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gutsby · 8 months ago

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Wants and Needs

Pairing: Sugar Daddy!Joel x Reader

Summary: Bills are high; your dad’s boss wants to help. How you pay him stays between you and him—for now.

Warnings: 18+. Protected piv. Explicit power imbalance in an exchange of sex for money, so dubcon, technically. Soft dom!Joel. Sex toys. Squirting. Oral (f!receiving). Overstimulation. Daddy kink. Age gap. Praise kink.

Note: Bohanan’s is a steakhouse in San Antonio, TX.

Word count: 8.4k

You wanted a car. Joel needed to cum.

It wasn’t the arrangement a girl your age should’ve made, but what could you do? Your dad drank half of your college funds away, and your mom was long gone.

The next best thing was Mr. Miller, your father’s boss. He’d understood better than anyone what money could buy. What it might do. For him, it was pleasure. For you, it was a future—or what little remained after bills and loans and exorbitantly-priced car repairs bled you dry.

You took the job at the firm on a whim. You didn’t want to be a lawyer anymore, though your dad and Joel were. You didn’t want to be done with law school, though 3L had already long since ended, and that dreaded so-called ‘minimum competency’ test was drawing close on the horizon. In short, you couldn’t afford to pay for bar prep.

With Joel, you could.

It was true that tax law paid pretty well, but a part-time job would never really be enough when your family was treading water at all times. Your dad liked to gamble and drink, and your brothers got all of their brains from him.

You got the short end of the stick, plus the receiving end of another. Lucky for you, Joel’s felt pretty good going in.

Today you were somewhere south of Austin. Your truck wouldn’t start last week, so you’d agreed to come along on this business trip knowing full well what you planned on asking your boss as soon as you had a moment alone.

“CDP hearing at…9:45.” You checked the itinerary twice.

“Alright.” Joel nodded.

“Lunch with Javier, Ezra, and Dave at twelve.”

“Mhmm.”

“Phone call with Revenue Officer Acacius at 3:30.”

“For the…?”

“Martells.”

“Okay.”

“I finished Lucien Flores’ Form 433-F for your review and left notes—” You stopped to tap your finger on a short white pile of papers between you and Joel on the desk, “—in the margins. Still need bank statements from him.”

“Lovely.”

Joel eyed the stack at first, but his gaze strayed a little.

“You should probably plan to talk strategy with my dad before Mayor Garcia’s audit tomorrow, too. Looks like a couple non-cash contributions are being disputed now.”

For a second, your eyes flitted up to him, too. It was brief.

“Sure. When’s your daddy free?” he said.

You blinked, then scanned the schedule.

“Looks like five…or six, maybe. He’s got a consult with—”

“I wasn’t talking about your father.”

You looked back up. Joel was smirking, of course. His hand had drifted a comfortable, innocent distance past the papers and across the table, to you. The pair of you happened to be in one of the glass-paneled conference rooms nearest the hotel lobby, so he had to be discreet.

He never let his fingers stray too long on yours in public. Presently, his thumb grazed your knuckles extra slow.

Posing a question, maybe.

You didn’t have the time to be tactful now, unfortunately.

“I need $2,700.”

Joel, your boss, your daddy, whatever, had to pause at that. He didn’t move his hand immediately, but he did stare harder. Longer. He searched your face for the joke.

“$2,700?” he repeated.

“Yes sir,” you answered out of habit, wincing only a little, “My truck stopped running last week, and it’s just…a lot.”

The cost. For Joel, it wasn’t even a drop in the bucket, but in your world, it was a make-or-break, fuck-your-whole-budget-for-the-next-six-months kind of bad. Suddenly, your cheeks felt warmer than they did before, and you forced yourself to look away. Peering out across the wide and gently rolling terrain of San Antonio and trying to pretend there was something thrilling to see. You’d almost forgotten how much you hated asking this.

“I can make the deposit tonight—” Joel started.

“No,” you interrupted. You wanted to turn but couldn’t. You just shook your head and kept staring out there, “Not now, I mean…I need to earn it over time, I just…”

You stumbled over the words. It was like your lips, your tongue, and your teeth were all suffering from the same sort of embarrassment pervading the brain, and you couldn’t bring your mouth to form the sentences right.

I’m not asking for a handout. I need to earn the money.

However ‘earning’ may have been grossly misconstrued in the context, it was a labor all the same. You didn’t love it, but you didn’t hate him, either. Joel was nice, albeit old enough to be your father, and it didn’t seem that he was nearly as predatory or perverse as he could’ve been. You’d been working for him for two months now, and the idea had been your own when the cash had gotten tight.

Back in April, you’d explained to him, calmly, that you couldn’t take the bar exam unless you got some extra money quick. That you wouldn’t accept his charity, but you’d pay him back in other ways. Joel had been against it at first—you were the daughter of his best friend, after all—but eventually, his carnal needs won out over his sense, as every other man would’ve done, you guessed.

At first, you’d started slow, but that hadn’t lasted very long. You fucked him regularly now, though never had you asked for an amount of cash this big out of nowhere.

Joel blinked and put a hand on his hip, like he always did when he wasn’t sure what to say. The silver in his soft, dark locks shone more in this light. He’d lost the smirk.

“You’ve done…plenty.” Now sounding sheepish.

You tried to protest again; Joel stopped you.

“I mean it. Hey, look at me,” he said next.

You did, hesitatingly. You turned from the window, and out of instinct, folded your arms over your chest. Joel paced closer to you and then he was watching. Pausing.

Brushing your arm with his and glancing once over your shoulder to make sure no one else was around to see.

He leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to your temple.

When he pulled away, your skin was practically ablaze.

“Mr. Miller—”

“Joel,” he corrected, quiet, “And you’ve done enough. Let me cover the car just this once, okay? Sweetheart?”

You didn’t realize you were pivoting again. That your gut was doing somersaults and your heart was ready to climb up and out of your throat. Your neck was burning.

It wasn’t even anger you sensed was simmering under the skin until you turned back to him, and your eyes flashed with ire before the words were even spoken.

“I don’t need your pity, Mr. Miller. I said I want to pay.”

“It’s Joel. And I said you’ve done enough, so—”

Ire morphed to something more in a blink.

You didn’t mean to say it, but you did.

“Fine,” you huffed, suddenly exasperated, “If you’re so fucking opposed to me paying my way for this one simple thing, I’ll get another guy. Forget I asked.”

It was a low blow, for sure. Joel knew how badly you’d wanted this to stay between just you and him—and he would never dream of seeing you ‘earning your keep’ with anyone else. His expression said as much as soon as he’d heard your words; his whole face hardened at once.

But then you’d turned to leave. You didn’t care what he wanted to tell you, and if you did, you certainly weren’t brave enough to stick around to hear Joel say it then.

So you left. He had a full, busy day ahead of him anyway.

You woke up wet.

In an effort to avoid your boss, you’d run errands all day. Buried your nose in a sea of Civil Procedure notes as soon as you got a second alone, almost vomited seeing the Erie Doctrine, and went back to your hotel room to try and study there. Once you had, you napped instead.

Now your clothes stuck to your skin; the sheets around you were soaked. You peered over the big white duvet holding your body interred and saw smoke overhead.

Or steam.

Yes, definitely steam. It was drifting from the bathroom, where the door was thrown open. You shifted up to sit.

“Tess!” you yelled, “Shut the goddamn door, I’m boiling.”

As a law clerk, you weren’t afforded the luxury of a suite to yourself, so you shared it with the other new grads on work trips like these. Tess Servopoulos loved long, hot showers and never closed the fucking door. You groaned.

And, feeling depleted of all energy from your studies and the stress and the steam searing every inch of your skin, you flopped back in the bed. You kicked the covers off your legs. You’d just lifted a hand to wipe the sweat from your forehead, when an awful, fresh realization dawned.

You glanced at the clock—3:37.

“Fucking hell,” you hissed.

You were supposed to meet your dad at two to get some paperwork signed. You needed to have that filed with the court by four. He was probably engaged somewhere else by now, whether it be a client, a conference, or a couple white lines in the bathroom of a partners-only club downtown, and you wouldn’t have a hope of reaching him here. You rubbed your face and groaned again.

You’d set an alarm for 1:30—you knew you had.

Where the hell was your phone? Why was it so warm? What if he’d called? Aw fuck, he’s probably blown that thing up to hell and back by now. Maybe he was drunk. He had to be. Where was Tess? Where were your pants?

You’d made it up to your feet, clumsily, and faced a full-length mirror. Your bottoms were gone. You closed your eyes and screamed inside, remembering why they were.

“Glad you’re getting some use out of this.”

The second you heard it, your lids flew open. You turned.

And, standing in the warm yellow glow of the bathroom light—holding the culprit, your vibrator, like a prize—was Joel. Naked as the day he was born, save for one thin towel around his hips, and grinning. Moisture glistened on his chest and pooled about his feet, and his hair was smooth, tamed, and combed back neatly from his face.

He waved your silicone toy in the air, and immediately, you regretted giving him your room key the other day.

“I thought we agreed you’d wait for me—”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Your voice was thick with sleep. Joel’s own was slow, dulcet, and kind as it always was, even when teasing. When you grit your teeth, he just set the toy aside.

“I’m sorry. Bad timing. I saw your—”

“No.” You threw up both hands at once, suddenly out of breath and fucks to give, “You know what? I don’t care. You need to go. I have to be down at the courthouse—”

In twenty minutes. You cut yourself short and hurried off to find shoes. You could wear other pants. Ask another attorney to sign the forms if you couldn’t reach your dad. Forget that his boss and yours had just caught you with the vibrator he’d bought you last month and try not to feel too humiliated knowing he knew what you’d been doing. It didn’t matter—Joel didn’t matter. You slid on a mismatched pair of slacks and set off toward the door.

Then you had to stop. Joel beat you there, quick as ever.

“Listen. Hey.”

“Will you stop?!”

You pushed at his big and wet, stupidly broad chest. You felt the small grey hairs on his pecs tickle your palms, and for a second, you thought you heard a chuckle.

“You’re gonna make me late—”

“Hey, hey,” Joel said again. Of course it sounded fatherly, “I already signed the POA for Morales, hon, you’re good.”

You’re good.

“You what?” You stared at him in disbelief. How did he even know you needed Frankie’s power of attorney signed in the first place? You figured your dad would’ve mentioned it, but still, it wasn’t really Joel’s form to sign.

“The case is mine now,” he clarified, reading that look, “Wasn’t my first pick, but it is what it is. And your dad—”

Your dad was probably lagging wildly behind on his own caseload, so he’d pushed one off on his friend. Again.

“You can’t keep picking up his slack,” you gritted out, “One of these days it’s gonna bite you both in the ass. You know he shouldn’t be forcing these jobs on you.”

“I offered.”

“You caved.”

“He’s my best friend, what do you expect me to do?”

“Not let him use you! He’s making you feel bad for him.”

“And what if I did? What if I did pity the bastard?”

You scoffed. Then winced, inwardly.

I don’t need your pity, Mr. Miller.

From the look on Joel’s face, he seemed to be remembering the same. He shook his head.

“That’s not…” he trailed off. He rubbed his jaw with his hand and started to move from the door, deflating some.

His other arm extended to you, wordlessly, and already anticipated what was sure to follow. You swatted him off, then walked to the bed. You considered sitting but didn’t. Instead, you crossed your arms like you always did and turned away, facing the window with a cool, flat affect.

By now, Joel knew better than to take that for what it seemed. He crossed the room to you, treading softly.

His voice turned gentle again, like an apology: “Honey…”

But your gaze was already fixed outside. You frowned.

“Darlin’,” Joel continued, undeterred, “Come on.”

And you didn’t need to see his face to hear the rest: ‘Look at me, please,’ with eyes all comfort and warmth.

“Don’t you have a phone call with an R.O. or something?” Briefly, you recalled Acacius and a stream of other items from the checklist you’d covered that morning, and you had to stop yourself then from straying too far. You blinked once, just as Joel was approaching from behind.

“I cancelled,” he said.

You sighed, “Mr. Miller…”

You knew he hated doing that.

“Joel,” he pressed. Adding, “Something came up.”

You wouldn’t even ask. You shouldn’t care. You felt him standing there, fanning hot breaths across the nape of your neck, and you really couldn’t have taken that worse. You visibly tensed, hands balling into fists at your sides, and—hell, he wouldn’t quit moving now, would he?—Joel bent down. He hesitated, as if gauging your reaction in time, then descended further. He kissed your shoulder.

You cracked; it never took much from him.

For all your inane, ancillary plays at feigning indifference, one movement of Joel’s mouth and your resolve was lost. You clung to words, weakly, but all the rest fell away.

“We don’t…want your charity. Me or my dad. Alright?”

“I know.”

Joel kissed your skin again, then pulled at the strap of your blouse. It fell limply away, and his lips reattached.

Exactly when he’d walked you back to the bed, you couldn’t be sure. By the third or fourth kiss, your stomach was tight, knees weak, and your eyes drawing closed; it didn’t matter to you or to him what had passed before. Your bodies found the bed and blended together.

Tangling, in a way. Tearing blindly at clothes and not saying too much apart from Joel’s soft, sweet words:

“That’s it.”

“I know.”

“Good girl.”

Good girl when he kissed you. Good girl when he stripped you bare. Good girl when his hands roamed the broad, naked expanse of your body and let your own do the same to him. Good girl when your fingers hooked the outline of the towel and tugged it away, your vision filled with a sight you’d come to like more and more each day.

“That’s my girl,” Joel murmured. He cradled your head while you gripped his base, “‘S’yours, baby. All yours.”

Yours. Mine. You weren’t sure you had the sense or self-possession to even know what that meant, especially here. Joel wasn’t a boyfriend. He wasn’t a lover, at least not in the traditional sense. He wore dark wool suits like your father and worked from dawn until dusk every day, practicing law for longer than you’d been alive. Still, the smile above you was sweet. It coaxed you gently as you slid your hand up and down his length, like he sensed this was more like a lesson for you. Learning experience.

“Remember, spit a little first,” he instructed. Then, to demonstrate this point, he brought his fingers to his mouth and wet them quickly. He slipped his touch down to yours and met your gaze while he joined you there.

He rubbed and slicked himself up and he did it with ease. You followed his lead and watched his face contort—crow’s feet pinching even tighter at the sides of his eyes as pleasure began to pool in his gut. He looked pretty. You’d never thought to tell him this, but Joel really had an unparalleled face. It was an old and beautiful thing. For this reason, you couldn’t bring yourself to tear your gaze away, maybe to wet your own fingers. Instead, you slipped your hand between your legs, where his hips had come to rest. You worked a slow, light touch against your folds; you were drenched, and it didn’t take long for your fingers to be, too. You moved them back to Joel’s cock.

“Like this?” you ventured.

The man answered with a grunt, at first. Then a grin.

“Yeah. Yeah,” Joel nodded, quiet but emphatic. Trying not to smile too big as he let your touch take over for his, “Just like that, sweet pea. Get it nice an’ wet for daddy.”

You wanted to whimper at that. Something must’ve flashed in your eyes at the intonation of the last word, and the look must’ve suffused your whole expression, because the next thing you knew, Joel was lowering his body to yours. Petting your hair, letting you rub on his shaft as fast as your soft, lithe hands could manage.

“Feel that, baby? Feel how much daddy missed you?”

You did.

Your brow pinched, and you wanted more of that. More from him: those tender, edifying words of praise being mumbled your way while your touch worked him over. Maybe you could’ve helped it, but then again, in this state, maybe you couldn’t—you whimpered for him.

Wriggling your hips against the bed to get your warmth pressed flush with his own, and squeezing him tighter:

“In me, daddy. Please.”

You angled his cock in your trembling grip to plead as much. You knew he liked being the one to push in the first time, so you didn’t move too far with that push, but you begged him with your gaze. You felt him tense a bit.

And just when you sensed he might let you have your way, he moved off. Down. Sliding his torso away from your own, to go lower on the bed, and smirking again.

“I think she needs my tongue first, doesn’t she?”

You wanted to nod. Instead, you flinched. You crawled away from his hold before it could secure itself firmly on either one of your legs, and you had to snag your bottom lip between your teeth to contain that blossoming need. It almost spilled from your mouth in a moan before Joel’s could reach your lower half. Then you scrambled to sit up

“No,” you choked out.

This wasn’t new. While you shook your head, Joel lifted a brow and stood from the bed. He reached behind him.

The night stand.

You closed your eyes.

“This isn’t…supposed to be for me.” you sighed.

In a second, Joel was back where he started, and you didn’t have to steal a glance through your lids to know what he was holding. Slotting himself gently into place.

“Don’t,” he started, sharp, “—say that. I mean it.”

You knew he meant it, but you also knew better than to accept at face value what he said, moving down on you.

This wasn’t part of the deal. Joel’s money was meant to serve his pleasure, not yours. Letting him take you any other way seemed to blur the lines between transaction and affection, and though you’d done this before, it still didn’t feel right. You couldn’t bear having his focus here.

Evidently, though, he could. He’d snatched your vibrator from the night table and lowered his torso to your legs, lips twitching the tiniest bit. ‘Open up. Let me see her.’

Joel was on his stomach, eyes glowing with intrigue.

“Let me see how much she’s missed me, baby.”

The grey matter in your brain might’ve trickled through your ears—the whole thing went to mush at his words. You pushed at his hands, then the top of his head, but clearly, your will was weak. You wanted this. Needed it.

“That’s a good girl. Let daddy have it,” Joel drawled.

You wanted to cry. Or maybe hide. His index and middle fingers prodded at your folds, pulling them apart, and for a moment, you could’ve sworn you’d stopped breathing. Joel kissed the slope of your mound with a quiet kind of reverence. The salt-and-pepper stubble on his chin brushed your clit, and your back arched reflexively. Then, remembering why you’d come to this arrangement in the first place, you felt a wave of guilt supplant that pleasure.

You clawed at his head and shook your own, weakly.

“No. W-wanna make you feel good,” you choked out.

Not me.

Not here.

Just let it—

“Fuck,” you keened through your teeth. Joel’s lips made contact with your slick, drooling cunt and, in a second, sucked your nub in between them. He flicked his tongue.

Joel groaned, then pulled away to meet your gaze.

“Feels plenty good f’me,” he assured you in a murmur. Eyes glossy, “She’s so fuckin’ sweet, honey. So pretty.”

Then, as if to punctuate his point, he slid his tongue down the whole wet mess of your slit, and he moaned. He curled the muscle and invaded your sticky, sensitive, precious warm flesh with vigor and force—maybe a little desperation—and you whined at the feeling. Your toes curled tight. It was doubtlessly a sight to see: Joel’s old and weathered head against your young and supple skin, the wiry greys of his chin rubbing your cunt like no man’s his age should’ve been. He took you gently. Forked his fingers over your folds to hold you open for him and then, over and over and over again, just licking stripes. Squelching noises only seemed to goad him on while he buried his nose and savored your taste without reserve. Your stomach clenched with that pleasure, then swelled.

“That’s my girl—so good for me,” Joel said, as though reminding you, gently, it was okay to relish the feeling.

Once more, he suckled your clit in his mouth, rubbing the tip of his tongue in a quick back-and-forth motion, and the next sensation hit without a breath of warning.

Your belly twisted again, then flushed with hot pleasure.

“My— fuck,” you cried, shuddering with a climax you didn’t know was coming. You held his head and whined.

Joel’s tongue didn’t stop. Your vision blurred. Whatever reprieve you might’ve hoped to find came in the form of his lips drawing back, momentarily, only to sponge little kisses on your still-pulsing heat. Your body jolted back.

“I c— I’m done. I’m done,” you blurted out.

Joel nodded against you. Humming through his kisses:

“I know. Keep going.”

Keep going.

So simple.

Still, you couldn’t breathe. Your sight was inundated with stars. You felt Joel’s stubble on your slit again, only this time, the pleasure was tripled. Your legs trembled, and your hands made fists in his hair. Joel kept on kissing.

And kissed again, again, and again, until your fingers in his locks pulled taut to the roots and your hips were bucking up in his face: ‘Too much, t—oh fuckfuckfuck.’

Then came a buzz. Skirting your legs in a blink, before diving to meet Joel’s mouth on your clit. You shrieked.

“I know, I know,” Joel joined, as though soothing a wound while he maneuvered the vibrator. Lifting his head and then kissing your thigh, “I know. You’re alright.”

You wanted to sob; you felt ready to burst. You trusted Joel’s judgment but had never been subjected to this sort of pleasure. What if it was more than you could take?

“I’m here.”

Joel’s words were slow to crawl off his tongue, but their intent was clear. You writhed once more, and he was kissing your skin, rubbing your thighs, and taking the toy to your clit with a warm, devoted touch. He wasn’t cruel.

He had a glint in his gaze when you met it, like he knew you wouldn’t accept this feeling alone—but he wanted you to. He wanted the indulgence to be your own and an end in itself. There was care in his touch, tender praise with every caress, and you guessed this was intentional. Joel needed you to know this was more than only his.

You felt more naked than you’d ever been: soaking the sheets with your last release, fresh arousal trickling out, Joel’s spit mixing with your nectar and sweat and pressing you down in the bed. And nudging you, gently.

“‘S’okay, baby. You’re alright. That feels nice, doesn’t i—”

“Kiss me.”

It came out faster than you could even try and stop it. You weren’t sure why you said it. The words were acerbic on your tongue—you hated ever sounding needy—but then your mind and your mouth and your worries were all silenced at once when Joel came clambering up for you.

His lips were wet and grinning as he kissed you. He held the vibrator hostage between your legs while his body pressed tight against yours. His movements slowed.

Then, as if he’d crawled in your head and read your mind:

“It’s okay to need me, baby. It’s okay to want this.”

His hips made that assurance even clearer. Joel reached down and took the vibrator again, increasing the friction between your groin and his while he pressed the buzzing toy to your clit. You whined into his mouth at the feeling.

Your eyes rolled back, and the pleasure soared. This morning, you might’ve bristled at the words he’d just spoken, but here, in this bed, it felt okay. It felt safe.

Joel felt safe, for once, and you weren’t sure how to keep that idea from sticking—how to reconcile the notion of swapping sex for cash with a man for months on end, and then this. Your stomach churned. He held your face and kissed you more, and your clit throbbed and ached. Before you could ponder your thoughts a second longer, a white-hot pleasure washed over, and you came again.

“Good girl,” Joel cooed.

Throbbing even more this time.

“That’s a sweet girl. That’s my baby.”

All but aching with desire. Feeling it double.

“Cum for daddy, that’s it. Keep going.”

Feeling it trickle down your legs.

“She’s feelin’ real good, huh?”

You could barely breathe.

You whined. Felt something splinter between your thighs and then more of it, more of you and that slick, oozing pleasure and Joel’s groans, overjoyed—‘Making a fucking mess’a daddy, isn’t she? She feel that good?’—and by ‘that good’ you guessed it was more than normal.

This was more warmth than usual. Somewhere in the midst of your own mind-numbing pleasure, you’d let out a spurt, sticky and wet. It now coated the hairs on Joel’s tummy, and while his skin shone, his eyes were brighter. He flitted a look to you, gaze flaring, and slid down. Low.

Back to where he was before. Moving the buzzing pink bullet aside and letting his mouth assume its place.

Of course, you yelped.

“Joel!”

You winced, both from saying his name and feeling so raw. Joel grinned at the sound and suckled your clit.

It was drenched. You and Joel, too, were doused all over and practically gleaming under the rays of late afternoon sun then pouring through the window. For a second, you cast a look outside like you had before, but it was only to brace your body for the bliss at hand. You stared and felt a crude, carnal shockwave seize you head to toe. It traveled fast and made you release, again, or else just continue the same flow as before—and this time, into Joel’s waiting mouth. He lapped at you feverishly now.

He squeezed your legs and licked you dry. He worked in merciless circles, like his life might have depended on making you stay at this peak. All the while, you were tearing at his hair. Riding his face as your body fell apart.

That was alright. This pleasure was yours for now, but there was still time yet to make it worth his while, you reasoned in a half-intoxicated state. Your legs vibrated as you started to crawl—limp—back up in the bed and, numb with elation and a desperate need to please, you stretched your arm toward the night stand. You huffed.

You reached blindly but got it. The box. Weak fingers found the first plastic strip and tore yourself a square. Then, lifting it to Joel, you ignored the last stabs of pleasure between your legs. This was fun, but still his.

“Go on,” you told him, breathless, “Fuck me.”

Joel quirked a brow. He took the condom, still panting himself. He brought the latex to his tip out of habit, then:

“Yeah? Are you sure?”

“Uh-huh.”

Your head was swimming. Somewhere entrenched in the furthest recesses of your brain you could feel it, that dizzying, self-centered pleasure. You pushed it back.

You suffocated it, and you spread your legs wide for him. You let him lay you down and tug the rubber over his cock, then nudge at your hips to situate himself in just the right way. How he liked it. He seemed to be content, and your heart swelled. In this airy, buoyant state, you felt more at ease to speak, sure that he’d understand.

“This should cover some of it, right?” you panted out.

Joel slowed.

“What?”

You sucked your bottom lip between your teeth, eager to keep going. But you steeled yourself, just barely, then.

“Sex. Now,” you said, “It’ll cover some of my car repairs.”

Instead of nodding like you’d expected, Joel only blinked. Then you opened your mouth to speak again, and his body stopped you cold. He planted a hand beside your head on the pillow and raised his hips; you felt his heat leave with it. You reached for his backside immediately, to try and pull him back into that pre-missionary position he’d held, when Joel brushed you off. His face was hard.

“Money?” he quipped.

“Yeah,” you started, then remembered how you talked outside of the bedroom, when he seemed more serious, “We’ll go again. All week. You can even put it in my—”

Joel balked, like you’d just slapped him across the face.

“No,” he said, sharp.

“No,” he repeated, more to himself this second time. Almost as though he couldn’t believe what you were suggesting—and making him guilty by association.

Joel clenched your pillow like a vice and shook his head.

“You’re not getting paid for this,” he finished, and when your gaze penetrated his, confused, he squeezed harder.

“Thought you wanted it.” Joel added, almost shamefully.

“I do! I do…I just—” you sputtered.

“What? Think you need to offer up a week and a half of fucking to make it worth my time? Is that what this is?”

Well, in a way, maybe.

You weren’t sure what to say. Former dizzying bliss was dwindling fast, and now you were facing him cold. Sober.

Increasingly irritated, again.

“I just need money, Mr. Miller—”

“It’s Joel, hon,” he bit back, for the fourth time that day. His eyes flared with something more, maybe annoyance, but then he was tempering it just as fast. He ran a hand through his damp grey hair and shook his head, pausing, “It’s Joel. I know you need the money, baby, but it’s—”

“It’s what we agreed,” you protested, “What I need—”

“Well it’s not what I want!” Joel barked.

Anger surged again, and this time, evidently, the feeling was harder to keep at bay. He was scarcely able to rein in his features, settling on a grave little scowl instead of a frown, and he sucked in shorter, shallower breaths through his nose. You felt him let your pillow go.

“Forget it—the cash.” Joel grit his teeth even tighter, “Forget these payments and the goddamn allowance I’ve had you on. I can’t do that anymore. It’s not right.”

Your heart sank.

You didn’t know what to say.

Luckily, Joel’s voice resumed on its own.

“Whatever you want, whatever you need, sweetheart…”

He stopped. Silence followed, then stretched on for one full, terrible minute. In that interim, you could see his chest rise and fall fast. He was trying to slow it down.

“Whatever you need paid off, I’ll do it. Anything. You don’t have to touch me again. It was wrong of me to allow that in the first place,” he rejoined, tone cooling.

Sounding guilty, too.

Above you, Joel didn’t seem keen on holding your gaze, so he fixed his stare someplace on the headboard instead. Then he moved off your body, slowly.

In spite of the distance he attempted to give, he was still crowding your space. Looming large and bare and weary as you’d ever seen him, knees shuffling back awkwardly through a mass of cotton sheets while his eyes shifted low. Away. The rest of him filled your lungs with a heady cologne scent and your stomach with a thousand tiny blades—you were hurt that he wasn’t sticking to his end of the bargain. You were mad that he was trying to claim the moral high ground now, after everything you’d done.

Mostly, though, you were just upset that you felt like you were losing someone close. That Joel Miller was more of a confidant, friend, and father figure than your own dad had ever been, and that got all fucked up over money. Your lips pursed, and something stung behind your eyes when you reached for him again. Your throat stung, too.

“The reason I agreed to do this,” Joel went on, and the ache in your head worsened when he winced from your touch, “was ‘cause I didn’t want you getting ‘help’ from anyone else. I was selfish. And that’s not an excuse…”

He started to move off, hand dropping from yours.

“…but it’s the truth. I’m sorry.”

At length, Joel found your gaze, and the eyes said it all over again: I’m sorry. You might’ve believed them, too.

But you were you, and you couldn’t help but press:

“Why?”

Your voice was small. Joel was trying to stand from the bed, but you grabbed at his hand again and made him meet your eyes. Confusion was painted across his own.

Kneeling in front of him, curious, you tried to clarify.

“Why’d it have to be you?”

Judging from Joel’s expression as soon as you did, you got the sense that this question made him feel dumb. He frowned, but he held your stare and answered anyway.

“Because I wanted you first,” he replied, “Before all this.”

Your stomach twisted. He did?

You didn’t need to ask twice to know what that meant. What he’d said, in words and with a look, was enough. Still, it was always in you to know more, to be sure, so you crept a little closer. You let your hands roam up and—

“No,” Joel said, as soon as your fingers reached his side.

You’d just wanted to feel him, maybe prod him further on what he’d just said through acts that didn’t require verbal articulation, but he refused. He backed up in bed.

“This isn’t about—” he started, low.

“Sex. I know,” you answered for him. Then your touch grazed his thigh, and you were dying to have more. To be told in a way you both knew and understood. To touch, “You want me to believe you really…liked me before?”

“More than you know.”

There was that blunt, open pragmatism in the Joel you’d always known. Perhaps guided by natural inclinations, or else your hand on his leg, drawing higher. Moving closer.

Showing skepticism through your eyes and the hint of a playful, disbelieving smile starting to curl at your lips.

“When you met me?” you teased.

You’d known of Joel for years, and had met him a couple times as a teenager at various firm holiday functions. You probably hadn’t exchanged more than ten words altogether before starting law school a few years back.

“Hell no,” Joel answered, fast, “When you started work.”

His gaze was timid again. It was fixed on his thigh where you’d started to slide your index up the warm, muscled expanse of his skin, and though you could tell he was more than hesitant, you wanted to know. Wanted to feel.

It wasn’t so easy convincing a man you’d been working for—and fucking, largely without feeling—to pay bills that you wanted him here and now. But you needed to try.

That maybe, somewhere along the way, you’d come to want him, too. That cash wasn’t the only thing at stake.

You crawled between his legs, then straddled his hips.

Your lips smiling still as you did: “How much?”

Joel blinked back. Dazed.

“What do you m—”

“How much did you like me? When did it start?”

Joel sighed when your heat rubbed his. He tried grabbing ahold of your hips, when you glanced down and saw he’d already discarded the last condom. You couldn’t have that if you wanted to continue this talk.

You reached back and grabbed another.

“Darlin’,” Joel said, strained, “We shouldn’t…”

“Says who?”

You’d already worked the rubber halfway down his length when his heavy-lidded gaze locked with yours. You saw lust there, mixed with worry. Curiosity. You kept going.

“Says your dad, if he ever finds out what I’ve done to his little girl,” Joel replied, closing his eyes at the feeling.

You had the latex worked down to the base of him when you smiled. Felt him seize your hips, lids fluttering open to find you in their soft, glossy stare, and you felt better. Like clockwork, you went together and joined, at last. You felt Joel squeeze your backside and groan when you first sank down to take him whole. You shuddered, too.

But you tried to steady your voice as you spoke.

“Semantics, Miller,” you told him, only faltering a little, “Things you are ‘doing’ to his little girl. Not just ‘done.’”

There, you had a point. Surely your father would have had some choice words for his business partner and best friend if he knew how far Joel’s cock was currently stuffed inside your tight, wet cunt. It might even piss him off, if he weren’t too drunk to receive the news himself.

Joel blinked hard, signaling that he knew this too, and presently watched your body swallow all eight inches at once, after you’d raised yourself up to just the tip and sank back. Your ass fell to his groin with an obscene sort of squelch, and your walls involuntarily clenched. You both let out sounds of pleasure, and held on tighter.

Your hands on his chest for stability, while one of his own held your hip and the other fumbled around for your clit, gliding through the sheen of your arousal on his front. You rocked your hips and felt how much it really was—how you’d drenched his whole abdomen with your last release. You smiled at this and stared, pleased with the pretty, sticky display you’d laid bare all over Joel’s belly.

When Joel wasn’t watching you ride, he stared there too.

“Not so ‘little’ anymore,” he mused quietly. Then he looked up to find your eyes, seeing them as glazed as his, “And I ‘like’ you, hon. Present tense. Not just…‘liked.’”

Alright.

“How much?”

You wanted to say it with some confidence. Nonchalance. Then Joel’s cock nicked a particularly sensitive ridge inside your walls, and that thought was gone as quick as it had come. You gripped the flesh of his upper chest and rolled your hips harder. Let out your breaths in little fractured whimpers while you rode him more. Another sweet feeling twisted low in your gut.

With just a glimpse of that, Joel moved his hand from your heat up past your hips and waist, to squeeze one of your breasts. His fingers were wet. You could feel them, equal parts warmth and wanton yearning as the pads pinched your nipple and gave it a firm tug. He grunted.

Clearly, there was more to it than just the touching and feeling for him—Joel’s eyes drank in the sight of your skin as it glistened with the arousal he’d just smeared. He thumbed at the wet, stiff peak and swallowed. And, just as you were about to adjust the rhythm of your hips bouncing on him, his free hand joined the first and pulled you down. You cried feeling his cock wedge deep; your hands fell to either side of his body when he yanked your face down to his. He fucked up into you from underneath

You squealed, soft, “Joel!”

He kissed your open mouth. Made you lay flat overtop him while he fucked your dripping hole. You whimpered.

“Joel—” Again.

“I like you so much, sweetheart,” he said, in answer to your last question, lips close, “Does she like me too?”

As if to save him the trouble of a swift reply in words, your body told him instead. You squeezed around his cock, and with another desperate cry, bit his shoulder. He hammered your poor, aching pussy with a groan of his own, and he held your body down to his. Grinning.

Kissing the side of your head while he pounded away. Stroking your hair, “Is that a ‘yes’? She like her daddy?”

Drool was bound to slip out of your mouth any second. Your lips were locked in a permanent ‘o’ while he drilled from under you on the bed. Still, you managed to nod.

“Uh-huh—oh, fuck, fuck, da-ddy. Yes, daddy.”

You squeezed your eyes shut as another blistering wave seared your insides. Joel was relentless with his thrusts now, driving himself in and out without stopping or slowing. He must’ve known you were close. He was too, judging by the sounds of his grunts and hushed tone.

“Let daddy take care of her then, baby. All of her. OK?”

His words trickled through your ear as sweet as honey. His cock was less kind, but that was okay—you liked it.

You loved him here. Taking care of you. Her. Everything.

And, in this half-coherent state of fuckdrunk pleasure, you were tempted to give in to whatever he begged.

It would be so easy. Joel cradled your face in his hand, practically beaming with pride while he fucked you over and over, and your legs were spread, walls were stretched, eyes practically rolling back, and you felt more secure than you’d been in ages. Joel could care for you.

He rubbed his thumb over your cheek and hummed.

“Daddy’s got you,” he said, voice all warm assurance.

Nudging you closer and closer to your peak—and perhaps some other form of surrender. Release.

Submission?

Joel wouldn’t be so bad for that.

He could fuck you well and leave you content. Make you forget what it meant to be strapped for cash and saddled with guilt and worry over bills every month. Joel could provide, for now. His eyes said as much; his fingers threaded through your hair and rubbed your scalp. He cupped your face, all fifty-six years in his own looking as handsome as they’d ever been. He felt good. He felt safe.

You were hot. Your legs trembled and ached.

“Is that something you’d want?” he pressed.

And, still holding Joel’s gaze with a heavy-lidded, fucked out look of your own, you surprised yourself by nodding, slowly. Your body was spent, but the curve on your lips, then his, was sincere; Joel nodded back as he grinned.

“Yeah? You mean it, sweetheart?”

He flipped you both over and got on top, never breaking apart. You wound your legs around his back and let him cup your cheeks again, and from this angle, you felt it. You wouldn’t try and fight it now; you just kissed him.

Then you came for a third time, walls clenching and squeezing and gushing again, smearing Joel’s front as he fucked you right through it. His groans were a little more subdued than yours, but in their timbre, you could hear his desperation. He emptied himself inside you, in the condom, and kept holding your face all the while.

You felt a low pulse between your legs. Then another. And another. And another. Joel’s hips began to still, his hefty greying belly bumping lightly against your skin while he drained what was left in his balls, and you swore that his bones might’ve creaked from the sheer force of those final thrusts. He seemed exhausted. Somehow, though, the man looked even better in this state—haggard and worn as he was, the face above your own was soft. Smiling, faintly, and kissing you constantly.

You couldn’t pretend you didn’t enjoy it; you were far too tired and fucked out of your mind to protest right now.

Joel trailed a path with his lips from your chin to your ear. He kissed the hinge of your jaw and sank himself deeper.

“Mr.—” But you caught yourself, shortly, “…Joel.”

He lifted his head, not apologetic in the least.

“Maybe just one more—” he started.

“No,” you finished for him, sharp.

Still smiling, but with your eyes on him in a thinly veiled threat. Joel accepted that and kept his dick where it was.

What followed was gradual but natural enough. A little awkward as you broached that uncharted territory of remaining in the other’s presence after the deed was done, but Joel didn’t seem like he wanted to leave the bed, and you had nowhere else to go until dinner with your dad at eight. There was a moment you wanted to separate your body from Joel’s, if only to slip off to the bathroom by yourself, but the man just held you closer.

“You think your old man will mind if I joined tonight?”

Here the fuck we go.

“He’ll kill you.”

You pushed hard against his hold without getting so much as an inch of give. Joel had to fight back a chuckle.

“Oh, yeah? Why?”

“Because,” you began in a huff. Wriggling with very little success in his arms, while you were pinned in missionary, “I smell like you. You smell like me. My dad’s a drunk, but he can sniff stuff like that out in a heartbeat. Too risky.”

You punctuated those words with a still more serious look, but before you could nudge at his chest again or say something more, you were forced to swallow a scream. Joel’s grip tightened even more, and he moved to stand up from the bed—with you still in his arms and impaled on his cock. He started to walk to the bathroom.

“Great. Shower’s got plenty of room for the two of us.”

“Joel!”

“Glad I don’t have to keep reminding you of my name.”

His voice was smug. Your gaze was hard. Joel was still hard himself, amazingly, and you almost groaned when you felt the head of his cock bump somewhere soft and sensitive inside. He toted you into the big, bright room.

“If not tonight, how ‘bout tomorrow? Just you and me.”

He would never stop this shit. He reached for the faucet.

“Still too dangerous. You know that,” you chided. Your resolve only wavered a little when you felt the hot water start to pelt at your back. Joel closed the glass door, “Besides…I need to focus on figuring my shit out right now. Work and bills and getting myself a rental car soon.”

Joel paused. He turned, still holding you.

Then, just as swiftly as he’d stepped inside, he carried you right back out of the shower. You whined in protest.

He took you over to the bed and set you down. He left to find his wallet and keys. You might’ve been tempted to voice your displeasure in some other way—namely, by marching back to the bathroom, locking the door, and bathing alone—but before you could speak a word, Joel was back. He looked down at you and held out his fist.

“What’s—”

“Your dad and me’ll be up to our eyeballs in bullshit working the Garcia audit tomorrow—and I know you don’t want him seeing us leave together anywhere—so we can meet at Bohanan’s at six. How does that sound?”

You blinked.

“I don’t…have a car.”

Joel opened his hand. Keys dropped out.

In a single glance, you could see they weren’t his.

Joel drove a garish Super Duty F-450, not an Audi. The cogs were quick to turn in your head, but clearly not fast enough, because Joel was closing your fingers over the keys before you could breathe so much as a syllable to him. When you did, it came out more like a stutter. Palpably mad but far too rattled to get much out:

“Joel, I-I can’t—”

“I’ve been meaning to buy one anyw—”

“You’re insane,” you started to push the keys back, and for some reason, your heart was thudding extra hard as you did. You went on, unblinking, “You don’t…need to.”

“I want to.”

Joel’s hands were warm when he pressed both of his palms to secure yours between them. He could probably feel the way it shook a little, but he didn’t seem to care. His gaze was too busy trying to find, and hold, your own while you swallowed and stared and racked your numb brain for any words of defiance. At length, nothing came.

All you could do was meet that look. In the soft brown irises above, you could see it all—the need to comfort, and care, and provide where he could, offer better than the hand you’d been dealt and maybe, interspersed with those feelings somewhere, a simpler need in him to give.

For once, you wanted to believe it.

Fun fact: This fic was inspired by true events‼️💯 My life 😫🤪😤😈 Like reader, my truck is also busted as SHIT and needs $2,700 in repairs!!!! Unlike reader, I will not be sucking and fucking Joel Miller to recoup my losses (not asking for donations, just wanted to give y’all a giggle at my misfortune LOL)

#ENOUGH BULLSHITTING WE NEED MORE GLUCOSE GUARDIAN JOEL ON THE TL NEOWWWWW #🫵🏼😐#i’m begging y’all to write more for this very particular and off-putting dynamic bc i love it dearly #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller imagine #joel miller one shot #joel miller tlou #the last of us fic

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drchucktingle · 2 years ago

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THE TEXAS LIBRARY ASSOCIATION HAVE ISSUED AN APOLOGY AND A RE-INVITATION. HERE IS MY STATEMENT

hello buckaroos. the TEXAS LIBRARY ASSOCIATION have issued a formal statement and apology which you can read at the attached link.

while i find the language used to discuss what was done a little unsatisfying, i would like to start by saying i appreciate anyone taking steps to prove love is real and make things right. the genuine feeling of ‘realizing you have made a mistake and hurt someone else’ is a terrible one, and i have so much empathy for this group as they reckon with their choices causing harm. i appreciate their apology.

i also think more good than bad has come from this situation. i am so thankful this happened to me (someone with a large social media presence) and not a smaller buckaroo author without the means to stand up for themselves. i think the next time someone comes to the TXLA with an accommodation need, they will hopefully be taken more seriously

lets trot down to business about specifics now. the TXLA has re-invited chuck to the original panel and even offered to take a moment at the top of the panel to talk about what happened. this is very kind of them and i will say THANK YOU.

unfortunately i will also have to decline.

the fact that it took this much effort, social media backlash, and discussion to let me simply EXIST PHYSICALLY in a way that is authentic to myself is not a good sign. if this organization immediately questions an authors chosen presentation in this manner, i cannot imagine what my other accommodations would be met with.

sometimes i am at an event and i very quickly need extra space to breathe. sometimes i am at an event and i need special guides to help me along from place to place. these are not ‘big asks’ and every other conference has gladly provided them, but if the TXLA had this kind of initial reaction to my physical appearance, i cannot imagine them readily helping with my other needs without ‘proof’.

this is clearly not a safe place to trot for those who require additional accommodations. regardless of any apology, their ACTIONS have shown that people who appear unusual or unique are not welcome at this event on a subconscious level. i believe the TXLA have some serious inner work to do beyond this apology, and i believe this inner work will involve actions more than words.

but even more importantly i would like to make this very important point: IT DOES NOT MATTER IF MY MASK IS A DISABILITY AID OR NOT. i appreciate the way this discussion has allowed us to trot out some deep talks on autism and proved love in this way, but i think there is a much more important point at hand.

regardless of WHAT someone looks like, it is not the job of an event or conference to pick apart WHY. physical presentation can be a part of someones neurodivergence, or gender, or sexuality, but i can also just exist as a nebulous undefined part of their inner self. it can be a piece they are not ready to openly discuss yet. the guests at TXLA are authors (aka ARTISTS) and the idea that a conference dedicated to an ART is going to deny people with unique and unusual presentations for ANY reason is absurd. since when are we applying a ‘dress code’ to our artists?

without knowing it, i personally believe there is an element of the ‘good queer, bad queer’ phenomenon going on here. there is a push to say ‘LOOK we accept these marginalized groups and cultures’ but behind the scenes that means ‘we accept these marginalized groups and cultures who are quiet and speak in turn and wear the metaphorical suit and tie’. it is easy to show diversity when you only take on the voices that arent too ‘strange’.

to prove my point i ask you this: do you think orville peck would have FOR ONE SECOND been asked to perform at the texas library association event without his mask?

so with that i say ‘very sincerely, thank you, but i will have to decline the re-invitation. maybe next year’

#love is real #txla #chuck tingle #buckaroo lifestyle

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lunilus · 3 months ago

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office hours 💼 (poly!141 x fem!reader)

Working at a corporate job wasn’t as bad people deemed it to be. The pay was good enough to keep all your bills up to date and you really couldn’t complain other than how boring it was to sit down for eight hours checking over millions of emails everyday. Your tedious cycle is soon interrupted when your general manager urges you that you’re needed at the boss’s office, immediately.

You never liked Monday’s .

Not only were they a struggle to wake up to, but they were a constant reminder that a long week was ahead of you.

It was a bit weird to think about it now. To see yourself working in the business industry, let alone in a setting where you’ve heard and seen people overwork themselves to death. Perhaps it was the bad representation corporate jobs had but you like to think that you were one of the few lucky ones to land in a good working environment thanks to your good friend, Stella.

She was a good friend from the inside and out, and although you are very grateful for her practically saving you from getting evicted from your apartment a year ago, you valued your sleep. Wanting nothing to do but sink into the comfort of your freshly washed sheets.

However, your short-lived bliss was soon interrupted by your second alarm. A loud groan slipping past your lips as you slam your hand against the screen of your phone in hopes of it shutting off. It was 7 AM, meaning that you had about an hour and a half to get ready.

“Fuck me.” You groggily say, rubbing the sleep off your eyes as you hastily pull the blankets off of you, dragging yourself to the bathroom.

Brushing your teeth and washing your face took longer than you expected with the speed you were going at. Your outfit was next which didn’t take much time to pick with the few simple (boring) choices you had in your closet. You looked down at your watch only to curse at yourself at the time.

Hurriedly, you make your hair look presentable, sliding your feet into your heels as you grab your necessities on your way downstairs. Laptop, charger, headphones along with some important paperwork all getting stuffed into your bag with little care.

With your keys in hand, you were ready to start another week typing away.

You typically expect a folder already in your desk every time you walk through the doors of the 1-4-1 Corporation building. A bunch of paperwork needed to be checked over and reported for any mistakes along with looking over data was typically your day-to-day tasks. However, what you did not expect is to see a small paper bag filled not only filled with your favorite pastry, but also a steaming cup of hot chocolate next to it.

A smile stretches over your lips as you catch a glimpse of Stella’s own sly grin across from the panel separating you two. “Have I ever told you how much I love you?” You tease, earning an eye roll from her as she shakes her head. “All the time.”

“Seriously, how are you not married yet? Anyone would be lucky to have a gem like you.” Mumbling the last bit to yourself as you get settled in, not wasting any time to take a bite of the sweet strawberry cruffin in front of you.

Stella just brushes her blonde hair to the side, going back to typing with a smirk. “Precious jewels like me need to be wary of the hungry hands of people.”

“A thank you would have sufficed, woman.” Immediately taking back your compliment back with a groan at her words in which Stella responds by simply throwing her head back in laughter at your embarrassed state.

“You’re no fun in the mornings, babes. So grumpy.” Your friend simply says, swiping some whip cream off your tasty muffin and bringing it up to her lips as you send a glare her way before taking a sip of your hot chocolate.

You get into the flow of things after finishing your breakfast. Going through last week’s reports and checking off papers so they can be sent off as well as checking off dates for any pending events or projects that need to be done before the end of the month. You send a couple emails to the other employees, reminding them of an upcoming meeting with your GM, David.

Speak of the devil, you see him approaching your desk. A rush in his step that has alarms bells raising in your head as his eyes scan the room before they’re landing on you. Uh oh. That can’t be good.

“Hey, can you come with me for a second?” He says rather swiftly, a stiff smile forming on his lips as he taps his finger against your desk.

“Uh.. yeah! Sure.” You respond back, flattening your hands across your skirt as you stand up. You send a quick anxious glance at your friend in which Stella replicates with a worried look of her own as she shrugs her shoulders, a direct way to show her own perplexity to the situation.

Following behind the steps of David, you take the opportunity to go over the things you could have possibly done wrong. Had you missed a report? Done a mistake on the data? Misspelled something? Or miss a date? No. That can’t be. Even with all the things racing through your mind— you can’t figure out why your general manager would want to meet you privately.

You don’t even notice when you two are in the elevator, going up the levels of the building until a small ‘bing’ and the click of the doors sliding open break you out of your frantic haze. Gulping down your nerves, you follow David out of the elevator, heels clicking against polished concrete floors as the man in fronts of you guides you through a hallway you don’t recognize.

Breaking the silence, you stop. David turning back to face you with an illegible expression as he stops in front of a door. “What’s going on? Am I getting fired?” You say, trying your best to hide the shaking in your voice as you stare at him.

“What-? No, no!” David shakes his head, letting out a sigh of his own as he tries to find the words to explain the oddity of him suddenly pulling you out of your seat. “I got a call from Laswell that you were needed at the boss’s office immediately. She didn’t give me an explanation.”

Laswell. Chief operating officer of the company which you only got to see her once when you barely started working for this company. That definitely did not put your nerves to ease, shifting your gaze to door in front of you as your eyes catch a nameplate. Johnathan Price, Chief executive officer.

What the hell.

“Look kid, I’m sure it’s nothing bad.” David says, grabbing your shoulders in an attempt to ground you despite his tone revealing his own doubt. You can only nod as you shift your eyes back to him, offering him a tight smile.

He doesn’t linger for long, telling you something along the lines to not say anything he wouldn’t say as if that helps the bile building in your throat with how nervous you are. You’re left alone after that, eyes boring into into the door before you’re taking a deep breath in, lifting your hand up to knock.

“Come in.” A gruff voice says from the other side of the door.

Lifting a shaky hand, you grip the handle and twist it open as you step into his office. Making sure to gently close the door behind you as you stand a few feet away from the man who can possibly ruin your life by firing you.

Your breath gets caught in your throat as you meet his gaze. Cold and steady eyes meet yours, your back straightening without thinking.

His presence screams authority. Perfect ironed suit complementing his domineering look as he leans against his chair. His gaze never wavers, not even when he tilts head to point at the chair in front of him, silently telling you to sit down without uttering a word.

Your brain short circuits for a split second before your feet are swiftly making their way towards the chair. Hands pressed against the material of your skirt as you rest them in front of you, crossing your legs in hopes of coming off as calm and collected despite the sweat building up between your shoulder blades.

He’s analyzing you. Like a predator watching its prey with a sharp gaze, ready to pounce at any moment. You can’t help but squirm. He finally breaks the silence by letting out a soft sigh of his own, arms stretching to rest on top of his desk.

“I can tell you’re nervous and that’s partially my fault for bringing you here in such short notice.” He explains, offering you a sympathetic smile that has you instantly deflating and letting out a small chuckle of your own as you shake your head.

“It’s really no problem, sir,” you say, intertwining your fingers together to keep them from shaking as you offer a small smile, “just caught me off guard that’s all.”

He hums, eyes flickering down to your hands before they’re finding yours again. “Just John, sweetheart. You’ll be working with us soon enough so there’s no need for formalities.” He simply states, grabbing a folder from underneath his desk as he slides it towards you.

Us? What was that supposed to mean?

You break eye contact to look at the manilla folder in front of you. Mouth opening and closing like a fish with how hard it is to form words as you try to process his. “I-I’m sorry, sir— I mean John,” you stutter out, grabbing the folder in your hands and opening it to flick through the pages. “I don’t think I quite understand what you mean..” you drag the last part, your eyes catching onto something that has you stopping mid sentence.

“Request to transfer for the following recipient.”

It takes you a moment to read through all the pages, John’s own watchful gaze still on you as he lets you take in the details of his unexpected proposition. Taking a deep breath, you close the folder and set it back down once you’re finished. The man in front of you seems to be unaffected by the situation, a neutral expression on his face as he stares at you.

“We’ve went through all your records and heard all great things about you.” He assures you, your ears warming up at his praise while mumbling a small thank you. “It was really a last minute decision and I apologize for that. Our previous assistant has recently moved to another department and we took it as an opportunity to find a new set of extra hands.”

You nod to show your understanding, your eyes finding it hard to stay put on his face as he talks with that voice of his. Eyes lingering down to his beard, tie, the expand of his chest and the cuff of his sleeves. You flinch once he taps his finger against the hard table, eyes flicking back to him.

“Sorry.!” You squeak out, an amused eyebrow raised on his face as he stares at you. “Thought I lost you there for a moment. I know it must be a lot to take in right now but please, think about it.”

Everything after that is a blur, John leads you out of his office with his palm hovering over the span of your back as he wishes to hear back from you soon, leaving you with a sticky note between your fingers with his contact information in it, holding it tightly even when you get back to your station.

“What happened? Are you in trouble? Oh, please don’t tell me you got laid of—” Stella rushes, a worried look on her face once you return, her hands squeezing at your shoulders as you stop her rambling.

“Stella— no, I didn’t get laid off,” you say as relief washes over your friend, “I um, got a promotion?”

Stella’s eyes widen at that, a big smile stretching over her lips as she brings you into a tight hug. A small oof passing through your lips at the tight embrace, Stella congratulating you before she’s pulling away from you with furrowed eyebrows. “Don’t tell me you didn’t accept it.”

A pin could drop and you would hear it with how quiet it goes between the two of you as you stare at her with a guilty look. “Did you fall on your way here or something? What the hell, babes!” Your friend declares with bewilderment, flicking your forehead in which you respond with a small yelp as you rub the tender skin.

“Hey! He told me to think about it,” you defend yourself, letting out a soft sigh of your own as you sit back on your chair, the palm of your hand resting against your cheek, “I think he could tell I was close to disintegrating with how nervous I looked.”

Stella lets out a small snort at that, her own arms crossing against her chest as she stares at you, a look in her eyes that just screams spill. “He offered me to be his secretary,” you explain, avoiding eye contact as you start to type the last of your email you were working on before you were unexpectedly interrupted, “said that his recent one left to another department, permanently from the looks of it.”

Stella lets out a hum of her own, her chair squeaking as she moves closer to your desk. “So, what now? Going to leave little old me to fend for myself while you have all the fun?” She says, wiggling her eyebrows at you that might as well imply that you’re about to slide into your superiors pants.

You scoff at that, giving her a deadpan look of your own as you knock your heel against her leg, a small giggle of hers hitting your ears as she returns to her space. “Fine, fine! I’ll stop, but you should give him an answer before it’s too late.” She suggests, standing up as she mentions something about needing more copies before she’s running off.

The day painfully passes at a slow pace, eyes becoming dry and stinging from exhaustion the more you stare at the monitor in front of you. Stella had left long before you and her being so considerate, wanted to wait for you. You rushed her out before she could protest, telling her to get rest and that you needed to finish off some last reports.

Which was a lie, you had finished all your tasks long before your shift was over. There were a few people still lingering around but for the most part, it was practically empty which gave you the time to ponder and fiddle with the sticky note in your hand.

You don’t know why it’s taking you so long to give John a proper response. Nerves heightening every time you think of the man and the way he looked at you. It’s almost embarrassing to think about your superior in such ways, shaking your head to clear any bad thoughts once Stella words repeat themselves in your ear. It was a great offer, beyond great in fact which is why there’s an annoying itch in your brain that finds the whole situation strange.

You sit around for another good minute, checking the clock only to see that you’re thirty minutes past your official departure time.

Taking a deep breath, you scoot your chair, typing out the information from the small piece of paper into your computer as you click on a small icon.

You really hope you won’t regret this decision later on.

a/n: hi guys!! this is a bit rough around the edges since I have no idea how corporate jobs work but please lmk if I need to fix anything! I hope ya’ll enjoy it !

#cod fic #call of duty #poly 141 x reader #kyle gaz garrick #john soap mactavish #john price #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #john soap mctavish x reader #john price x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #fem reader #ghoap x reader #ghoap #pricegaz #task force x reader #fluff #office au

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sweetheartspence · 3 months ago

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‧₊˚ whisked away - s.r. ‧₊˚

Spencer is infatuated with his new neighbor, who, he soon realizes, is a terrible baker.

pairing: spencer reid x neighbor!reader genre: fluff content: fem!reader, reader is a bit loud and out there, minor house fire, baking, glasses!spencer, mutual pining, eventual kissing wc: 3.3k a/n: been working on this between finals. reader is definitely a bit more reflective of me in this one but i'm actually pretty good at baking. my roommate was baking today and this was all i could think about requests/asks are open! my masterlist!!

Spencer's a busy guy, really. He doesn't spend too much time at home, at the one bedroom apartment that's covered wall to wall with bookshelves and papers. He likes his apartment well enough, and relishes in the afternoons that he's able to kick back and relax on his couch with a cup of coffee and some science theory book that's dog eared and creased on the corners. It doesn't happen too often, though; he's too busy running from city to city, from case to case, never slowing down.

Which is why he doesn't know what to do with himself, when he gets shot in the leg. He can get around his apartment just fine, but that's about it. Garcia and Morgan had kindly brought him some groceries, and he can cook himself a decent meal. He has plenty of books from the library, and a dozen academic journal articles in the works.

Even so, Spencer is... bored.

He's gotten used to the chase, to the hustle and bustle of the office, and he finds himself unable to focus on writing without the constant stream of profiler observations in the back of his mind.

It's somehow more exhausting than traveling for work. At least then he has something to distract himself, something to-

There's a knock on his door.

Spencer glances over to the front door, a sturdy, paneled piece of wood, with a little peephole. He's not expecting anyone, or else he would have maybe showered, or tried to make himself more presentable.

He picks up his cane, hobbling over to the door, opening it.

You're on the other side, scratching your arm absentmindedly, but you immediately brighten when he opens the door.

"Hi!" You grin, crossing one ankle over the other. "Um, sorry to bother you. I wasn't sure if you were home, you're usually not, but, um, your light was on. So I kind of figured..." You trail off for a second, staring into space.

Spencer takes this moment to study you. You're lovely, really, with bright eyes and a contagious smile, shifting your weight from foot to foot like you can't sit still. You've stopped scratching your arm, but you've switched to twisting a bracelet around your wrist, around, and around, and around. Your voice is soft and melodic, and granted, he hasn't seen very many people in the past few weeks. But he's immediately captivated.

"Oh, um, I live in 204." you tell him, your face scrunching up in a smile.

A neighbor, he muses. That makes a lot more sense. More sense than this beautiful girl just showing up at his apartment for no reason, anyway.

You look at him expectantly, like you're waiting for him to say something. "Oh," Spencer manages, offering a small smile. "Um, I live... here."

"That you do," you laugh, and Spencer's breath catches in his throat. He wants to bottle the sound, to play it as white noise, to turn it into liquid and drown in it. All he can do is stare.

"Oh!" You say, snapping your fingers. "I was wondering if you had a couple of eggs I could borrow." You pause, tilting your head. "Well, not borrow, I suppose. I won't be giving them back. To have. I'm making cookies, and I didn't realize that I'm short two, and now the dough is halfway made and I don't have the time to run to the store, and-"

Spencer wonders how you have the breath in your lungs to talk for this long. He's a little bit impressed, but also entirely bewildered.

"Yeah," he says softly, cutting you off. "I've got some you can have. Um, come in?"

He pushes the door open slightly wider, and you step into his apartment, looking around.

"Goddamn, you have a lot of books," you blurt, followed by a big smile. "Not that that's a bad thing, of course. I think it's cool."

Spencer gives you a hesitant smile. He's fascinated by you, sure, by your easy smiles and constant motion, but Spencer Reid is not one to let his guard down easily.

He pokes around in his fridge until he finds the eggs, and grabs two of them out of the carton. Spencer turns to find you studying the books lining his shelves, your hands clasped behind your back, uncharacteristically quiet for the few minutes that he's known you.

He comes up next to you, his cane clicking quietly on the hardwood floor. "I've got the eggs," he says softly, holding them out.

You smile at him again, but it's softer this time, shyer. "Thank you," you tell him, taking the eggs gently, and it's so earnest that his heart aches. "You've got good taste, by the way." You gesture to the books. "A bit eclectic, but... good."

Spencer doesn't know what to think. "Yeah," he says, intelligently. "I guess I have a lot of different tastes."

"Mm," you hum softly. "That can be a good thing."

You stare at the books for another couple of seconds, and then it's like an invisible finger has reached out and popped the bubble around the two of you. You shake your head, like you're getting rid of a thought, and offer him the same bright smile.

"Okay, I gotta get back to the dough. Thank you, though!" And with that, you've breezed out of his apartment, leaving him to wonder if you were ever really there.

It's about twenty minutes later that he realizes he didn't get your name.

---

Spencer is reading up on glucocorticoids for the dozenth time the next day, when the fire alarm goes off. He's snapped out of his academic haze, and he realizes he can smell something burning in the air. He winces, immediately reaching for a pair of headphones to cover his ears. He sticks a post it note into the book, setting it aside, and hurries to investigate.

There's smoke billowing out from under the door of apartment 204, and Spencer feels his heart drop. He bolts down the hallway, pausing outside the door to feel if there's heat seeping through. When the door is decidedly cool, he pounds on it, calling out. "Hey!"

You open the door, oven mitts over your hands and a crazed look in your eye. You have flour smudged across your face, and a similar streak on your shirt. "It's fine!" You assure him quickly. "It's fine. Nothing is on fire, the cookies are just..." You look helplessly towards the oven. "...burning."

"Well, get them out of the oven," Spencer retorts, hurrying into your apartment without being invited inside. He can hear sirens in the distance, the fire department rapidly approaching.

"Well, I would," you huff. "But I maybe accidentally dumped all of the cookies into the oven while I was trying to take the tray out, and now they're in the bottom of the oven, which is very hot, and they're burning."

"I noticed," Spencer mutters, waving his hand in front of his face. His glasses have clouded up from the smoke, and he takes them off and tucks them in the breast pocket of his button-up.

He leans closer to the oven to look, and is rewarded by a lungful of smoke. Spencer coughs, covering his mouth and nose with his elbow. "You haven't even turned the oven off," he tells you, his tone a little harsher than he intended.

"I was going to!" You protest. "But then you knocked on the door, and-"

You break off into a little fit of coughs, and Spencer gives you a little glare, mumbling something about fire safety and the hazards of smoke. He clicks the oven off, and takes you by the elbow, steering you out of the apartment. "We gotta go."

"But the cookies-" you start, and Spencer fixes you with a look.

"Are burnt," he finishes. "Unsalvageable. All you're doing by staying here is putting more smoke into your lungs, which leads to debris buildup in your airway and asphyxiation. Not to mention decreased blood flow, which can cause angina and stroke, plus all the carbon monoxide is sure to make you sick."

The hurt expression on your face has shifted, replaced with surprise. "You- how do you know all of that?"

"I know a lot of things," Spencer mutters, tugging insistently on your elbow. "We're getting out. Now."

There's no room in his tone for argument, and you sigh, letting him lead you out of your apartment, down the stairs and out onto the street. Sirens wail, and a fire engine comes into sight, lights blazing. It takes Spencer longer than it should for him to realize he's still holding onto your elbow, and he lets go as the firefighters come over to talk to the two of you. He lets you take the reigns, leaning back against the wall.

You recount the story loudly and animatedly, waving your arms wildly and making a few explosion sound effects that Spencer thinks were not necessary. They are, however, horribly endearing, and Spencer finds himself sporting the same amused expression as the firefighters.

By the time the whole debacle is over, Spencer has wasted an entire afternoon standing around with you on the edge of the curb next to his apartment building. Usually, he'd be annoyed.

This time, he can't quite find it in him to care.

---

There's a box of cookies delivered to his door that evening, with a little card. It says, "Thanks for the help. Here's some cookies- I didn't make these ones, don't worry."

And it's signed with your name.

Spencer turns your name over and over in his mind, tracing the letters with a fingertip into the fabric of his pants. He's not even quite aware that he's doing it, completely caught up in the book that he's reading. But it nags in his subconscious, ever present.

He hangs the little card on his fridge with a magnet.

---

The third interaction he has with you is in the coffee shop on the corner. You're sitting with your friends, giggling about god knows what, and the light is coming through the window just right to make your eyes shine. Spencer is sure he's never seen a more beautiful sight.

The two of you aren't friends, per se. Spencer wonders for a brief moment if he should say hello, greet you or something, but he doesn't think you're quite at that stage of your relationship. You're just neighbors, after all.

Spencer orders his coffee, making his way to the other end of the counter to wait for it. You're completely engrossed in your conversation with your friends, not even looking up from the discussion.

"No, he looked at me, and he was kind of mad that I was still in the apartment while the cookies were burning, and I swear I swooned," you're saying. Spencer doesn't really mean to eavesdrop, but your voice is quite loud, and- are you talking about him?

"What, and then he dragged you out of the apartment?" Your friend asks, sounding amused.

"Yeah," you sigh dramatically. "I had to deal with the firefighters. I was gonna thank him, but he was gone when I was done." You sound wistful, almost, your tone softer.

"Listen to her," another one of your friends snickers. "She's smitten."

"Am not!" You protest, your tone defensive. Spencer's heart sinks. "He was just... there. And he's pretty, sure, but that doesn't mean-"

"Oh, she thinks he's pretty," your friend crows, laughing. "C'mon, babe, I haven't seen you talk this much about someone in ages, and you've barely talked to the guy."

You huff, sitting back in your seat and crossing your arms over your chest. "I don't have a crush on him."

Your friends both raise their eyebrows, leaning forward. "Yeah? We never said you had a crush on him," they tease. "Even though you definitely do."

"Hey, that's not-" you start, but your friends cut you off.

"Yeah, she definitely likes him," one of them giggles.

"Absolutely," the other one chimes in. "Even if someone doesn't want to admit it to herself."

"What's your Prince Charming look like, anyway?" The first one teases.

You sigh, but there's a smile pulling at your lips. "Tall," you say softly. "Kind of like, a tortured academic vibe. Seems like he knows a lot, but also clueless somehow."

Spencer's brow creases, feeling slightly offended.

"Big brown eyes and curly dark hair," you smile. "Like, a huge dork."

"Look how smiley she is," your friends giggle.

Before you can protest, the barista calls Spencer's name, and he startles to attention. He takes the coffee, thanking them, and turns around.

You're staring at him, mouth agape, cheeks slightly flushed. You give him a tiny wave.

Spencer can feel his own face start to heat up, and he gives you a nod of acknowledgement, a smile that comes out more like a grimace, and a little wave in return, before bolting out of the coffee shop.

There's two thoughts on his mind. First, that you like him. Second of all, what is he going to do about it?

---

Spencer has a plan. It's foolproof, really, and he internally congratulates himself for being so clever.

You're a terrible baker, as he's gathered. And he's... not the best, but certainly better than you, and besides, baking is just science, isn't it? He can hold his own in a kitchen.

He has ingredients for a solid batch of chocolate chip cookies, tucked away into the cupboards of his kitchen. Spencer pulls out a little sheet of paper, scribbling a note down to slip under your door in his chicken scratch handwriting.

Craving cookies. Could use an assistant. 8 pm, if you're interested. - 205.

Spencer is desperately hoping you're interested.

---

There's a knock on his door at 8:02. Spencer's pacing his kitchen, his hair rumpled from running his hands through it, and he quickly makes his way to the door, flinging it open.

"You came," he says, looking you up and down, his gaze flickering to your mouth for a moment.

"You invited me," you shoot back, raising your eyebrows in amusement.

"I did," Spencer agrees, leaning against the doorframe. "You still came, though."

"I did," you repeat, giving a little nod. You look pleased with yourself. "Are you going to let me in, or are we gonna stand in your doorway, or...?"

Spencer realizes he hasn't exactly invited you in, and hurries to rectify that. "Yeah, um, of course," he says, stepping out of the doorway and into his apartment. You follow him, your hands clasped in front of you, following him to the kitchen. You push your sleeves up, past your elbows, freeing your hands.

"Do you have a recipe, or are we winging this?" You grin, and Spencer realizes that it might have been a monumentally bad idea to invite you over to bake.

He blinks owlishly at you from behind his glasses. "Well, of course we're going to use a recipe," he says, affronted. You roll your eyes.

"Well, I usually don't, but okay," you mumble under your breath, setting about pulling bowls and ingredients out like you own the place. Spencer likes the look of you in his kitchen, moving about. It's domestic. Intimate in a way he wasn't expecting.

"Well, what happened last time you tried to bake without a recipe?" He teases, shooting you a slightly lopsided smile at you, before following your lead in rolling up his sleeves. You can't help but shoot a look at his exposed forearms that lasts maybe slightly too long.

"Yeah, yeah," you mutter, continuing to pull open drawers. "Where on earth do you keep your whisks?"

Spencer huffs out a soft laugh at your petulance, coming up behind you and placing a gentle hand on your waist. Your breath catches. He nudges you to the side, pulling open the drawer you were standing in front of, and pulling out the whisk.

"Yeah, yup, okay, thank you," you stutter out, your cheeks flushed from his hand placement. The corner of Spencer's mouth lifts.

The baking goes smoothly for about five minutes, in which you've managed to get eggs, sugar, brown sugar, and butter into a mixing bowl, and Spencer is whisking it together. You set a container of salt down next to the mixing bowl, peering over his shoulder.

"Damn, that looks a lot better than my dough," you mumble, your nose wrinkling. Spencer can't tell if you're impressed or embarrassed, or maybe annoyed at him for being better than you at baking.

"Yeah, well, that's what happens when you use a recipe," he retorts, shooting you a look that says I told you so.

You're still grumbling under your breath as you pull out the flour.

Spencer turns to look at you, and is greeted with a finger swiping across his cheek. He blinks, and then realizes you're holding the open bag of flour, a mischievous look on your face. He reaches up to touch his face, and surely enough, his fingertips come away stained with flour.

"You got flour on me," he deadpans.

"I did," you agree, letting out a giggle. "And I'm gonna do it again."

You flick more flour at him, getting it on his nose and his shirt, and he can't help but laugh, making a grab for the back of flour. Spencer grabs it from you, grabbing a handful to toss at you, and you shriek, giggling uncontrollably.

"Not fair," you laugh, trying to grab the bag back, and Spencer holds it high over your head. He's got a couple of inches on you.

"Is too fair," he shoots back, grinning. "You started it."

You jump, trying to grab onto the corner of the bag, but Spencer holds it just out of reach. You suddenly realize how close he is to you, his honey brown eyes sparkling with mirth.

You flush, backing away, your back to the counter. "Yeah, I suppose I did," you admit. "Sorry."

Spencer takes a step closer, boxing you in against the countertop, feeling especially brave. "You don't look very sorry," he murmurs.

You look up at him, your eyes wide. "You're... uh, very close to me," you whisper.

"I am," Spencer agrees. There's flecks of flour in your eyelashes, splayed out onto your cheeks like freckles. "Would you like me to move?"

You shake your head slowly, never taking your eyes off of his.

"I heard you talking in the coffee shop," he says softly. "You were talking about me, to your friends. You think I'm pretty."

You start to make a noise of protest, to explain it away, but he cuts you off with a gentle hand on your waist. His eyes bore into yours.

"Do you still think I'm pretty?" Spencer murmurs, his eyes flicking down to your lips.

That's all the invitation you need, and then your lips are on his, your arms coming up to wind around his neck. Your fingers slide into his hair, curling into the bits around the nape of his neck, and you've never been so happy to have been overheard in your life.

His tongue traces against your lower lip, making a soft, desperate, needy noise in the back of his throat. Spencer suddenly grips your hips, picking you up and setting you gently on the counter with surprising ease.

You make a surprised noise against his mouth, and he uses the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth, sliding it just under your lip. One of his hands move to the small of your back, settling there, and the other to your thigh, holding you in place.

You lean back just a bit more, knocking into the salt, which spills all over the counter and into the cookie dough. Your lips disconnect from his with a wet pop, and Spencer stares down at the dough, his lips glistening with spit and slightly swollen.

You swear under your breath, shifting on the counter, moving to get off, but Spencer holds you in place.

"I'm sorry I ruined the dough," you whisper.

"S'okay," Spencer murmurs, leaning his forehead against yours. "I didn't really care about the cookies."

You laugh, leaning back in, your lips finding his again.

It's safe to say that there were no cookies baked that evening.

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theonion · 7 months ago

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During a panel presentation about his company’s recent 76 percent quarterly profit spike, Aetna CEO Mark Bertolini disclosed Monday that the key to increasing earnings in an era of ballooning costs continues to hinge on not paying for customers’ medical care. “The secret to running a thriving multi-billion-dollar company like Aetna is in the cultivation of a loyal consumer base whose medical needs you rarely, if ever, pay for,” said Bertolini, who went on to advise young entrepreneurs to first build financial reserves through a business model in which subscribers spend an exorbitant amount each month for prescriptions, doctor visits, and surgical procedures, and then preserve their capital by exercising all due diligence and consistency by never paying for expensive, profit-deflating exigencies such as prescriptions, doctor visits, and surgical procedures. Full Story

#the onion #politics #news

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vivencyglobal · 4 months ago

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Interactive Flat Panels: Transforming Learning and Collaboration

In the current, digital era, technology takes a place in the improvement of education and business communications. Vivency Technology LLC has to offer state of the art Interactive Flat Panels (IFP) especially designed for classroom and conference room settings. The IFPs provide engaging, interactive, and collaborative experiences for educators, students, and professionals alike. The cutting-edge features define the Interactive Flat Panels of Vivency to redefine traditional learning and meeting environments into dynamic, highly efficient spaces.

Core Features of the IFPs of Vivency Technology LLC

1. Multitouch interactive touch screen

The touchscreens of the IFPs of Vivency Technology LLC are enormous high-definition screens offering smooth, high-resolution, and responsive interaction for users in a classroom or conference room, allowing them to write, draw, annotate, and manipulate content with or without fingers. The touch interface fosters rich engagement, making learning or presentations far more interactive and effective.

2. Multi-user collaboration

Collaboration is very much an element of modern education and business conversations. Multi-user interaction is thus facilitated by these IFPs, enabling multiple persons to share the active area on the surface at the same time. A group of students might be solving a problem together, or sometimes it could be a team of staff brainstorming ideas during a meeting; this is when they need the multi-touch element for real-time collaboration.

3. Multiple Sizes

Different customers require different sized spaces. Vivency Technology LLC, therefore, has Interactive Flat Panels in various sizes. Whether it is for small classrooms, large lecture halls, or even conference rooms, an ideal IFP size would maximize visibility and engagement. This flexible sizing makes these panels fit for usage in diverse settings and across a range of audiences.

4. Quality Display Repairs

Time and again, it has been proved that amazing images always accompany communications. IFPs shipped by Vivency contain high-definition displays, clear in images. Some display 4K Ultra HD images that bring up high-quality images pleasing for educational content and business presentations. A better visual experience will ensure that everything is visible with less strain and improved comprehension.

5. Built-in Connectivity

Seamless connectivity is still retained by Vivency's IFPs. In addition to being HDMI- and USB-ready, the panels also have wireless capabilities. Bringing the devices closer, be they laptops, tablets, or mobile devices, enables content sharing to be very easy. They can project their presentations, documents, and multimedia contents without technical hiccups.

6. Software Integration

To enrich the experience, the interactive flat panels that were borne within Vivency Technology LLC will come with integrated software designed to deliver tools and features such as whiteboarding, screen recording, annotation, multimedia playback, and web applications. Built-in software will facilitate a full-on engaging and versatile learning or meeting experience to ensure productivity at its extreme.

7. Durable and Reliable

Vivency Technology LLC does great in manufacturing products that are durable and reliable. These were made IFPs meant to stand the test of daily usage in classrooms and business places. Made using premium quality materials, manufactured for a long-lasting life, along with strong warranties, therefore ensuring performance and peace of mind for the customers over the long haul.

Transforming Business and Education Communication

Improving Class Learning

The modernization of classrooms is Interactive Flat Panels. These will replace traditional blackboards and projectors, giving way to digital screens that allow interactive learning techniques. The teacher would be able to use touch to point out the key elements and put multimedia graphics while students do solvers learning in every way. Because a panel can cater simultaneously for multiple users, the group activity becomes immersive and more realistic.

IFPs boost student-faculty interaction and make lessons exciting. Lessons become participative rather than being mere listening events: students interact with the content directly. Comprehension and retention improve quite significantly. Moreover, the scope of study through inclusion of online resources and educational applications widens learning beyond the borders of the books.

Streamlining Business Meetings and Presentations

Interactive Flat Panels have fast-tracked the way meetings and presentations are held in the corporate world. Used in halls or for training; these presentations are a great way to allow collaborative working by participants through sharing ideas, annotating documents, and discussing strategies as they present in real-time. They have the ability to connect to multiple devices to enable a seamless transition from different presentation materials.

Moreover, IFPs also allow remote collaboration as they allow users to connect across a distance. All the meetings can thus be managed virtually using video conferencing and real-time screen sharing making decisions easier and the need for travel redundant thus improving the efficiency of the company.

Why Go for Interactive Flat Panels Offered by Vivency Technology LLC?

Vivency Technology LLC is known as a reputed source for innovative Interactive Flat Panels. The commitment to quality, innovation, and customer satisfaction makes this company's IFPs a choice among educational institutions and corporate companies. Offering advanced features, good connectivity, and sturdiness, these panels provide well-rounded solutions for interactive learning and professional collaboration.

If you are a teacher hoping to liven up your classrooms or a business professional in search of decent presentation materials, Interactive Flat Panels provide in Dubai from Vivency Technology LLC ,Invest in the future of learning and communication with Vivency's state-of-the-art IFPs!

#Interactive Flat Panels #Digital Whiteboard #Smart Board #Touchscreen Display #4K Display Panel #Interactive Screen #Business Presentation Panel #Classroom Display #Multi-Touch Panel #Wireless Display

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dandelionsresilience · 22 days ago

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Dandelion News - July 1-7

Like these weekly compilations? Tip me at $kaybarr1735 or check out my Dandelion Doodles!

1. A Kenya marine biodiversity credit program restores mangroves — and livelihoods

“The organization works directly with local communities, ensuring they benefit from restoration efforts. […] “We invest in livelihood enhancement programs such as smart agriculture, beekeeping and small businesses.” […] COBEC and Seatrees support the [community nurseries] groups by providing some materials used in growing propagules, […] then purchases the saplings for its Seatrees project sites.”

2. Giant river otters return to Argentina after 40-year absence

“The milestone release is also the first time a top predator has been brought back from nationwide extinction in the country. [… M]ore than recovering one species, we want to recover its ecological role in the ecosystem, so we’re measuring the diversity and abundance of [prey] fish species in Iberá, via a procedure that assesses DNA in the water and tells us the species that are present and their numbers.”

3. Countries Have Legal Duty to Protect Human Right to a Stable Climate, Top Court Rules

“States and corporations have binding obligations under international law to address the climate crisis as a human rights emergency, Latin America’s top court on human rights ruled on Thursday. [… States are legally obligated] to take “urgent and effective” action to cut greenhouse gas emissions, to adapt, to cooperate, and to guard against climate disinformation and greenwashing.”

4. A new drug causes nerve tissue to emit light, enabling faster, safer surgery

“[Benvonescein is] safe to use and highlighted longer stretches of nerves than would be visible to the naked eye, improving the odds of operating without causing injury. […] In the operating room, surgeons use microscopes with special lights and filters that illuminate the surgical site at a specific frequency that causes the drug to fluoresce. The nerves appear as wormlike yellowish-green structures that thread through the surrounding tissue.”

5. Redwood Materials built record grid storage project using old EV batteries

”These [solar] panels convert sunlight to electricity and store it in the array of old car batteries [“delivering 63 megawatt-hours of second-life grid storage”], to power a miniature data center that a startup named Crusoe built in the same field as the batteries. […] A battery with just 80% of its original capacity left may get plucked from a vehicle, but it can still function fine for storing solar power.”

June 22-28 news here | (all credit for images and written material can be found at the source linked; I don’t claim credit for anything but curating.)

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bloodstainedsapphic · 6 months ago

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your quick footsteps slow to a crawl in the snow from last night's flurry. the blanket of white dampens your boots and muffles the impact. you come to a stop next to your favorite auburnette, also up bright and early—and equally grouchy about it.

"hey," you mutter a greeting, eyeing ellie's figure, but her attention is locked on the zipper of her green jacket.

"hey." it comes out as a low grunt as she irritably yanks at the zipper, clearly snagged on something.

"need help?"

"no, i got it—"

you don't wait, stepping into ellie's space so your nimble fingers can wrestle it for her. ellie lets her hands fall to her sides, fists clenched tightly, cherry color blossoming on her cheeks. the tense air between you is so thick that she can't bring herself to look at you. instead, the wood paneling of the nearest building suddenly becomes the most fascinating thing she's ever seen.

a few seconds of tugging and angling the zipper in several impossible directions later, you hit the sweet spot that allows you to glide it smoothly to the top with one final pull, properly shielding ellie from the frosty weather.

"there," you say softly, reluctantly letting your hands drop away.

ellie's eyes remain stubbornly skyward, but she replies with a sheepish, "thanks."

you don't step away, though, as this unexpectedly charged closeness presents the perfect opportunity to ask the real hard-hitting question.

"why have you been ignoring me?"

ellie's green eyes widen into saucers, panic stiffening her entire body. it's true. she has been avoiding you—going from spending every day together to ducking out of every room you enter for weeks or forcing her attention on everyone besides you during group hangouts. the abrupt change has been eating away at you. despite her attitude having more bite than the surrounding chill, you miss her, so you won't let her blow you off any longer. ellie realizes it too.

"seems like you've been busy," she grumbles.

you blink. "busy? with what?"

ellie can't resist the temptation to admit the truth, just hoping to get the words out in a way that doesn't sound too bitter.

"with zoey."

"z—zoey?" you ask, thrown off by the mention of a new friend you've barely hung out with. you practically gawk at ellie, mentally trying to paint a picture of whatever the hell has been going on inside her head.

ellie picks up on your disbelief, fidgeting as she realizes she at least owes you an attempt at a plausible explanation.

"zoey," she repeats, the name sour on her tongue. "i've seen you hanging around her a lot, i guess. saw her take you out to practice shooting, didn't wanna like, get in the way or anything," ellie's voice wavers as she digs herself further into a hole with every word.

ellie's trying to make avoiding you over a new friend sound believable, but it's weak. she knows it. ellie also knows it's unfair to you and feels the weight of guilt knowing how much her absence has affected you. what she won't admit is how much she misses you, how much the space affected her too.

you tilt your head, trying to understand. the silence stretches on for far too long for ellie's rapid heartbeat beneath her now-snug jacket.

"she taught me some, i guess," you agree, oblivious to the implications.

"well, like... i could show you how to shoot, too," ellie suggests tentatively, aware that she's leaning into the patheticness now. her gaze, once stuck in the sky, suddenly drops to the ground, glued to the toe of her sneaker, tracing circles into the skiff of snow.

you scoff at this new, flustered side of her, glancing around as if to say, 'is anyone hearing this?' ellie is always deeper than the front she puts up, but this is different.

"ellie, if you wanted to join, i'd love that—"

"or just us. easier to focus that way—" ellie butts in, grasping flimsily for excuses. how inconspicuous.

you start to see through the cracks in her demeanor. it's always been clear to anyone—aside from you, apparently. ellie can't understand why you're upset with her avoidance, and you can't pick up on the source of her frustration. loser lesbians doing their thing.

"oh, okay, um—" you scramble for a solution.

"don't worry, you've probably got a lot of practice with her, i'm guessing," ellie starts to brush off the idea before you can reject it, but you interrupt her.

"but. i want you to show me, ellie," you insist earnestly, shutting down her assumptions and giving ellie the opening she's been yearning for. she thankfully gets it, meeting your gaze for more than a millisecond.

"you sure?"

"yeah. like, really sure."

for a moment, ellie stares, a faint flicker of something you can't quite name lighting up her expression. then, finally, she subtly nods, stuffing her hands deep into her pockets. she looks a little less like she wants to run away and more like the frigid distance between you is starting to melt.

"okay," she says, her voice almost shy. "cool."

#ellie williams #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams x you #ellie williams fluff #ellie williams tlou2 #ellie x reader #lesbian #wlw #ellie tlou2

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ninibeingdelulu · 1 year ago

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Years later ✧

Plot: It makes you and your husband so happy to see your daughter and Emi playing together.

The mouthwatering aromas of sizzling stir fry and rice wafted through the cozy kitchen where you busied yourself over those steaming pans. Every so often, peals of high-pitched giggles and rumblings filtered in from the rear patio - beckoning you to steal a glimpse beyond those wide glass panels.

Your heart swelled at the sight unfolding just outside.

There was Emi in all her towering, dragon-esque glory - currently stretched out across the manicured lawn with those massive clawed paws tucked beneath her chin. Giant saurian pupils blown wide while watching your five-year-old daughter scamper about with unrestrained glee, that tiny cherubic figure weaving between the kaiju's sinewy limbs in a game of cat and mouse.

Whenever that feisty little rapscallion dashed near enough, one of Emi's enormous talons would playfully swipe in her wake - always mindful of her miniature stature as mother and child erupted in breathless, rapturous laughter again.

Matching expressions of wonderstruck glee etched across both their beamings despite the stark juxtaposition in scale.

In that moment, the years simply melted away for you too. Transporting you right back to those surreal early days of first welcoming their strange yet irrevocable sisterly bond into the fold alongside Ken - both females linked through his patient, doting paternity in diametric yet equally vital ways.

A tender brush across your forearm caused you to startle back to the present, finding Ken's openly affectionate gaze trained in from the nearby breakfast nook.

Your husband watched that heartwarming scene unfurl with those chiseled features rendered utterly tranquil and unguarded - an idyllic vision of harmony you'd once yearned for him to experience.

"Just like real siblings playing together, don't you think?" Ken rumbled in that low timbre tinted with wonderment while you smoothed the backs of your fingers over his stubbled jawline.

He eagerly captured those roaming digits before you could retreat them - calloused lips ghosting reverently across each calloused knuckle while drinking you in with the same unshakable adoration.

"They are real siblings, sweetheart. Raised under the same steadfast love of their equally devoted parents..."

At his declaration, you released a tiny, breathy puff against Ken's forehead before leaning in to steal a lingering brush of your mouths - ignoring the stinging prick of joyous tears blurring your vision.

Because you recognized the profound truth embedded within those tender syllables.

This sprawling, unconventional household of yours was irrevocably bound together through far more than mere blood alone.

An unbreakable tether of insurmountable love and acceptance Ken nurtured so steadfastly and without exception - through you, through Emi, and now your spectacular daughter too.

Another rowdy outburst of giggles caused you to break that reverie, following the sound outside once more.

There was your baby perched precariously atop Emi's flank, little feet swinging merrily while the mighty kaiju craned her saurian neck around to gaze upon that cherished bundle with endless devotion too.

Just as her adoring 'father' continued watching with that soft, doting light dancing behind those cinnamon depths.

Basking in the resonant completion of his mismatched, boisterous brood playing together as one perfect unit without constraint...

#ken sato x you #ken sato x y/n #ken sato fluff #ken sato x reader #kenji sato fluff #kenji sato x you #kenji sato headcanons #kenji sato x reader #kenji sato #ultraman rising

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shaiyasstuff · 4 months ago

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always & forever | zayne | sequel

synopsis : Zayne has loved you, from the day he met you in high school when he was seventeen, all the way to the present where he finds that you are still the person he silently fell for through stolen glances in the hallway, and laughter between study sessions. content : FLUFF, zayne x non-mc!reader, non-cannon!au, just fluff, and fluff, and more fluff

A year later, almost to the day, the airport was just as busy as he remembered—people rushing past in every direction, voices overlapping, luggage wheels humming against the floor.

But Zayne stood still, right by the same glass panel where he’d last seen you disappear.

His hands were in his coat pockets, heart steady but fast. Not nervous. Just ready.

The arrival gate opened.

Passengers trickled through—some alone, some greeted with flowers, laughter, open arms.

And then, there you were.

You stepped out, scanning the crowd with that same quiet, searching look.

Your scarf was the same soft white, your hair pulled back loosely, strands escaping from the travel. A tired smile touched your lips—until your eyes found him.

And then, it bloomed.

You dropped your carry-on without a second thought, feet moving before your mind could catch up.

Zayne was already stepping forward, meeting you halfway, his composure unraveling with every stride.

You crashed into him without hesitation, arms winding around his waist as his own wrapped tightly around your shoulders. You didn’t speak at first. You didn’t have to.

But when you finally pulled back, you were breathless, eyes shining.

“You waited,” you whispered, smiling like you already knew the answer.

Zayne cupped your cheek, gaze soft, full.

“I told you I would.”

—•

The car ride home was quiet in the way soft rain is quiet—gentle, soothing, filled with everything unsaid that didn’t need to be spoken yet.

Zayne glanced over at you from the driver’s seat now and then, as if still making sure you were real.

You sat with your legs tucked slightly toward him, one hand resting on the folded edge of your coat, the other fidgeting with a piece of paper in your lap.

There was a faint glow in your cheeks, maybe from the excitement, or the cold that still clung to your skin.

He couldn’t tell.

He just knew it made you look radiant.

You turned to him, smile already tugging at your lips as you unfolded the paper in your hands.

“I have something to show you,” you said, barely containing your grin.

Zayne raised a brow, amused. “You didn’t smuggle Swiss chocolate through customs, did you?”

You laughed, the sound light and familiar, before holding out the document toward him. “Better.”

When he looked over, a pause stretched between you. In your hands was a crisp certificate, the seal shining faintly in the light from the dashboard.

At the top, his eyes caught the words, Swiss National Board of Nursing – International Qualification Approval.

Below that, in bold letters, your name.

“I can officially work as a nurse in Akso Hospital,” you said, eyes sparkling as you watched him for his reaction. “I got the approval two weeks ago. I didn’t want to tell you until I was here.”

Zayne blinked, then looked over at you again, expression unreadable—at first.

Then slowly, his lips curved into the softest smile, the kind that reached his eyes.

“You’re serious?”

You nodded eagerly. “Completely.”

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything.

He just looked at you like you were something he never thought he’d be allowed to have again—something he was terrified to blink away.

Then, still gripping the steering wheel, he exhaled a quiet breath and let it out, slow and steady.

“I’m proud of you,” he murmured, his voice thick with something deeper than surprise. “But I’m also really glad I don’t have to wait another year.”

You laughed again, eyes misty now, pressing your hand lightly over his on the gearshift.

“You don’t,” you said. “I’m home, Zayne. For good.”

The words hit him harder than he expected. He didn’t say anything for a second, just stared at your hand over his, the way your fingers curled against his like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And in that moment—in the hush of the car, in the warm glow between heartbeats—he realized he wouldn’t have to keep waiting anymore.

You were home.

And everything was finally beginning.

When you reached your apartment, the evening light was spilling in through the windows, soft and golden, casting everything in a warm glow.

Zayne helped carry your suitcase inside, the wheels bumping gently over the threshold like a welcome back.

You slipped off your coat and stretched with a quiet sigh, looking around the space that had waited patiently for you—dustless, untouched, still exactly the way you’d left it.

Zayne watched you from the doorway, then wordlessly moved to help unpack.

He opened your suitcase and began folding your clothes into the drawers, careful, methodical, like he’d done it before—like he’d been waiting for the chance to do it again.

“You didn’t have to,” you said with a soft smile, leaning against the kitchen counter.

“I wanted to,” he replied simply, glancing at you over his shoulder.

When the last item was put away, he stood beside you, taking in the room as if it were his first time seeing it all over again—with you in it.

You nudged his shoulder gently. “Feels like I never left.”

Zayne looked at you, something unspoken lingering in his gaze.

“Maybe now,” he said quietly, “you never will.”

—•

Dinner was at a quiet bistro tucked into the corner of the city—intimate, with low lighting and soft jazz humming in the background.

Zayne had chosen it carefully, remembering how you once mentioned liking places that felt hidden from the world.

You were seated across from him, chin propped in your palm as you browsed the menu, eyes scanning lazily.

The candlelight flickered between you, casting golden highlights in your hair and soft shadows across your cheeks.

Zayne smiled behind the rim of his glass. “You’re stalling. You always take forever to choose.”

You grinned, not looking up. “It’s not stalling. It’s called savoring the options.”

He chuckled. “You say that every time. And every time, you still order mushroom risotto.”

You laughed at that, eyes crinkling. “Well, some things never change.”

He shook his head with a fond smile. “Apparently not.”

As the food arrived and the plates were set down between you, conversation flowed easily—like it hadn’t been a year apart, like time hadn’t dared to touch whatever had always existed between the two of you.

You told him about your internship in Switzerland, the long shifts, the mountain views, the nights when you felt a little too far from everything familiar.

He listened intently, quietly, never interrupting—just absorbing.

“I missed this,” you said softly at one point, pushing your plate aside as you sat back. “Talking like this. Being with you.”

His gaze lingered on you for a second longer than necessary, fingers resting lightly on the base of his glass.

The lighting kissed your skin, your laughter still echoing faintly in his mind.

“You’re… breathtaking,” he murmured, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Your brows lifted, surprised—but then you smiled, slow and radiant, before you giggled.

It wasn’t just any laugh. It was your laugh—bright and musical, bubbling up like it had been waiting for the right moment.

Zayne blinked, stunned for a beat. Then, embarrassed, he glanced away, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I didn’t mean to say that out loud,” he muttered under his breath.

You leaned forward slightly, still smiling. “No, but I’m glad you did.”

He looked back at you, his composure settling again, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Guess I’m out of practice.”

“With compliments?” you teased.

“With pretending I’m not completely in love with you,” he returned, so smoothly you almost missed the weight of it.

Your eyes softened, your laughter quieting into something gentler.

And in that moment, with the city humming just outside the windows, Zayne reached across the table and laced his fingers through yours—solid, steady, sure.

It wasn’t a beginning.

It was a continuation.

Of everything he had waited for.

Of everything you were ready to give.

—•

The night air greeted you both as you stepped out of the bistro, the hush of the city settling gently around you.

Streetlights cast soft pools of gold on the pavement, and distant car horns echoed faintly through the quiet.

You slipped your arm through Zayne’s without a word, still feeling the warmth of his hand lingering from when he’d held yours across the dinner table.

The world felt slower, like time had folded just for the two of you.

Your laugh from earlier—when he’d called you breathtaking without meaning to—still echoed faintly between you, sweet and unforgettable.

Zayne hadn’t said much after that, but you could feel something in him stirring, waiting.

He was quieter now, thoughtful, the kind of quiet that meant his mind was full of something he hadn’t yet said.

The two of you walked slowly, the city lights flickering in reflections on puddles, your boots crunching softly in the snow with each step.

“Y/N,” he said suddenly, voice low, eyes focused ahead before turning to you.

You looked at him, brows lifting slightly at the change in his tone.

He slowed, then stopped, and you followed, standing beneath the golden halo of a streetlamp. His hands slid into his pockets, shoulders rising with a breath before he turned to face you fully.

“I want to be yours,” he said simply. “Officially. Not just in the way I look at you when you’re not watching, or the way I remember every little thing you love. I want to be your boyfriend—not just someone from your past, but your now. Your future.”

Your breath hitched, lips parting slightly. The night felt still around you, like even the wind was waiting.

Then slowly, you smiled.

Soft and sure.

“I thought you’d never ask,” you whispered, the emotion in your voice barely contained.

Zayne smiled, finally, like the weight he’d carried for years had lifted all at once.

“Then let me ask properly,” he said, reaching for your hand, holding it with both of his like it was something fragile and precious. “Will you be mine, Y/N?”

You nodded, eyes glistening as you stepped into him, wrapping your arms gently around his waist.

“I’ve always been yours,” you murmured.

And there, under the streetlamp’s soft glow and the quiet hush of a city that suddenly felt a little smaller, Zayne leaned down and kissed you—slowly, reverently—as if he was finally claiming something he had long ago given his heart to.

—•

The morning you started at Akso Hospital, the halls buzzed with the usual energy—doctors in white coats moving with precision, nurses shuffling charts, the faint beeping of monitors creating a familiar rhythm.

But for Zayne, everything felt a little different.

He stood by the reception desk, flipping absently through a clipboard, though his mind wasn’t on the files.

He looked up just as the elevator doors opened—and there you were.

Dressed in soft blue scrubs, hair pulled back neatly, your ID badge clipped just below your shoulder.

You looked slightly nervous, but when your eyes met his, you smiled—and the nerves seemed to melt away.

“You showed up,” he teased gently, stepping toward you.

“I said I would,” you replied with a playful tilt of your head. “Besides, someone important vouched for me.”

Zayne smirked. “That someone must have good taste.”

You rolled your eyes, but the fondness in your expression was undeniable. He handed you your orientation packet, brushing his fingers briefly over yours.

“You’ll be shadowing in the cardiac wing,” he said, his voice softening. “I may or may not have requested that.”

Your eyes widened slightly. “So I’ll be working with you?”

He gave a small, almost shy nod. “If you’re okay with that.”

You smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

And just like that, the two of you walked side by side down the hallway—this time not as a doctor and a new nurse, but as two hearts finally beating in sync, ready to start this next chapter together.

The day moved quickly, as most days at Akso Hospital did—check-ins, rounds, paperwork, quiet emergencies brewing behind drawn curtains.

Yet somehow, in the rush of it all, there was always time for you and him.

Zayne found himself looking for you without even realizing it—glancing down the hallway as he scribbled notes, catching a glimpse of your ponytail disappearing around a corner.

He passed by the nurses’ station more often than necessary, lingering just long enough to see you smile at a patient or tuck a chart under your arm.

He told himself it was coincidence.

It wasn’t.

You caught him once—mid-stare, eyes soft, a faint smile curling at his lips before he quickly looked away, pretending to review something on his tablet.

You tried not to grin too obviously as you turned back to your tasks, but your cheeks were warm, and your heart beat just a little faster.

Later that day, you passed him in the hallway, brushing shoulders as you moved in opposite directions.

You didn’t speak—just exchanged a glance.

A brief flicker of something sweet and secret.

His fingers brushed yours in the narrow space between you.

Neither of you turned around.

But both of you smiled.

—•

The apartment was dim, lit only by the faint glow of the city bleeding in through the windows.

You let the door shut behind you with a quiet click, and for a moment, you stood still in the silence, allowing yourself the rare luxury of just being.

Then, with a soft sigh, you peeled off your coat, dropped your bag by the door, and walked straight to the couch, where you collapsed with a dramatic groan.

The cushions welcomed you like an old friend, swallowing your weight, and you sank in deeper, limbs stretching in every direction like a marionette finally cut from its strings.

Seven hours.

Seven hours of constant movement, of voices calling your name, of patient questions, medication charts, IV lines, and walking back and forth between rooms that all blurred together by the end of it.

It was your first real day shadowing in the cardiac wing, and while it had been fulfilling, it was also overwhelming.

There were moments when you’d doubted yourself, second-guessed the smallest things.

But through it all, you had stayed steady.

And now, you were bone-deep exhausted.

You let your head roll against the armrest, staring at the ceiling with unfocused eyes as the silence of your apartment wrapped around you like a heavy blanket.

You could still hear the beeping of monitors in the back of your mind, still feel the ache in your calves and the tight pull between your shoulders.

Just as your eyes began to drift shut, your phone buzzed on the coffee table.

You didn’t move at first, but then the screen lit up with a name that made your heart stir despite your exhaustion.

Zayne.

You reached for it with a tired arm and answered with a soft, “Hey.”

His voice came through the speaker, deep and warm, like something familiar and safe. “Hey. You sound half-asleep already.”

You let out a breathy laugh, eyes still closed. “Feels like I haven’t sat down in a year.”

“I figured.” There was a smile in his voice. “First full day in cardiac is no joke. I remember mine. I couldn’t feel my feet for two days.”

“I honestly don’t know how you do this every day,” you mumbled. “I’m impressed. And slightly concerned.”

Zayne chuckled. “It gets easier. Not lighter, but… you get stronger. You already looked like you belonged.”

You smiled, the corners of your mouth tugging upward despite the weariness clinging to your body. “Stalking me already, Dr. Zayne?”

“Just… making sure you were okay,” he said, not denying it.

You shifted onto your side, curling slightly into the couch, the phone cradled to your ear. “It was a lot today. But I’m glad I’m there. And I’m glad it’s with you.”

“I’m proud of you,” he said after a beat, his voice quieter now. “I know today was hard, but I also know how stubborn you are. You’re going to be incredible.”

Your throat tightened slightly, a warmth rising in your chest that had nothing to do with the blanket you hadn’t yet pulled over yourself. “Thank you… really. I didn’t know how much I needed to hear that until now.”

“I figured,” he murmured. “I could tell you were holding it together for everyone else.”

You let the silence stretch, comfortable now, as if the space between you was no longer just distance but something tender—shared.

“I wish you were here,” you admitted suddenly, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I wish I was too,” he replied without hesitation. “Do you want me to come over?”

You smiled, eyes fluttering shut once more. “Not tonight. You’ll make me forget I’m tired.”

He laughed softly, the sound like music. “Then I’ll be there tomorrow.”

You hummed in agreement, your voice already fading as sleep crept in. “Okay. Tomorrow.”

“Sleep well, Y/N.”

“Goodnight, Zayne.”

And even though your body ached and your eyes were heavy, your heart felt light—as if somehow, with just a phone call, he’d reminded you of everything you were working toward. And that you wouldn’t have to face it alone.

—•

Soon, the two of you fell into an easy rhythm—one that felt so natural it was hard to believe it hadn’t always been this way.

Weeks passed like pages turning in a well-loved book.

Stolen glances in the hospital hallways, brief touches as you passed each other charts, knowing smiles shared across the nurses’ station when no one else was looking.

And on nights when your schedules aligned, Zayne would end up at your apartment, sleeves rolled up as he helped you cook something simple, or sitting beside you on the couch with your legs draped over his lap and his fingers absentmindedly tracing circles on your skin.

Though he never said it aloud, you knew—Zayne started requesting days off more often.

It was subtle, carefully spaced out to avoid suspicion, but you noticed.

He always seemed to be free when you were.

Always just… there.

You never teased him for it.

You liked that he never said it, that his affection came quietly, through gestures and presence instead of declarations.

Spring arrived gently, softening the sharp edges of the city.

And on one of your shared days off, you both sat outside a small café tucked into a quiet street, the kind of place with wooden chairs and ivy climbing the windows.

You sipped on something sweet, sunlight warming your skin as people passed by in soft murmurs and laughter.

Zayne sat across from you, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, flipping through the corner of the menu more out of habit than need.

You watched him for a moment, smiling to yourself, before asking softly, “Have you ever wondered what would’ve happened if we both confessed earlier?”

Zayne looked up at you, a faint, wistful smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

The sunlight filtered through the leaves above, casting soft patterns across his face.

“I suppose it would’ve saved me from the heartbreak of ten years,” he replied, his voice quiet, laced with a kind of gentle honesty that made your chest tighten.

You blinked, surprised by how easily he said it—not bitter, not dramatic, just… true.

Your fingers curled around your cup, warmth seeping into your palms as you held his gaze.

“I didn’t know,” you said softly. “Back then, I really didn’t.”

Zayne nodded, eyes drifting to the people passing by, as if watching the memories walk along with them. “I didn’t know how to say it. You always felt just out of reach.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then he looked at you again, something warmer in his gaze now. “But maybe… it had to happen this way. Maybe if I’d told you back then, we wouldn’t be here now.”

You smiled faintly, heart full. “And here feels right.”

He reached across the table, his fingers brushing yours, and for a long moment, neither of you said anything.

Because the past had been full of almosts.

But now?

Now was yours.

—•

It was summer when Zayne proposed.

The air was thick with warmth and golden light, cicadas humming in the distance, and the scent of freshly cut grass lingering in the breeze.

The kind of evening that made the world feel suspended—soft around the edges, slow with memory.

He’d asked his old friend—the same one who’d once nudged him forward on that chilly winter night, the one who’d smirked and said, “She’s single now, if you still wanna try”—to help him gather everyone from your old school.

The idea was simple, a casual get-together.

Nothing extravagant.

Just old classmates catching up.

You’d missed the last reunion, after all, and he knew how much a part of your heart still lived in those days.

The ones before life swept you both away.

You didn’t suspect a thing.

The gathering was held in the park near your old school—the same one you’d studied in, laughed in, grown up in. There were picnic blankets, folding tables, and the familiar echo of voices that had once filled locker-lined hallways.

Friends hugged you, shared stories, pulled you into conversations you didn’t know you’d missed so much.

Zayne stayed close, always watching, always smiling. Waiting.

Waiting for the moment.

And it was there, just as the sun dipped low and painted everything in gold, that he stood before you—nervous, but steady.

The air seemed to hush, the noise dimming like the world itself knew something important was about to happen.

You turned, confused at first when everyone grew quiet. And then you saw him.

Standing in the middle of the crowd, holding a small box, eyes full of everything he’d ever felt for you.

“Y/N,” he began, voice carrying despite the quiet. “I met you as a boy who couldn’t speak what he felt. And I’m standing here now, as a man who has never been more certain of anything in his life.”

The world fell still.

And your heart raced to meet his.

Tears gathered in your eyes before you could stop them, your breath catching as you looked at him—Zayne, standing there amidst a quiet summer crowd, the late sunlight cutting soft shadows across his face.

He wasn’t one for grand displays. He didn’t kneel.

He didn’t make a show of it.

He just stood there, steady and sure, holding the small box in one hand, his other loosely at his side.

Calm, as always—but his eyes gave him away.

There was something unguarded in them, something raw and real, just for you.

“Say yes?” he said quietly, his voice low, thoughtful, almost like a confession.

His head tilted slightly, his tone gentle, almost careful—as if asking for something precious he wasn’t sure he deserved.

And somehow, that made it hit even harder.

Because this wasn’t a performance.

It was him.

Stripped down to honesty.

The emotions swelled in your chest as you nodded, tears slipping silently down your cheeks. “Yes,” you whispered, your voice barely holding steady. “Of course.”

A cheer erupted behind you as your old classmates clapped and laughed, but you barely heard them.

Your world had narrowed to just him—Zayne, who was now stepping forward, slipping the ring onto your finger with hands that had once held so much back and now held nothing but love.

Then, quietly, he pulled you into his arms, his chin resting against your temple, his hold grounding—like he’d been waiting years to finally exhale.

“About time,” he murmured.

And you smiled through your tears, your heart full.

“Yes,” you whispered again. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

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lostintransist · 15 days ago

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The Second Duchess

Y'all, Noona's brain worms got me again. AO3 | This will be three parts. | This will end bitter. A/B/O dynamics, vaguely victorian, there will be an actual ghost in part two & three, odd power dynamics. Part 1

The staff greeted your carriage as it arrived. Duke Price had gone on ahead to “prepare the manor for your arrival”. Whatever the hell that means.

The distance had been accomplished in one day, but it is not a thing you would like to endure again. If you had been able to secure a horse, you would have ridden out with the duke yourself. But your aunt had embedded her nails into your arm and not let go until you had been tucked into the box on wheels like another gift from the wedding.

Men and women, coded neatly in their uniforms, and their distance from the duke stretched along the drive. A quick count showed at least thirty staff all dressed for inside and nearly half as many for grounds keeping and the animals. Well, you certainly had your work cut out for you, didn’t you?

Duke John Price stood front and center. At his right shoulder, chest brushing with breathing, he stood so close, this must be Lord Simon Riley. To the Duke’s left stood a man with sharp eyes and a practiced smile. That must be Kyle Garrick. Garrick functioned in the duties of the butler and would be working in lock step with you in keeping the house and grounds running. That left one member of the duke’s pack you had not yet spied from the small window.

When the crunch of gravel under the thin wheels stops, you push open the door, eager for escape.

A hand appears before your head as it breaches the door. It is broad, and you see the back is covered in a film of hair as it flips over to present a palm. Taking it, because falling on your face as the first order of business as the new lady of the house would not be the correct move, you step down.

You expect to be released when both feet have solidly placed you outside the carriage. You’re not. Glancing up, you find a warm smile and blue eyes that rival those of the Duke. These are the blue of the sky at noon above the waves as opposed to the blue of fire that dwelt within the Duke’s.

“Welcome, my lady. We’ve been awaiting your arrival.”

The accent is what tips you off. This is the last member of the duke’s pack. Johnny. It is no wonder they called him Johnny, for the duke did claim only the name John for himself.

“And I have now arrived,” you reply evenly.

“Aye, ye have.”

Johnny tucks your hand into the crook of his elbow, pinning it in place with a gentle pat, and pulls you forward.

No ivy climbs up the stone of the three-story manor. Something about that feels wrong, as if a single climbing vine burrowing into the walls would absorb the oppressive millstone of a dread that settles deeper in your lungs with each breath. Nothing about the perfectly trimmed bushes or tended flowers eases the pressure in your mind. If anything, the gently bobbing heads of the roses called to you with the seductive whispers to torch their petals.

Offering a wan smile to your new husband, and an additional nod of acknowledgment to your new bedmates, you eye the man on your arm once more. You would be expected to share a nest with them, but not required to perform “wifely duties” unless you desired to do so. Johnny, who stepped closer to your hip with each step forward, could likely tell the fit of your corset with his it brushed his arm now. He would be one gunning to settle between your thighs.

Despite the several conversations and more with many different courtesans, you had yet to find the appeal of lying with someone. Could be that you did not enjoy lying with women. Certainly seemed like you would find out soon if that were the case.

A sharp crack, as if a rock had been launched by a storm, sounded from the front window. No one turned to look but you. A small panel of glass sat neatly in its frame, fractures jetting out of a central point. The hell just happened? And why is no one else freaked out about it?

“My lady, if you are pleased with the staff, I will excuse them back to their duties,” Kyle watches you with eyes that would cut like brown diamonds.

It hadn’t been phrased like a question despite the lilt that would suggest it had been.

“Does the lady of the house rank above chosen pack, Duke Price?” The words, biting in tone, scrape the roof of your mouth on the way out. Something about this place, the distance traveled, the tone that held only challenge instead of deference had you wanting clear demarcations of where your duties and powers would fall.

“I imagine I can arrange a boxing match so the two of you can work it out.” Duke Price’s droll tone had who you assessed to be a stable boy snorting into his hand. The young man straightened, eyes on the distance, as you glanced at him.

There is a screaming in the back of your head. A voice you listened to when at all possible, screeching that you leave, flee, run, to escape before your foot touches the carpet of the rugs that had to dot the sitting room. Nothing could save you now.

Johnny leaned in and pressed a kiss to your cheek.

“Let me show you to your room. The kitchen staff do need to return to the preparations for the dinner meal if you would be so kind?”

The boyish innocence on his face sat such that you expected he got away with a lot here.

“It appears I have yet to draw the blood necessary to command the staff,” you reply sweetly.

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Simon mutters before raising his voice, “If you receive payment from the estate, please go back about your business.”

Everyone but the four men who eyed you scattered.

“Johnny,” you intoned sweetness into his name as you glanced up at him and patted his hand, “Would you instead provide me a tour of the building?”

Rusty as the skills were, you could shift any dynamic to your needs. Kyle and, likely Simon, would be adversarial for some time. The goal was not to pick at their bonds, but plucking strings often told you their quality and tone.

“It would be my delight,” Johnny grins down at you. He is beautiful. While the collar of his shirt hides his scent gland from view, you imagine it is littered with scars. It appears that his packmates all carried sharp teeth.

The day had been long. So, so long. Johnny had given you a thorough introduction to the estate. The corners leered at you as if waiting to scare you with each turn. A hallway in the north wing had a door slammed in your face as you neared it. If not for the lack of anybody in the dim, you would have sworn one of the staff was taking the piss by locking the door. If it hadn’t startled you so badly, you might have laughed. Johnny’s deep sigh? The one that speaks of annoyance and not fear sits as comfortably as the lack of vineing ivy.

“We do not allow staff or family down those halls for reasons that must now be clear.” He pulled you along, finishing the tour in time for a meal.

Dinner dragged on and on. It ended with John inviting you to the nesting room. He did, as you suspected he would, lay you out until you reached completion with a hiccuping scream. Let it not be said that Duke John Price was not an attentive lover. You hoped your smell would cling to Simon and Kyle as they replaced you in the nest. If nothing else than to sting their noses. A romp with a man sizzled in your bones like the time with the ladies had been unable to do. Shame. Loving a woman would be much less drama.

A single candle burned at your bedside. Sitting upright in bed, you have effectively vacated your body as your mind drifts. That is, until a startling noise drags you from your distant place. A small plate from the mirrored vanity rattled on the floor, swirling until it finally stopped moving.

Ghosts are a common tale in your home countryut damn if you never expected to meet one.

Sitting up in bed, you address the room.

“Alright, well, that was startling. If you are a ghost, can you—”

Your words are cut off as a book is thrown from your bedside table, and a chill breezes across your skin.

“Okay…okay..um,” you tongue your teeth as you decide how to handle this. “To the ghost in this room, I extend to you a formal invitation. You are welcome to keep residing here if you agree to the following.”

Waiting for some kind of response is agonizing. Three breaths were enough for you to continue.

“Your continued presence hinges on agreement to the following: you will not bring harm to me or those of this house, you may not bother me in the bath, you understand that your invitation can be revoked at any time for any reason.” Superstitiously, you slide your gaze along the room, “Two knocks will be taken as agreement.”

An agonizingly long time is spent in silence. When the candle on your bedside guttering twice, you cup a hand around the small flame and blow until the light disappears with a flicker. As you tuck yourself under the bedclothes, two small knocks on the frame of the bed tell you of a new acquaintance. Sleep slides over you with a smile on your face.

The second day in your husband’s home starts with a fight.

Not a fight involving you, that would happen after breakfast, but between the maid and the door.

“Miss? Miss!” Knocking roused you from a surprisingly restful sleep.

“Yes?” You call from your pillow.

“Have you locked the door?” Her voice is getting quieter as the sound particular to the interior mechanisms of a doorknob fights the orders given.

“Ghost,” you pitch your voice low, “If you have messed with the door, please let the maid in.”

An angry chill settles over your bed; it tastes of pouting.

The rattling of the doorknob continues, but now a deeper voice has joined the chorus.

“Pout all you want, they will break the door down. I am a treasure hard-won. Do you think any of them will let a door stand between them and what they want?”

As if to prove you right, a splintering sound, not unlike the sound a mast makes as it gives, reaches you across the room. The cold dissipates. Leaving frost on your bed covers reminded you of winter’s first blush. Sitting up, you take in the mess of your new accommodations.

Bracketed neatly in the door frame is Simon’s hulking form. His blond hair curled around his ears but stood wildly from the roots everywhere else. With breeches open at the waist, a hastily tucked white shirt being the only barrier to exposing himself, Simon looks more a pirate than a Lord of the land.

“Good morning, Simon. Did you need something?”

His brows tuck together as his jaw works side to side; it appears he had not yet realized he had forgotten his face covering.

“The maid said the door was locked,” he grumbled the words. The maid in question stepped back when his eyes searched for her. Likely, he wanted to avoid the shape of you beneath the thin material of your night gown. His loss.

“Likely it was the ghost you all have.”

The speaking glance between Simon and the maid, whose name you have yet to learn, did not go unnoticed as you stood from the bed.

“Now, unless one of you is joining me in either bed or getting naked, I am requesting the door to be returned to its frame as much as is possible,” your hand crept toward the ties at your throat.

Both bodies scrambled until only the air moving in your throat claimed to be near.

Snorting, you drop the nightgown. “Cowards.”

Breakfast saw Duke Price and all of his men standing at your entrance. John, for after he had felt your most inner parts, he could be called John, held court from his place at the head of the table. Kyle sat to John’s left. Simon’s to the John’s right, with Johnny on the other side, told you quite a tale. With a nod to the men, you skirted the table and filled your plate. Taking the traditional place across the table from the duke, you watch the pack dynamics.

John favors Kyle. Simon and Johnny rely on each other; they lean to share whispers that reach you only in murmurs. They functioned as a pack should, but found a person to cling to harder than the others. Interesting. You consume your food quickly. Eager to be out the door and peeking through John’s stable, you do not contribute to the conversation at the other end of the table.

A sausage, fat still dripping from its casing, lifts into the air above the side table. A quick hiss, not unlike one you would use toward a naughty child, brought the men’s gazes to you. The sausage dropped onto the plate with a splat.

“John, you did not mention you housed a ghost.”

He carefully held your gaze as he wiped his mouth and returned his napkin to his lap.

“I did not think the information would endear you to accepting my offer, wife.”

Kyle and Simon watched with hard brown eyes, while Johnny winked when you glanced at him.

“What a shame. Had you tried to get to know me before stitching our lives together, you would have learned ghosts are something of a fascination for me.” Standing, you push your plate further onto the table, “Well, gents, I’ll see you at dinner.”

Johnny’s voice follows you out the door of the dining room. When he doesn’t appear, you can only assume Simon collared him with a large hand.

The stable, with its smells of warmth and straw and horse, welcomed you like no other place on this forsaken estate had. The stable hands were more skittish than the horses at your appearance. Being within sight of an imposing, looming, if you dare say, hedge maze would put many on edge.

The young man who had snickered into a hand the day before appeared at the elbow of the head man, Ernest. A glance between them displayed a marked familiarity between them.

“Ma’am, might I direct you to one of our more sedate rides?”

“Ernest, I am an accomplished horsewoman. I could handle even Lord Riley’s mount with ease, so might I offer a compromise?”

Ernest’s bushy brows rose.

“What are ye offerin’, my lady?”

“Let me take a horse with spirit, but one who will run when given their head, but listens to the rider without argument.”

“You’ll be wanting a horse of the Duke’s, Johnny or Kyle, then.” Ernest turned to his son, “Get the lady the block.”

“Oh, there is no need for that,” you shift forward, drawing both eyes back to you. “If you can show me where everything is and introduce me to the horses, I will take it from there.”

Ernest looks you over with a more keen eye now.

“A compromise to meet your own, my Lady?” The caution in his voice could have set a flock of birds to flight.

“As it is our duty to care for the horses, would you allow my son, Paul, to assist you with what you require?”

Shifting your weight back into your heels, you can’t prevent a small smile from forming on your lips.

“Ernest, I accept your compromise. Might I put it out that if anyone in the village or elsewhere on the estate is in need of assistance, any assistance, I excel at connecting people to solutions.”

“A businesswoman were you before the duke snatched you up?” Ernest’s weathered face takes on a curious cast.

“Of sorts.” You pull at the collar of your dress, letting your lack of gland be seen, “I have a particular interest in helping those who, like me, might be dismissed for one reason or another.”

“Not many will trust ye,” Ernest hedged.

You lift one shoulder as you catch Paul’s eye, as you set your collar back into place.

“I don’t need trust to connect the needs to the providers. Only the knowledge to know where to look.”

Both sets of brows pull together as they think over what you had said. Smiling to ease the creases you had introduced, you lift a hand to get back to the task at hand.

Leaving the front gate on Kyle’s horse, Cannonball, your skirt abandoned in the stall, you pass the men all gathered around a fence post a ways down the lane. Sending them a wave as you ask for more speed from Cannonball, you chuckle to yourself at their shocked faces.

John had told you that he needed someone who could see—you were taking yourself on a sightseeing expedition. If taking his horse put a twist in Kyle’s pants? Well, all the better.

John, a commander as taught from infancy, directed his men from the building and across the lane. You had confirmed their fears. Their sins haunted their home.

They were discussing how to woo you, and if they should consult a witch or a priest to rid the ghast from their presence, when you blazed past them. Seated like a man, legs that had been wrapped around his waist only hours ago now clad in trousers, and riding Cannonball like she provided no challenge, you waved. John chubbed in his pants.

Johnny? Well, Johnny caught a backhand from Kyle to a painfully hard erection. It was his own fault, though, muttering to an angry Kyle ‘You’re only mad she rides your horse better than you do’ would always require retribution.

Simon lifted a brow when John turned for his opinion.

“She is nothing like your first wife. She won’t wilt.”

John nodded once. Maybe this time, they could draw his wife into the fold instead of keeping her apart from their love.

The ride into town went quickly. Once you had introduced yourself to the shops dotting the main road, you purchased several sweet-smelling soaps and several lengths of fabric. You had found a map showing the breadth of the dukedom and where each family that worked the land lived. The best place to start reaching out to the community would be those directly newly under your care.

Five visits in you had your first negative experience. Seated on a rickety chair in the kitchen as Miriam, the young woman who lived here, worked on the afternoon meal. The front door opened, slamming against the wall as a brute of a man filled the space of the frame.

“We’ve no need of charity. Told the clergy to leave us be, and they send pretty faces who smell of perfume instead?” The man’s accent takes you a moment to parse through. Your eyes drift to Miriam; gauging her reaction as embarrassed but not scared, you stand.

“Hello, Samford. I have come today to introduce mysel—”

“No cares who ye are, be gone!” He crossed the floor in two steps, glowering down at you. He had height on Lord Riley. Interesting.

“Sam! That is the new lady of the house!” Miriam squeaked as she pushed her husband back. His thick brows tucked together. They pulled closer still as he scoured his wife’s stricken expression.

Something there must have convinced him because the mantle of indignant rage fell from his stance. Lifting his gaze to you, his lips disappear beneath his mustache.

“Sorry, ma’am.”

Miriam spins, watching your expression, fear bright in her eyes.

A laugh, real and honest, bursts from your lips. They share a look.

“Yes, I am the new lady of the house. I must say, I appreciate you, Samford. That is the first honest greeting I’ve gotten all day.” You tap the soap and the neatly folded length of cloth. “I don’t bring charity. Where I come from, it is customary to provide a gift to your new neighbors as a sign of goodwill and as an invitation to call upon the other in times of hardship.”

Looking up, your heart catches on the arm Samford has slipped round his wife’s waist. Easy affection had to be the single gesture of love you missed most.

Caught up in your memories, you miss Miriam calling you.

“—am? Are you well?”

Blinking to clear the cobwebs, you give them a weak smile.

“My apologies. The love you hold for one another is refreshing and sent me stumbling into memory lane.” Brushing your hands down your trousers to dispel your clinging insecurities, you offer them both a smile. “Before I came here, I excelled at connecting folks who had skills to those who had a need. If you have a need, please test my skills. I fear this country living might be the end of me for the boredom it brings.”

“Why do you do that? If you don’t mind me asking,” Miriam stepped forward, face full of curiosity.

“Mmm? Oh, the rumors must not have spread yet. I have no secondary gender. Where others only saw to pity me, I found a way to usurp the power of that pity and use it to make other people’s lives better.” You shrug as you shift your gaze to the door. “I take particular pleasure in stripping those who hold power of their ability to effect change.”

“And aren’t you,” Samford started slowly, “One who holds power to change?”

A smirk pulls at one side of your mouth.

“The duke married me for reasons unknown, but he also has no need of me.”

Holding Samford’s gaze until he nods once is as much of an acknowledgment as you expect to get.

“Thank you for your time. I have a few homes left to visit before darkness returns me to the manor. And please, truly, if you find a need, give me a chance to assist you.”

Stepping to and through the door, the couple follows you.

“We still don’t accept charity, ma’am,” Sanford’s brows lifted as he took in your lack of propriety in trousers and your ease of mounting Cannonball. Once seated, you lean forward, now eye to eye with the large man.

“Is it charity to accept eggs from a neighbor after helping gather up their scattered chickens, or is it the cost of community?” With that final thought, you nod and turn Cannonball to continue your journey.

Johnny found you, dusk highlighting the shape of his face as you tucked Cannonball into her stall. She would rest easy with an extra serving of food and a long session of brushing for all her hard work.

“Johnny. To what do I owe this pleasure?” You cast a look at him as you settle the latch on the stall.

“Pleasure is why I seek you, my lady.” The husk in his voice is not one you have heard from a man before. It pulls your attention and your brows up.

“With a sentence like that, I’m not sure how to reply.” The honesty is all you can offer. Your body understands well before your mind does, your skin beginning to tingle and begging for touch.

“Invite me into John’s rooms tonight,” Johnny’s breath hitched in pain as he knelt at your feet. His hands cupped the back of your thighs.

His position entreated you to settle your fingers through his hair. Who were you to deny him?

“I do not know that the Lord Price will draw me into his bed tonight, Johnny.” The fates must have loved this one to give him such striking eyes and soft hair that begged to be touched.

“Then invite me to yours, my lady.” The growl in his tone bit at your womb.

Tilting his head back using the grip on his locks, you peer down at him.

“Why would I do that?” You ask coolly. The last invitation like this you received had been nothing more than a rouse, a sham, to bring you to shame.

“Packs share and share alike. And I do like you, my lady. The idea of settling between your legs as John kisses up your neck, Simon licking your skin clean of sweat, Kyle squeezing every soft feature hidden away under your clothes, keeps me awake at night.” There is no blue left in his eyes.

“You are quite bold, Johnny.” You tighten the hold on his hair.

Panting and keening quietly, he replies.

“When men yearn, they will earn. I like your spark, my duchess, let’s see if we can cause an explosion, aye?” He waggled his eyebrows as he said it.

The laughter is what did you in.

Johnny joined you and John that night. Sparks did indeed lead to detonations.

@myeyesonlyfouryou @listen-to-navi @MindsofJade

Part 1 | Part 3

Masterlist | Taglist

#cod #fanfiction #cod x reader #john soap mactavish #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #soap cod #john price x reader #soap mactavish #price x reader #kyle gaz garrick x you #kyle garrick x reader #kyle garrick #kyle gaz garrick #captian john price

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