”

His mouth, right by your ear, lips tickling you with the subtlest of brushes against it.

His hand guides your own, down into the sink, flipping the wallet open and putting it’s belongings on display.

Bills, some placed neatly, others stuffed in forcefully, edges spilling out the pockets. There’s less in there than when he arrived, courtesy of you.

There’s a few miscellaneous cards. A library card, an ID slip you’re sure he uses for something in the sheriff's station, a loyalty card to some record store.

The picture of his mother sits centre stage, radiant smile and loving eyes grabbing the attention of any who dare open it.

He has his mother’s eyes, you notice.

And then you notice something else, peeking out from behind his mother’s picture.

You dive into temptation, dart your nosy fingers over to tug at the object, till you realise it’s another picture.

A picture of Javi, and you.

Taken on a polaroid you found under a box of his belongings, you remember the day clear as ever.

The two of you had messed around, captured your sins on film with the promise of destroying it after. It would be too risky a thing, to allow image evidence of the intimate ways in which you knew each other’s bodies.

Javi’s fingers on your skin, your nipple in his mouth, his cock’s outline bulging within your lower abdomen.

There was no point risking your father ever finding it.

But this picture, this one you do not remember.

Fully dressed, eyes fixed on his television, your head lays in his laps while his fingers card through your hair.

It’s captured from above, as if Javi’s own eyes had made a permanent record of his view.

The sweetness of this living on, of Javi taking something sacred for himself to keep hidden in his wallet distracts you for a moment.

He does good to bring you back into the room.

“Take how much you think you’re worth, corazón,” whispered into your ear, as he rips a few of the notes out his wallet.

They sit in the sink, growing wet.

And you are too, frozen on the spot.

You glance down, count over the different bills.

Five dollars.

Twenty dollars.

Hundred dollars.

With each bill you count, your internal price shooting up within your head, you try picture his reaction.

In the mirror, he’s watching.

Not the sink bowl, no.

You, your face, looking at your expressions in a way that reminds you it’s his job to read people.

You decide to be bold, dig into his wallet and, even though your insides twist in anxious turmoil, hold up your hand to present him with your answer.

Resting neatly, between your fore and middle finger, a shiny credit card.

The gleam in Javi’s eyes just about match it, blackened and blown out with lust.

The card is plucked out your hand.

The hand on your neck leaves, in search of your waist.

The fabric of your dress bunches, wrinkling and creasing as his fabric-straining grip inches it’s hem higher and higher.

You feel sexy like this, face heated and breathing heavy.

It’s an effect he has on you, has had on you, forcing you to look at yourself in new lights, in new angles, admiring every out-of-line trace of you for what you are.

Desirable.

And attractive.

And pretty.

And smart.

And every other word under the sun that Javi whispers into your skin with innocence as his body commits sins within you.

At the bottom of the mirror, you watch as the white cotton of your panties comes into view.

Wet, as you both expected, the thin fabric now turned almost sheer, exposing the delectable view of your cunt hugged cutely by the cotton’s tight seams.

Javi hisses, muttering something to himself.

There’s a strain to his voice, one that would have you worried he’s in pain if it weren’t for the way you’re watching as his face contorts with lust.

His eyes are dark and you study them like he studies his card, contemplating something.

A few seconds pass.

Tension is puffed out his chest with one exhale, through the nose.

You feel the air tickle your skin.

He nods curtly, to himself, and flickers his gaze back to meet your own in the mirror.

It’s unwavering, even as he brings the black plastic down and smacks it against your mound.

You squeal, he hushes, and you both know he doesn’t mean it at all.

He likes when you gift him noise, a private aria only he has tickets to.

Just as easily as the first time, he snaps the card against you again, a jolt of pleasure shooting straight through your clit.

Just as loudly as the first time, you squeal, a jolt back into his warm, steady, hard embrace.

“What’re you running from, hmm?” His face turns, burrowing itself in the tresses of your hair.

A shallow sniff, and you wonder if he notices the smell of his shampoo on you.

There’s a pressing of lips, against your scalp, and it’s far too gentle of a juxtapose to the imagery of his fingers pulling your panties to the side, exposing your pussy to the bathroom’s cold air and the two pairs of hungry eyes in the mirror.

“You say that this is what you’re worth, and then you don’t want to take it?”

The third spank of the card against your bundle of nerves is harder, louder, echos in the confined space. A moan, minuscule and muffled, slips past tightly shut lips, a look of fear flashing through wide eyes.

Javi’s quick with his reassurance, gentle with his comfort, a hand stroking over your collarbone.

“Don’t worry, no one’s gonna hear you. You just be as loud as you need, hermosa, they’re too busy encouraging that boy-cop to ask you to dinner.”

There’s a tint of jealousy to the way he says boy, and you’re reminded of the image of him in the kitchen doorway.

Smack!

The card strikes down, once more, this time eliciting an open-mouthed gasp.

He doesn’t let up, repeating the action twice more.

It hurts, in a way that makes your core throb and your toes curl, squirming aimlessly in a grasp he knows you don’t truly want to escape.

But he mocks you, with a hushing noise in your ear and gentle it’s okay, corazón, Javi’s got yous against your neck. His thumb swipes through your folds, coating it in your wetness and dragging itself up to your clit, soaking it in soothing rubs.

His gentle nature lasts mere seconds, his wrist flicking back only to smack the credit card down again. This time, it’s a pattern of three, repeatedly crashing down on your sensitive nerves one after the other.

In the mirror, you watch him observe as he twiddles the card between deft fingers, contemplation on his mind.

The room’s quiet, apart from your shortened breaths and his deep inhales.

You hear a cheer.

From the basement.

It must have been a loud cheer, for you to hear them all the way up here.

And, suddenly, the stakes feel higher than when you were sat at the poker table, counting Javi’s coins with every passing round.

If you can hear them, they could hear you.

This doesn’t seem to cross Javier’s mind, who merely twists your head away from the bathroom door and back to the mirror, to where his hungry eyes await.

All contemplation is gone, he’s decided in what he’s going to do, and so you watch as he takes the card and swipes it through your cunt.

It’s not a pleasurable act, in itself.

In fact, it’s rather uncomfortable, the solid plastic hard on your delicate skin.

It’s the arousal of him doing it that gets you weak in the knees, to have him perform such a mundane act- the swiping of his credit card- in such a crass, dirty, wrong way.

Like he’s paying for you, committing a physical transaction in exchange for your body.

It doesn’t matter that he could have you for free, has had you for free.

He wants to pay, wants to reward you in a way that aligns with the capitalistic world.

“Javi…” You whimper, softly, head lulling back against his shoulder as he swipes the card again.

Your eyes, slowly slipping shut, shoot right back open as you feel the rounded corner of the card prod at your opening, as if trying to notch itself within you.

“Think she could take it, corazón?” Javi bites at your ear, teeth clamping down and pulling at it’s lobe. The card sinks in, not even an inch. You nudge back into, your cry circling the room around you both. “I know, baby, I know. It’d be a wide stretch, but ain’t that all pretty whores like you are good for, hmm?”

It’s automatic, the way you bend to his every whim, head nodding without direct orders from your brain, every part of you, conscious or not, ready and willing to prove you could fit his card inside of you.

For him, you can do it.

“Fitting big things in your little pussies?”

Surprisingly, the hand between your thighs retracts and you watch as he brings the card up to your mouth, glistening with your arousal.

“Open,” the directions are unnecessary, your mouth already dropping open for him in an act of muscle memory.

He hums approvingly, yet his eyes are still fury filled as he slots the card between your lips, lathering your tongue in your own taste.

“You’ll take anything I give you, won’t you, corazón?”

The statement rings true, both ways: as much as you’ll take anything, he’ll give anything.

You don’t tell him that, though, finding it much easier to rest your palms on the countertop, backing your sopping core into him, enticing him with the wiggle of your hips and whines from your lips to take you already.

“Shh, shh, don’t you worry that pretty head. Javi’s gonna feed this greedy little cunt, ok?”

The unbuckling of a belt.

The unzipping of teeth.

The shucking down of-

Something smashes, in the basement, and it’s enough to have you flinching.

Javi’s touch soothes you, a hand running over the curve of your shoulder as he presses yet another kiss into your neck.

“S’okay, probably just a beer bottle.”

He doesn’t move another inch, not till he sees you nod, melting back into him.

You hear, more than you see, the way he tugs his trousers down, just enough to free his hardened cock from its jean-clad confine. The risky business of a quickie in your parents’ en suite calls for clothing moved aside, and not removed.

Much to your annoyance, his all-encompassing warmth drifts away as he moves back, hands clamping down on your hips.

He tilts them to the angle he wants, the angle he knows gets him brushing all your sweet-spots.

He tugs the skirt of your dress up, and then readjusts your soiled underwear.

You hear him draw a deep breath and watch his eyes in the mirror, glued to that spot between your legs, entranced.

The drag of his cock over your folds is familiar, the way he smacks the head of it against your clit is welcomed.

He spears you no gentle coaxing, no stretching around his fingers first, coming undone just for him to fill you right back up, this time with his cock.

No, this is a vengeful touch, the kind that’s meant to display his irritation, his fury, for reasons you’ve yet to confirm yet you’re more than willing to accept.

A man like him, so unfairly selfless, taking something in this world for himself, how he wants to and how he likes to.

You’ll be his vice, so long as he grants you his virtues.

Javi fills you with a single thrust, grunting low into your ear as you feel the way the air is physically knocked out both for your lungs.

He’s still, head buried in the crook of your neck as he works on steadying his breathing, giving you time to adjust to the delicious stretch.

You whine out some version of his name, feel yourself pulse around him.

A hand, reaching up to cup your cheek.

A kiss, gentle and longing against your mouth.

He’s making you wait for it, you think, torturing you with an impending paradise.

He’s savouring the feel of you, he thinks, taking advantage of the few moments alone he wins with you.

"Javi,” he barely lets you part from him to speak, chasing a trail of kisses down your jaw. “This isn’t the time to develop patience.”

The snide remark earns you a bite, his teeth nibbling on the sensitive skin of your earlobe. You squeal, try remind yourself to be quiet, only to squeal louder when his hands tickle at your waist.

“I’m a very patient man, corazón.”

You scoff.

“Just not when it comes to you.”

His hips roll back, slowly, but it’s better than nothing, better than when he wasn’t moving at all.

Still, he makes you squirm a little longer, moan his name a little louder.

Only then does his fake resolve snap and he’s fucking into you at a brain melting pace in the blink of an eye.

Javier does his best to keep quiet, at first, biting down on his lip and your neck just to contain all those melodies he usually makes.

You can’t say the same for yourself as, despite your efforts, broken moan after broken moan tumbles out your mouth and into the sink, filling and filling and filling it in sync with how Javi your cunt.

You wonder how long till it all spills over the edge.

“Joder (Fuck),” he groans as you unconsciously squeeze him tighter, pulling him deeper into your walls. serves him right, for the teasing and the torturing. “Tienes el coño más lindo en todo el mundo. (You have the prettiest cunt in the whole world.)”

You feel lightheaded.

Warm, sweaty, covered in the fingerprints of a lover you shouldn’t be with.

The bathroom fills with an array of sounds. The slapping of skin against skin, the broken cries of an agent’s name, the mindless rambling of a man drunk on pleasure.

“So good to me, baby. Always so fucking good to me.”

“Gonna stay here forever, fuck. That sound good to you, corazón, hmm? Full of my cock always?”

“Look at yourself… Pura belleza (Pure beauty).”

He consumes you, mind, body and soul.

There’s no worrying about the happenings around the poker table, no listening out for your father’s car pulling in the driveway, no worrying about your tousled hair or sweating skin.

There’s just Javi.

Beautiful, gorgeous, deserving Javi.

“Please, please, Javi-“ The words all melt together, pleads becoming his name, his name becoming pleads.

You’re not sure what you’re begging for.

It’s okay though, Javi always knows what you need.

“I know, amor (love), I know,” he murmurs into your skin, butterfly kisses so gentle you wonder how they come from the same man that’s pistoning his hips into you like it’s the last chance he’ll ever get. “Let go, c’mon. Show me how much you love this cock, how much you love-”

He’s cut off by his own groan, you cunt fluttering around him as you inch closer and closer to the edge of euphoria.

Hands hurry off your waist, slipping between your thighs.

It brings a welcomed cushioning, shielding you from repeatedly bumping against the marble of the countertop.

Your legs part further, eagerly, an easy pathway for his yearning fingers to seek out the wonders of the female body as they brush over your clit.

The gentle tactile that he strokes over your bundle of nerves, partnered with the repeated brushing of his cock against that spot that makes you weak in the knees, drool out your mouth, it’s becoming too much.

Eyes glancing in the mirror, you wonder if yours is the same image of the whores who’d warmed his Colombian nights: sweat soaked skin, hooded eyes, messed up hair, wrinkled clothing.

He tilts your hips, a deeper angle to fuck into you that has you perching up onto the tips of your toes, fighting with the chance of losing balance.

He’d catch you, if you fell.

Wrap you up in an embrace that’s more familiar than your own.

“I’m gonna- Fuck! Corazón, need you to cum. Now, please. Please. Need to feel you-”

He’s babbling, losing composure and revealing the side of him you pray he never showed those other women: the side that needs, the side that longs, the side that begs to see you cum before he allows himself to, before he’s able to.

“Javi,” it’s a struggle to speak, but you endure, fighting off your orgasm and holding back tears. There’s something you need from him too. “Cum with me. Wanna be full of you, all of you-”

“¿Sí? (Yeah?)” He pleads back, thrusts already getting a little sloppier, hands a little shakier in the way they touch you. Much like his poker face, you know how to read the face he wears moments before he falls apart. “¿Eso es lo que quiere mi corazón? (Is that what my sweetheart wants?) Want me to cum in you, hm?”

“Yes, oh god yes! So bad, Javi, I want it so bad!”

“Ay, bebesita, no llores. (Aw, baby girl, don't cry.)” He coos, a condescending lilt to his words that has you falling into a bigger mess. “Shh, don’t worry, baby. Gonna fill you right up, so my cum’s dripping down your thighs when that poor kid asks you for your number. Thinks he’s got a shot with you cause he made you laugh, poor boy wouldn’t know how to deal with all the noises I get out of you.”

Javi divulges into a spine-tingling rant of burning hot jealousy, the kind that leaves your cheeks burning and your heart scorching, lit under a flame of your desire for more of him. To have him, equal parts physical and emotional.

You try warn him of the bubble that’s about to burst, the feeling in your loins building and building till it’s seconds way from toppling over.

“That’s it, baby, squeeze my cock. Lemme feel it,” He urges, heart pounding out his chest against your back, hands tightening their grip on your hips. “Need to feel you cum, ‘s all I want.”

You both crash and burn, together.

You fall first, a chaos of unfinished words, crying out for Javi.

He follows close behind, body pressed against your own like he’s willing you to fuse together, to become to entangled in one another that all possibilities of separation become void.

“Take it, cora-” He’s in your ears, in your head, in your heart. Inside of you, consuming you, as eagerly as he’s willing to be consumed by you, fingerprints on hips and teeth-marks in necks. “Take it, take it, take it.”

Arms envelop you from behind, crossing over your chest to pin you back against him.

He’s nearly stagnant, nothing but the twitch of his cock and the shallow thrusts he fucks you deeper with, filling you with another, another, another pump of his cum.

“So good,” Javi’s voice persists, teeth gritting as he bites back the need to be loud, to be heard, to lay a claim on you so blatant no one could deny hearing it. Your relationship with your father is the only thing that holds him back. “Good to me, baby. Always… Good… Díos. (God.)”

Craning your neck to the side, you manage to pull him in for a kiss.

It’s something he accepts easily, lips parting and melting into a dance against your own.

One of his hands falls over your jaw, twisting your face even closer to him.

The kiss dies slowly, with each of you refusing to truly part, pecks being splattered messily against the other’s mouth.

“Was I,” Javi interrupts you with another kiss, his free hand smoothing up and down your side, his hips still slowly rocking into yours, a delicious sting of overstimulation biting at your core. “Am I worth it?”

He pulls back, tired gaze warm as it takes in your messed features.

With the smile that stretches over his lips, however, one would think you were the prettiest creature in all the world.

He calls your name, calmly, slowly, like he’s trying to memorise the shape of it on his tongue. “You’re worth everything I could give, and more.”

There’s something behind the ways he says it that makes you believe him.

With little will to do so, you peel apart from each other, his hands moving quick to adjust your underwear as his cum starts to leak out onto your folds.

He exits the bathroom first, a final kiss placed on your cheek before your left alone, forced to confront the wrecked version of you that will never see your parent’s en suite in the same light.

Your dad arrives back just in time to see you slipping back down to sit at the poker table, no seat left for him to take but the one between his sweet daughter and his loyal best friend.

If only he knew he was placing you both where you most wanted to be when he suggested Javi give you a ride home, waving you both off through the car window with no idea Javi's cum sat dripping out your cunt, staining the car seat.

Your phone buzzes to life in your hand, slipping you out of your memories.

Your father’s contact name reads clearly on the screen.

Hitting decline one more time, you roll over and try ignore the gathering slick between your thighs.

Damn Javi and all the memories he haunts you with.

Mr, I don’t want a label You made me a little miss unstable (And it)

Days grow colder.

Nights grow longer.

You change your bedsheets, stuff a comforter back inside.

Pick out a tree, synthetic, and lump the box up the countless stairs to your apartment.

Try not to think of how he would’ve insisted on helping, refused to let you carry it.

Even if it culminated in him doubled over in pain, clutching his lower back.

Lights, baubles, action.

The tree’s smaller than you expect, barely reaching your hip, but it’s green, tree-shaped and festive. It’s enough.

Your decorations are minimal, a few inconsequential things you picked out your parents’ stash. There’s a Santa hat, frayed with time. A few cracked baubles, with string so thin you suspect they’ll snap off. A gingerbread man ornament, a glass snow-flake. A crooked star, missing one of its points, tops the tree.

A homemade snowman, one you’d gifted your parents after a busy day in nursery. Neither of them had the heart to tell you you’d made its nose a rather phallic shape.

And then there's the red phone-box, nestled somewhere in the middle, an etching of LONDON brandishing it as a reminder of your trip.

You’d picked it up in a tiny bookstore, right next door to The Distillery Club.

The winter season has never felt so lonesome, tucked away in your grown-up apartment.

There’s no fireplace to warm your hands, no hot cocoa boiling on the stove. No cheesy hallmark movies to laugh at with your mother, no racing past your father to grab the last slice of dessert.

It’s just you, alone, with only your wandering mind as company.

Sometimes, more often than not, it wanders to him. To if he’s alone.

To if he’s filling his heart as easily as he fills his bed.

To if he’s finally bought a second seat for his dingy balcony.

“Is this some tactic of yours?”

He hums, brows furrowing, lips pouting, smoke dragging into his lungs.

The cigarette sits perched between two fingers of the hand resting on your knee, his other curled around your waist.

“Some what?”

“Tactic,” you repeat. Watch him blow a puff a smoke, taste his ash at the back of your throat. “Only having one chair, so pretty girls have no choice but to sit in your lap.”

He lets his gaze wander away from the streets below and up to you, sitting pretty in his lap. Like a cat, draped over his thighs.

Nothing but his own rumpled, inside-out shirt to cover your skin.

Bare legs, messed hair, smudged lipstick.

Fingerprint bruises littering your hips, bitemarks etched into your collarbone.

“I gave you a choice,” he speaks with a reservation he didn’t have before, when he’d offered you a ride home from the bar. There’s an etching of something that’s diluting his expressions, sinking him deeper and deeper into his own pensive mind. “You were the one who insisted on sitting on me.”

“You weren’t complaining earlier.”

Nails pinch at your thigh, causing a squeal out of you.

A few birds fly off a nearby wire, a head or two turn in the street below.

They don’t see you, or Javi, or the lack of clothing that sits between you.

“Neither were you. In fact, you were a little busy fucking my fac-”

“Stop!” Your sudden modesty feels unearned, yet that does nothing to stop you from placing your hand over his mouth.

He licks at it, you grimace, he licks again.

Then takes another breath of nicotine, as you wipe the remnants of his spit onto his naked thigh.

When he offers the cigarette your way, you hesitate.

Picture your father, disappointed to see you smoke.

The whiff of Javi’s post-sex smell- muted cologne, matted sweat, burnt ash- steals your senses, reminds you you’ve already done enough to disappoint your father, a cigarette can’t do much damage.

So you let him hold it up to your mouth and inhale it’s poison.

You and Javi were never meant to happen.

Sure, the line had already been crossed weeks ago.

But that was supposed to stay in Vermont, tucked between snowy slopes and wooden cabins. Existing in a timeline separate from your reality, where you are your father’s precious daughter and Javi is his trustworthy colleague and friend, that is where it should have stayed.

And it had, for two weeks. Sixteen days, specifically.

You’d returned to classes, to sharing lunch breaks with your father in his office, to slowly moving more of your things out the family home and into your new apartment.

And Javi, from what you heard, had returned to keeping civilians safe, to sharing a drink or two with your father at the end of the work week, to flirting with every secretary within a mile radius.

Neither of your crossed paths and, when you nearly did, the other made the effort to turn a corner, shut a door, hide behind a wall.

Until tonight.

Until you ditched your mediocre date, some lame excuse of having a last-minute paper due.

Until you’d gone to console yourself over your failing love life, unknowingly sliding into a bar stool right next to the most desired cop in town.

Until he’d turned to you, tilted his head, and asked “d’you wanna get out of here?”

He’d offered to take you home.

The drive was quiet, tense, until his hand drifted over the gearstick and you dragged it down onto your thigh.

He squeezed.

You inched it further up, till the tips of his fingers brushed at the edge of your dress.

He took the invitation, took a turning towards his own place.

Brought you into his apartment, drowned you in his fountain of kisses, begged you to sit upon his face. He’d made you see stars beneath a roofed sky, eyes rolling so far back they threatened to get stuck there.

With barely a moments recovery from a third blinding orgasm, he dragged you down the expanse of his body, sat you down on his cock and refused to help your overstimulated, puddle-brained self ride him, grinning cunningly with his back pressed against the mattress as you struggled through shaky legs.

Eventually, he tired and launched himself, arms tangling behind your back, feet planted flat behind you, hips fucking up into your battered cunt until you both came to a haltering crescendo.

He’d layed you down to rest, cleaned you of any mess, and then wandered out to his balcony, inviting you to join him when the feeling returned to your legs.

Which brings you here, fifteen minutes later.

“...wouldn’t have to be serious,” he’s speaking, finishing off a sentence you don’t quite catch the start of.

“Huh?”

“This. Us. It could be casual, y’know?” Another puff of smoke slips right through his lips. “If that’s what you’re worrying about… your dad, and all that other stuff. I don’t need a label, not if it means I get to have… We could keep it casual, if that’s what you want.”

It takes a few moments for you to fully register his words, and then a few more to formulate a response.

“Is that what you want?”

He shrugs.

Pulls in another breath of his cigarette.

Stubs it out on the arm of the chair.

And says nothing.

You assume it’s a yes.

Because what else could Javier Peña, notorious womaniser, want with you if not a casual, no-strings-attached permit to sleep with you, as many times as he sees fit, without the risk of losing his job or, worse, his best friend?

Silence falls upon you both.

You twist in his lap.

He tightens his hold.

Within a half’s hour, he’s got your hands white knuckling as they grip the metal bannister of his balcony, his own hands busy pulling your hips back to meet each of his desperate thrusts, not even the cool air of the night enough to soothe the flaming desire that burns between you.

Your stomach twists, your mouth dries, your eyes water at the thought of him out on that balcony now.

Somebody else, some new body sat in your spot, upon his lap as they exchange smoke rings and warm mouths.

Broke me big time It’s funny and I’m laughing baby You think i’m alright

The Laredo sheriff’s department is known best for three things: its lack of parking, its swoon-worthy ex-DEA agent, and its office holiday parties.

Each year, it’s the same.

The station, decked out in decorations.

A Christmas wreath, mistletoe hanging from every doorway, egg-nog and mulled wine.

It’s not just Christmas.

It’s menorahs, and ficus trees, and a statues of different gods.

Each piece of culture, tradition, holiday that makes up the people that inhabit the station, day in and day out, behind desks and in cop cars, filing paperwork and fetching coffees, represented in some way, celebrated.

Each member of staff is encouraged to bring their friends, their family.

Their spouse, their mothers.

Anyone, and everyone, is welcome.

Then there’s the gift exchange, a Secret Santa system, optional for each member of staff.

It’s the part you look forward to most.

Crowding your dad the minute he gets home on the first of December, poking and prodding till he lets it spill who he’s got.

Fishing out a pen, some paper.

Drawing up a list, made of details and anecdotes your father remembers of his target.

Dragging your shop-avoidant father down to the mall, for a day of gift hunting and sweet-tooth indulging.

Getting to watch your father’s coworker open their gift, eyes lighting up as you once again knock the ball out the park and gift them something perfectly tailored to them, winning your dad the spot of top gift-giver year after year.

This year, there was none of that.

No list of pros and cons for each gift option.

No trying to crack just what exactly your dad should gift his person.

No waiting with baited breath to watch them open it, heart racing with that little fear of them not liking it, of you failing.

No, the moment that name fell from your father’s mouth, you knew what he needed to get.

Hinted at it, slightly.

Claimed you’d smelt it on a friend, thought it would be a good idea.

Sipping on some wine and picking at the buffet, you watch him pick up his gift.

Hold it up to his ear, shake it.

Look down at the box, confused, then tear into the wrapping paper.

The whole room stops.

Not really, but it feels like it does, as somewhere across the room Javier Peña holds up a bottle of that damn cologne.

And, when his eyes instinctively find yours, it feels like everything else fades away.

Fades to grey.

It’s just him, and you. The only two within the room, holding a secret too heavy on the tongue to ever speak it aloud.

He knows.

Of course he knows.

Knows you’d watched him spray it on his skin, day in, and day out.

Knows you’d worn it on your own, sunk it deep into your pores after intertwining your souls upon wrinkled sheets.

Knows you’d watch its contents decrease over time, time you’d spent with him.

That bottle of cologne reminiscent of a timer on you both, that morning before the hospital trip becoming the last few sprays he got out of it.

Colour returns to the world that surrounds you as your dad steps into view.

He’s hugging Javi, pathetically tipsy and ignorant to the lipstick stain on his cheek, no doubt ingrained to his skin with how hell-bent he is on having your mother kiss him beneath each mistletoe.

They’re exchanging words you don’t hear, slapping one another on the back.

You turn on your heel, insides twisting as nausea overcomes you at the scene.

The next time you see Javi is hours later.

You’re trying to leave, tempted to take the good old Irish exit and just slip out a back door.

But your parents- ne, your father- are so busy show-ponying you around the room, that you fail to take a single step that goes unnoticed.

“There she is!” Your father calls out, somewhere behind you, as you slip your hand into the arm of your coat. This act sparks outrage, a frown birthing onto his face. “Don’t tell me you’re leaving too.”

You say you’re tired.

He boos, loudly, like he’s not the chief of police and a whole grown adult.

Grabs at you, lovingly, trying to pry the coat out of your hands.

The effort is minimum, and you know he’s only messing around.

You can leave, if you want to, even if he’d rather you stay.

“It’s not even midnight and you two buzzkills are leaving!” He wails, all the while he’s reaching around and helping you slip your other arm into the coat.

That’s when Javi’s face comes into view, over the arch of your dad’s shoulder, sporting a smile and a pair of keys dangling off one finger.

You try your best to counter his smile with your own, though your throat feels dry and your cheeks feel tight.

“I can’t believe I’m being betrayed like this by two of my favourite people!” The smile slips before you can catch it, eyes widening at your father’s words.

Words you’d spent months agonising over the thought of hearing. Picturing the circumstances in which he’d find out. Imagining the horrendous fallout, a red slash over Javier’s reputation. Swearing you’d quit it, quit him, and then winding up tangled in his sheets again, head pressed to his chest, eyes closed in the soundest of sleeps.

Javi plays it cool.

Nudges your dad’s shoulder, shakes his head and tells him to “quit the dramatics, viejo (old man).”

“I gotta head out to my pop’s first thing in the morning, he’s wanting me to help him rewire some of the fences.” Comes out as his excuse, one your dad can’t really argue against.

He knows better than anyone that Javi drops everything for his dad.

Well, better than anyone but you.

Your excuse, however, falls a little short, a consequence of the last minute conjuring of the lie.

“I’ve, uh, got an early class. Don’t wanna flunk out in my last year, right?”

Your dad stares at you.

Your mum stares at you.

Javi stares at you.

And that’s how you know you’re screwed.

“Class? I thought you were on winter break.”

Javi takes the momentary distraction to shrug his coat on, over those broad shoulders.

Shoulders that twist with the rest of him, as he makes space for you in the doorway, nodding you over. Here, he’s saying without really speaking, escape with me.

So you do, tiptoeing past your parents as though, the slower and quieter you move, the less they’ll notice your approach to the exit.

“Oh! Yeah, I- Sorry, I meant that I-”

“The library, it’s still open for the graduate students,” Javi swoops in effortlessly, dragging the spotlight off you.

He takes hold of your jacket, too, slipping the zip into place and dragging it up the length of your torso, over your chest, till it rests snuggly at your sternum.

A little too snug, making each new inhale deeper, harder, practically heaving the air into your lungs.

At least that’s the reason you give yourself.

You don’t get to dwell on it too long, fortunately, for your mother lets out a gasp.

She points, eyes a little widened by excitement, at the both of you and nudges at your father.

“Look!” She tells him, and you watch in confusion as he displays her same reaction, eyes wide and mouth agape.

Then comes the laughter, straight out the depths of your dad’s belly and right to your weak heart, a melody that reminds you so much of easy Sundays and curling up next to him on the sofa, watching kids’ shows that seemed to entertain him more than you.

“Oh that’s just,” he takes a laugh break, doubling over slightly, his own finger joined in pointing at you two, beneath the doorway. “Too perfect!”

Before you can inquire on either of your parents bizarre reactions, Javi’s eyes are staring into your own and pointing upwards.

Wrapped with a red bow and barely hanging onto the door frame with a single strip of tape, a mistletoe stares down at you, two white berries like mini eyes.

When you glance at the agent once more, it’s hard to read what he’s thinking.

His shoulders are tense, his lips are pursed, his brows are furrowed. But, his eyes.

His eyes burn you with an unspoken intensity, a look he should never possess in front of your parents.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” You mom, camera in hand, urges you both, a wide grin cast upon her face.

You dad is in no better state, rushing forward to squeeze you both closer, one hand clasped over the back of Javi’s head.

When the once-agent exhales a nerve-striken breath, the warmth of it, of him, hits your neck.

“Dad, c’mon, stop-” you’ve never imagined yourself stuck like this, your mother and father both urging you to kiss a man you spent months tossing and turning in bedsheets with behind their back.

The creatively deviant part of your brain tells you this is how it could be, maybe, in some other life.

Some other life, where Javi’s not a cop, you’re new in town, and you both bump into each other at the grocery store.

Both of you reaching out for the same apple, or box of cereal, or bottle of milk.

Your hands, brushing.

Your eyes, meeting.

He’d charm you, easily as he always has.

Get your number and then, the next day, a date.

One date leading to two, three, four, more dates.

Till you bring him home to meet your parents at last, squeezing his hand tighter when he tries to pry it away as the door opens to your father’s stern face.

It would take a while, you reckon, for your dad to see past the difference in years.

Your mother wouldn’t care, wouldn’t spare a second thought to it, not when she notices how much he makes you laugh and how he can’t keep his eyes off of you in any room you occupy.

This could be your first Christmas together, your parents begging for one sweet photo of you under the mistletoe, before you both head off to spend the rest of the holiday season with Javi’s father.

But it isn’t, and you’re not.

“C’mon, it’s bad luck not to!” Back in the present, in reality, your dad’s found his way over to your mother’s side. “Peña, just kiss the girl on the cheek for Christ sake, I ain’t gonna bite your head off for it this one time!”

His lips brush your cheek like an autumn breeze.

Gentle, a hint of warmth, a tickle from the wisps of his well-groomed moustache.

“Get a bit closer, you’re not fully in frame!”

The flash goes off on your mother’s camera, and the two give a little cheer, and Javi wraps an arm around your back, squeezing you a little closer.

When all is said and done, your mother’s forcing you both to stare at the camera screen, a perfect picture of the most doomed couple to ever grace this Earth.

Such dramatics in your thoughts reminds you of the copious glasses of prosecco you’d downed throughout the night, and of your intentions to get yourself home before you done something stupid.

Like stand under the mistletoe with your former casual lover, the very same man your father calls for golf matches and March Madness debriefs.

Javi offers you a ride home, an idea your father approves of.

“I’m heading that way anyway, gotta pick up a few things before I drive out to the ranch.”

A part of you thinks he’s lying, wanting any excuse for a moment alone with you, but then that’s the kind of delusions you shouldn’t be feeding into.

You and Javi don’t spend time alone anymore.

You and Javi do not exist together anymore.

Maybe you never did.

“It’s okay, I already called a cab.”

You part ways at the door, your father watching you from inside.

Javi calls your name, before you can take more than a few steps.

For a second, he just looks at you.

Then his arms are pulling you in, and he’s got you right against his steady chest, and he’s resting his head atop your own, arms squeezing tightly at your sides.

“Get home safe.”

He walks away before you can tell him to do the same, the door slamming to his car the last thing you hear as you pull out your phone and call a cab.

It takes twenty minutes for it to appear, in which the rain starts and your clothes get soaked, but all that and the fifteen dollar fare are a cheaper price to pay than the torture of letting Javier Peña drive you home.

Crawl up the stairs, unlock the apartment door, drop your clothes onto the floor.

You find sanctuary under the shower, soap suds and boiling water, a dynamic duo that scrub off any remnants of his skin against yours.

Even as you step out, fully cleaned and towel wrapped around yourself, you catch a hint of his cologne, the very same one you’d made sure your dad picked out for him.

And as you pick your coat off the ground, a distant voice that sounds much like your mother scolding you for leaving such a mess, you notice it.

First, just a little extra weight.

Then, scratchy paper as your hand dives into the left pocket.

The wrapping is haphazard, with an uneven bow tied atop it, but that’s not what matters.

You tear away at it, let the paper fall to the floor at your feet.

Then you’re met with a small box, which you tear open too.

And find it sitting neatly among balls of yarn, the prettiest, most delicate looking glass bauble.

It’s ribbon a deep green, and it’s centre an image of mountain slopes, backed by a green forest and a valley full of wooden lodges.

It shakes in your grasp, and you spy the snowglobe-esque white foam that dances around within it.

In it’s centre, in bold, italic and green, Vermont.

One more glance in the box.

There’s a note, tucked at the bottom.

You fish it out in one breath, hold it up to read what it says.

Corazón, For your tree. I hope there’s still space.

#javier peña smut #pedro pascal smut #javier peña x reader #javier peña fanfiction #javier peña oneshot

241 notes · View notes

godbirdart · 1 year ago

Note

Looking at your recent commissions, those backgrounds are soo pretty!! Do you have any tips for backgrounds? I always struggle with them :>

aAA many many thanks!!

backgrounds can absolutely be a struggle but they don't have to be! they just require a little more creative planning~!

whether it be a commission or a personal drawing, if I'm building an elaborate art piece i focus on establishing the background First.

the background is the stage for your character! planning the background first will make it easier to tailor the character's actions and how they interact with the environment around them.

planning the background first can be the difference between your character standing awkwardly front and center with the setting going on behind them, or actually participating in their environment.

if i'm super stumped for background ideas, i browse stock image sites to get inspiration. sometimes it helps to doodle on an image to generate some ideas - kinda like you're playing with JPEGs like dolls.

that said - while i'm pinpointing WHAT i want to draw, i keep the ideas loose. i don't want to focus on the itty-bitty details until i've got the overall aesthetic and layout in mind, as i might get inspired to add something in later!

THUMBNAILING

if you're planning a big piece it can be helpful to break it down into something bite-sized before you go all in and start lining or painting. these are "thumbnails" - fast little sketches that establish the scene in a way that doesn't consume a lot of time or effort. it's also great as a little perspective exercise as a treat.

here i decided i want to draw a character walking home in a back alley street. with these photo references in mind, i can plan a layout and how the character will act in the scene. is this a candid shot? are they posing cutely? are they looking down at us in a tense way? there are many ideas to be had!

after you've chosen the layout / vibe for your idea, you can scale up your thumbnail to your preferred canvas size and start fleshing out the details. be sure to keep referring to your reference images to get additional ideas, such as storefronts, items, props etc!

3D MODELS

If you're trying to create a unique environment that photo references simply cannot help you visualize, 3D models exist! This gives you that ability to rotate / scale things for better visualization. Clip Studio has a vast catalogue of 3D models to download For Free that you can fiddle around with. i know there are many 3D builder sites out there as well, though i've never made use of them so i'm afraid i cannot recommend any off the top of my head. hell, you can even use the Sims game to design a setting and go from there!

also if anyone is going to come into my house and say 3D models are cheating: they are not. using a 3D model to better grasp an angle or get a better idea for perspective is not cheating. using 3D models to help plan the environment in your art is not cheating. they are no different than brushes; these are tools made to HELP YOU. use them!

PERSPECTIVE

perspective and angles can make a HUGE difference in the art piece. there's nothing wrong with static long shots! if that's what you want to draw, do it!! there's no right and wrong here!

but if you're finding your work to be a little robotic and stiff, slap an angle in there. consider an overhead view. these same techniques are applied to photography and film! nothing wrong with wide shots, but every once in a while it can help to throw in a dutch angle.

if there is one note i'd like to leave off on, it's that your backgrounds do not have to be 100% accurate-to-life to be Good. unless realism is something you're really striving for in your style, don't feel compelled to nitpick every brick and leaf in your art. us artists can tend to over-prune our work until our art looks a little bare and soulless. flaws can give your work character, and that's often a lot more appealing than how accurate the scale ratio between background building A and building B are [again, unless you WANT to go for that realistic look then you can fuss over those details all you like].

i hope this helped a little! MY APOLOGIES FOR MAKING IT SO LONG AH

#art advice #art tutorials #godbirdart #long post

617 notes · View notes

abstractnaturaldisaster · 4 months ago

Text

is it over now? (was it over then?)

part eight

part nine: see you come running

Eddie was slowing realizing that introducing Robin and Nancy to the Corroded Coffin crew was the perfect way to lose all of his sanity in one go. Eddie had continued chatting with Robin and bouncing ideas off of her but nothing was clicking and Eddie finally broke down and decided the whole crew needed to come together over pizza to write and score some not cheesy but totally grand gesture worthy songs for Steve.

Eddie's label wasn't thrilled with the abrupt u-turn from an angsty heavy break up album to a single song in that vein and then sappy love songs for the rest of the album but thankfully Corroded Coffin had earned enough cachet over the years that Ronnie was able to convince the label that the songs would still have their signature flair just less angsty and more romantic -- more I would bleed for you and less I would watch eagles rip out your intestines and laugh.

As a group, Corroded Coffin was generally ambivalent towards love most of the time. Ronnie was not interested in dating much more content with her plants and foster kittens. Jeff had been dating the same girl since kindergarten basically and while she was lovely and totally worth swooning over, Jeff had gotten his cheese out early on through middle school notes passed through lockers. Frank and Gareth kind of fluctuated between meeting people at shows and trying whatever fad dating site existed for celebrities at the time but hadn't had serious partners in several years.

All that to say, Eddie was fucking banging his head against the wall for the fifth time in so many hours trying to find another rhyme for love that wasn't glove or shove and his bandmates had taken to throwing little pieces of things into his rapidly frizzing messy bun. They needed reinforcements.

By the time pizza and the girls arrived Eddie was laying upside down with his head dangling off the couch singing an over the top version of I Miss You and hoping none of his friends ever told Tom Delonge. Robin and Ronnie promptly cut him off so his hair didn’t land square in the pepperoni.

"Alright let's get the show on the road," Nancy stated after she had ushered the group together onto couches in some semblance of order after the empty pizza boxes had been bussed.

"You can't rush art, Nancy," Eddie snarked which was probably overall a little too daring based on the look Robin sent him.

"But you can actually write something down instead of flipping through Steve's instagram and sigh over his hair," Ronnie responded earning her a high five from Robin.

Nancy had brought over a big flipchart and colored pens and was starting to jot down ideas that were being thrown around the room. So far Eddie had added a doodle of himself looking up at Steve but hadn't really contributed anything else to the board.

"What are you guys known for?" Robin asked.

"Uhm mostly spooky shit and more recently a break up song that low key ruined my life?" Eddie answered.

"What Eddie means to say is that we generally write fantasy based albums that have some sort of an overall theme or story and tend to be a heavily metaphored summation of something one of us was dealing with," Ronnie clarified after thumping Eddie on the back of his head.

"Examples?" Nancy asked.

"So our debut album was basically growing up in our small town and not fitting in but told through the metaphor of the nine circles of hell," Jeff piped in.

"Definitely aren't beating the satanist allegations back home, fam," Gareth chimed in from the kitchen.

"Okay so why don't we do Steve and Eddie's story through a metaphor y'all haven't done yet. Greek myth?" Robin suggested.

"Already done that," Ronnie answered.

"Lord of the Rings vibes?" Nancy threw out.

"Second album," Frank answered.

"Constellations?" Robin asked.

"Fourth album," Jeff said.

"Okay well what haven't you done?" Nancy was growing impatient with twenty questions.

"Eddie, I think it might be time to pull out the original Munson Mythology," Gareth said through a mouthful of cold pizza.

"I feel like there's a story there," Robin prodded.

"I mean, kind of. So I think y'all might know some of this but my family is mostly from Appalachia and I moved with my uncle to a bigger city where I met the rest of these guys so he could get a job at the plant instead of in the coal mines. We all became friends because we were part of a ttrpg group in school and I ran a campaign based a lot on the old stories Uncle Wayne used to tell me about the mountains. It became nicknamed the Munson Mythology and we've been thinking about putting it into an album basically since we started but I could never get it to sit right and our label wasn't the most excited about americana and metal," Eddie summarized as succinctly as he could.

"I think we could get them around to it now. Especially with how popular the single got. We could do a whole like americana cryptid vibe and keep it kind of spooky but ultimately romantic," Ronnie added.

"No pressure though, Eddie. I know Steve is already a personal subject matter but talking about your family lore adds a whole 'nother layer. We'd understand if you wanted to go another direction," Jeff said.

"I think I might be ready for it, guys. I mean Steve's the closest I've come to finding home outside of the mountains and it's something different than we've done before. I think Gare might be right. It's probably time," Eddie said.

"Then I guess we are writing a metal appalachian love story, friends," Robin clapped her hands as if to indicate it was time to get to work.

"Alright, Eddie. Time to tell us some stories," Nancy said.

"What do y'all know about skinwalkers?" Eddie asked as he settled in to tell some folktales.

***

through a random twist of events (aka someone actually wanting to find my fic which holy crap is so flattering omg) i've come back to this work. thanks anon for kicking me back into this au which is so fun to write. the boys will be back together soon just wanted to add some buddy hijinks as i think Ronnie and Robin would be cautious besties and i wanted to see that happen.

also it's been over two months since i worked on this so if you see plot holes no you didn't. one of these days i will put this up on ao3 and go through and make sure i'm consistent with everyone's backstory but for now just go with it. :p

it is a truth universally acknowledged for some reason i absolutely suck at tagging. i think i have been consistent but all these parts should be tagged "was it over then ficlet" if you have trouble finding them. i also might have to work on a master list situation as i will probably not get better at tagging anytime soon. but here we go:

@lololol-1234 @swimmingbirdrunningrock @zombiethingy @grtwdsmwhr @dreamercec @anne-bennett-cosplayer @strawberryyyenthusiast

@mensch-anthropos-human @kal-ology @ttyrussss @kristmkris @starman-jpg @wonderland-girl143-blog @child-of-cthulhu @legalmenace87 @adealwithher @practicallybegging

@lunaraquaenby @stripey82 @lexyvey @goodolefashionedloverboi @mothmamhasyourlocation @mugloversonly @sherrylyn0628 @steddieinthesun @wonderland-girl143-blog @counting-dollars-counting-stars @bookworm0690

@knightly-reblogs @rjwinterfell @kcsplace @y4r3luv @thedragonsaunt

#steve x eddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #steddie fic #steddie #don't worry robin will fix it #angst #angst with a happy ending #rockstar eddie #actor steve #was it over then ficlet

102 notes · View notes

somethingsteff · 6 days ago

Note

Political prompt!!

President Obi-Wan and political reporter Anakin get in a heated discussion in the press conference room that leads to some heated sex😏

Almost 2k words later and I bring you this little morsel! I had a ton of fun with this and really leaned into the West Wing vibes for it (I maintain that Charlie would make a great bodyman for President Kenobi). I hope you like it, friend!

Obi-Wan felt his nails dig painfully into his palms, but he was unable to release the tight fists. It was bad enough that someone had gone after a school - a school, children! - but for one of the press corps to accuse the administration of not investigating to their fullest potential. It was unfathomable. They had just received confirmation from a local health department that the recent string of illnesses at a Mandalore school district was from someone maliciously tampering with their water supply that morning. The federal government only just got asked to intervene.

What more could Obi-Wan have done? He had immediately quarantined the buildings and dispatched a third party investigatory team to the site. He contacted the CDC and WHO for support in quick and effective treatment for all those who have been affected. Hell, he even asked his bodyman to compile a list of names and contact information so he could make calls to all the families, personally.

All he could think about as he got each update was how easily it could have been Korkie, poisoned and in the hospital, if Satine hadn't brought him with her to Coruscant so she could be her best friend's Press Secretary. And now she was fending off accusations left and right by one man in particular.

Anakin Skywalker.

Though he was a relatively new member of the press corps, he was well on the way toward making a name for himself. Obi-Wan had been curious about the curly-haired reporter himself. Now he was only gritting his teeth and wishing the boy would just shut up.

“Does this administration have any excuses for why it's not taking action toward any of the suspected perpetrators?” Anakin's angry voice rang out through Obi-Wan's screen as he watched Satine deftly handle the angry man. Again.

He couldn't handle it any longer.

Quickly navigating the hallways in the West Wing, Obi-Wan didn't notice the wave of people standing as he approached and sitting after he moved past them. He made it to the reporters’ bullpen at the back of the Press Room in record time, and instructed an aide to hold Skywalker off after the reporters were dismissed. He wanted to answer some of his questions personally.

A guard kept the reporters from streaming past Obi-Wan, instead guiding them toward another door and out of the room, but allowed Satine to approach him.

“Don't do anything you'll regret, Obi. He's just an angry kid, he doesn't mean anything by it.”

He couldn't bring himself to answer her, but did squeeze her hand as she walked away, taking comfort in her corresponding embrace.

“Mr. Skywalker,” Obi-Wan walked into the mostly empty Press Room and gestured for the remaining staff to leave them. “I hear you have some questions about the incident in Mandalore. Rather than letting you continue harassing my staff, I thought I'd give you the opportunity to ask me your questions directly. Off the record.”

Anakin's face didn't change when he saw Obi-Wan walk in, he hadn't expected it to, but at the mention of the school poisoning anger flared up in his eyes once more.

“Gee, thanks, Kenobi-”

“President Kenobi.”

“-I do have a few questions for you. But it really all boils down to one; why are you sitting on your ass instead of doing something about the attack?”

Obi-Wan had to fight not to outwardly bristle at the accusation that he hadn't done anything. “I assure you, we are doing everything within our power to get to the bottom of this situation.”

“‘Doing everything in your power’?” Anakin mocked. “Please! You're all twiddling your thumbs until you can get an optics report so you don't lose face in the election cycle.”

A muscle in Obi-Wan's jaw twitched, but he let Anakin keep going.

“I really expected better from you Kenobi, this shitshow-”

“Enough.” Obi-Wan didn't raise his voice, but he let all the ice he'd been feeling in his veins since this whole situation started seep into his tone. “I am the President, and regardless of what you think of my actions you will address me as such and with the respect that position deserves. You will cease calling me ‘Kenobi’, you will call me ‘Mr. President,’ ‘President Kenobi,’ or ‘Sir.’”

It appeared that Anakin wanted to interrupt, so he held out a hand.

“Now. I don't give a damn about optics, especially regarding an attack on children. What I do care about is completing this investigation and prosecution quickly, thoroughly, and with as little impact on the victims as possible. I will not let this become a media storm, and I will not stand for you accosting my staff.” He looked at Skywalker for a moment before coming to a decision. “Were you aware that Press Secretary Kryze is from Mandalore? No? Well, prior to moving out here after my confirmation her son went to that school. She knows many of the children and parents, and in all likelihood she and her son would have been directly impacted were she not out here.”

Anakin finally had the audacity to look ashamed, quickly gazing down at the floor and scuffing the toe of his dress show against the carpet. His cheeks were beginning to turn pink, and Obi-Wan realized his own face felt warm and his breathing had become heavy. Throughout his lecture he had become more and more riled up, letting his famed control slip just a fraction, and it seemed to cause the boy in front of him to squirm.

Good.

While he took the time to catch his breath, Obi-Wan looked more closely at the reporter. He was fidgeting with the hem of his dress shirt - he vaguely recalled that it frequently became untucked as Skywalker used the edge to clean the lenses on his black-rimmed glasses - tugging it down lower and- oh.

Oh.

He was hard.

The thin slacks that fit snugly along thick thighs did little to hide the bulge that was now pressing along his inseam. Try as he might, there was nothing he could do to hide it from his President.

The silence finally stretched to its breaking point and Anakin looked up. His eyes were blown, pupils swallowing what Obi-Wan knew was a lovely shade of blue. “I'm sorry, sir,” he said in a small voice. “It won't happen again.”

Obi-Wan considered the stress he had been under for the past few days - really since he was sworn into office, but the additional stress of late hadn't been any help. With a deep exhale, he decided to test his luck and see if he couldn't partake in some stress relief while simultaneously ensuring this reporter really did learn his lesson.

He stepped closer to the young man, coming toe to toe and letting his breath fan across his face. “You're correct. It won't ever happen again. And we're going to make sure of that.”

Telegraphing his moves clearly so that Anakin could stop him at any time, Obi-Wan reached his hand out and cupped the nape of his neck, pulling their mouths together into a kiss that started chaste and quickly devolved from there.

Anakin let the older man's tongue slip into his mouth, submitting so beautifully, and followed his lead as Obi-Wan, President Kenobi, led him over to the podium at the head of the room. As quickly as the kiss had begun, it was over. Obi-Wan spun Anakin around and bent him at the waist, forcing him to brace himself against the podium with his forearms.

“Now, darling, let us see if we can really drive this lesson home.”

Obi-Wan reached around and unbuckled the reporter's belt before opening his fly and pulling his trousers and briefs down to mid-thigh.

He trailed one hand up the prone body before him and traced the plush lips. “Suck,” he said directly into Anakin's ear and felt the responding shiver as the younger man eagerly pulled the digits into his mouth. “That's a good lad.”

Thoroughly coated in saliva, Obi-Wan pulled his fingers back and let them fall to trace along the rim hidden between the perfect globes of Anakin's ass.

“Now relax,” he breathed as he slid one finger in to the knuckle.

Anakin's body quickly adjusted, and soon the single digit was joined by one, two, three more until Anakin was a panting, quivering mess.

“Please, Mr. President. I'm ready, I'm, uhn, ready.”

“Very good, darling.”

Despite his blood supply diverting to his aching cock, Obi-Wan quickly undid his own slacks and pulled himself out of the ever-tightening confines. He spit in his hand and slicked up his own length before pressing the head against Anakin's loosened hole.

“Are you sure you want to do this, dear one?”

“Yes, Mr. President. I want you. Please.”

Obi-Wan slowly pushed in and immediately felt a glorious heat surround him. It was addicting, and he found himself hoping he could have this again and again. Once he was fully seated he paused, waiting for Anakin to adjust to his formidable size. Only when he felt Anakin's hips push backward, trying to fuck himself on the cock filling him, did he start thrusting.

Soon the only sounds in the room were the obscene slap of their hips and Anakin's constant gasps and moans.

“President Kenobi, I'm gonna-” Anakin's sentence cut off with a moan.

“That's it, darling. Can you come like this?”

Anakin nodded and Obi-Wan increased his pace, frantically slamming into the body beneath his hands. As he looked down to watch his cock disappear into the reporter - his reporter? - he shifted his grip on those glorious hips so that he could dig his thumbs in and pull those plush cheeks apart. The slight jostling must have changed their positions just enough because Anakin let out a long and wordless groan, his arms giving out beneath him.

Obi-Wan continued to punish the younger man's prostate, chasing his own orgasm as much as he was his partners, when he felt muscles tense beneath his hands and around his length, Anakin letting out another cry as he spilled across the podium.

It only took one, two, three more frantic pumps before Obi-Wan felt his own release crash over him, hips stuttering as they worked to push his seed deep into his partner's willing body. When he finally felt the last dregs of his orgasm fade he let gravity pull his body on top of Anakin's on the podium, taking a moment to catch his breath before even contemplating slipping out of him.

“Thank you, Mr. President.” Though Anakin's voice was still a little shaky it sounded content and drowsy.

“I'm glad you've learned your lesson, Mr. Skywalker.”

He was forced out of Anakin as the younger man stood straighter and turned around. “I don't know, Mr. President. I'm a pretty slow learner. I might need another lecture.”

Obi-Wan rolled his eyes, but straightened them both up nonetheless and led the infuriating reporter over to the Residence. He had a feeling it would take more than one more lecture and he found he was very amicable to the idea.

#smutty political obikin #obikin #obikin ficlet #guess i really cant call it a ficlet #obikin fanfic #distract me from the red mirage

48 notes · View notes

mirakurutaimu · 1 year ago

Note

have you ever talked about the origins of your sona/her design inspirations before? ive always really loved her design and i like hearing about how nice character designs come to be

here is the full tale

she started off as a mere picrew years ago

and then people drew fanart of that design whenever i started streaming (like this retro mimi model @catastrothy made)

and then at some point i thought "hm wouldn't it be cool if i paid an artist to make her design better" and then i approached noted good local artist @cnmchn and we went back and forth on some stuff and She were born proper

here is some other behind the scenez

hair accessories were considered at one point but then we thought of the ミ earrings and i just colored in one of her streaks black lmao

final design ended up using a combination of outfit elements from our two examples, rip to alt universe skirt spats and kneesocks short braid loose hoodie long shirt ribs mimi (she will be missed) (i should draw that sometime)

anyways thats all. thats da mimi roundup. sure hope read mores function on this site

edit: i forgot to mention design inspirations.

uh. riamu failgirl, kumbhira granblue, we almost stole astolfo's haircut sans hair vents (though I think it was actually edward elric who made me think 'braid'), vampy granblue. as for the tenets of her design i just wanted a cute, colorful, energetic, annoying, smug, punchable little beast to match my vibe. her fashion sense is like the complete opposite of mine tho lmao this little freak dresses in this skimpy summery crop top and short shorts getup and shit meanwhile i'm a jeans-all-year and longsleeves/hoodie at all times kinda bitch. at least she still melts in the heat like i do

anyways i figure i may as well dump some silly canon stuff here too:

she's a being from what she says is 'the hell that froze over' (because it sounds cool), in actuality it's probably something more like a frozen-over planet with some level of aquatic life under the ice.

at a base level, she's kinda like... if a slimegirl was a crab? like, she's not made out of slime it's still Meat Stuff but it's definitely amorphous and should usually be contained within a thick carapace on the exterior (so when fully shelled, lookin like some kinda scary lookin pointy bone demon). she claims to have lost hers or that it hasn't grown in yet or some such (hence she only has the horn covering)

anyways. her inside meat being amorphous = limited shapeshifting ability, so she somehow ended up on Earth and is posing as a humanoid and having a ton of fun eating and smoking and breaking stuff. but she still fuckin' hates the sun and heat

other fun facts:

loves meat, milk, sweet stuff, clothes, sleeping, swimming, video james (bad at them), money

hates spicy stuff, hot weather, working, people as stubborn as she is, waiting

i'm torn on when her birthday should be. officially it's technically 5/21, but 3/3 would be cute...

believes drinking milk will help grow her shell in

has a strong sixth sense due to having similar organic function to ampullae of lorenzini

durable. if you punch her it caves in like some monkey d luffy shit

#askmi #impicture #vtuber

260 notes · View notes

the-100-days-of-junkan · 1 month ago

Note

Hey, I love your Junkan art! Just was wondering, you recommended VanadisValentine 's work, which I agree with as I love all their Junkan stuff... but I was wondering, do you have any other Junkan recommendations? Would love to hear them if you do! (Ps. I haven't finished your blood bag work but what I have read of it so far I'm loving!)

Why thankyou for this question! First off glad you like all of the Junkan stuff so far, it's been a labor of love (and obsession) that took 9 months but seeing all the positive reactions has made it all worth it! As for recommendations, I am happy to oblige. I'll admit I haven't read every single Junkan Fic there is, I have made it a habit to go on a crazy binge of as much Junkan as I can, I go through every single page on AO3 and read anything tagged as soft (along with anything that looks like it was worth the risk.)

Hell when it comes to Junkan fics I literally have the Junko/Mikan tag for AO3 bookmarked and right at the top of my screen so I can click anytime, and I'm sure I still have plenty of fics left to read whether it's on this site or somewhere else hidden deep within google search. So if anyone wants to go in the comments/reblogs and give recommendations or even shill their own stuff go right ahead!~

Be sure to remember these, they'll be on the test later (this is foreshadowing) So do allow me to give you the long list of fics to read when you're feeling the vibe

I've already recommended VanadisValentine's works in previous posts, however for the sake of a complete list I'll still put em here.

The Marvelous Makeover of Mikan Tsumiki - VanadisValentine (Absolute Classic, also just really fun to say)

Everything You've Ever Dreamed - VanadisValentine (Quite possibly one of my favorite Fanfics just in general)

Turn Out the Lights - VanadisValentine (More focused on the characters separated along with their thoughts on the relationship but it's a great fic for when you're in the mood)

When Am I Gonna Lose You? - VanadisValentine (An 18+ Fic just as a warning, but if you're old enough and looking for something in that field this is an amazing piece, even with all my skill in the field of drawing funny pictures I don't think I could depict anything near as beautiful as the descriptions featured here. Does that sound pretentious? Yes! But I know what I am lol.) Year of Love and Despair - VanadisValentine (Last one from her on this list, also ongoing! If you want a variety of stories of these two ranging from fluffy to dramatic to sometimes even saucy then this fic is the place for you. Genuine highlight of my year and has helped me get through the tougher days very often. You can also look and see my really excessively long comments on most of the chapters!~)

Living in a Crazy Parallel World - Yurikah (Fair warning, this one is very long, isn't 100% Junkan Focused, and is also unfinished with it's last update being awhile ago. That said I think if you can make peace with that going into it you'll be in for a very well written treat!~)

Soft (But Only for Her) - Kayleen756894 (When I first got into Junkan I had only read a small handful of fics from AO3, this was one of them and I went through it in a single night. Extremely fun experience that covers a wide variety of ideas for Junkan. Fluffy, Tragic, it's the whole nine yards. There's gotta be at least one story in this collection that will appeal to someone if they like this ship)

Smile - Kayleen756894 (Truly amazing, one of the all time Junkan Fics out there. It can be a very stressful read but oh so very worth it in my opinion. And for those who want a fic closer to canon in terms of character depictions while still being on the softer side I think this will satisfy heavily)

Hurt, Hold, Heal - Kayleen756894 (Do you like Junko helping Mikan through a Panic Attack? Do you like Junko trying to be a better person? Do you like Mikan helping Junko just as much as Junko helps her? Oh look it's the fic for you. The ending is really sweet too)

Tomorrow is Lonely - Kayleen756894 (Also 18+, arguably even more than the previous one on the list. Check the tags before you read and if that sounds like something you're into go for it. Me personally I gotta be in a very specific headspace first but when I do read it I enjoy myself, it's real cute and has a lot of great little character moments)

Protectors in Red - Kayleen756894 (Extremely good! Also features Mukuro! So if that's a selling point then I'm sure it'll vibe)

Forgive Me, My Beloved - Gloomy_snake (Significantly out of my normal comfort zone and definitely not what one would expect compared to the other fics here, but an enjoyable read. And if you like Doomed Yuri, it's got plenty packed in.)

Drowning - aparticularbandit (Extremely inspiring piece of writing featuring Alter Ego Junko instead of Original Recipe Junko!)

A Night for Two - TheGreatWave74 (Cute fic with the girlies at the pool)

what's better than this, girls havin fun - oxidize (A Chatfic! It might not give the same lasting impact as other fics on the list, however this was the fic that introduced me to the very idea of Soft Junkan, so I will always cherish it, and make sure to re-read it every now and again for the sentimental value)

Burning Lungs - oxidize (Another unfinished fic, I remember that put me off from reading it for awhile. However when I finally did I got pretty invested, which left the cliffhanger on the last chapter all the more stinging. Hope the author is doin' well! Anyway, great fic, might go a bit overboard on the darker aspects of Mikan and Junko's backstories so be warned, but even with that in mind I enjoyed myself and find myself imagining the potential turns it could have taken. And watching Junko's feelings slow burn into existence was really pleasant, especially as her dynamic with Mikan continues)

School Life of Mutual Loving - MarySutcliff (A Compilation of various fics from various ships, 3 of which are Soft Junkan. I've only read the first two, but if you enjoy them I imagine the third will do something for you, the first chapter also, as far as my research can tell, is the first instance of Soft Junkan.) First Chapter Second Chapter Third Chapter

Queen of the Convenience Store - Orphan_Account (The one where Junko and Mikan do weed. I actually quit weed and went cold turkey about a week or two ago, but I do still enjoy seeing girls kissing while being high. even if i can't remember if they kiss in this oops)

A DR Oneshot from an Orphan_Account (It features a Hot Topic, my inner 2000s kid has to recc it)

The Threshold - character_studious (A Bit Dark, but a pleasant read!)

The Whirlwind Fashionista - Kaz3313 (Cute lil Non-Despair AU fic featuring a very cool mall! The ending also gets a chuckle out of me)

No Regrets - wait i made that one (I wasn't going to put this here initially however as a small spoiler, Day 50 of this project is directly based on this fic. I'm super mixed on how it turned out but hey maybe someone'll like it)

And that's it for now! I may or may not be forgetting a decent amount of fics even among the ones I've read before. And there's plenty I haven't even seen yet, and plenty more to be made overtime I imagine.

Your mileage may vary with a lot of these fics, but hopefully you'll find one that itches your brain good like they itch mine. And if not then I recommend just hitting the Junkan Tag running and see what you can find! Take a few risks and maybe you'll find something surprising.

Have a wonderful day and remember to stay hydrated!~

#Junkan #Danganronpa #Junko Enoshima #Mikan Tsumiki #Fanfic #Fanfic Recommendation #Fanfiction #Enomiki #Junkomikan #Junko x Mikan #Enoshima Junko #Tsumiki Mikan #Ask

24 notes · View notes

actualbird · 5 months ago

Text

Statistical Report of Marius/Luke Ao3 Literature (2024)

(aka, a pet project i've been working on behind the scenes for a while. if you'd rather read it as a PDF, you can check it out here, but i've copy pasted its entirety into this text post, beginning in 3...2...1...)

Introduction

Ahhh, Marius von Hagen and Luke Pearce…such wonderful characters from hit mobile otome game “未定事件簿 | Tears of Themis.” As love interests to Miss MC Rosa Qiangwei, they each are incredibly compelling characters with incredibly nuanced backstories, personalities, and dynamics with MC.

Also, there’s a small but dedicated community of shippers that want them to kiss and make out and be in love with each other. Hell yeah!

Welcome to the Statistical Report of Marius/Luke Ao3 Literature (2024), a report that aims to capture this community’s literary contribution to the MariLuke ship by crunching the data available to the public on Ao3!

Before going into the data, there are some notes and caveats to this census that the author would like to make clear.

This report’s data was taken from the “未定事件簿 | Tears of Themis (Video Game)” fandom tag on Archive of Our Own. This means that all works outside of this tag or outside of this website (ex. Twitter thread fics or Tumblr drabbles not crossposted to Ao3, fanfiction only on other sites like FanFiction.net, Wattpad, Weibo, etc.) have not been included.

This report’s data is as of May 31, 2024 as a cutoff date. This was so that I wouldn’t have to endlessly update the data and go insane.

Works that did exist but have since been deleted as of May 31, 2024 are not included, as the author does not have an encyclopedic memory of fanfics that no longer exist on the site :(

Now with all that said, let’s dive in.

---

Number Of Fics Posted and Surge Periods

Now, let’s begin with the number of fics posted. As of May 31, 2024, there are 166 fics in the “Lu Jinghe | Marius von Hagen/Xia Yan | Luke Pearce” tag on Ao3. This number (and subsequently, this report) counts fics as they are listed in AO3 as unique fics, meaning that if it takes up its own little box in the AO3 feed, that’s one fic in itself. This does unfortunately mean that fics that act as a collection (i.e. each chapter is a different story) are only counted as one fic. This number also excludes podfics, because that’s basically the same fic in a different format.

That being said, this number is still nothing to scoff at. And things get even more delightful when we track down the frequency of fics posted month by month in a timeline.

The earliest MariLuke fic posted on Ao3 was “You are King” by itshaku on August 8, 2021, a mere 10 days after ToT’s official global release. The folks who posted the very first few fics in August 2021 laid down the foundation and bedrock of the Ao3 tag, and as ToT’s existence to the global audience continued, more and more fic started to populate our hallowed halls.

However, while that’s the earliest MariLuke fic as is recorded by Ao3 now, I happen to know that there was a fic that was posted even earlier. A fic called “Don’t Let Me Go” by sakurei. Both the fic and the author’s account has since been delated, but I knew this fic existed because I originally started this report in 2022. When I had first put together the preliminary data, I noted “Don’t Let Me Go” as the first ever fic, and then was disheartened to learn that it was deleted. Like, no…the sacred texts… All hope seemed lost until my dear friend Z Lukevonhagen suggested I search the link on the Wayback Machine, and lo and behold, a copy of the True First Ever MariLuke Fanfic On Ao3 had been unearthed. Thanks, Z!

In the month of October 2021, the Marius/Luke tag experienced its first fic surge. For the purposes of this report, any month with 8 or more fics posted during their duration is counted as a surge. Why is 8 or more the qualifier? That number was picked solely off of vibes.

A total of 9 new fics were posted in October 2021, though the I can’t find any discernible reason for this fic. After some digging, I found no relevant fan events that occurred in October 2021 that linked to any of the MariLuke fics. In terms of in-game happenings, the only thing of note here is that this is when the Symphony Of The Night event was running, but it’s not like Marius and Luke made out on screen during that event’s storyline (oh, how I wished though…)

Our next surge happened in August 2022, with a whole 12 fics posted, when the tag suddenly and beautifully got a sizeable influx of CN fics. CN fics take up 6 of the 12 fics posted during this time period, which is half of the month’s total fic yield. Thank you for your service, CN MariLukers !

Our next surge period lasted for a whopping 3 consecutive months, ushering a Golden Age for MariLuke fics, so to speak. Month by month, what happened was:

In October 2022, another surge occurred with a total of 11 fics. During this month, Twitter account Thirst of Themis had run a ToT Kinktober fan event, and a number of new Marius/Luke fics were created and posted in accordance with the Kinktober prompts.

In November 2022, a total of 9 fics were posted, and this was mostly because of two specific singular authors’ hard work, as they published several fics all on their own in rapid succession and contributed to the surge. Ao3 author Litchire posted a whopping 4 fics during this period, along with Ao3 author ynfzymokaihewo who posted 3 fics.

In December 2022, a total of 9 fics were posted, though this is the month where I couldn’t find any discernible reason once again. Maybe the holiday season just made us all fic-happy? Who knows.

After that, it’s smooth sailing for a while with average MariLuke fic yields for a couple of months.

Then, the Recession came. Followed by a Revival. Followed by another Recession.

In April, 2023, only one (1) MariLuke fic was posted. Authors recovered in the following month of May 2023, but right after in June 2023, we all died once again with a staggering zero (0) new MariLuke fics posted. I assume we all went into hibernation or something. But that’s fine, because the next month in July 2023, the crops started flowering once more and the MariLuke harvest began anew.

Our next surge happened a couple months later, in November 2023, with 8 new fics posted. The culprit here is Thirst of Themis once again, for they had run a November prompts event, and 7 out of 8 MariLuke fics posted this month were in fulfillment of the event.

Now, we arrive at our latest surge and also our biggest one. In may 2024, the MariLuke Ao3 tag saw a whopping 28 new fics posted. This is undoubtedly the result of the fan event MariLuke Week (May 2024) for 27 out of the 28 fics were posted in fulfillment of the event’s prompts. The following authors participated in MariLuke Week, with their fic counts for this event placed next to their name:

xXILoveMyFridgeXx (10 fics contributed)

wtfhoney (7 fics contributed)

quarterweeb / theobscenfraction (4 fics contributed)

reptilianraven (3 fics contributed)

lukevonhagen (2 fics contributed)

Litchire (1 fic contributed)

Congratulations and thank you to the writers who participated in the event! You all contributed to the biggest surge in MariLuke stocks THUS FAR, and you should all give yourselves a pat on the back.

That concludes the timeline of MariLuke works up til May 31, 2024! Hit the showers, everybody!

---

Full List of AO3 Users Who Have Written Marius/Luke Fanfiction

The Marius/Luke writer population is a small but mighty one, with a total of 45 unique authors who have posted a fic Marius/Luke fic on Ao3 as of May 31, 2024. Before going into the full list of authors, here are some important caveats to the list:

ON ANONYMOUS AUTHORS: As this report deals with how Ao3 lists data, all authors who have opted to post anonymously will be counted as one entity. I personally know that some anonymous authors are different users, but verifying this without making any fuckups would make my tiny pea brain cry. For this reason, anonymous authors are counted as one unique author, so if you’re one of these anonymous authors, congrats on being a part of a Marius/Luke hivemind!

ON AUTHORS WITH PSEUDS: An Ao3 user who has different posted fics within the Marius/Luke tag under different pseuds will be counted as one unique author. Despite saying in the last paragraph that the my personal knowledge will not be enacted to tweak how Ao3 lists data, I’m making one exception here because it literally only pertains to three Ao3 users in the ship tag, so this won’t make my tiny brain cry at all.

So without further ado and in alphabetical order, here our are heroes:

Authors listed under the Anonymous Label

ajing_1124

artistic_gemini

asukryo

autumnsparrxw

BlazingSunflowers

CandorArchives

chechevitsa

darkbreak

doridoripawaa

dxpiarchaive / keeyamii

Eden_of_Amour / suffering_meguca

EnnTea

floweringlight

friedchickenlord

Goryo_Wataru

i_o_u_e_a

itshaku

kombat_exe

ladyhaspran

layla_wp

Litchire

lukevonhagen

m3i_day

marcipancake

monocuri

osamurice

pvsiytemhaver

quarterweeb / theobscenefraction

reptilianraven

RikuMorimachisGirl

Rxzaliya

samandspam

snocchiato

Solaste

sondepoch

strayris

Szim

Tinowenn

ThirdLibraryOfYumenosaki

turnscote

wtfhoney

xeriacat

xXILoveMyFridgeXx

ynfzymokaihewo

---

A Brief Glimpse Into Ratings and Tags

Before I looked at the ratings, I had a hypothesis that Explicit fics would take the lead because in majority of the MariLuke fics I’ve read myself, Marius and Luke are written to have incredibly active libidos. Lo and behold, when I did chart down the fics by rating, is is revealed that…

…statistically, we are horny.

Not by a whole lot though! Fics that are rated Teen and Up comes in 2nd place by just a very small margin, so that’s a lot of fics that are accessible to those who don’t want to read Marius and Luke getting nasty.

In terms of Additional Tags, I checked out the Top 5 most frequented Additional Tags and charted them below.

The Top 5 most used Additional Tags are actually Fluff, Light Angst, Comedy, Humor, and Anal Sex. However, I reasoned that Comedy and Humor are the exact same thing, so I counted them as synonyms and added in the 6th most used Additional Tag: Established Relationship.

Anyhoo, I think it’s really sweet to see that Fluff reigns supreme! And by a large margin, too. We love to write our boys having a wholesome lovely time. Of course, we also like just a smidge of narrative spice, which is where Light Angst comes in in 2nd place. That being said, I think it’s insanely funny that Anal Sex is in this chart. It is very out of place among the rest, LMAO.

---

A Brief Segue Into The Popularity of Marius/Luke In Relation to Other ToT BL Pairings

As of May 31, 2024, Marius/Luke is the 1st most popular M/M ship in the Ao3 tag, overall clocking in with a total of 166 works.

In addition to that, I think it’s interesting to note that the 2nd most popular BL ship is Marius/Artem, with 130 fics, while the 3rd most popular BL ship is Marius/Vyn, with 66 fics. Tied for 4th place is Artem/Male or Gender Neutral Reader, and Vyn/Artem, both at 46 fics respectively.

The reason why I think the top 5 BL ships are interesting to look at is due to Marius’ participation in 3 out of the 5 most popular M/M ships in the ToT tag. Given this, we can veritably congratulate him for statistically beating the heterosexual allegations. Marius really gave off vibes that made many different shippers go “oh there’s no way in hell he’s completely straight.”

---

Accolades

Longest Fic

As of May 31, 2024, the Longest Fic in the tag is [drumroll]...Losing Sight by pvsiytemhaver! This fic is actually primarily as ArtemRosa fic with MariLuke as an additional ship, and it currently clocks in at 90,109 words, taking the 1st spot as the longest MariLuke fic and the 18th longest fic overall in the general “未定事件簿 | Tears of Themis (Video Game)” fandom tag. Let’s take a look at the runner ups!

Here’s the list of the longest fics in the MariLuke tag:

Losing Sight by pvsiytemhaver (90,109 words)

the lips i used to call home (it was maroon) by xXILoveMyFridgeXx (58,185 words)

Five Points of a Star by xXILoveMyFridgeXx (25,494 words)

Risk of Pain by Solaste (25,157 words)

end of a decade (start of an age) by xXILoveMyFridgeXx (20,671 words)

Special shoutout to user xXILoveMyFridgeXx who consistently pumps out fics with gargantuan word counts.

Fic With Most Kudos

Next on the list is the Fic With The Most Kudos, and this title goes to [drumroll]... “standard operating procedure (x4 speedrun) by reptilianraven” which…oh, that’s me.

This fic is not solely a MariLuke work, but an NXX Polycule work that has MariLuke within it. Weighing in with 827 kudos, it takes the spot as the 1st most kudos’d MariLuke work, while also weighing in as the 9th most kudos’d fic overall in the general “未定事件簿 | Tears of Themis (Video Game)” fandom tag. Let’s take a look at the runner ups!

Here’s the list of the Top 5 Fics With Most Kudos:

standard operating procedure (x4 speedrun) by reptilianraven (827 kudos)

every breath you take, every move you make, peanut will be watching you by reptilianraven (735 kudos)

the existence of a top student implies the existence of a bottom student by reptilianraven (575 kudos)

making out with your bro for fun and for profit by reptilianraven (567 kudos)

(Thank you for the kudos ;^;)

Author With Most MariLuke Works Written

And now, for our last accolade… the award for the author who currently has a large chunk of the MariLuke Ao3 tag coming from their own fics wrought by their own mind.

This title goes to [drumroll]... oh goddamn it, it’s me. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being insane about them. I don’t remember writing this much for them, I swear to god. Let’s look at the runner ups!

Here’s the list of authors with the most MariLuke works written:

reptilianraven (24 works)

quarterweeb / theobscenefraction (quarterweeb) (23 works)

Litchire (15 works) and ynfzymokaihewo (15 works) tied for 3rd place

xXILoveMyFridgeXx (13 works)

wtfhoney (11 works)

---

Conclusion

I love this ship. I love this ship so goddamn much, but if there’s one thing I love more, it’s the community of shippers who write for this ship. This pet project was started as a little love letter from me to the MariLuke writing community. So, thank you, MariLuke writers!! Thank you for putting your heart and soul into the works you create, thus fashioning a beautifully wide array of fics to enjoy and read, and thank you for showing your love for this rarepair!

Alright, this report is too damn long. I’m gonna go reread MariLuke fics now. Bye! Hope you enjoyed!

#tears of themis #mariluke #marius von hagen #luke pearce #tot luke #tot marius #lu jinghe #xia yan

33 notes · View notes

leverage-ot3 · 11 months ago

Text

OKAY so I have two ideas about a leverage x pjo crossover and they hinge on whether or not the leverage crew are demigods are not. I also have a general one which is what this post is

leverage demigod/pjo au masterpost

I’m betting some (or all) of the leverage crew have complicated feelings about the demigod-godly parent relations. they hear through the grapevine that this 12yo has been accused of stealing zeus’ master bolt and that his mom has been kidnapped by hades and they’re like ABSOLUTELY NOT FUCK YOU

cue hijinks where the leverage crew is behind the scenes while annabeth, grover and percy are on the quest having the road trip from hell. except it’s not actually that bad??? whenever things look like they’re going to get REALLY bad something happens and the kids aren’t in a lot of danger anymore. annabeth is almost annoyed because she wants to prove her worth etc etc (love her dearly but she needs some rest (and therapy)), grover is overwhelmingly relieved, and percy is just hella confused but vibing and set on seeing his mom again

meanwhile eliot is fist fighting a minotaur and like five other monsters, sophie is seducing medusa (and it’s kind of working??? can’t blame her though sophie is a MILF), parker is planning a heist in the underworld, hardison is dusting off a pet project that’s a gadget that cloaks demigods from monster detection (good for everyone but perfect for percy), and nate is masterminding while also furiously planning a beat down speech for the big three

it’s possibility titled: the master bolt job

nate says let’s go steal a stolen master bolt or something like that

(parker: isn’t that defying the gods?

nate: we’re giving it back)

the journey ends with percy’s mom back safe and sound, nate yelling at the gods (but not before letting percy tear them a new one first. of course he lets the kid go first!!!), a new godly child support system, and camp half blood employing their first on-site therapist.

hardison teaches the hephaestus kids how to make tech that doesn’t attract monsters. eliot cooks the best dinner the camp has ever had (hestia who adores him maybe helped), the hermes kids are awed by parker (thee parker?!?). sophie instills the fear of god (woman) into mr d to treat the kids better and gives the oracle a spa day as a treat. nate helps chiron with training-life management for campers (he is NOT a role model for that but he knows what works. chiron is chuffed that this random dude is giving him advice but rolls with it because he’s a good sport)

aphrodite is enamored with the love parker, hardison and eliot have for each other. they don’t know it but she gave them her blessing 💖

#I feel like nate ‘fuck authority’ ford especially would have some sort of jaded view on godly parents and using their children as pawns #but that thought isn’t fully formulated so I’ll leave it there #leverage x pjo #leverage #percy jackson and the olympians #aus #leverage aus #parker #alec hardison #eliot spencer #nate ford #sophie devereaux #percy jackson #annabeth chase #grover underwood #also see how I referenced the isn’t that treason quote hehe I just love that one :3 #mine #parker x hardison x eliot #leverage ot3

77 notes · View notes

dragongirltongue · 1 year ago

Text

working on a story/game/thing set in the 1990s, it's about the world changing and and the age of magic beginning. time is going to progress narratively only and I want the ending to take place on New Years to fit into the things are changing vibe.

The story is going to be playful but take itself seriously enough, think like Adventure Time or SLARPG in terms of tone, at least at this point in concept and development.

I'm thinking it'll either take place in '99 for the big heavy theming of entering the new millennium as the world changes forever.

Somewhere earlier where the actual year turnover won't ultimately matter beyond the imagery of a new year beginning by the end of the story.

No show results option or suggest your own, though if you choose the second option and have a specific year in mind I'm very willing to listen, do give reasons if you suggest a specific year. Hell feel free to give reasons if you chose '99 too.

If you want more deets hit the read more.

So you wanna know more about this idea huh?

Well I was playing Tunic not long after Lenna's Inception and the Anodyne games and thought, hey I'd really love to make my own Zelda game too.

The idea is that 12,000ish years ago magic was discovered to be a thing by humanity, around this time a dragon appeared and warned that magic would doom the world. The magic users refused to listen and so a fight broke out, the dragon killed them all.

With the magic users all dead the dragon sealed earth in an anti-magic bubble and requested that their followers kill them to truly end all magic on earth, in their final moments they cast a spell with what magic is left inside the bubble to ensure they reincarnate if magic ever returns and can influence their new incarnation to destroy magic once again.

skip forward to the 1990s, after the industrial revolution caused untold amounts of ecological damage the anti-magic bubble is damaged along with all the horrors we know to have happened in reality.

At some point a corporation happens to find the truth, that magic exists and that a dragon is central to how it will alter our world. So they use it in several projects and build dragons to guard the locations these projects are taking place in. These locations then transform into dungeons.

Our hero finally enters the picture, Connie, a young woman who's just been doing whatever with her life, after investigating a rumor about monsters at a construction site she finds herself guided by a voice to take up a sword and fight the immitation dragons so she can achieve her true power, take on the form of a dragon herself, and save the world from the threat of magic.

Connie decides however after an accident at the first dungeon that maybe the world will be better off with magic as long as it's not solely in the hands of greedy rich bastards.

There's a lot more I have figured out but I think this is enough to get an idea for the poll. I am happy to blather more about the setting and Connie herself, her friends eventually too once I have them figured out. Feel free to send me asks about this. I'm prolly gonna make a sideblog for this at some point. Ideally once I have an idea if I can reasonably make a videos game or not lol.

#6aaah #OC: Connie #Zelda's zelda game #that's the tag I'm gonna use for this until I figure out an actual title cos I think it's funny lol

110 notes · View notes

thought--bubble · 7 months ago

Text

Taking a little breaky break

This is just a heads up for my small little group of people on here. I have come to call my friends. I just wanted to let you all know that I'm going to be taking a much needed respite from tumblr and probably discord, too. I am feeling lost, sad,overwhelmed, and confused.

I know it sounds silly or whatnot, but all of this stuff is overwhelming and depressing, and I feel sick when I open this app at this point.

The best word to use, I guess, would be winded, maybe?

I joined Tumblr in Sept 23, and at first, it was really fun, a much needed escape from my daily never-ending list of crap to do.

I unfortunately learned how crazy this fandom can get early on and the hard way. I had hoped that that was just a one-off due to my newbie ignorance and took it as a lesson learned for myself.

But it's starting to feel like the drama never fucking stops. It just keeps going, and nice people, kind people, just get dragged and ridiculed for seemingly no reason. I will pathetically admit that I am a sensitive soul, and the things I've read and seen have seriously negatively affected me.

When people are catty regarding people they don't like or that don't like them, I can usually reconcile that to a particular degree. People are, in fact, people. Not everyone is going to vibe with everyone, and people will make jokes at others' expense, and it isn't exactly mature, but it happens.

That is what I expected when I heard this was coming. Some catty shit slinging between people who don't like each other.

But that isn't all this was, and I'm having a really hard time with that. I even thought, "Oh maybe some moderately rude jokes here and there where you know cultural differences and stuff could account for that" like I'm from the northeast and we can be harsh out here. So something that may be offensive to someone from another area may be looked at here just as a joke made in poor taste.

I know I myself have made jokes or whatnot, but you would think certain things would be off limits.

I thought I could combat the negative with positives. Silly jokes, little messages filled with love, but even that isn't working at this point.

My heart hurts, and my brain hurts.

And all this stuff has made me question myself. I had a block list a mile long for the longest time. Filled predominantly with people I had never spoken to because I was scared, nervous, I didn't want to accidentally interact with a post of someone who would be upset that I did, I unfollowed blogs I liked based on this same principle. I just desperately did not want to make someone mad or uncomfortable and find myself back in some weird mean anon tornado.

I tried to sus out who would be bothered by my presence and who wouldn't. I can't even know if my thoughts on who may or may not be upset by me were based on my paranoia or a perception i developed or was potentially affected by outside sources.

Now, i just don't know what the hell is going on.

Sorry for the word vomit. Just wanted to be honest. There are some of us out here who are just standing around with question marks over our heads.

Maybe it's because I wasn't here for a lot of that other weirdness. Maybe it's because of early events that shaped my experience on this app, but I for sure 100% need a break.

I'm an odd duck and love this app mostly because it's the only site I've seen where others actively fan-girl over my favorite Ewan character.

But right now, not even my love for Will can keep me on this app, and for those who know me, that's truly saying something.

This post is not meant to badmouth anyone at all. Honestly at this point I couldn't bad mouth anyone because I'm fucking lost on who anyone really is or how they really feel about things, dude I'm just plain lost.

Thank you to those who have been kind. My apologies to those I may have judged or assumed things about based on who the hell knows.

I hope that when I come back, I can open this app without yet another person that I like having a post of them being torn apart. Or a post of a story that I had heard being told in a completely different way and throwing me for a complete loop.

For now I am going to watch Will edits on TikTok and maybe read via Ao3.

Love and healing vibes to all.

#To my lovelies #I'll be back #I'm just not sure when #hotd fandom

36 notes · View notes

billthedrake · 1 year ago

Text

TRAINING THE SALES GUY (PART TWO)

Note: this series will have some edgier content.

I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I'd had sex with my coworker. And not just any coworker. Carson Fucking Wells. Straight bro who apparently had a thing for sucking dick. My dick included. He wasn't my direct report, at least, but still...

I spent the next week after our sales visit, I was waiting for a visit from HR. In my more dramatic, worried mind, I imagined being told to leave immediately and they'd send me my personal stuff later.

But pretty quickly, I realized Wells wasn't gonna blab. He didn't want word getting out about this either. He had even more reason to keep it private, and once the fear and fog cleared from my brain, I realized he was keeping more distance from me at the office. No more stopping into my office to shoot the breeze, no more "Boss" nickname. I was Bill again.

I was glad, really. I'd had a hot, very hot no-strings experience with a kind of hetero dude and was able to relive those memories now. I even thought about Carson during my next hookup BJ. 30 year old jocky gay guy from Grindr. Not a dead ringer or anything, but I closed my eyes while the Grindr cocksucker deep throated me and let myself be transported back to that Denver Marriott. I even grabbed Grindr guy's head like I did Carson's and start thrusting.

"You should give a guy some warning," he said when he finally came up from air, admiringly stroking my dong. "You got a big fucking dick."

"Sorry man," I apologized, stroking his dark brown hair. I kind of wished his hair coloring matched Carson's more, which was kind of fucked up. This guy was way cure and way hot. "You got a great mouth."

The flattery worked for him. "OK if I just milk that load out of you?" he asked.

I knew he'd do a good job, so I nodded. "More than OK. Have at it..."

I was out of the Carson Wells headspace, and I began to enjoy this blowjob for what it was. Some guys on Grindr overpromise their oral skills. This guy wasn't one of the bullshitters. He knew how to go gradual to work up a big of steam, then really go wild and deep on my dong to make me blast. It was awesome.

In our DMs we'd established a no-recip vibe, and indeed I didn't offer to get him off. But I did thank him and praise his ability. It was may be a one off but we both said we'd hit each other up sometime.

***

A man can go through phases. In my 20s I tried it all. Well, not every perverted kinky thing under the sun, but when it came to regular vanilla sex, I sucked, got sucked, fucked, got fucked. I tried rimming and frot, though those didn't appeal to me as much. By my 30s, I realized I was much more into topping than bottoming. It was half physical, since bottoming didn't feel fun or pleasurable to me like it did to a lot of guys. But it was that feel of being in control, of doing the penetrating, that got me going. And with the coming of online hookup sites and eventually the apps, I found identifying as a top attracted total bottoms. I thought I'd miss the vers side. Turns out, I didn't.

My 40s were about being in a relationship. Not a six month thing, or a two year thing, but marriage. I was still processing what had gone wrong with me and Rob. Maybe we fucked up a good thing, or maybe we never should have been together so long. The sex was great, but not perfect. But we'd drifted apart in emotional ways, which was tough.

Maybe that's why I was getting into the no-strings thing so much. Not being a man whore or anything, but once or twice a month, I found a guy to service me. And truth, be told the temptation was getting stronger. Grindr and Scruff had some dedicated cocksuckers, and I had the kind of dick those guys often went for.

Maybe that's why I was scrolling through the apps for the second time in a week. Work had been getting me stressed, and maybe seeing Carson had my mind wandering all afternoon. Hell, there were a number of the other younger bros I wouldn't mind sucking my dick either...

"NO GAG REFLEX" came the boast of one. I took this guy's profile with a grain of salt. Like I said, there were a lot of bullshitters on Grindr. But if he was offering...

"Hi man," I messaged. "Fucking hot profile." I was massaging the cock in my sweats. Maybe a quiet evening in wasn't gonna be so quiet.

Up till that point I'd met two men I could really let loose with orally. Rob gave pretty head, but he wasn't one of the. One was a trick who deep throated me greedily, kind of choking/gagging on my cock, but in a hungry pig kind of way. It was before all the porn videos of that kind of thing ant it seemed crazy and nasty and hot. The other was a guy I went out with for a few month, Steve. He was really into servicing me, and was very open to having his face fucked. So we did that, a lot. He wouldn't do anal, and I think I ended up calling things off with him for that reason.

Like I say, men go through phases. Now I thought of Steve as the one who got away.

I told No-gag-reflex guy about that now. About my ex-boyfriend who used to do that and how I missed it.

He boasted how he could really hand some rough throat treatment. "I'll make you forget that ex," came the reply.

Maybe he thought I was referring to someone more recent and that I was still carrying a torch. It was a hot thing to say though.

"Hell yes," I typed back.

"My place or yours?" he asked.

"Either works," I wrote. I looked down at my sweatpants and beat up T-shirt. I didn't feel like going out. "But how bout mine?" I sent him my address.

"Cool," he said. "Can be there in twenty." Then "You might wanna have a towel handy. I've not had any accidents in years, but you're a big boy."

He was probably laying it on thick. I mean, I'm hung big but not like fucking Rocco Steele or anything. Still, I got an old towel and set it out for the ready.

Turns out No Gag didn't need the towel. The dude was a pro. I'll admit he wasn't my normal type physically, but I was glad I'd gone beyond my normal type. He had a fun, horny energy as he walked in and practically begged for me to whip it out.

I did.

"Fuuuuckk..." he hissed as he reached down to slowly stroke up the length. "I'm gonna love have this fucker buried down my throat." No Gag had a way of making me feel like a porn king, and I was loving. He looked up with a flirty. "Where ya wanna do this?" he asked.

I tilted my head to direct him into the living room, where two towels were set out. One folded for his knees, the other... well...

He knelt down as I peeled down my sweats. And then he was on me. Nice, hungry sword-swallowing act. He was skilled all right, but part of me was still a little nervous going wild, since I didn't really know the guy and never had done anything before him. I did have one bad Grindr experience with a dude who swore he could deep throat me. He most decidedly could not.

"I'm going in, man," I announced. "Just tap my leg if it gets to be too much."

He mumbled around my cock in a way that communicated he didn't plan on tapping anything. So I held on to his skull and started riding. I didn't go hard at first but I gave myself some deep, slow, and steady throat action. Working in deeper... deeper... till my my nuts pressed against his chin.

"Holy fuck," I gasped. This felt awesome, amazing in a way I'd forgotten a tight throat could feel. No Gag really didn't seem to have any reflex kicking in. "Hold another second?" I asked, my cock buried deep. He didn't answer, but he didn't tap out. He just held himself calm and still and nursed my dick with his throat. I honestly I think I pulled out just so I wouldn't cum.

No Gag let out a sound that was a combo of groan and deep intake of air. "Ugh... fuck that's hot," he said.

I held my dick up, rigid and very wet. "Think we can go for some of the stuff we talked about?" I asked. In our chat, No Gag had messaged some specific things his oral tops often enjoyed doing.

"Go for it," he growled.

I nodded, then pushed back in. I gave him a second with my cock buried full in him, then I held his skull and just fucking. Not slow this time, I just pumped his mouth and throat like a fleshjack, getting off on the clutching wetness on my thrusting cock and the slick suction noises. I slowed down just a little and compensated for harder thrusts.

Turns out he did have a gag reflex after all. Nothing bad happened, but the sucker gagged around my cock a half second, then swallowed around me while I stopped. I pulled out and saw the thicker mucus on my dong. I was turned on as fuck.

"Slower?" I asked.

He had a determined look. "At first. Then you can go hard again."

I slid my hardon back between his spit wet lips and now felt the drool wet my ball sac with each inward thrust. I tried to maintain something between the fast and the hard rhythms as I pumped his face and looked down in disbelief at the man's feat in taking me. And wouldn't you know? I thought of Carson Wells and that fucking did it. My hips gave a hard jab and caused more gagging sounds. I was already cumming though, and thankfully, the sucker knew how to take me, and let me ride out my O. I relaxed and let go of my grip on his head.

Tears were streaming down his cheek when he finally pulled off, but he looked happy as a clam. "You were horny," he observed.

I looked down and patted him playfully on the cheek as way of thanks. "You made me horny... goddamn, that was incredible."

He stood up, spit on the top part of his sweatshirt, but otherwise not looking worse for the wear. I had an extra towel and handed it to him to wipe off.

"You do that a lot," he observed as he set the towel down.

I shook my head. "I haven't in years. Thanks for reminding me how much I love it."

No gag grinned. "Pleasure was mine, man. Some guys... well, they can go too hard or too easy. You were just right. "

"Any chance we could do this again?" I asked.

I was expecting a noncommittal Grindr sure-maybe response but No Gag shook his head. "Nah, man. My husband gives me a hall pass, but not for repeats?"

"Well thanks for using your hall pass on me," I replied. "Seriously, I'm gonna think about that for a while."

***

At first I thought Carson Wells had major misgivings about sucking my dick. It turns out he just didn't want anyone suspecting.

"Hey Boss," he said as we rode the elevator down one Friday afternoon. If you're familiar with the financial district in summer, you know it clears out each Friday midday. Carson and I were the dumb saps working the full day.

I was caught off guard by the return of the nickname, but welcomed that Carson and I were on friendly terms again. "Hey Wells, I thought you'd be hitting the links by now."

He shot me his goofy frat-boy smile that worked a little too well on me. "I wish, man. I have a big camping trip with my buddies in a couple weeks, and can't really the half day now."

"Well, I guess it's good to put in some face time," I replied. "With Cal in and all." Calvin was the Senior VP and divided his time between the major locations of our firm.

Carson smirked, like he was pleased to hear me be cynical about corporate politics. "I like this side of you, Boss," he said.

The elevator dinged at the ground floor. At least I could make a getaway. But Carson leaned in before the doors opened. "You've gotten head lately, haven't you?"

I blushed, which made the dude laugh. The doors open and we strutted our way through the lobby and out on to the street.

Carson pulled out his phone to get an Uber. I was going to do the same but he looked up and shot me an impish look. "You think maybe you can get my weekend started off right?" he asked.

I knew what he was asking. God, he was hot in his business casual. Golf shirt polo that stretched over his gym-built muscle, lightweight wool slacks, and tan dress shoes. He knew he looked hot, too, the perfect bait for a gay dude like me.

"Come on, Bill," he urged, his voice a little softed. "No fucking strings.. it'll be fun."

"Yeah," I agreed. Blushing as I did but feeling a surged of horniness that was already making me chub up in my own trousers.

It was weird as hell going to Carson's condo. Smallish one bedroom, but clean and neat. Very much had that city-dude bachelor pad feel. Just the right amount of sports memorabilia, but decorated like he'd hired somebody for the job. He set down his keys and wallet and phone on the kitchen island and turned to me, his playfulness and easy confidence giving way to some more urgent horniness. I could read it in his face and in those amazing green eyes.

"OK if we take our time, Boss?" he asked. He was actually a little nervous, which was the thing that put me at ease. And turned me on. "Last time we were a little rushed."

"We were drunk," I reminded him.

"Well, we're not drunk now," Carson reminded. "I wanna enjoy this."

I felt my dick really firming up into a hard ridge. I couldn't believe Wells was gonna give me head again. I'd been thinking about the possibility a lot, but the reality of it was really sinking in. "What are you thinking, Wells?" I asked.

He shrugged.

"It's a real taboo to suck another man's dick, isn't it?" I prompted, throwing back something he'd admitted to me in Denver.

He blushed. "Yeah, it is. Big time. No one knows I'm into this shit."

"I do, Carson." I didn't mean to make him uncomfortable or anything. I was glad as hell he'd felt like he could share this sexual side with me. "I gotta warn you... it's been a couple days since I've gotten off. But if I cum quick, I'm pretty sure I could go again."

"For real?" Wells asked, excitedly. That excitement fed my own horns.

"For real, Wells. If you're up for a longer session."

"God, man, yeah, I am." Then. "I can't believe we're fucking doing this, but it's crazy hot," he admitted, and I loved that he admitted it.

We didn't have the alcohol this time. In some way that made what was about to happen even hotter, but it also lent an awkwardness about how this was going to go down.

"Um.... you prefer to get head standing?" Carson asked. Just hearing that in his bro voice was enough to get me goin.

"I prefer it anyway you wanna give it, Wells," I smiled. This wasn't a Grindr trick, but it wasn't boyfriend/husband sex. Intuitively, I knew to keep up the buddy vibe with Carson, to keep him at ease.

"Why don't you stand, Bill," he said after thinking a second. "It'll be easier for me."

I followed his lead, watching as his gym built body got settled in on his sofa. I undid my belt and got into the look of anticipation on his face as he watched me unzip.

"Niiicee," he said as he watched my hard dong poke out. His eyes didn't leave my crotch. "You got a nice dick, Boss," he added.

"Help yourself," I encouraged. I'd really never fooled around with straight or even straight-ish dudes like Carson, so I didn't know how much I should talk or not talk, but the guy seemed to be into an easy rapport. I didn't do anything but put my hands on my hips and let him explore at his own pace.

Carson started with the licking, like he was measuring the hill he was gonna climb. Long swipes up my thick tool, wetting me down in the process. His trimmed beard made him look both younger and older than his 30 years. I imagined him doing this in whatever fraternity house he live in during college.

I let out a soft gasp when the sales guy finally parted his lips and began going down on me. I didn't know what made Carson Wells tick and maybe I never would, but I couldn't fault his enthusiasm for sucking dick. The guy made love to my cock. There was no other way to put it. Alternating long, wet strokes of his mouth with some suction action, then pulling off to kiss and lick my cock.

"Nice, man," I encouraged. Not wanting to break the spell, but feeling Wells needing some positive feedback for what he was doing.

He didn't suck me too fast, but I was hornier than I realized and had to think of a million things to keep from coming right away. If Wells wanted to take his time, I was gonna let him.

"You might want to pull off, man," I urged quietly, that gonna-cum tension in my voice.

Carson backed off, giving my dick head a little kiss as it pulled out. A string of spittle connected it with his lips and then broke, landing on his beard. For some reason I found that very hot and my dick spurted out some pre.

"Fuck," he laughed and leaned in to swoop it with his tongue. "I got you worked up," he stated, not even a question.

"You have," I replied. "I hope you don't mind me saying this Wells, but you're really good at this."

Carson knew what I was getting at. He had a quiet serious expression as he put his hand on his thighs and stared at my prick. "I don't mind, Boss. Thanks." He looked up at me finally. "So... what do you like when you get head?"

"What do I like?" I asked. I wasn't sure exactly what he was asking.

"Yeah," he said with a grin. "What's your favorite approach... the thing that will get you off hardest."

I let out a heavy breath. "Honestly, Carson... I don't think you wanna know my favorite thing."

He seemed surprised. "Why not?"

There was something about the sincerity of his response that almost had me telling him. "It's a little more, I don't know... extreme."

He let out a little laugh. "Damn, Boss, I didn't picture you as the kinky type."

I shrugged. "Well, I am... at least when it comes to oral," I replied. "But for real, Carson, I love it all. Just love getting head. You had me real close just now."

That seemed to satisfy the guy. He turned his attention back to my dick. "You into deep throat, Boss?"

"Hell yes, I am," I assured him.

He was measuring me with his eyes. "It's been a long time since I've sucked one as big as you," he said, matter of factly. "The length but also the thickness."

"Just do what you feel like, Wells," I said. This wasn't some Grindr cockslut, and I wanted him to feel at ease. "But I'd love to see you try."

He nodded. "Yeah, I wanna," he said. Then Carson started taking me in again, going down on me steadily. He reached about the five inch mark, which was the maximum he'd taken so far. Wells paused at that spot, giving some shallow bobs to test out his throat. Then like a swimmer taking that last jump into cool ocean water, the dude just went for it.

I watched excitedly as Wells buried his nose in my pubes, with a deep grunt stifled in his throat.

"Fuck yes!" I cried. Then, "Oh fuck, that's hot."

It was too. Because it was this hot finance bro, the coworker I had only professional relationship with. A younger, fit dude who I didn't know, not really. And he was now showing off that deep throat.

Until he needed air, or a break. He pulled back to suck in some quick air, breathing out a soft "fuck" as he eyed up my spit wet dong. He took a little breather, then went back to it. He now was giving me some genuine deepthroat head. Up and down, about three inches at a time, swallowing to the root on each go. His throat felt snug as hell and the visuals were only adding to my pleasure.

"I'm gonna cum, Carson!" I hissed. This time I hoped he wouldn't pull off. I really wanted to nut right down his cocksucking throat.

He didn't stop, but rather kept at it. If anything his pace grew a little faster. The sounds got sloppier and I could feel wet spit drip down my balls. That did it. "FUCk!" I cried. I wasn't always a screaming in bed, but I liked to let loose with when a guy sucks me, to give him that feedback.

Carson pulled off, riding out my ejaculation by sucking the top three inches. Apparently he liked tasting a guy's cum too. Or maybe his throat needed a break.

He had a proud smile when he pulled off. He knew he'd done a hell of a job, but I also think I was more dick than he'd deep throated before.

"That was incredible, Bill."

I was catching my breath. "Hell yes, it was," I said. I looked down at my dong which was quickly softening. "I don't you know, Carson... you may have completely drained me with that one."

He chuckled, and I think he liked that he'd gotten me off so well. "That's cool, Boss. But maybe we can do this again soon? Sorry if I've been standoffish lately. It's just a little weird... you know, the work thing."

"You know my lips are sealed, Wells," I assured him. "Fuck, I can't let this get out either."

He flashed me that frat-boy smile then broke the postcoital glow. "Listen, Bill. I should probably get ready for the evening. I'm meeting some buddies in a bit."

"Oh yeah," I muttered as I tucked back in and made myself presentable again. "Well, thank you for getting my weekend off to an incredible spot."

Carson stood up to walk me out. I could tell he was still hard in his trousers. I wondered if he was going to jerk off when I was gone or get off later. I thought of asking him, but didn't.

"Just to be clear, Boss," he said before showing me out. "I don't date guys. At all."

"No worries, Wells," I replied. "I'm not looking for a boyfriend. And I get it."

"Cool," was all he said. I got the sense he had some of that straight-dude second thoughts creeping in now. Or maybe coworker second thoughts.

I tried to downplay anything overly affectionate at that moment. I didn't want to be brusque but I thought being all business would help him. "See you next week, Carson," I said when he opened the door.

He nodded, then as I walked out, he shut the door behind me.

#drakestories

161 notes · View notes