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chvoswxtch · 4 months

Text

an adjustment

pairing: frank castle x fem!reader

summary: adjusting to a new normal with frank presents a few challenges, including one you thought you had put to rest.

warnings: swearing, lil angst, frank's voice (yes that needs a warning)

word count: 2.6k

a/n: a certain someone is making a cameo that will have a bigger role in the next chapter, but y'all know I love to tease. ;) as always, feedback is welcomed/appreciated!

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As much as the two of you wanted to stay in the cozy little bubble that existed in his cabin, reality had come knocking. Madani informed you that your place was no longer an active crime scene decorated in bodies, bullets, and blood, and Billy needed Frank for a new assignment. Some guy running for Senator had a lot of controversial opinions that pissed a bunch of people off and apparently warranted 24/7 security, and Anvil was at the top of his list for protection. Since Frank was the best at what he did, unfortunately he was at the top of that list too. Adjusting to a new normal had been…well…just that; an adjustment.

A difficult, confusing, thought consuming adjustment.

For over half of the past year, Frank had been by your side. You started and ended every single day with him. The sudden absence of his presence was jarring, and you still found yourself immediately confused when you glanced up from your computer screen to tell him something only to realize he wasn’t there. Frank didn’t always talk a whole lot, but your office suddenly felt so much more quiet and empty without him. And despite a full blown security system installed by him on your behalf, it was hard for you to feel safe in your own home with the lingering scars of what had happened etched into the walls beneath a layer of new paint.

Frank called you at least once every day, just to hear your voice, but between both of your complicated schedules, time was not in your favor. You had spent the past three weeks adapting to Frank’s vacancy, but found yourself spiraling anytime you were left alone with your own thoughts. What if this was over before it had even really started? What if it wasn't anything anyway? There hadn’t been a moment for you and Frank to sit down and actually talk about what your relationship was since the cabin. You know what it meant to you, and you knew what you wanted it to mean to him, but you wanted to hear what it meant to him from his own mouth.

A part of you felt childish for wanting to bring it up. What were you supposed to do? Send him a text saying “are you my boyfriend, check yes or no”? Another part of you felt valid in needing reassurance. It was reasonable to want to establish a relationship with someone you were dating. But were you and Frank dating? He hadn’t technically asked you out on an actual date, but he had risked his life to save yours on several occasions. That had to count for something. You hadn’t dated anyone seriously since Steven, and Frank was not only a widower, but also your former bodyguard, so the normal rules of dating felt like they had been completely thrown out the window.

A knock at the door abruptly pulled you out of your chaotically indecisive inner monologue, and you saw a guy that appeared to be fresh out of high school standing in the doorway of your office.

“You Y/N Y/L/N?”

“Uh yeah, that’s me. How can I help you?”

The kid took a few steps forward into your office and practically shoved a sealed brown envelope in your face. He looked bored and annoyed, as if you were somehow inconveniencing him because he had to deliver something to you. It made you want to make a snide comment about how your name was clearly listed outside your office door and ask how the hell he managed to graduate without the ability to read.

“This is for you.”

Reaching for the envelope, your brows pinched together as you turned it over. There was nothing written on the front of it, no address, no name, not even a stamp.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know, lady. I’m just the messenger. Open it and find out.”

Before you could reply with a smartass comment, the kid had already walked out of your office, leaving you alone with the mysterious brown envelope. Clenching your jaw, you refrained from chasing him down the hall and asking who the hell raised him. Letting out a deep exhale through your nose, you had to remind yourself that you were a grown woman that would face charges for decking a teenager, even if he was legal and a complete dick.

“Asshole.”

Muttering under your breath, you pinched the aluminum prongs together on the seal, flipping the top of the envelope open to reach inside and pull out a stack of documents. When you turned them over, five big bold letters instantly caught your attention.

LETTER OF INTENT TO SUE.

During your time as a journalist, people had threatened to sue you over stories several times. It came with the territory. The first time you had gotten a letter like this, you nearly had a complete meltdown. Ben had found it far more amusing than you did, leaning back in his chair with a smug grin on his face while sipping at his coffee and chuckling.

“Ah, I remember my first lawsuit letter. You get used to ‘em. You can either frame that one or forward that to the uh legal department. It’s in the blue recycling bin outside.”

And he had been right. People had tried to sue the paper, and you specifically, several times over the course of your career, but nothing ever actually went anywhere. You normally wouldn’t have thought twice about it, and you were about to toss it into the trash bin on the floor next to your desk when your eyes skimmed over who sent the letter, and your blood instantly began to sizzle.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

Steven fucking Price.

Gritting your teeth harshly, you narrowed your eyes as you read over the first paragraph on the page.

This letter of intent to sue shall hereby be considered formal notice that STEVEN PRICE intends to file a lawsuit against you if you do not comply with the settlement demands set out in this letter.

The storm of anger brewing inside you had your hands shaking violently, and you were clutching onto the paper in your hands so tightly that your fingernails had left indents in the crinkled sides that were held captive in your vice grip. When Homeland took him away in custody, you thought that was the last you would ever have to deal with him or see him until the trial. But here he was, still making demands of you, from federal prison.

Frank’s gruff voice sounded on the other end of the line after one ring before you even realized you had called him.

“He’s fucking suing me.”

“What? Who?”

“Steven.”

There was a brief shuffling noise on the other end of the line, and you faintly heard Frank mutter an “excuse me” before his deep baritone sounded once again in your ear.

“The hell you mean he’s suin’ you?”

“Some kid came and dropped off an envelope, who was a real dick by the way, and then I opened it and saw it’s a letter of intent to sue. I didn’t think anything of it at first because I get these all the time, but then I saw his fucking name.”

“Suin’ you for what though?”

Tossing the documents onto your desk, you began to pace back and forth in your office as you ran your hand through the roots of your hair in pure frustration.

“I don’t fucking know, a load of bullshit? I didn’t even read what his ‘demands’ were. He can’t…he can’t do that, right? I didn’t do anything.”

Pausing for a second, your hysterical rant subsided momentarily as one possible reason for a lawsuit popped into your head.

“I mean…I did punch him in the face. But he’s going to sue me for that? There’s no fucking way. Putting it on public record that a girl half his size punched him? His ego couldn’t handle it.”

“You did break his nose.”

“He fucking deserved it, I should’ve broken more.”

Frank’s deep chuckle of amusement sounded from the other end of the line, and it instantly made you forget what you were so pissed about for a brief moment.

“I ain’t disagreein’ with you there. Look, take a deep breath, sweetheart. Can you do that for me?”

Letting out a deep exhale through your nose, you closed your eyes for a moment and enjoyed the soft tone of Frank’s rough voice as you followed his gentle instruction. With your eyes closed, it was almost like he was there with you. Once Frank could hear your breathing even out a bit on the other end of the line, he spoke in a delicately low tone that had your toes curling in your shoes.

“Attagirl. Send me the letter and I’ll talk to Madani ‘bout it, yeah?”

“I don’t even have a lawyer-”

“Don’t worry ‘bout that right now, alright? Just take another deep breath, relax, and let me handle it.”

“You’re always handling things.”

“That’s kinda my job, baby.”

One little pet name and you were blushing like a schoolgirl with her first crush. Thankfully Frank wasn’t in your office at that moment to see the intense heat in your cheeks and the goofy smile splitting your lips. He would’ve definitely had a field day teasing you about it.

“You’re pretty good at your job. Maybe a little too good. If you were kinda sucky at it, everyone wouldn’t want you so bad.”

“The only one I want bad is you.”

A fluttering feeling erupted in your lower belly at those words, coupled with the way his voice had dropped an impossible octave lower, and you found yourself clutching at the edge of your desk to keep your knees from giving out right from under you. If Frank was here, you would’ve gladly let him bend you over it.

Clearing your throat, you attempted to change the subject before you got too worked up.

“How’s the new guy?”

Grabbing the iced coffee sitting on your desk, you held it against the heated skin of your neck. Droplets of the cool condensation slowly cascaded down your flesh, causing you to shiver while trying to balance your internal temperature.

“Not as pretty as you.”

Letting out a soft snort, you rolled your eyes and leaned back against the edge of your desk.

“Well I would hope not.”

Frank chuckled deeply again, and you could clearly picture the look on his face in your mind; an expression of playful exasperation with a faint smirk on the edge of his soft lips.

“He’s more of a pain in the ass than you. Didn’t think that was possible.”

“You’re really great at this whole flirting thing, you know that?”

The dry sarcasm in your voice didn’t go unnoticed by Frank, and it tore a deeper laugh from low within his chest that made you grin.

“Hey, I been outta practice for a while. Gimme a break.”

“Speaking of flirting, how’s Billy?”

“He’s uh…he’s good.”

Something about Frank’s tone suddenly seemed off, and you wanted to ask him about it, but there was a faint rustling on the other end of the line, like Frank was pressing the speaker against his chest, and you could barely make out his muffled voice speaking to someone. When he lifted his phone back to his ear, you caught the end of a deep sigh.

“Listen I uh…I gotta go, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, me too.”

That was a lie. You didn’t have anything pressing deadlines at the moment. You would’ve stayed on the phone for the rest of the day with Frank if you could’ve, maybe convinced him to sneak away and come see you. He was still in New York, luckily, but anywhere that wasn’t right next to you was still too far.

“Send me the letter. I’ll talk to Madani and take care of it, alright?”

“Okay. I…thank you.”

“You ain’t gotta thank me.”

“You keep saying that, but then you keep giving me reasons to. So, we can have this argument until eventually you give up I guess.”

Frank chuckled deeply once more, and you could picture him in your mind shaking his head with a light grin. He sounded normal again, but you made a mental note to ask him about what was really going on when you spoke to him next.

“Same time tomorrow then, yeah?”

»»———　　———««

According to Madani, Steven didn’t have a case, and you technically had nothing to worry about. However, you were admittedly curious about what the hell he wanted, and Frank had said that if you did want to go talk to Steven, he would go with you. Actually, he respectfully insisted that you not see Steven without him present, and while you didn’t want to see Steven at all, you did want to see Frank.

You suffered through almost three years with Steven. You could suffer another five minutes if it meant you got to spend time with Frank.

It wasn’t your first time visiting a prison. A few years ago when you were still working with Ben, he had been interviewing a death row inmate that had been declaring innocence for fifteen years, and Ben had managed to prove that the evidence for his case had been tampered with and that the man had been telling the truth the entire time. Despite how daunting it felt to be in a place that kept violent people caged like animals, you felt safe with Ben then, much like you did with Frank now.

Currently, you were pacing back and forth down the hallway in pure irritation.

“What is taking so long?”

Frank had his arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against the wall outside of the meeting room that was typically reserved for inmates and their lawyers. The guard had said he would bring Steven in shortly, but that was twenty minutes ago. Since Frank had met you at the prison, and due to all the prying eyes, you hadn’t had a private moment to do more than smile at him when he arrived. It was the first time you were able to see him in person in three and a half weeks, and he somehow looked even more attractive than he ever had, and you were being forced to endure an interaction with your ex, who tried to have you killed, just to get Frank alone.

It was torture.

“Told ‘em we’re waitin’ on your lawyer.”

Pausing mid-step, you glanced over at Frank with a look of complete puzzlement.

“I don’t have a lawyer, I told you that.”

As Frank turned his head to look at you, he suddenly lifted his gaze to stare directly above your head as someone behind you caught his eye. He stood up straight and uncrossed his arms as he gestured with his chin in the direction behind you.

“You do now.”

With your brows knit in threads of confusion towards the center of your forehead, a light tapping sound behind you caused your ears to perk up, and you turned your head to find the source of the noise and Frank’s attention.

“Miss Y/L/N, my name is Matthew Murdock. I’m your attorney.”

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#frank castle #frank castle x you #frank castle x y/n #frank castle x reader #frank castle x female reader #frank castle x fem!reader #frank castle x f!reader #frank castle fic #frank castle series #the bodyguard series #bodyguard!frank castle fic #bodyguard!frank castle series #bodyguard!frank castle x reader #the punisher #the punisher fic #the punisher series

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lovelyyandereaddictionpoint · 6 months

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Introducing…The Yandere Secretary…Student Council

Gill Hunter, the stoic beauty of the student council, is known for his unbothered disposition and unrelenting devotion to his boyfriend: the historian. Only known to smile when nuzzling against his boyfriend’s blonde head of hair, the student body regards him as an untouchable beauty. Something to look at but never to pursue.

So imagine their surprise when he interrupts the class looking for someone in particular.

“(Y/n) (L/n). Come.”

He’s not one for social graces or beating around the bush in any capacity. He loves you. Like a lot. But unfortunately his beloved, playful as ever, has challenged him to keep his affections quiet for now, saying ‘It’ll be more entertaining this way!’ Ultimately it falls to him to lure you into their clutches which so happens to be Student Council. Which works perfectly.

"If you want the stamp, you'll do what I say. Thursday at 12:00 be here."

Now you might make the claim that no one has had to work this hard to get a schedule change. But when he looks at you straight-faced and silent you gather pretty quickly you’re being ignored. More like the topic itself.

This is the way he deals with a lot of things others don’t like. Complaints about a lack of effort? Ignored. Confusion over his general silence? Ignored. Your suspicions about his involvement in the missing student's case? Ignored.

"Gill this isn't funny! You have to tell me, if you know anything okay?"

"..."

"Seriously?! You're not going to say anything?"

"..."

"Fine. Then I guess we can talk about something else then."

"What did you think of the lunch I made for you?"

It irritates a lot of people, it’ll probably irritate you but he’s found that most will make their own conclusions by simply not reacting. Of course, it's a matter of understanding his actions more than his words, which you’ll get pretty decent at with how much time you’ll be spending around him.

But no one knows him as well as June….so if there’s anyone to speak to about interpreting Gill best it’d be The Historian.

#yandere student council #yandere student council secretary #yandere student council ocs #yandere x reader #yandere male #yandere oc #yandere x you #oc x reader #yandere oc x reader #lovelyyandereaddictionpoint #yanderexrea #yandere #yanderes #yandere harem #yandere poly x reader #yandere polyamourous

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moonstruckme · 2 months

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OOOOO I didn’t realize you wrote for steddie x R!!! Can I request your version of what would happen if reader came down with a nasty stomach bug from work and our boys tried to take care of her only to end up with it themselves? (Totally not projecting my own unfortunate current demise 🫠)

Thanks for requesting lovely! Feel better <3

cw: mentions of nausea, stomach pain, not eating due to illness

poly!Steddie x fem!reader ♡ 759 words

“Poor little lovebug.” You’ve given up on trying to deter Eddie as he sets his lips to your temple, cuddling close, but you and Steve exchange a look.

The other boy rolls his eyes. “I’m not going to take care of both of you,” he says. You all know it’s an empty threat. “If you get yourself sick, you’re on your own.”

“I’m helping,” Eddie argues, lips meandering down to your neck. You inhale softly as the muscles in your abdomen spasm painfully, and his hands are there in a second, pressing over the sore spot like it’s a wound he can stopper. “What’re you doing, Harrington? She doesn’t want your lame toast.”

Steve softens. “She’s gotta eat something, though.” He looks to you, almost apologetic as he says, “It’s toast or cheerios, honey. Unless you think you can stomach something more.”

You shake your head, snuggling into Eddie. He makes a happy sound, adjusting his position to tuck you under his chin and get you more securely in his arms. You’re sick of being sick. It’s only day one of the stomach flu several of your coworkers have said they didn’t get over for three days, and you’re well and truly fed up with it. Fed up with being nauseous and achy and alternately too hot or too cold.

Steve had discovered upon his early-morning search that there’s not one thermometer between the three of you and has been debating going to the store to get one, but says he’s reluctant to leave you in the hands of the most inept caretaker possible (your very sweet and loving boyfriend). Eddie is ambivalent; he says you don’t need a thermometer anyway, because his lips are the best gauge there is (he keeps pressing them to your forehead and making sizzling noises, which Steve only found funny the first time but entertains you and Eddie to no end).

Eddie fully gives over to your self-indulgent tendencies in not eating, but Steve is watching you with a dissatisfied little furrow between his brows. He crouches by the bed, feeling your face with one hand and reaching for the nightstand with the other.

“At least have some gatorade, then,” he capitulates, holding the bottle out toward you. “You’ve gotta stay hydrated.”

You feel guilty and sit up. Eddie protests at your moving, but Steve gives you a smile as you drink.

“You’re really a ton of help,” he snarks at Eddie, though he reaches down, carding a hand through his boyfriend’s curls.

“I’m just succumbing to my fate.” Eddie shrugs. “I’m gonna be sick tomorrow, may as well start acting like it now.”

“It’s not as fun as it looks,” you say between sips, then regret it. Your face heats as both boys’ expressions turn pitying.

Eddie wraps a hand around your hip, squeezing lovingly, and Steve says, “I know, honey. You wanna nap for a while? We’ll give your stomach a chance to settle before we try with the toast again.”

You nod and let Eddie wrestle you back down onto the mattress, pulling you snugly against him. “Think of it this way—at least soon, you’ll have a companion in your misery.”

And by the next morning, you do. But it’s not Eddie.

“Toast,” Eddie begs, shoving the piece of bread forward like he’s jousting with it. “C’mon, baby, just a few bites.”

Steve groans, crossing his arms over his head. “Later,” he bargains. “I can’t do it right now.”

Eddie looks to you desperately. “Did you finish your water?”

“Mhm.” You give the empty bottle a little shake as proof, and your boyfriend sighs in relief.

“Good girl.” He bends over you, stamping his lips to your forehead firmly. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

You hum and reach for his hand, but Steve grabs you, turning you around and hugging you to his chest possessively. You’re more than alright with this, nuzzling his stubble while he splays a hand on your back.

“You know what? Fuck you, Harrington.” Eddie slaps the piece of toast on Steve’s shoulder and leaves it there. “Can’t believe you’d fucking do this to me. That better be gone when I get back.”

“Where are you going?” Steve asks, smugness evident in his tone.

“To get a fucking thermometer!”

Steve’s chuckle rumbles through the both of you, and you smile against his neck.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you tell him.

“Yeah, I don’t know what you were talking about.” He kisses your cheek, his lips as warm as your skin. “This is tons of fun.”

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waldau · 18 days

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hii! I've noticed that you haven't written anything for minghao yet (according to your master list) so I wanted to request something cozy and homey with him. like maybe cooking together or waking up together or something along those lines.. :)

hello anon! i was feeling extra sappy with minghao and this also happens to be my first work for him. thank you so much for requesting it, i hope you see this!

gender neutral reader. warnings: none.

muse — xu minghao | 1,382 words | fluff

minghao blinks his eyes open to the sound of silence. there’s not much he can hear right out, except for the distant sound of cars going past. he lazes around for a few more moments before giving in and checking the time on his phone.

it’s just shy of six in the morning. he needs to be up and at the studio by nine, but he doesn’t feel like moving just yet. he puts his phone away and turns around to you, to watch you sleep.

the first time he’d ever done it was unfortunately a time you weren’t actually asleep, and he’d ended up staring at you for ten minutes before you woke up and apologized to him, saying that you couldn’t pretend to stay asleep without wanting to burst into laughter.

he still remembers how embarrassed he’d been by that, and how you made it up to him with kisses and multiples reassurances that it had been okay, that he could do it again, that it wasn’t a problem at all, you’d just been caught off-guard the very first time.

the thing is — minghao adores you. he’s in awe of you. to him, no one else on this planet even compares to how exquisite you are. he loves how like-minded the two of you are, how affectionate you’re with him, and how much you support him without even saying any words. of course, he loves going out on dates with you, seeing new places with you, seeing you match the outfits he wears, but this might just be his favourite sight in the world.

this being seeing you asleep on your side, facing him, a hand tucked under your head and the other holding his own. as an artist, he’s used to noticing the finer details about everything he sees, so when it comes to you, he could lose himself for hours noticing every single thing about you that makes him love you more.

minghao gently untangles his hand from your grasp, drawing his own blanket over you properly so that you don’t feel cold. he immediately feels the cold winter air hit his bare arms, and he winces as he gets used to it. he’s going to need to workout before he leaves, because there’s no time for it in the evening. not if he wants to finish work fast enough to come back to have dinner with you.

his fingers itch for a brush. it’s been a while since he’s painted something. the last thing he’d put on his canvas had been a rendition of a sunrise he’d been able to see with you a few weeks ago. it had been magical; the beautiful hues of orange and yellow blending with the shimmering brightness of the sea, contrasting the pale hue of the sky.

but nothing looked more beautiful than you sitting next to him, watching the sun rise and letting the water wash over your legs. he’d been tempted to paint you instead, right there, but you’d dragged him out on a monday morning for inspiration, despite the fact that both of you had work soon, and he wasn’t going to let it go to waste.

but he doesn’t really need inspiration. not when you’re his muse.

he runs his fingers across your face as gently as he can, glad that you’re still asleep. you’ve been having trouble sleeping recently, and he’s glad he’s part of why you’ve been sleeping better. he smiles when he notices two faint pillow creases stamped into your cheek, angry red lines that he hopes don’t hurt you at all. you somehow manage to look even more perfect with them.

he doesn’t know how long he’s been staring at you before your eyes blink open slowly, and somehow his eyes are the first thing that yours find. he holds his breath, waiting for you to speak.

“hao?” you ask, voice croaky. “what time is it?”

minghao checks his phone again. “six thirty-seven. you still have twenty three more minutes to sleep, if you want.”

“mm,” you say, before you roll in closer and pull his arm to yourself. “wake me up at seven, then.” before he can say anything, you look up at him. “aren’t you supposed to leave early today?”

he nods. “do you want me to leave?”

you huff and tug at his arm to pull him closer to yourself, and he goes down willingly. “you know that’s not what i meant.”

“what did you mean, then?” he asks, pinching your nose softly.

you’re used to his teasing by now, so you just roll your eyes throw an arm around his waist. “did you sleep well, hao?”

“really well. you?”

“me too. but…how long were you staring at me this time?”

he feigns shock. “you could tell?”

“i can just…feel it, somehow,” you giggle. “won’t you tell me?”

“do you really want me to?”

“of course,” you say, eyes shining despite the layer of sleep clinging to them. minghao wishes he could spend more time with you like this. it’s almost like you’re forcing yourself to stay awake despite having some more time to sleep, just to talk to him. the thought warms his chest.

“maybe forty minutes? maybe more.”

there’s a grin on your face. “correct me if i’m wrong, but…i think you love me?”

he could just refute it, tease you a little, joke that you’re in too deep, but he can’t. there’s something about the early hours of the morning combined with the fact that he has the honour to wake up with you that makes his heart heavy. he’s lucky to even have this, especially with you.

“you’re right,” he says, voice rough, feeling his waterline sting suddenly. “i love you.”

the grin on your face disappears slowly. “hao? is everything okay?”

“of course it is, darling,” he says, bending down to kiss your forehead, brushing off some rogue strands of hair to kiss it properly, tucking it behind your ear so he can see your beautiful face better. “i love you. is that wrong?”

“no, silly,” you say, leaning up to cup his cheek in your palm. your hand is cold. maybe he should’ve warmed you up better. “you sound…sad. like there’s something eating at you.”

he closes his eyes and indulges himself in your touch, trying to work out his words, marvelling at how easily you can read him. “i…love you. you know that, right?”

“yeah. i love you, too. but…?”

“but,” he sighs, “i just…don’t have the right words to tell you how much i love you. i could say i love you a thousand times, but it wouldn’t be enough. i could kiss you a thousand times and it wouldn’t be enough. i could…i could ask you to marry me but nothing would be enough to tell you how thankful i am that you’re here with me. that you’re mine.”

silence, just the two of you in your bedroom, the sounds of life filtering in from outside the window.

your breath is shaky when you speak. “hao.” you drop your hand down to his arm. “i love you, too. you don’t…i don’t need any grand gestures from you. just…be with me. every single day. be mine forever. that’s it.”

“there’s nowhere else i want to be.”

“then that’s all i need.”

minghao presses a kiss to your head. he hopes it conveys everything he’s feeling right now. he’s about to say something more when your alarm goes off, and he really should get going if he doesn’t want to reach work late.

“see you in the evening?” you ask, hand catching his as he attempts to get to his feet. “maybe we can talk about…getting married? for real?”

minghao hasn’t even opened the curtains yet, and he feels like he’s standing in front of the sun again. he’s going to go to work, do well, come back home to you and hold you and hear about your day and eat with you. he’s going to surprise you with a painting of yourself, and he’s going to marry you. that’s the life he’s built for himself with you, and he loves it.

it’s all he needs to keep going, every single day.

“i can’t wait. i’ll be back before you know it, darling.”

taglist: @bookyeom @wootify @strnsvt @cloudycaramel @thepoopdokyeomtouched @minnieminshi @nonononranghaee @hrts4hanniehae @viewvuu @bewoyewo

#idk i tried writing #xu minghao #xu minghao fluff #minghao fluff #minghao #fluff #seventeen #seventeen fluff #svt #svt fluff #waldau writes #req

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fallenrockstars · 4 months

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⚠️ Disabled parent needs help for food and daily necessities ⚠️

Please read the info below and spread the word, I’ll also include their commission and donation info down below.

My mutual Kair is a disabled parent who recently lost their housing and had to raise finances via GoFundMe to urgently relocate— which unfortunately caused them to lose their food stamp benefits for the time being due to the sudden influx of income, despite the funds going directly into housing and not being held onto. Needless to say, dealing with the instability of these basic core needs being met through no fault of your own is devastating to juggle.

Until they’re able to potentially resolve their case and regain their benefits, money is going to be very tight and they could seriously use help feeding themself and their child.

I know a lot of people see fundraisers like this and feel wary because they don’t know the person behind the screen, but please be assured Kair and I have been mutuals for some time now and are a trustworthy person, and I can tell you they’ve been through the wringer and genuinely deserve anything y’all can send their way

If you’re interested in grabbing a commission feel free to check out their offerings on Twitter and hit them up via email [email protected]

TWT LINK TO THE HEADSHOT COMMS POST: https://x.com/ponycide/status/1749471475722076630?s=61&t=-n4ArPxz_TRv2e8YObl5GA

TWT LINK TO THE FASHION COMMS POST: https://x.com/ponycide/status/1744410466577678380?s=61&t=-n4ArPxz_TRv2e8YObl5GA

#gofundme #fundraiser #mutual aid #signal boost #kofi #ko-fi #paypal #commissions open #commissions

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freak-accident419 · 4 months

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“Hachi Machi!”

Josh Futturman x GN!Reader

Summary: After coming back to 2017 from ‘69, Josh realizes that his and Tiger and Wolf’s interference made some ripples in his timeline, such as the gun hanging in his parent’s house, the Blapple, Ray disappearing, and ultimately Dr. Kronish working alongside Stu Camilo. He’s relieved to know that you are still his partner in this timeline, but when one thing leads to another, he discovers one small change about you.

Word Count: 2.2k

Content: 18+ smut, MDNI, more plot than porn (not very descriptive), takes place during S01E04 im pretty sure, gender neutral reader, penetration (no genitals specified), slightly ooc josh, reader has a tramp stamp

(A/n: I know that in this same episode Lyle introduces the phrase ‘hachi machi’ to Josh after these events, but fuck it. The pacing’s a bit bad, I’m tired, but I hope you enjoy regardless :) you can interpret what the tramp stamp is of, personally, i would go with the dragonfly, what about you guys?)

Josh was exhausted.

Utterly exhausted.

From going to 1969 and trying to cock block Dr. Kronish, desperately finding ways to spare the man’s life to seeing his colleagues dismember his biotic co-workers and throw them in possum incinerators, it seemed as if he’s never gotten a break. And to top it all off, Tiger kicked him off the team, making him feel useless and loser-like all over again.

There were several ripples that he and his team had caused: Kronish and Stu were now work partners, the Blapple was created because Josh left his phone in the past, Ray no longer worked at Kronish Labs, and his parents now owned a gun that hung on the wall. And so, the first thing he checked ever since he got back was making sure you two were still together—and you were.

You were still on his phone lock screen, except it was with his Blapple (Black Apple) Phone, you still had your sweet back-and-forth texts, and in his gallery, there were several photos—and maybe even new ones—of you together. A sigh of relief escaped his lips as he saw this.

Being upset from how the entire day went led to Josh eating cereal alone in the kitchen. With everything going on, he barely had any time to see you, and you were even busy with your own personal stuff as well. However, a knock on his door made him perk his head up, raising a befuddled eyebrow, and walking towards the front door, opening it to see…

You.

“Y/n?”

***

It’s been less than five days since he’s seen you, but this was the first time he’s seen you ever since he fucked up the present by fucking up the past. Thankfully, you remained the same as if nothing happened, and most importantly, Josh was still your boyfriend.

“You look like a sad, wet cat, dude,” you say as you lay with him on his bed, stroking his soft, brown hair. After he finished his cereal downstairs, you two went up to his room and found yourself cuddling with each other on his bed. “What’s up?”

He frowned as he went completely limp in your arms, enjoying the warmth and comfort that your body offered. He really needed this. “As I said before, it’s—it’s really hard to explain, Y/n.”

“Okay, right, but you haven’t answered my texts. I’m worried about you, Josh,” you confess, continuing to caress him gently.

Oh shit, Josh thought. He hadn’t have gotten used to the features of the Black Apple—or, well, Blapple—yet, and forgot that he even had it on him at times. And with everything with trying to ensure that Tiger and Wolf won’t kill his boss, he has been very, unfortunately preoccupied to remember to text you back.

“I’ve been really, really busy, babe, I’m sorry I never got the chance to text you back,” he replied shamefully, though feeling too calm in your arms to feel really anything else.

“Hey, don’t apologize for that, okay? Now, tell me what’s been going on with you. You can be real with me. Work? Your game? Family issues?”

“Sort of, um… It’s—It’s really hard to explain.” There was a look of bemusement and mere stress on his face, making you feel really bad for him. There was so much that he’s seen in the past few days (such as his colleagues killing or hurting nearly anyone in their way) that you didn’t deserve to be dragged into.

“You know, what, just… We don’t have to talk about it right now if you’re not ready. Alright? Just know that I’ll be here the entire time, and I’ll be here when you’re ready to talk about it. Okay, Josh?”

He was so damn lucky to have someone as amazing as you.

“Okay,” he says, his deep brown eyes looking at you, with his sweet, endearing smile that you always loved seeing. “Thank you. Thank you so much, Y/n, you really don’t know how much I appreciate it, I love you.”

You grin, placing your hand gently behind his neck to cup it. “Of course, baby. I love you too, okay? No boyfriend of mine is going to radiate sad, wet cat vibes while I’m here,” you giggle, finally pressing your soft lips to his.

The kiss was warm and affectionate, as always, and to Josh, it felt like home. It felt like he never even left to go to 1969 with the characters in his video game. It felt like he never witnessed them chopping up his biotic coworkers. He was just back at home, with you, when everything made sense.

You sensed that the kiss progressed however, with his tongue shoving past your lips to meet with yours. His hands are placed to cup your jaw and the kiss deepened.

“Okay, why do you keep insisting that I’m a sad, wet cat? Like, what does that even mean?” Josh chuckles in the kiss, his lips, however, not separating from yours.

You laugh softly and look deeply into his eyes. “You look like a cat that’s been left and drenched in the rain, like completely soaked, and your sad eyes are like… big sad brown eyes that those cats have, or something. I don’t know how else to explain it, you looked like a sad, wet cat before!”

Josh smiles. He missed this so much. He missed you so much.

“Do I still look like a sad, wet cat?” He raised an eyebrow.

You scoff playfully and smirk. “No, more like a… a pathetically horny cat.”

“Why am I still a cat in this?”

“I don’t know, you…”

“’Cause I think I resonate more with—“

“Oh my god, wait, that’s it! You’re a cat in heat!” You exclaim in realization.

He opened his mouth to reply, but paused. “Well, male cats don’t—“

“Yeah, technically, male cats don’t… You know what, doesn’t fucking matter,” you grin, pressing your lips to his once more.

Josh giggled in the kiss as he rolled on top of you, moving his lips and tongue roughly with yours. “I missed you,” he says, pulling his shirt off, then helping you with yours.

“I missed you too,” you reply breathlessly. You hoped that this moment would distract Josh from whatever he was going through, and hoped that he would tell you soon enough what it was. But time travel would be very difficult to explain.

By now, you two were completely naked against each other, holding one another, making out lustfully. Josh broke from your lips, just to press soft kisses on your neck, letting his hand move up and down your waist in the process. You let out small pleasured sighs, letting him kiss from your collarbone, throat, jawline, to your lips once more.

With his other hand, he briefly stroked his cock, until he finally began to ease into your entrance, the two of you eliciting a soft, pleasured moan, as you felt him to gradually stretch you.

“O-oh, f-fuck, you’re so tight,” he nearly whimpered, slowly moving his entire length inside you.

“Have you ever considered it was because I haven’t seen you in days?” You raise an innocent eyebrow.

He huffs amusedly, but you did have a point. “Eh, that’s fair,” he says, finally moving his hips back just to slam into you again, letting out a broken moan.

He began to slide his length in and out of you, thrusting his hips against yours as the two of you let out soft sounds of pleasure. He buried his head in your neck, leaving short kisses as his hands held onto the side of your hips in a tight grip, his cock stretching and caressing your walls.

He continued to thrust into you at a steady pace, quite frankly, an intricate rhythm that cleared his mind of The Biotic Wars entirely, the tightness around his cock giving the sensations he loved and needed. He felt so good to move in and out of you, let alone completely inside of you, feeling so close to you ever since he felt so far, from all the time travel nonsense he went through. Your breath quickened and volume increased, letting out desperate whines, repeating his name and praises under your breath.

Josh, not wanting to cum just yet, pulled out of you, giving you a soft kiss on your lips, as he planned to take you from behind. You smiled at him as your felt his grip on your hips help you lay on your stomach, getting on your knees with your head laying on the pillow, and then—

“Hachi machi!”

He exclaimed, his jaw dropped with wide eyes.

You turn your head back to look at him with a raised eyebrow. “What?”

There were a few ripples in this timeline that took place due to Josh’s interference with the past, such as the Blapple, the rifle in his kitchen, and Kronish’s partnership with Stu Camilo. He didn’t expect a change from you, as you were still thankfully his partner. Except, there really was a change that occurred from his paradoxical meddling.

You had a tattoo on the small of your back.

You had a tramp stamp.

A genuine, authentic, tramp stamp.

It was in black and blue ink, with exaggerated shading and strokes, littered elegantly on your lower back.

“You have a slutty tramp stamp…” he gasped lightly, his entire focus on your tattoo.

You let out a chuckle. “Josh—“

“Since when did you get a slutty tramp stamp?”

“I told you the story multiple times, Josh, I got it in my sophomore year of college when I wasn’t very right in the head. Josh, seriously, are you okay?” You were confused as much as him now. Why was he making it a big deal, as if it was his first time seeing it? He’s seen it multiple times before, he remembers every detail from your story, so why not now? “Because you’re acting like this is your first time seeing it, ever.”

“I—I just…” Josh was still in mesmerized awe, looking at how the ink was littered across your skin. You had a slutty tramp stamp. You had a slutty tramp stamp. Somehow, when he was messing with the past in 1969, the ripple effect caused Josh’s partner to have a tramp stamp tattoo. “I’ll explain later, just… holy shit, you look so good,” he expressed, running his hands over your tattoo and your ass, until he grabbed your hips, aligned them with him, and shoved his dick back inside of you.

“Holy shit,” he repeated, panting and thrusting deeply as your hands gripped on the bedsheets tightly, softly moaning as you feel immense pleasure, especially from this angle. Josh took off one hand from your hips to hold the back of your hand. He missed you so much. And you definitely missed him.

“God, this is so hot,” he breathed, letting his hand run over your tattoo as he continued to thrust deeply. You would laugh from how weird he was being right now, acting like it was the first time he’s seen it, if you weren’t too distracted by the gratifying feelings of your lover’s penetration.

His fingertips traced the ink on the small of your back, still astonished by this new discovery. His thrusts were sloppy, but well calculated as he focused on not only the pleasure the two of your bodies would experience, but also the sexy tattoo above your ass. Josh began to let out louder, desperate whines, moving both his hands onto your hips tight to gain control, pounding quickly and deeply into you.

“F-fuck, Josh,” you sighed softly, moaning with him as the sounds of his thrusting increased.

“O-oh, god… f-fuck…” Josh whimpers, feeling his hips and thighs weaken.

A few thrusts later, the two of you finally came together, Josh collapsing on your back as he panted, leaving frantic kisses on the back of your neck, still deep inside of you. You felt him hold you from behind, the butterfly kisses you received, and his hand rubbing your hip.

“Why did you act like this was the first time you’ve seen my tramp stamp?” You ask him in a gentle voice, yet still very curious, and maybe even a little concerned.

“I, uh… It’s a lot to explain,” he replied out of guilt; he really didn’t want to drag you into this.

“Josh,” you sigh, “You’ve seen it for years. Your face was completely identical to your face the first time you saw it. Seriously, I could be overthinking this, but you’ve been acting weird recently. What’s going on with you?”

“N-nothing! I just… It’s been days since I’ve seen you, and… I really missed you. You’re, like, the hottest person I know, how could I not be inexplicably aroused by you?” In this moment, Josh decided not to tell you anything about the whole thing with The Biotic Wars. He couldn’t. If you would experience the same things he did, he would ensure that it would never happen.

You chuckle lightly at his compliment. “You being honest, baby?” You ask with a raised eyebrow, turning your head to look at him. “It’s just other personal stuff?”

“Y-yeah. It’s nothing important, I promise,” he pecked your lips in reassurance, attempting to ease your worry for him.

“Okay, good,” you say, feeling him kiss down your back, letting out a soft whine as he slowly pulled out to kiss your further down. He held onto your hip, letting his grip lower to your ass as he kissed along your tramp stamp and looked up at you desperately. He could definitely get used to this.

“Fuck, please tell me you’re up for round two.”

You laugh at him, letting your hand reach his head to tangle his hair in your fingers. “Who would I be if I wasn’t?”

#josh futturman x reader #josh futturman x gn!reader #josh futturman smut #josh futturman x you #josh futturman #future man #future man 2017 #josh hutcherson #josh hutcherson x reader #josh hutcherson smut #josh hutcherson x you #Mike schmidt x reader #clapton davis x reader #peeta mellark x reader #derek danforth x reader

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eldritch-thrumming · 1 year

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ok I’ve been sucked into The Ultimatum: Queer Love on Netflix and just…

Steve is in a relationship where he clearly wants more than the other person. He and his partner have been together for three years and it’s reached the point where Steve has told him, “marry me or I have to go.” The dude is some kind of wannabe Instagram model, so he jumps at the chance to do reality tv.

Eddie’s on the opposite end of the negotiations. He loves his partner, but he’s not sure he really believes in the institution of marriage.

Both couples decide to try this new reality show.

Steve and Eddie clearly catch each other’s eyes on the first night, the camera catching both of them staring at each other between all the couples introducing themselves. They don’t get much time to speak that first night, but that’s okay. They’ve got plenty of time to say hi during the speed dating round.

Except that once they meet, they don’t want to talk to anyone else. Eddie is practically dragged away by producers so that he’s forced to talk to the others. The camera doesn’t miss the longing looks they send each other, though.

After that second episode, they’re immediately fan favorites. The chemistry between them is palpable even through the screen. Everyone’s just waiting for them to choose each other at the selection dinner.

And of course they do, as both their partners sit next to them rolling their eyes. They go to bed the first night of their trial marriage wrapped around each other, whispering and giggling. The mics can’t exactly pick up what they’re saying, but the cameras catch their smiles and the way their fingers intertwine between them above the comforter.

The audience loves watching the two of them fall in love over the next three weeks of their trial marriage. They’re sweet to each other, clearly thinking about each other’s needs and checking in when things seem hard. They meet each other’s friends. When Eddie meets Steve’s best friend, Robin, it’s like the three of them have known each other for years. When Eddie sneaks off to the bathroom, leaving Steve and Robin alone at the restaurant table, Robin takes the moment alone to give Steve her stamp of approval on Eddie.

After the three weeks are up, they’re supposed to go into a trial marriage with their original partners. The audience doesn’t see this, but Eddie and Steve try to refuse. They know what they want and it’s each other. They’ve made their decisions. But the producers remind them that they’ve signed contracts and they have to see the process through to the end.

They’re both uninterested in their partners. It’s clear that neither original relationship was the right fit now. It’s clear even to their original partners. They’re not even really doing a trial marriage; they’re all just roommates trying to make it through to the end.

When Steve and Eddie are finally reunited at the final selection, to no one’s surprise, they choose each other. There’s no hesitation on either side. They want each other. They’re both sure.

They’re married within the year and their wedding is filmed by Netflix. For the next season of the show, Steve and Eddie host. Ten seasons in, they’re still as in love as ever and, unfortunately for Netflix, the show’s one and only success story.

#steddie #steddie fic #steddie fanfic #steddie fanfiction #steddie ficlet #reality tv au #lol #i promise something better is coming but europe is rotting my brain #my anxiety is at an all time high and I can’t process anything else but dumb television and TikTok’s but I have something better #almost done in my drafts I promise lolololololol #steve harrington #eddie munson

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ghcstao3 · 7 months

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vampire!soap conclusion :) 👍

(part 3)

Soap hates that Price is right. Hates that he almost always is, about these kinds of things.

He hates that Price won’t just accept his request to transfer and let him move on from this, and never have to think about what he did ever again.

(Though, who is Soap kidding? He’ll feel guilt for the remainder of his immortal existence for what he’d done.)

But unfortunately, as it stands, he has no choice but to confront the elephant in the room.

For Soap, it’s easy to find Ghost. He knows of the lieutenant’s favourite haunts, knows where he goes to be alone.

And it had never been thanks to the vampirism that he knew of them.

This time, Ghost has chosen to have himself a cigarette in a hidden area on the roof, a place completely out of sight unless one knew where to look for the thin wisp of smoke unfurling into the air. Soap moves silently toward him, slow and hesitant and almost entirely unwilling until they’re standing side by side, suffocating in the thick weight of everything to be said. To be discussed.

Ghost never startles, whenever Soap appears beside him. Hardly ever acknowledges him first, either. It’s the vague sense of a familiar routine that lends Soap just enough confidence to speak.

“I…” Soap takes a deep breath, steeling himself in place. He spares Ghost a bare enough glance to see the way his eyes are blank, distant, glazed over. “I wanted to… apologize.”

Ghost takes a slow, considerate drag, breathing out as he flicks what remains of the cigarette on the ground, stamping it beneath his boot. He doesn’t say anything for a long time.

Soap shifts anxiously between his feet.

“Don’t,” Ghost finally says, voice flat. “An apology isn’t getting anyone anywhere.”

Soap wants to huff. Wants to tell Ghost to not make this any more difficult than it already has been, wants to tell him not to make Soap feel any more shame than he can bear.

Instead, he rakes a nervous hand over his scalp.

“Then what—“ Soap wets his lips, exhaling shakily. He makes the mistake of looking at Ghost again, only to spot the violent marks left behind in his neck from fangs that couldn’t tell enemy from ally. “Then what will fix this? I… I want to fix this. Fix… us.”

Ghost’s gaze shifts to his, then. His eyes, darker than ever, burn with an intensity that Soap has never seen anyone else able to muster.

“There’s nothing to fix, Soap,” Ghost says through grit teeth. “You weren’t—I know you never meant to.”

“But I still did.”

Ghost stares at him. His jaw clenches and unclenches, and some distant voice in Soap’s head wonders if he’s forgotten his balaclava is rolled up past his nose.

“Doesn’t matter whether you did or didn’t, Johnny.” His eyes are piercing, penetrating even the deepest parts of Soap’s soul. His voice is low, gravelly—borderline broken. “Still here, ain’t I?”

Soap looks to the ground, suddenly finding more interest in scuffing his boot against the concrete. “I’m putting in for a transfer,” he confesses quietly.

Ghost doesn’t need to know that he’s already tried.

Soap can sense his frown, his disbelief, even before hearing it in his pained, breathless, “What?”

Soap curls his hands into tight fists, digging crescents into the flesh of his palms. He glares intently at the ground like it could offer him up some kind of answers.

“Well, obviously, I—“ Soap pauses, shakes his head, and wills himself to start again. “I dinnae want to force you to have to work with someone you cannae even trust not to kill you.”

In his periphery, Soap sees Ghost’s frown deepen. “What are you on about, Soap?”

Soap feels pathetic. Incapable. He feels like a horrible person. “If Price and Gaz weren’t there—“

“Well, they were,” Ghost argues. “There’s no time for ifs in our line of work, Johnny. You were hung out to dry, and I never thought for a second to be more careful when I finally found you because I was too caught up in the fact that you were still alive.”

The admission hangs heavy between them. Everything unsaid but still there makes it all the more terrifying.

“You could have died, Simon,” Soap whispers. He doesn’t trust his voice not to waver, speaking any louder.

Ghost’s hands are suddenly on Soap’s face, human warmth bleeding into the cold of the undead. Soap’s are are wide with shock. Ghost’s are glassy with the threat of frustrated tears.

“But I didn’t,” he murmurs. Soap can’t help but lean into the roughness of calloused fingers pressing into his skin. “I didn’t. And I’d have found a way to forgive you even if I had.”

Ghost’s chin quivers. Soap isn’t sure he’s ever seen him so… so—

“I’ll admit, I—“ Ghost’s voice has grown raspier, exhausted by emotion, “I was afraid of you, for a long while. Of what you are.”

Soap does his best to offer a smile, however watery. “You wouldn’t be the first.”

Ghost says nothing, only massaging careful circles into the high points of Soap’s cheeks.

Soap sighs, finally tearing his gaze away from Ghost.

“Price wasn’t going to let me transfer, anyway,” Soap admits. “Not without talking to you, first.”

Ghost’s lips quirk upward, his grin endearingly crooked.

“Someone has to be your impulse control.”

“Yeah, well.” Soap rolls his eyes. “Old man’s gonna be all smug, now.”

Ghost laughs quietly, a huff of air through his nose more than anything. “Better than losing you,” he says. “Gaz would miss you.”

Soap tilts his head, his own smile growing wider. “No one else?”

Ghost shakes his head mock-solemnly, playfully patting Soap’s face for good measure. “No one else, Johnny.”

The weight on Soap’s shoulders finally feels lighter, after days of berating himself and bending to the whim of a gnawing shame. There’s still guilt, nestled in his mind, and he knows it’ll stick around for a while yet—but now again on good terms with Ghost, Soap thinks it should be easy to overcome, in time.

Soap’s hands find Ghost’s wrists, gently prying him away from his face to intertwine their fingers. He’s more than glad to finally have this.

Finally have Ghost.

His smile becomes something shyer, just for a moment, as he declares with a profound decisiveness, “I guess I’ll stick around then.”

And how he means it.

#simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #soapghost #ghost x soap #ghostsoap #ghoap #writing #vampire!soap

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illmother · 2 months

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ೀ ‎‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ⎯ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 𝖕𝐚𝐫𝐚deisos 𝓼𝗰𝘂𝗺. (Pt. 2)

A/N: i’m guessing u guys rlly RLLY like rahu (same) so i wanted to get this out as soon as possible for you! so sorry if this looks a bit rushed (also yes the cum part in bold letters in the title is on purpose LOL)

also my fault for disappearing for a week 😞 i am back now tho i promise! wanted to get smth out before it hit the 10 day mark so i’ll fix some things up when i wake up. wanted to make this a bit more spicy but i lost inspiration for this fic unfortunately 🙏 (maybe next time!)

⏜ ₊ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ݁ Rahu x Paradeisos!Doctor!Reader

cw: suggestive! enemies to fuckers (?), degradation (dirty mutt), slight choking, hair pulling, reader got smacked to next tuesday, reader being a bitch

“Stop moving around, you’re going to make your injuries worse.” You said with a snicker, hovering over the sinner, your knees on either side of her torso. Rahu groaned in irritation, large, scarred hands planted firmly on your waist, the side of her face—well, mask resting gently against your chest. Your white coat discarded somewhere, alongside your skirt, leaving you in only your shirt, and undergarments. “Damn you. You’re a spy, aren’t you?” She sneered, narrowing her silver eyes at you.

“Oh my, such bold accusations.” You smirked, smug, and cocky, all the while staring down at the sight before you. The usually stoic, Rahu reduced to nothing more than a flustered mess, your lipstick marks stamped across the skin of her neck, down to her collarbone and chest. “Don’t think i can’t see the way you keep gawking at me.” You started, and Rahu’s grip on your waist tightened, you felt every single twitch, and movement of her fingers. “But for the longest time, i’ve wondered what was going through your head when you look at me. Was it hatred, anger, disgust?” You slowly leaned forward, coming face to face with the sinner, trailing a finger down her chest, down her torso, all the way until you reached her bandaged abdomen, before pressing down lightly but firmly, earning a low hiss from the sinner.

“But now i know…all along, it was lust.” You let out an airy laugh, to which Rahu glared daggers at you, the feeling of your finger trailing down her body sent multiple shivers down her spine. “You just love running your mouth, don’t you?” Rahu sneered, hate and desire burning up inside her, deep in her core. Your expression twisted into one of mock disappointment, your eyes narrowed at her, yet the shit eating grin on your face gave away the amusement you felt. Rahu flinched slightly when she felt your hand running through her hair, gaze locked on her eyes, and her awfully cute sharp glare. “Dirty mutt.” You scoffed, before grabbing a fistful of her hair and yanking her head back, which earned a sharp gasp from her. “Didn’t your last owner train you better? guess not. No worries, i can always straighten you out—”

Your sentence was cut short by a stinging sensation , followed by silence, a deathly silence, only being broken by a sharp hiss. “Don’t you dare mention her. Not with your filthy mouth.” The hand that left your waist and struck you, now has a firm, almost painful grip on your wrist. When you finally recovered from the strike, whipping your head back to stare at her, piercing silver eyes glaring back, the same ferocity, and hostility as when you first met her in that glare. Your grip on her hair tightened, and a mocking laugh left your throat. “You actually have the nerve to hit someone from Paradeisos?” You hummed, amusement written all over your features, you couldn’t help another small laugh as you let go of her hair, instead bringing your hand over to wrap around the pale column of her neck, much to her dismay, before pushing her down on the hospital bed by the throat, with enough force to make the sinner let out a choked grunt as her body hit the mattress beneath.

Rahu’s whole body tensed, including her ever tightening grip on your waist and wrist, before she managed to straighten her expression. “My apologies, it was a nervous reflex.” She said sarcastically, to your amusement, but that soon turned to surprise as you felt her hand that was rested so firmly on your waist moving to slip up your shirt. “Hm, you seem quite eager, despite the fact you seemed very upset a moment ago.” You teased, making a mental note not to bring up her previous commander again in the near future, before your grip on her neck tightened, just the tiniest bit. Rahu ignored your comment, focusing on feeling the soft skin underneath her calloused, and scarred hand. The sinner’s hand would eventually brush her hand underneath your bra and knead the tender flesh, causing you to inhale a sharp breath. “You’ve been waiting for this, weren’t you?” You laughed, mocking, despite the growing heat in your core.

Rahu groaned through her mask, deep and husky. “You talk too much in all honesty.” She commented, to which you wanted to snap back with a witty comeback, but the feeling of her fingers brushing against your erected nipple made you clam up. “Let me have you.” She whispered, causing heat to raise to your cheeks, she smirked at this, hidden under her oni mask, seeing your reaction only urged her further, only filled her desire to see what other expressions you’d make. Your breathing became labored, heavy shaky as you answered her, finally putting an end to this tension, finally giving in to your desires. “Haa—fine.”

#holy fuck this has a lot of cws #not really happy with this but we cope #path to nowhere #ptn #ptn x reader #ptn rahu #rahu x reader

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irisintheafterglow · 11 months

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Rock and Roll, Buckaroo! (Bakusquad x you)

summary: you go on a ghost tour with the bakusquad - 1.3k words

cw: so much yelling, cliche paranormal activity (flickering lights, footsteps, etc), lots of profanity thanks bakugo, the bakusquad shares a single brain cell and most of the time you have it

note: so i wrote this instead of working on stuff for hawks and gojo but don't worry they're on their way i promise <3 i offer you this halloween in july fic instead inspired by buzzfeed unsolved and my visit to the whaley house a few months back.

likes/reblogs/feedback is always appreciated!!!

“I’ll be honest, Mina, I don’t think Doja is the vibe for rolling up to a haunted house.”

“Passenger seat gets AUX, Sero, so you’re just gonna have to deal with it.”

“Why the fuck does the driver not get AUX–”

“Because your music has an even worse vibe than Mina’s, Bakubro.”

“Tch, whatever. Just be glad I’m driving your dumbasses or else you’d be stuck with Denki’s passive ass in the driver’s seat.”

“I am a safe driver! Safer than Bakugo at least…”

“OI–” The car erupts into chaos as Bakugo tries to blast Denki, who was sitting directly behind the driver’s seat while Mina throws herself over the wheel to avoid veering into oncoming traffic. Denki screams in terror, reaching across Jiro for Kirishima, who was trying to push back Bakugo’s sparking hand. You put your head in your hands as Sero starts viciously kicking Denki’s seat from the third row. Why Sero thought it would be a good idea to send a TikTok about the most haunted places in the country to the group chat suggesting a visit to one right outside the city, you had no idea. What perplexes you, even more, is that Bakugo had been the first one to agree, followed by you and Kirishima, then Mina and Jiro, and finally a reluctant Denki.

“Bakugo! The parking lot!” Jiro screams from the middle row. In between his pleas for Bakugo’s mercy, Denki yells out final directions.

“You have to turn right now!” Bakugo throws the wheel to the side and swerves a violent right turn, hurtling Sero into your shoulder. Sero rights himself and takes in the surrounding modern-looking office complex with confusion.

“That was the wrong exit!”

“No fucking shit! Denki, you said to turn right!”

“I meant left right at that moment, dude!”

“YOU-”

“Bakubro, remember your morals!”

Ten minutes later, after several more attempts at homicide by Bakugo’s hands, you were standing at the steps of the ancient-looking house as the tour guide introduced the history of the hauntings to your group and others unfortunate enough to have booked a tour at the same time.

“You guys scared?” Mina whispers to you, linking her elbow to yours with a smile.

Jiro scoffed from your other side, and you shook your head in agreement. “As if,” you reply, straining to listen to the guide’s instructions.

“Take care, dear visitors, for certain things may go BUMP,” he says, stamping his cane on the porch and making Denki yelp. “And beware of the spirits of the family that are determined to make visitors acknowledge them, skeptical or not.” The guide points his cane at Kirishima, who runs a hand through his hair, chuckling nervously. The guide stares into Kirishima’s eyes for a few moments more and then abruptly turns around to open the doors, causing snickers among your friends.

“Enter, dear visitors, if you dare.”

The guide leads the group through the foyer, the kitchen, the living area, and the upstairs bedrooms. The house was filled with beautifully ornate furniture and well-preserved artifacts from centuries past caked with layers of dust.

Not that your friends cared about all that.

Sero had his phone out, recording from the moment you had stepped through the entryway and insistent upon catching paranormal activity. You took photos of Mina and Jiro posing next to the portraits of the Ladies of the House, their eyebrows drawn together and eyelids droopy to match the paintings’ solemn expressions. Bakugo, surprisingly, was fascinated by the grim history of the house and would shush your group if they started getting too loud that he couldn’t hear the guide. Kirishima stuck close to Bakugo and Denki, jokingly commenting on whether the actions of the men in the house were manly or not to hide his unease.

The tour ended at the head of the house’s office before exiting out the backyard gate, and your friends lingered to take a photo in an antique full-body mirror. The temperature seemed to have dropped significantly, and Sero’s phone battery drained immediately after taking the mirror photo.

“Man… I swear this thing had, like, 80% power when we got here.” He knocked his hand a few times against the edge of the phone to no avail, the no-battery symbol flashing mockingly at him.

“Maybe it’s ‘cause you were recording unnecessary shit this entire time. Coulda just asked me for a fuckin’ summary afterward.”

You laughed at Bakugo’s commitment to the tour. “You’re just grumpy that we dragged you into a group mirror photo, Kats.”

“Alright, now that my hands are free, do you think that if I drew a pentagram on the floor that I’d summon a demon?” Sero waggled his eyebrows and Jiro scoffed at his casual reference to getting possessed.

“Maybe if you sat on it. Or laid on it, like that tall guy on YouTube.”

“Nah, man, I don’t mess around with that shit. Don’t be trying that stuff if I’m near you.”

“Do you actually believe in ghosts? That’s why you’re scared of them?”

“Not scared… just not interested in getting my body taken over. It’d suck big time.”

“Mina, what the fuck are you looking at that’s so funny?” The pink-haired hero was pointing to a small, faded image of one of the family’s sons that had died of some disease.

“Ha, look at this guy that looks like Bakugo, Jiro. Jiro?” Mina’s voice trails off, looking back at Jiro, who was tensely staring at the ceiling of the house. Her eyes track the perimeter of where the office walls meet the ceiling, face taut with concentration. The others don’t notice until she quietly sticks one of her earphone jacks into the ceiling and gasps, a hand flying up to cover her mouth.

Bakugo’s focus shoots to Jiro, immediately on alert. “Yo, Ears, are you good?”

“There are… footsteps. Upstairs. Sounds like two people walking around.”

Kirishima loses a little bit of color on his face. “That could be just another tour, right?”

“No, no, no. The guide said we were on the last tour of the night.” Mina’s eyes are wide with concern and she puts out her hands as if to calm down the escalating fear of the group. “What if it’s the guy that I said looked like Katsuki?” Bakugo snarls, on the verge of biting Mina’s pointing finger off.

“Okay, no, it’s probably cleaning people.” Kirishima glances at the exit door leading to the outside, but you all seem to be frozen where you stand.

Sero’s eyes sparkle from behind his dead phone camera. “Yeah, ghost cleaning people.” Chills run down your spine, and you shiver at the dropping temperature. Kirishima opens his mouth to counter Sero’s suggestion but is cut off by Bakugo’s harsh tone.

“Stop it, Denki,” he suddenly snaps.

Denki’s face twists in confusion. “My bad?”

“Dude, I said stop it.”

“I’m not doing anything!”

Scowling at Denki, Bakugo points aggressively to the ceiling light that had started flickering after Jiro’s gasp.

“That’s…not me…”

“Guys? You see that, right?”

You turn towards Kirishima, who has moved to the doorway of the office that leads to the rest of the house. His eyes are the size of pool balls and his face is completely devoid of color. As you carefully gather around the doorway of the office to see what he’s looking at, pure horror courses through your entire body as you take in two pairs of eyes peering back at your friends from the top of the stairs. They were undeniably eyes, and you stare at them until one of them blinks and they both start to descend the stairs.

Right towards your friends.

Your group explodes into unbelievably loud shrieks of horror and shouted expletives as you high-tail it out the door, Kirishima having just enough sense to knock down Bakugo’s hand before he fires a shot at the stairs and gets you all sued for property damage.

Days later, Sero frames a copy of the mirror photo you all had taken in the office, and upon closer inspection of the photo, you discover two figures standing in the doorway behind you and your smiling friends.

if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, you can buy me a coffee on my ko-fi! you can also check out my full masterlist here :)

#bnha x reader #mha x reader #mha x y/n #bakusquad #denki kaminari #mina ashido #kirishima eijiro #bakusquad x reader #bakugou katsuki #sero hanta #kyoko jirou #mha crack #bnha #mha #bnha crack #halloween

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starry-bi-sky · 2 months

Text

show me how to lay my sword down long enough to let you through - clone^2 ch2

[My parents don’t get up until seven, and they’re in the lab by eight. They typically don’t leave the lab until after I get home.] Danny says as he leads Damian into the kitchen, the automated voice of the translator AI cutting through the air easily. Damian stuck close to his side, eyes narrow and a snooty look of disdain stamped on his face like a printing press while his eyes flit around the room.

The kid had woken up immediately upon Danny shuffling out from beneath his desk, and he had to scurry back to avoid being skewered by Damian’s katana. He bumped into his desk in the process, and the muffled thud it made against the wall had Danny praying that his parents wouldn’t wake up from the noise.

(“I should’ve confiscated that.” He muttered, gripping the table with white knuckles and mouth pursed into a thin line. The business end of Damian’s katana staring him in the nose.)

(He should’ve expected the baby assassin to sleep lighter than a feather. His mistake, of course. Damian realized quickly after where he was, thankfully, so Danny didn’t have to fight him off in his room. The noise and mess that would make would have surely woken up his parents, and he still hasn’t come up with an excuse as to why Damian was even there.)

So now with Damian awake, Danny decided to just go ahead and give him a quick tour of the house so that he knew where everything was. Fuuuck, it was only setting in now that he had to leave the kid home, alone, all day.

(Maybe things will be fine. Murphy screwed him over already with this, he has other people to torment, surely. Like the other heroes, for example.)

Wherever Damian’s ‘League of Assassins’ was situated, it was probably ten times nicer than Danny’s house. That is, if Danny’s assumption from the look on Damian’s face was correct.

Breathing out through his nose, Danny leads Damian over to the fridge, his fingers digging into the phone screen again. [I don’t have an excuse ready for why you’re here, so please don’t get seen by them. They spend all day in the lab so you should be able to roam the house freely.]

He feels like the butler from a period drama set telling the down-on-her-wealth noble lady the rules of the manor, while she was staying with a fabulously wealthy nobleman of higher standing. It felt ridiculous. But it was unfortunately necessary, he can’t imagine what kind of reaction his parents would have to Damian — and what kind of reaction Damian would have to his parents.

Damian scowls at him and says something in Arabic, spitting it out like acid while his arms cross over his chest grumpily. Danny stops and turns to him fully, raising a deadpan eyebrow. Damian repeats what he said, looking at Danny like he wants him to spontaneously burst into flames.

They stare at each other for thirty, uncomfortable seconds, with Danny keeping his deadpan steady, before finally he silently holds his phone out. Damian breaks their staring contest to look down, and his surly expression deepens.

Grumbling under his breath, Damian snags it out of his hand. Danny counts his fingers as he pulls his hand away.

(When he counts all five still there, he drops his arm back to his side.)

[I will stay hidden, for now.] Damian spits out, looking supremely disgruntled. It’s kind of endearing, but endearing the same way a tiger cub was. Cute, but undoubtedly dangerous. Rather than handing back his phone, Damian speaks into it again. [But figure out what to tell them. I am above hiding.]

“Planning on it.” Danny mutters, nodding sharply before taking back his phone and turning back to the fridge. Before he even takes the handle, Danny pushes his hair from his face and leans forward, pressing his ear to the door. The metal is cold on his cheek, but he barely pays it to mind.

Ecto-contaminated food didn’t have nearly enough of a signature to fully trigger his ghost sense, but it did make a strange, buzz-humming sound that felt more internal than external. Like the sensation that Danny himself was humming instead.

From his peripherals, Danny can see Damian staring at him with unconcealed bewilderment, his apparent surliness temporarily forgotten in favor of looking at Danny like he was an idiot. “Madha tafaeala?”

In lieu of answering, Danny just holds up a finger at Damian. Something the little dude really doesn’t appreciate, as he immediately scowls at Danny and makes that ‘myeh’-like expression that kids do when they’re trying to give someone they don’t like attitude without actually saying anything. The one that, as far as Danny is concerned, doesn’t have a real term for but everyone knows what it is anyway.

Either way, Damian makes a face at him that does, briefly, succeed in irritating Danny. He says nothing and cranes his ears instead, trying to catch if there’s any internal buzzing coming from inside the fridge. His hand drifts instinctively to the counter, where he and Jazz had moved the knife block for this exact reason.

…Will he have to hide this with Damian here? He hopes not, the last time the knife block got moved he forgot, and had to strangle a half-eaten chicken from the fridge after it came back with fowl vengeance.

When he doesn’t hear or feel anything out of the ordinary, he leans back and swings the door open with ease. Rows upon rows of liquid-jellied-solidified-whatever-it-was-feeling-at-the-time ectoplasm sat in glass canisters, tupperware, and bottles on the shelves. Glowing green in between the stuff that was actually food, and washing a buzz over Danny like someone just draped him in a weighted blanket.

(He should clarify. Ectoplasm does exhibit its own signature that’s too weak to signal his ghost sense, but that buzzing-humming feels more like the painless tingling of when part of his spine falls asleep. Except everywhere, and the feeling is heavier in his head. It’s oddly comforting. Nostalgic; like the smell after the snow’s freshly melted and the weather is warm. It is very much not like the ominous, buzzing-humming-intent of a partially reanimated chicken that’s regained some of its sentience and wanted revenge.)

Behind him, Damian makes some kind of squeaking sound. Or maybe it’s more like a yelp. Either way, it’s alarmed and loud enough that Danny turns around with half a jumping heart and a ‘shush’ on the tip of his tongue.

“Ladayk ma' lieazir!” Damian hisses, pointing behind Danny at the canisters behind him. Damian’s eyes narrow into slits, and he hunches up like a stray cat that’s been cornered. “Min 'ayn hasalt ealaa ma' lieazir?!”

Danny follows the point of his finger, and sees the ectoplasm canisters behind him. “The ectoplasm?” He asks aloud, looking back at Damian in bewilderment.

Apprehension tightens slowly in his chest. Damian used that word again — and Danny only catches it because it was what Damian had been calling him last night, in the warehouse. He thought it meant ‘stranger’ or something — but, he glances back at the ectoplasm in the fridge.

Was Damian calling him ectoplasm?

He knows what ectoplasm was?

What had been a steady tightening in his chest suddenly fastens like a noose. Danny reaches for one of the canisters just to make sure, and Damian watches him tersely as he curls a hand around one of the canisters and pulls it forward. He doesn’t take it off the shelf, but he does gesture slightly with it. “This?” He asks, “The ectoplasm. Is this what you’re talking about?” He knows he has a translator on his phone, but he doesn’t think he’ll need it for this.

He recalls the word Damian used, and frowns. “The- the lazeer? Laziere?” It’s an embarrassing attempt at trying to repeat it, but Damian understands what he’s saying anyways and nods sharply.

“Niema, ma' lieazir. Kif lidayk.”

Danny really doesn’t like that Damian knows what ectoplasm is, and he really doesn’t like the idea that his League of Assassins place knows about it too, and seemingly has access to the physical stuff. This feels too much like going swimming in the ocean and feeling something brush against his foot.

Now he really needs to make sure that Damian never makes it back to the League. The idea of a bunch of assassins finding out that his parents can make ectoplasmic weapons terrifies him, just a smidge. (Just what has he gotten himself into?)

Putting the canister down and pushing it away from the ledge, Danny reaches for the milk instead, his heart beating uncomfortably in his ears. A discomfited “Hn.” comes out under his breath as he plucks the jug off the shelf and shuts the door, it closes a little more forcibly than normal. Danny reaches for his phone.

The word ectoplasm doesn’t translate into Arabic, he checks before he says anything. Danny reaches over Damian to put the milk on the table as he types, still frowning uneasily. [It’s ghost stuff.] He says, and then says aloud: “Ectoplasm.”

“Ec-to-plasm.” Damian repeats curtly, lip curling. Danny nods curtly.

Rather than repeating himself, Danny types into his phone again. [You’re not allowed in the lab without me. Don’t touch the ghost stuff in the fridge, it’s dangerous.] He says, [I was listening to the fridge because the food likes to come alive and attack, if you need food from the fridge, grab a knife.] He’ll try and show Damian how to listen for reanimated food later, it’s a little harder without a ghost sense but the food moves, so he’ll show him how to listen for that.

Damian scoffs; “'Adhhab hayth 'urid 'ayuha almuhtal.” and reaches out to take the phone from his hand.

Rather than letting him, Danny pirouettes away, holding his phone over his head, “Nah-ah-ah.” He says, watching Damian’s face twist indignantly into anger. [We’ll talk more later, I want breakfast and you’re probably hungry.]

(Is he avoiding? Absolutely, he is. But it’s early, and Danny is much too tired to entertain the impending doom sinking into his chest like snow caving in a roof. He needs to do something about the information that a league of assassins has access to ectoplasm, but that something is… being put on the backburner for now.)

(Maybe he’s just catastrophizing — he’s gotten pretty good at that over the years. Maybe he’s putting too much weight on the idea; maybe he’s just sleep deprived. No, he’s definitely sleep deprived. Either way, he’s putting a pin in the murder group for now.)

Danny turns for the pantry, and takes about one step before he remembers the phone in his hand. Twisting around, he plops it onto the table for Damian, and then marches over to the pantry for the cereal.

The oven clock reads six-twenty-eight, and that doesn’t have Danny feeling all that great. He said earlier that his parents got up at seven, so they only have thirty-two minutes before then. Then another ten or so before his parents come down for breakfast. Mom takes the shower first, and dad comes downstairs to get started on breakfast. Sometimes it's cereal, but he likes making eggs if they haven’t been irradiated.

The pantry swings open and Danny pulls out a box of cereal, his brows furrowed in thought. Dad will want to talk to him if he sees him — so it’s for the best that Danny and Damian finish eating before dad makes it to the hallway. He turns and glances at the time again. Six-thirty. Thirty minutes. He puts the box onto the table and grabs their bowls and spoons.

There’s a look of apprehension on Damian’s face as he puts everything down, his fingers curled around Danny’s phone. His eyes flick up to Danny, and then he holds up his phone. [Is this what you eat?] He asks, before eyeing the table again.

Danny can’t stop the quiet snort that escapes him, his thoughts quieting for a moment as he slides into his chair, before reaching over and plucking the phone out of Damian’s hand. [Sorry bud, it’s all we’ve got time for before my parents get up.]

Damian makes a disgruntled face, and sits down.

(He idly makes a mental note to wrangle out of Damian later what kind of foods he likes. He’s not too bad at cooking. He’s better than Jazz, at least.)

—-----

They make it back up to Danny’s room by six-fifty-two, just as Danny hears his parents shuffling around in their room. They’re up a little earlier than normal. His mom’s limb, quieter footsteps already padding for the master bathroom. Danny is closing the door when he hears a familiar thud, and the low, sleepy groan of his dad sitting up and putting his feet on the ground.

Damian bounds away and is already situated on Danny’s bed when he turns around, fingers snatching his katana from beneath the pillows before he turns and sits stiffly with it in his lap.

It was a bit of a ridiculous sight: despite being awake for nearly an hour, Damian’s bed-head hadn’t changed a bit, with a tangled bunch of curls jutting out from one side of his head. Pair that with him still wearing Danny’s NASA tee (and being swamped in it), and the katana, and Danny was half tempted to snap a picture. Again, he was finding himself endeared.

He does end up sneaking that picture as he strides over to his closet to rummage for clothes.

[I’ll try and think of a way to get you home.] He lies as he shifts through the shirts on the hangers, typing with his thumb, and tilted halfway with his phone jutting out for Damian to hear. [But that’s gonna take a while, so we should get you some different clothes soon.] There was no way he was letting this kid wear the same thing every day, this might take weeks.

He yanks a yellow turtleneck that Tucker got him off the hanger and tosses it out onto the bed. It lands next to Damian with a quiet thump, and the kid shuffles away from it with a glare as if it's personally offended him. Danny stifles a smile and walks out, grabbing his hoodie-jacket from its spot on the door and tossing it onto the bed as well.

Damian grumbles something, then holds out his hand for the phone. Danny hands it to him as he passes by, going over to his desk to pick up his gloves and grappling hook, before turning to his bag.

[I am not worried about the time, Mother will come looking for me.] Damian tells him, sticking his nose up into the air and missing the cold seize of Danny’s heart and the tensing up of his shoulders. His mother. Who was probably also an assassin from the assassin club Damian was made from.

(A blood rush sends stars spinning around in the corners of Danny’s vision, and he pauses in order to stare blankly at the top of his half-opened backpack. He quickly blinks it away, and unzips his bag fully to shove his gear into one of the larger pockets.)

He hums low, turning to look at Damian with a fake smile plastered on his face. “That’s great, bud.”

(It should be a good thing, but he can’t quite shake the whole ‘assassins’ thing. Specifically… well, all of it. It’s all giving him a headache to sort through.)

Damian scoffs at him, [I cannot understand you.]

Danny snorts unwittingly, turning and shoving his gloves into an inside side pocket just as Damian throws his phone at him. He catches it before it can slam into the wall — or Danny’s head, and puts his grappling hook into his bag before typing into the translator. [I said that it’s good. I’m glad your mom is looking for you.]

That was another lie, and he felt bad that it had to be. Damian rolls his eyes at him, and Danny stuffs his phone into his back pocket and grabs his hook.

When his bag is accounted for, Danny finally focuses on getting dressed. He moves out to the bathroom to change, admittedly hot-footing it a bit so that Damian is alone for the least amount of time possible. He passes a sleep-mussed Jazz heading for the stairs, and she pauses to mess with his hair.

“Did you stay up all night again?” She mumbles, her fingers catch on a few tangles, but slide out at the end easily. “You don’t have bedhead.”

Danny pauses, half-distracted by the feeling of her hands in his hair and the urge to hurry through getting dressed. “Only a little.” He says, scurrying away and opening the door to the bathroom. “Was workin’ on a case.”

Jazz frowns at him, and he closes the door before she can say anything.

(He’s in the middle of brushing his teeth when he remembers that Damian will need other essentials than just clothes, and immediately starts compiling a mental list.)

He’s got half an arm through his jacket when he leaves the bathroom, his attention split between getting it on and typing into his phone. When he opens the door, there’s quiet, rapid footsteps shuffling before he sees Damian hopping back onto the bed, staring at him stonily and like a kid who was acting like he hadn’t been doing anything.

A smile tugs at the corner of Danny’s mouth, and he types into his phone to add something before hitting play on the translator. [I have to head out now, you can look around my room if you’d like. Don’t touch the brown files on my desk, I’ll be back after school ends. I should have a game plan by then. Don’t be seen by my parents.]

As it speaks, Danny strides over and grabs his backpack. Damian’s eyes follow him the whole time, and Danny slings his bag over his shoulders and stuffs his phone back into his pocket.

Damian nods curtly at him, and before Danny leaves he reaches over and plucks a hairband off his dresser, pinching it between his teeth.

“Okay, I’m off.” He repeats, voice slightly muffled by the hairband as he starts pulling his hair up. There’s a huff from Damian and a knowingly annoyed look, and Danny’s smile grows a little out of amusement. He tugs the tie out from his mouth and twists it around his hair. “Be good, Damian.”

Green eyes narrow at him, and Danny hurries out of the room, closing the door behind him.

(He was a little — no, scratch that, a lot apprehensive about leaving Damian here alone for most of the day. He was worried about his parents, perhaps a little too much, and he was worried about Damian recognizing the ectoplasm in the fridge. He’s worried about the whole thing with these ‘League of Assassins’ people, and he’s worried about how he’s going to explain Damian’s presence to his parents. And he’s most especially worried about how on earth he was going to convince Damian to not return home.)

Instead of going for the stairs, Danny turns and hurries over to the end of the hallway where the ladder to the rooftop is. There’s a lot he needs to think about, too much for him to want to walk with Sam and Tucker.

The nice thing about people is that they don’t really ever look up.

—----------

Danny: hey i’ll meet you guys at school

Tucker: did something happen during patrol?

Danny: something like that

Danny: i’ll tell you in class

Sam: alright. Hop safe

[Danny liked Sam's message]

—-------------

(if continued)

“Dude.”

“I know.”

“Dude.”

“I know.”

“Dude!”

“I know!”

Danny drops his head onto his desk with an unceremonious thump, groaning low with his nose smushed into the wood. Sam’s hands, buried in his hair and in the midst of messing with it, stills to let him. Some of the strands slip out of her fingers and pool around Danny’s face, causing a curtain. It tickles a little.

Maybe he should have just walked to school with them, telling them about Damian probably would’ve garnered less attention that way. He can feel the gazes of their classmates — or at least, the ones not slowly filtering into the room — turning onto them, and burning into his head.

But running over the rooftops, albeit only until the residential area ended, was sorely needed. It didn’t help clear all of his thoughts, or really much of any of them, but it’d chased away the worst of his anxieties about it. Like a breath of fresh air after being stuck in a stuffy room.

(This has been, officially, the longest… five hours of his life. And he’s had many, many long five hours in the last two years.)

(Pariah Dark and his evil future self are tied for the record of being the longest twenty-four hours of his life. Finding out he was a clone doesn’t count — it was still ongoing, and distressingly permanent.)

Tucker makes a noise, and Danny turns his head just in time to see him drop into his desk beside him, lifting his hat to run his hand over his curls with a look of disbelief. He’s staring unseeingly over Danny’s head for a whole of two seconds before looking back down.

“So he just — what, popped out of the ground? Like a daisy?”

Sam continues with her ministrations, and her fingers brush against his neck as she straightens his hair down his back. It’s soothing, enough so that the sleep-soreness of his eyelids becomes a lot more evident to him.

“Hn. Something like that. If the ground was a once-in-a-lifetime portal and the daisy was a murderous six year old.” He mutters, blinking slowly to try and keep himself awake. Sam’s nails scratch behind his ears, gathering up his hair again to finger-comb out the tangles, and he sighs quietly in content.

He sees Tucker suppress a smile, and he can practically sense Sam doing the same thing. Danny stares, did his ears do the thing again—?

“You don’t think a ghost had something to do with it?” Sam asks him, her voice staying low as she tugged out the knots in his hair. “It’s really strange that…” She pauses. Danny can feel her lean against his chair, and he lifts his head slightly as Tucker leans in too. “..that Damian just appeared in front of you right after you got done with fighting a ghost.”

Hrm. She was right. It was weird. “I hadn’t thought of that.” He says quietly, “I was too busy trying to get him to stop attacking me.” And after that he was busy trying to get them both home in one piece, and then after that was the whole identity crisis—

And he’s gonna stop there before his tired mind latches onto that spiral again.

Sam and Tucker’s mouths press together worriedly, and Danny finds himself frowning too. “Maybe I can sneak into the Zone sometime this week and ask one of the Ancients.” Frostbite knew a lot about the Infinite Realms in general, but Pandora might know more about strange magic.

He could try Clockwork, but finding the clocktower always feels like a scavenger hunt, and getting straight answers out of the ghost is like trying to catch the wind in a bag. Danny normally wouldn’t mind, he kinda likes the challenge, but now is not a good time for that.

Either way, it was just another thing on his long list of things to do this week, on top of everything else he had to do since acquiring Damian. He could feel a stress headache coming in, and it was only — he takes a quick glance at the clock — eight-fourteen. Yeah, longest five hours of his life. And counting.

Hrrm. “I just can’t believe my luck.” He complains, of all people to clone, of all kids to end up being cloned. It had to be the one kid who, by technicality, was his biological son. That thought alone felt like a tsunami about to swallow him whole. It was confusing, and complicated.

It shouldn’t have to be.

The thing is, Danny doesn’t view Damian Wayne as his son. Not by a long shot. Damian Wayne was Bruce Wayne’s son. But just like how Ellie isn’t Danny, and Danny isn’t Bruce; Damian is not Damian Wayne. And Danny still doesn’t view him as a son, and obviously Damian doesn’t view him as a father. But it all feels like a strange gray area, like a merry-go-round that’s not turning off, and it wouldn’t have to be if his parents hadn’t been fucking careless with their DNA samples—

It’s been four months why does he still feel so raw—

Tucker snorts roughly, bringing Danny out from his head.

He breathes in deep, blinking quickly, as Tucker leans back into his chair. Sam starts sectioning off Danny’s hair. “Yeah, fair enough,” he says, “bad luck is my schtick though, Danny, so don’t go start encroaching on my brand.”

“Your brand?” Sam repeats, voice lilting upward. Danny can imagine she’s raising an eyebrow at him, and he snickers both at the thought and at Tucker.

Tucker’s eyes light up at the sound, and he grins like he’s won a prize. “Yeah, my brand! You know, Bad Luck Tuck?”

Danny snickers louder, adjusting to sit more comfortably. “I thought your brand was Too Fine Foley.”

“I can have more than one brand.”

Sam snickers this time, in the midst of braiding Danny’s hair. It feels fantastic, Danny hums lowly, sinking like putty into his desk. “I’m pretty sure that’s called a monopoly, Tuck.”

Danny laughs quietly, blinking lizard-like. “Tuck Driver.”

Sam barks out a harsh laugh, and it trails off into stifled chuckles as Tucker’s jaw drops. The wide grin on his face betrays any potential upset he might have though. “That’s the mania setting in.” He says, voice thick with laughter, “That’s the fucking sleep mania talking right now. Take a nap, dude, we’ll wake you up when class ends.”

Sleep sounds great actually, and he’s gonna do it soon anyways with Sam still doing his hair. But— “I’m not done talking about Damian.” He protests, but his eyes are closing on their own, as if all they needed to hear was him agreeing to sleep to do it.

Tucker waves his hand, “It’s not like we can’t talk about him later; nap first. Your eyebags can’t get any darker.” He assures, “Don’t worry, we’ll take notes for you.”

“Hnn… fine.” Danny says, and lets his eyes close. He’s out like a light in minutes.

#dpxdc #dp x dc #danny fenton is not the ghost king #dp x dc crossover #dpxdc crossover #dpdc #clone^2 #dpxdc fics #starrys fics #danny's 'hns' are my favorite thing ever i hope you guys know #the longer i look at this the pissier i get at the word count -- i think its too low -- so im going to post this now without looking #not much thoughts to put here bc all my rambling was left in the ao3 end notes

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pellucid-constellations · 2 years

Text

A Million Reasons - One

Pairing: College!Bucky x Reader

Summary: Bucky Barnes, with all of his trust fund money and family connections, gets assigned community service. You, as someone that’s technically part of the community, now have to put up with him. Every day. And he won’t stop killing your plants.

Warnings: Bucky is the captain of this annoyance to lovers ship

Word Count: 3.7k

a/n: New series!! I’m super excited about this one :) Let me know what you think because I adore feedback ♡

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

The greenhouse was always a touch too warm for your taste. Something about the fixed humidity made your shirt stick to your skin, even as the weather beyond the walls raged with a frigid chill. It made it difficult to appreciate the changing seasons when you found yourself inside with the plants more often than not.

But it was hard to complain. If being sweaty meant you got to complete your senior research project at an ivy league, you would put up with the hassle.

God, your senior research project. Your excitement was almost palpable each time you thought about the word. Every late night you had spent pouring over books—and every early morning you had spent examining plants instead of sleeping—was all going to be worth it.

A degree from Yale would open so many doors you never thought available to you. Graduate schools, research labs, publications; a world of academia, all within your grasp. You just had to finish this last year of undergrad and get through your project. Eight months at most.

You made your way to your notebook across the greenhouse, ducking beneath greenery and sidestepping planters as you went. There were about one too many broken watering cans in this specific house, along with more cobwebs than you could count, but you were grateful for any space at all. Being on a scholarship meant you expected less, even when your professors profusely argued against such a notion.

The stool groaned as you took your place at the rickety table, pushing yourself in until it was more comfortable to write your notes. Your pencil was in dire need of a sharpening, and you almost wished you had brought your computer instead of the paper that was wilting in the sticky air of the greenhouse. Unfortunately, that was never an option; Professor Potts had made it abundantly clear that field notes were to be handwritten.

A gentle spray started up in the corner of the room, water raining down on the plants as you placed the end of the pencil between your teeth. There wasn’t too much information for you to graph just yet; the project had just been approved a few weeks ago, and your plants were still sprouting up. Still, you took careful notice of each little change, not wanting to waste any of the resources you had been allotted.

“So, uh,” a voice drawled, an awkward inflection in its tone. “You just want me to stand here, or…?”

You raised your eyes from your notebook to instead glare at the wall your table was pushed up against, your peace interrupted for the second time today. Your jaw clicked as you fought to keep it relaxed, a battle you were surely going to lose as the morning progressed.

“‘Cause I can’t really leave unless you give me something to do out there. Rules of community service and all. They have people making sure I spend my hours in here.”

You sighed, finally looking over your shoulder at the man leaning against a table he shouldn’t be. “You can stay over there,” you concluded. “Just don’t… touch anything.”

“Right,” he agreed, crossing his arms and kicking away from the table.

His pressed shirt didn’t exactly fit in with the nature of the greenhouse, and it was certainly a contrast to your loose hoodie with the college emblem stamped on the front. You took note of his blinding white collar and decided that if he walked out of here without any dirt on it, he would be a lucky guy. That thought was fleeting; you had turned back to your notebook almost as soon as he settled against a wall.

You were about halfway into your diagram when the man in the dress shirt spoke again. “It’s hot in here.”

“It’s a greenhouse,” you deadpanned.

“Greenhouses have a reputation for being hot?”

You tapped your pencil against stiff paper, still not turning as you hummed and simply replied, “Typically.”

The man mumbled something incoherent in response, apparently deciding that walking around the rows of plants was a better way to spend his time. You glanced at him from the corner of your eye, biting the inside of your cheek when he rubbed a leaf between his fingers. It wasn’t your plant, technically, so no harm done—for now. You couldn’t say the same for his shoes; the shiny leather had surely been scuffed from the amount of times he had ran into old wood.

You were still cursing Pepper Potts for agreeing to whatever this was. She had approached you with so much hesitancy the other day, an apology already on her lips that you assured her wasn’t necessary. But you were second guessing that as time went on… maybe you did deserve an apology when James Barnes was the one being forced upon you.

Your professor had left out that small detail.

To be fair, the detail had very little impact on your life. You had never met the guy before today, and it wasn’t as if he had done anything to you personally. But he was very clearly a Barnes, a name that was also displayed on the main campus library and probably stamped on quite a few “donated” collections.

It would’ve been nice to know that it was a Yale legacy student serving community service in your greenhouse—not just some random guy with a penchant for misdemeanors.

“Which plants are you in charge of?” he asked, running his hand under the gentle spray of water still going strong in the corner.

You furrowed your brows. “This isn’t some community garden. I’m not taking care of these plants, I’m studying them.”

He made a slow approach to your table, stuffing his hands in expensive pockets. “Okay. Which plants are you in charge of studying?”

“Why? Are you planning on defacing them?”

He scoffed, knocking his head back as if your statement was completely uncalled for. It wasn’t, of course. You had seen the proof of that yourself, the large, egregious pictures spray painted along the bricks of the Marsh Botanical Garden still only partially scrubbed off by the janitor.

“Come on,” James argued. “That was funny. And you don’t even know why I did it.”

You met his cocky smile with an uninterested expression. “I don’t think motive is going to help me find beauty in the dick you drew over the daisies.”

“I get your favorite flowers or something? My bad, I’ll make it up to you,” he winked.

“No need.”

“Hey, I can buy you some daisies. I’m good for it.”

You huffed, trying to decide whether or not that was a joke. Of course he was good for a few daisies—he probably had the means to sell out an entire flower shop, pre-made wedding centerpieces and all. And that would barely make a dent in his bank account.

You pushed away from the desk instead of answering him, heading for the small shed by the entrance of the greenhouse. You yanked the doors open with a loud creak, procured another worn stool from the inside, and then set the seat in a corner very far from your desk. The slap you forced down on the stool’s surface echoed.

“For you,” you explained, jutting your hand out in its direction. “Go on your phone or something.”

He raised a brow at you, a small puff of laughter escaping him. He meandered to your designated location at an unhurried pace and nodded when you offered him a sardonic smile. With a purposeful tug at the material of his pants, he took a seat, and you were back at your desk feeling more satisfied.

Professor Potts had instructed you to put him to work the second he arrived. Sweeping, tossing old materials, dragging in soil; Barnes was supposed to be a garden hand to atone for his campus crimes, but in all honesty, you preferred him sitting in the corner on his phone.

You figured he would prefer that as well, but the guy wouldn’t stop talking.

“So you gonna tell me your name, Ms. Daisy?” he asked, after only a few minutes of blessed silence. “I have to be here every weekday for quite a while. Might be nice to know who you are.” He paused. When your silence persisted, he followed up with, “Unless you like daisy. ‘Could just call you that.”

“It’s y/n,” you corrected.

You could hear the smile in his words as he responded. “Okay, y/n. I’m—”

“I know who you are. They gave me the rundown when they explained your community service,” you lied. He didn’t need to know that you had actually been blindsided when he walked in this morning.

“Enlighten me then.”

You almost choked on the confidence in his tone. “Is this some kind of power trip? You like to hear the sound of your own name, James?”

His brows shot up in response, leaning his chest over his knees as he smirked at you from across the room. “Not sure why you’d assume I want a power trip.”

If you could glower any harder, you would. Was it really so much to ask for a peaceful last year of college? Did the universe have to chose you to entertain the millionaire with a criminal streak when all you really wanted was to graduate? James started bouncing his knee, making the floor groan as he stared back at you, and you concluded that yes—the universe did in fact chose you for this fate.

“Maybe because it’s eleven a.m. on a Tuesday and you look dressed for prom?” you shot back.

He laughed. Throwing his head back with his shoulders shaking, he laughed and you were left confused because you were positive that you had just insulted him. Then again, you weren’t really sure what was considered an insult to someone with an endless stream of money. Maybe he wanted to look like he was going to prom.

“You’re pretty funny, you know that?” he chuckled, the whispers of humor still fresh in his voice.

“Thanks,” you accepted, a monotone grumble.

You slid your phone from your pocket, praying that your allotted time with James was over and not attempting to be subtle about it. Luckily, the clock confirmed that he was actually set to leave three minutes ago, a small swell of joy rising in your chest.

You shook your phone up by your face. “Eleven thirty-three,” you called. “You’re free to go.”

Your happiness was not well met. James paused and gave you an uncharacteristically—from what you could discern in the few hours you’d know him—dubious look, standing from his seat and pulling a folded up piece of paper from his back pocket. He took a deep breath in before laying it flat on your table and letting his fingers linger. The mint from the gum he hadn’t stopped chewing fanned past you and hit unfinished plywood.

“I know I didn’t really do anything,” he began. “But you gotta sign off on my time here—so I can take it back to the board and all.”

“Okay,” you simply agreed, turning your pencil to the new sheet.

“You really aren’t gonna make me clean this place up?” His head titled down to catch the gaze you weren’t offering

“You’re free to clean up if you feel so inclined, but really, staying out of my way will get this paper signed.”

“And you don’t… want anything from me?”

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye before refolding the paper and placing it in his unexpecting hand. His expression was cautious, maybe even a bit untrusting with the way his mouth was twisted into a small frown. You knew what he was implying, but you weren’t going to acknowledge the elephant in the room if you could help it.

The spray in the back of the house stopped. James shifted and the floor groaned.

“Like what? A pocket square?”

James shook his head, face relaxing, and placed his palm on your table to bend down and loom over your seated posture, requesting a quick, “Hey, call me Bucky, yeah? James is my father.”

“Whatever,” you called, waving him off before you could process the gentle heat of him on your back.

Bucky’s chuckle lasted well past his exit, the sound only ceasing as he complained, “This door is broken.”

You rolled your eyes, not turning to confirm when the heavy wood slammed behind him.

“I was thinking it had something to do with the soil, but when I brought that up to Professor Stark he told me to shut up.”

“Peter, I don’t know why you even try with him. I keep telling you to go to the TA first.”

Peter sighed, dejectedly picking at the salad wilting in its plastic container. He had been fighting with it after about the second bite, turning the leaves over as he complained about his final project.

“It’s not fair that you got his wife as an advisor,” Peter accused, a finger pointed at you as you ate your own lunch. “She gets the job done and she thinks you’re amazing. Dr. Stark just thinks I’m an idiot on legs.”

“Hey, come on!” you argued. “If he thought you were an idiot on legs he wouldn’t have accepted your proposal in the first place. And he gave you the best greenhouse on campus. Dr. Potts is nice, but I’m still stuck out there with all the spiders.”

Peter huffed out a laugh, the sound lost in the noise of the dining hall. You were immune to the disruptions at this point; three years of lunches with Peter Parker and you were more than capable of picking his voice out in a crowd, dining hall or otherwise.

The first time you had done so was in a packed lecture hall freshman year. The poor guy didn’t have a pencil in one of Stark’s lectures and he had asked just about everyone in his row. You saved him from the fearful task of asking the professor himself, tapping on his shoulder and, apparently, also becoming friends.

It was luck that you happened to be in the same department as well.

“That reminds me,” Peter said over a mouthful of croutons. “How’d your thing go with the criminal. Did he get those spiders out?”

You laughed, setting down the coffee you had grabbed on the walk over. “He’s not a criminal, Pete. I told you it was just vandalism.”

“Vandalism is a crime,” he pointed out, gesturing with his fork.

“Okay, well it’s not a hard crime. I think labeling him as a criminal might be a bit premature. Not that a permanent record would have any real effect on his life, honestly.”

“What d’you mean?”

You gave Peter a blank look, urging him to swallow his food before you continued. There definitely wasn’t a lack of comfort between the two of you, if the mouthful of lettuce accompanying his words gave anything away. He offered you a sheepish grin and reached for his water, motioning for you to explain yourself.

“I mean that the criminal is James Barnes. You know, like Barnes and Rogers’ Library? I seriously doubt a label like that would hurt his life prospects.”

Peter choked on his water and you found yourself wishing he was still talking with his mouth full instead. You reached for the napkins on his tray, shoving them in his direction as he fought for air. He looked like a fish out of water and all you could do was cringe as the table next to you grimaced in disgust. It wasn’t until he recapped the bottle that you spoke again.

“Are you going to live?”

Peter hit his chest a few times before nodding with vigor. “Fine, yeah,” he squeaked out. “Are you sure it was him?”

You threw him a look. “Do you think I’m an idiot on legs or something?”

“No! No, of course not. Just, wow, a Barnes doing community service. Wouldn’t really expect that.”

You hadn’t either. With the reputation that came with his name, you were surprised that his family hadn’t just made the problem go away with another big “donation” toward the library. Or the science department. Or just about any place that would have gotten him out of trouble.

You had seen it happen before. Last year, all the trees and bushes in front of the literature building were covered in paint and toilet paper during finals week. It was cleaned up rather quickly, and then—like clockwork—the Yale Newspaper reported a very sizable donation made toward the college’s book collection. An anonymous donation.

Very discrete.

Your shrugged at your friend, rolling your straw between the pieces of ice in your cup. “Maybe he was feeling generous.”

“Yeah, sure,” Peter scoffed. “Look, I think you should stay away from him, y/n. I’ve heard… things and stuff.”

“Things and stuff? Wow, Peter, why didn’t you tell me sooner? I’ll make sure to bring pepper spray next time I see him.” Peter clicked his tongue and gave you an exasperated look, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed. You sighed, “Okay, okay. Sorry. Please, explain.”

“It’s just—you know who he is. I don’t think you should try to be buddies with this guy or anything. Seems to make a lot of trouble at a school he didn’t really get into on his own merit. And I'm pretty sure he’s like engaged or something? Maybe, I don’t remember all of what Ned said...”

For some strange, unknown reason—completely unfathomable—a tiny part of you deflated as Peter continued his rant. It certainly wasn’t because of the engagement; that would be certifiably insane.

Bucky was entitled and probably only in college because his family made him go. He probably spent his days in some fancy apartment down the road and only came to campus when he felt like spray painting over the ecology department. He most likely had stupid handkerchiefs in his pockets and got his pants dry cleaned and said said things like oh, I’m going to have a nice game of golf this morning.

He didn’t have the passion you did, and he certainly didn’t have the drive. It didn’t matter that he smelled like a fresh bonfire and the woods when you went camping in the winter. His stupid fluffy hair didn’t make up for his lack of common sense and his glinting blue eyes definitely didn’t make you want to blink up at him and fall into his words each time he spoke.

His smile was just… average; it didn’t make your heart skip a beat at all, even when he called you daisy and came up behind you to make you sign that stupid paper.

Maybe you were just feeling a bit morose because Peter was lecturing you again. Yes—that was it. “Peter! Peter, hey, I get it,” you cut him off, not even sure which part of his argument he had dove into as you let your mind wander. “It’s not like I’m hanging out with the guy on purpose. I’m not even making him clean anything. He just sits on his phone for a few hours and then he leaves, alright?”

But Peter looked disgruntled at that prospect as well. “I think you should have him doing something, y/n. He’s supposed to be in trouble.”

“Do you have a vendetta against this guy or something?”

Peter blanched, clearing his throat and uttering out a few too many arguments for it to be believable. Your best friend was many things, but a good liar was not one of them. You arched a brow in his direction, trying to pull the truth from him, but Peter just kept babbling on about nonsense. Which was fine, you supposed; he could have secrets and so could you.

Your secrets just involved maybe finding Bucky Barnes attractive. Maybe. On a physical level only.

You checked your phone when Peter pretending to drink his water, the only interesting notification being a message from your roommate asking you to bring pizza home for dinner. Which probably meant Natasha was coming over as well. That would be the perfect opportunity to tell both Wanda and Natasha about your new greenhouse development, and you wouldn’t even have to use the groupchat.

You sent her a quick confirmation text and heaved yourself up from the table, Peter following closely behind.

“You wanna come over for pizza tonight? You can tell the girls how much you hate Bucky Barnes,” you offered, tossing your empty cup in the garbage.

“What’d you call him?” Peter asked, tightening the straps of his backpack and scrunching his face up in confusion.

You mentally cursed, forcing out a fake laugh and linking your arm with Peter’s. The air past the dining hall doors was a brisk sunniness, a hint of summer still lingering in the fall air. You breathed in the faint aroma of the grass in the courtyard and the hint of pine from the tree that hung over the benches on the far side of campus, but Peter was unimpressed with your minuscule attempt at a diversion. He craned his neck to block your view of the yard, raising his brow in expectation.

You nudged him. “Nothing, Pete. You wanna come or what? Better tell me now or I’m not going to know to pick up your favorite.”

“Okay, yes,” he groaned, pulling you toward your next class. “But if you think we’re not gonna talk about this tonight, you’re wrong. I’m going to have a very serious discussion with Wanda and Natasha.”

“Okay, Mr. Serious,” you rolled your eyes.

Peter got wine drunk that night, which meant there was, in fact, no serious discussion.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes au #college!Bucky #modern au #bucky barnes #bucky barnes reader insert

1K notes · View notes

magicalbats · 8 months

Text

Day 14: Orgasm Denial

Rating: R-18+

Word Count: 7925

Warnings: Afab!reader, (lots of) gendered language, social power dynamics, boss/employee, upperclass/lowerclass, tbh I’m not entirely sure how to tag some of this xmdkxkdnd, manual masturbation, dacryphilia, I wanted reader to be a bit of a bimbo in this one so if she seems stupid that’s why lol

A/N: sorry this one is late! I am officially behind on my prompts now but regardless of how long it takes I WILL be completing this Kinktober challenge! Unfortunately the real world demands attention sometimes but I’m not giving up 😤

⭐

Stamping down the urge to nervously fiddle with your hands, you clutch at the front of your arpon to keep them still and try very hard to focus on what the man in front of you is saying. The Palais Mermonia housed a great many regular faces, some of which you only saw from time to time and could not seem to commit to memory, and yet you’d been seeing mister Danon’s more and more often than anyone else’s recently. You didn’t understand why that would be though, and had at first written it off as mere coincidence. A simple matter of happenstance and nothing more.

But then it kept happening at an ever increasing frequency until it seemed like you were running into him almost every day now. Only then had it occurred to you, in a far off, distant sort of way, that he must have been making a concerted effort to talk with you like this. That was the only reasonable explanation for it that you could glean, because the one person you saw at the Palais with any amount of real regularity was the honorable Iudex himself and certainly not the man who’s job description you could not seem to recall. But that didn’t exactly explain why.

You wanted to understand what would make him seek you out like this, so you attentively listen to mister Danon when he speaks even though you sometimes find him a bit difficult to follow. He seemed like he was probably a good person and respectable enough, but he had a strange habit of jumping from topic to topic without much rhyme or reason that you could discern. One moment he would be talking to you about matters of work, about documents he needed to have signed or the latest gossip that had everyone all in a buzz, and the next … why, he would suddenly say something off hand about recreational activities to do in the city or places to dine, a book he’d read recently and even the types of food he fancied.

It was all very strange, and listening to him talk does not help in the slightest. In fact, it actually seems to make it worse.

You didn’t have the slightest idea why he would want to discuss upcoming stageplays with you nor why he should feel the need to announce that his favorite dish was aspic as if it was something that should be of great interest to you. It was all really quite strange.

“You see, if you take a few fish when they’re still flopping around and fresh,” He tells you, eagerly gesturing his way through an explanation you hadn’t asked for. “That will guarantee their taste and ensure your aspic comes out just divine. Like something straight from the Gods themselves, if you want the honest truth of it. I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything more sumptuous!”

“A - ah,” You make a valid attempt to smile politely but it was difficult to keep up with him like this. What did you care for the precise steps to make such an unappetizing sounding dish?

“You know, if you were interested, cherie … I could make it for you to try, if you would like. Ah, what I mean is — it might be nice if we can sit down together and chat over a meal at my residence. Just the two of us.”

Your brows slowly crawl straight up to your hairline. “Oh.”

Before you can think to say anything else, an attention grabbing thud against the marble floor makes you spin around and a smile quickly overtakes your face.

“Monsieur Neuvillette! It is a pleasure to see you today.”

The kindly man sends you a slow, vaguely bemused half-smile. “Good afternoon, mademoiselle. Mister Danon. You looked like you were having a rather lively conversation just now. I hope I didn't interrupt anything important?”

“Of course not, monsieur. It was nothing important at all.” You beam up at him, eager and happy to hang on his every word no matter how benign or minuscule. Much to your surprise, though, he sends another unreadable look over your shoulder and when you turn back to Danon you’re more than a little surprised to find him slouched as if in defeat. Your eyebrows quickly make the climb up to your hairline again. “Mister Danon, are you alright? Goodness, you suddenly look quite unwell.”

“Yes, everything is fine. Nothing to worry about.” He waves off your concern, but it doesn’t escape your notice that he makes a concerted effort not to look directly at you now and instead turns his attention towards monsieur Neuvillette. “Forgive me, your honor. I’m afraid I must be going now. My break is almost over and my presence will be sorely missed if I fail to show up on time.”

The stately Iudex inclines his chin in a brief nod of acknowledgment. “You needn’t apologize, mister Danon. On behalf of all of Fontaine, thank you for the hard work you do.”

Giving monsieur Neuvillette a stiff bow, he turns to do the same to you. “Mademoiselle.”

You quickly bob a perplexed curtsy back. “Monsieur?”

Ignoring or perhaps not hearing the question in your voice, Danon pivots on his heel and makes a hasty retreat down the long corridor without so much as a backwards glance. You can’t seem to shake the feeling you’ve said or done something wrong though, and you watch him go with a tiny flutter of anxiety in your chest until another soft thud of monsieur Neuvillette’s cane on the marble floor pulls you around again.

With a small frown in place, you tip your head back to look up at him when he comes to stand next to you. “Monsieur Neuvillette?”

He offers you a small, gentle smile, no doubt meant to placate and soothe, though it does little in the way of good. “Please do not look so put out, mademoiselle. Would you like to accompany me to my office?”

Nodding, you fall into step beside him. You find yourself listlessly fiddling with your hands now, unable to stop it when it felt like you'd made some horrible faux pas, and they anxiously flit over your front to smooth out invisible wrinkles. What a strange and confusing situation to end up in, and with no idea how to navigate it either. It seemed like you’d done the exact opposite of what you’d initially set out to do … you didn’t understand it in the slightest.

“Forgive me for asking you such a strange question so suddenly, but … did I say something to offend mister Danon just now?”

Noising a quiet sound of consideration, monsieur Neuvillette thinks on that for a brief moment. “I am certainly no expert on the topic, mademoiselle, but if I am not mistaken I do believe mister Danon harbors a romantic interest in you. I believe he may have felt slighted when you said what you were discussing was of no importance, and he took it as a sign of rejection.”

You jerk to a sudden halt with an inelegant scuffle of your heels. “Romantic?” Eyes widening in mute horror, you feel your cheeks start to grow uncomfortably warm. That did make sense, you were more than just a little stunned to realize. The way he made the effort to find you wherever you were working, stop you and talk to you; the way he would casually sprinkle in bits and pieces of his personal life and subtly suggest food, diners, places to go and things to do … had he really been laying out suggestions this whole time hoping you would show an interest in him back? But — “But he never said … oh, monsieur Neuvillette, I had no idea!”

He looks at you with a soft, sympathetic smile where he’d stopped half a pace in front of you. “It is alright if you didn’t know. Situations like these can be difficult to — parse sometimes, and I do not think you acted with malicious intent. Come, let us continue this over a cup of tea.”

Embarrassed and roiling with a crushing sense of guilt, you slowly trail after the Iudex to his large, exquisitely furnished office where you quickly fall into your usual habit of preparing the chinaware while he situates himself on the ornate lounge. It is muscle memory alone that sees you through your task, motions practiced and subconscious after working at the Palais for so long, which comes as a great relief in that moment. You were far too preoccupied with this startling revelation to give the pouring of the tea much thought. Mister Danon’s intentions were shocking enough but, perhaps even more so, you’re surprised at your own lack of awareness on the matter.

You felt rather bad now, for listening to him so attentively and humoring the conversations he was always keen to share with you. Had he mistaken it for budding affection on your part? Have you unknowingly encouraged him to keep trying or, somehow worse, made him believe you were merely toying with his feelings this whole time? What a terrible thing to do to another person, intentionally or not.

Monsieur Neuvillette silently regards you when you bring the tea over on a silver tray but you can’t bring yourself to look at him while you set everything down on the low table in front of him. He was always nothing but kind to you despite your lower station of housekeeper, just as he was with all of the staff that kept the Palais functioning as it should. Everyone from the notarizers and the title clerks right down to even the janitors were treated with nothing but respect and dignity, and that very much included you. But you were a bit too ashamed, too guilty to meet his gaze right now, and you quickly shuffle back a polite distance once everything is laid out so you can further avoid his eyes.

A stretch of quiet settles over the room, and you have to try very hard not to start fiddling with your uniform again.

“Won’t you make yourself a cup and join me?” He ventures at last.

“I couldn’t, monsieur Neuvillette. But thank you.”

He seems to deliberate over something for a short beat before half turning his body on the lounge to look up at you. “I must apologize for prying like this but what about the situation with mister Danon has you so upset? If you didn’t know what his intentions were then you certainly cannot be held responsible for not acting accordingly.”

You hesitate to discuss this matter with him, well aware that it was improper and impolite to talk over such things with not only the aristocracy but also the man who was effectively your employer. It felt very much like an unspoken boundary that should not, under any circumstances, be crossed but … when you take in monsieur Neuvillette’s imploring expression your resolve starts to crumble. He was a wise and exceptionally astute figurehead who always treated every case laid out before him no matter how small or insignificant with the utmost care and consideration. Perhaps he would have some insight to share with you, or at least some advice.

“Well,” You finally relent, tipping your chin down to shyly regard your buckled shoes. “I’m aware that this might sound a little odd but I just feel so guilty about everything … I should have realized sooner why he kept seeking me out like he did. As silly as it is, I can’t help but feel like I tricked him somehow.”

“That is a silly thing, isn’t it?” He agrees in a soft, endlessly patient tone. “How could you have tricked someone if you weren’t aware of what they wanted from you? In the unlikely event that a case such as this were presented to me, I wouldn’t even be able to rule in favor of misrepresentation on the defendant’s part. You have to act with knowing and intention to be held accountable for trickery.”

You despondently mull that over for a long stretch. Logically, you knew what he was saying to be true and you, as everyone else in Fontaine, trusted his judgment implicitly. It wasn’t so much that you doubted him but, rather, your guilt was so great that it couldn’t accept this answer. The thought alone that you might have broken mister Danon’s heart after stringing him along for months almost brings tears to your eyes.

“Does that mean you wouldn’t deign to punish me for it?” It’s barely more than a whisper.

“No, not unconscionably. No one in their right mind would.”

It feels like you're withering on the spot. You didn’t understand it yourself, why you were so upset to hear this rather than relieved at finding you hadn’t broken any laws or regulations that would hold you accountable. Even if mister Danon were to try to file a suit against you to mend some of his bruised ego it sounded like he wouldn’t even have a case to stand on — and that was good.

So why did it feel as if you were skating by without making proper amends for the transgression?

“Mademoiselle?”

You finally bring your head up to look at him. “Do you think mister Danon will forgive me if I apologize?”

Monsieur Neuvillette’s expression softens, taking on a truly remorseful edge. “I don’t know, little one. He might. I can’t see into the future any more than you can, but I think if it’s something that bothers you so much then it certainly wouldn’t hurt to talk to him about it.”

Blinking back a sudden deluge of tears, you take an impulsive step towards him with the tray clutched to your chest. “Oh, monsieur Neuvillette, I don’t know what to do! How can I possibly ameliorate my actions if he might not even accept my apology? I — I didn’t mean to lead him on!”

Very neatly, calmly, monsieur Neuvillette folds his gloved hands on his lap and studies you for an indeterminable amount of time with that closed and shuttered expression. You aren’t sure how many minutes pass when you’re a right mess inside, all your emotions kicked up into such a veritable whirlwind that it’s all you can do just to hold it together. But, at length, he eventually draws a careful breath.

“What I’m hearing is that your guilt over this matter will not be dissuaded until you feel appropriate action has been taken against you to right what is, in your mind, a very serious wrong, intentional or not. Is that correct?”

You blink, more than a little surprised at how concisely he’s grasped your thoughts on the matter. It almost sounds foolish when he puts it like that, in such blunt terms, but there is no denying the pang that resonates within you. “Yes, monsieur. I feel terrible for what I’ve done …”

He seems to hesitate, his brows drawing inward almost imperceptibly. “Guilt can function as its own form of punishment as well, and a very effective one at that. But you must understand something, mademoiselle. The law simply is not applicable here. There is no legal recourse and, therefore, no system in place to enforce any sort of repercussions against you.”

You take another step closer, feeling fervent and hot. “Then will you punish me, monsieur Neuvillette?”

Abruptly, he goes very still. “I am hardly in any position to mete out such discipline,” He says slowly, carefully. “And, far more importantly, I’m not quite sure what you would have me do. I don’t believe this situation would call for a monetary fine or even any corrective action on an employment level … and I’m certainly not going to spank you over my knee like a child.”

Flustered heat crawls up your neck to settle in your cheeks. You hate the way your knees grow weak and knobby at the thought of that, but you were decidedly in agreement with him. It would have been inappropriate for him to strike you in any capacity, least of all over something like this. Still, though …

“Isn’t there something to be done?”

Monsieur Neuvillette’s expression settles back into that somber mask again, eyeing you for a drawn out beat before he finally issues a clipped sigh. Leaning back to recline against the lounge, he stiffly crosses his legs and once more settles his folded hands atop the bent knee. “Come here, little one. Stand next to me.”

Your feet almost don’t want to move from the spot but you force them to uproot so you can cautiously shuffle forward. You aren’t sure what to expect when your cotton stuffed head was such a mess, but all he does when you come up beside him is hold out an expectant hand. It takes you a moment to realize what he wants and you flush even hotter as you pass him the tray. Taking it from you, he sedately sets it aside on the cushion before fixing his attention on you once again.

“This is another topic in which I lack expertise but I might have something in mind that could satisfy your need for penance. However, I will not force or otherwise coerce you into it, and you will likewise be free to walk away at any time. Once you have decided you’ve made the appropriate dues for leading mister Danon on, as you put it, then this arrangement will end immediately. Is that agreeable to you?”

You bob your head in a quick nod. “Yes, monsieur Neuvillette. Thank you.”

Squaring his broad shoulders, the usually kindly disposition with which he carried himself outside of the courtroom fades and is replaced by the stern set of his mouth, the slight tension along his brow, to indicate that it is the Chief Justice sitting before you now. A chill runs up your spine at the change in him, so subtle yet unavoidably obvious, and a sharp look from pale lavender eyes stops you from saying anything. You’d never before been subjected to such a hard expression from him and you can’t quite stop yourself from sympathizing with whoever was unlucky enough to find themselves standing before him in court. It really wasn’t any wonder why he held the title of supreme judge in all of Fontaine when you saw him like this.

“Do not thank me yet, mademoiselle. If you would be so kind, please lift your skirt for me.”

Your spine stiffens with a tremor so powerful it very nearly bowls you over on the spot. Obediently, though, you reach down with numb hands to gather the full, flouncy material of your uniform and shyly hike it up along with the lace petticoat underneath.

“Higher.” He commands, intently observing the slow ascension of your skirts. “That’s it, up around your waist. Good.”

Sucking in a faltering breath, you sway unsteadily on your feet and try not to lose your nerve. The thought that you would be able to alleviate your guilt with this steels your resolve though, and your hands start to shake as your stockinged upper thighs are revealed to him, the simple garters holding them in place and, finally, your lace panties. Your face is on fire while you nudge everything up a little further to make sure it was satisfactory and to his liking despite still harboring some very real doubts about this in the back of your mind.

He did say he wasn’t going to spank you … didn’t he?

Casually, monsieur Neuvillette reaches out a hand to slip long, elegantly poised fingers into the space between your thighs and you suck in a sharp gasp when he nudges them up against your cunt just so. The touch is featherlight and barely there, but it makes more blood rush into your face to leave you rattled and a bit dizzy. But you don’t pull away from him as he takes his time petting over the apex of your fleshy mound and the slit running along your body, determined to see this through. Somehow having him touch you like this was not nearly as embarrassing as the way his expression doesn’t change while he does it, you’re quite ashamed to realize.

“Are you sensitive here?” He asks you softly, prompting you to swallow. Hard.

“I … I don’t know. I’m not sure.”

Quietly clicking his tongue, monsieur Neuvillette presses up against you a little more firmly, gloved fingertips digging into your defenseless clit to make you jolt and give a startled yelp. “You seem responsive enough to me. I only know of this particular activity in theory but … well, it doesn’t really matter. I believe we should have no problem at all using this method for your penance.”

“W - which is, monsieur?”

“I believe I’ve heard the people call this ‘edging’ before. It sounds rather dreadful, doesn’t it? Like some sort of barbaric torture technique.” Carefully observing your face, he pushes up even harder to grind tight, mean little circles against that sensitive pleasure button, and your eyes grow big as you stiltedly rock forward on your toes. “I suppose it could still be called that, depending on who you asked. The instigator or the receptee. I’m sure they would have drastically different opinions on the matter.”

Whimpering, you numbly readjust your hold on your skirt to make sure it stays up and out of his way while he’s doing this. Not that you were entirely sure you liked this specific method in terms of punishments when it was so obvious your body was eagerly responding to it – from the way your pussy clenches around nothing and starts to slick for him and even to the way your nipples stiffen against the inside of your shirt – but perhaps that was a good thing. Would you have really been able to say your penance was paid in full if this trial were not appropriately challenging?

“Wh … where?”

Blinking at the little mouse squeak noise, monsieur Neuvillette just keeps rubbing over you with that steady motion of his hand. “I beg your pardon?”

Trying valiantly to keep the fluster off of your face and failing miserably at it, you shyly avert your gaze. “I was just curious … where did you hear of this?”

“A reasonable question.” He relents, allowing the smallest note of humor to color his voice. “While it is true I don’t often partake in such crude conversations, it can be a little hard to avoid at times. Even here, in the Palais Mermonia. I believe they refer to it as ‘water cooler talk’.”

“Oh.” You’d overhead such things before too, now that you thought of it. The other women who worked at the Palais were more prone to gossip, joint complaints about their husbands or beaus, fawning over babies and first days of school, and academic achievements, while the men … they would sometimes change topics when they saw you coming but more than once you’d caught snippets of inappropriate conversations. A recent visit they’d had to a brothel or perhaps how they fantasized about doing certain things to their partners. You always felt mildly scandalized whenever it would happen, shocked that such discussions were being entertained at the Palais, and yet —

Letting out a slow, stuttering breath, you carefully glance down at yourself to look at monsieur Neuvillette’s hand disappearing between the soft pudge of your thighs. This was vastly more inappropriate than any ‘water cooler talk’ and that realization embarrasses you a great deal. Your cheeks feel a little hotter, your blood pumping harder, and you whine, very low in your throat. Was this really an acceptable form of punishment?

You think it probably is, because the shame that comes with it is potent and cloying, especially when your hips give a weak judder at what he’s doing. To think that the Iudex himself was touching you like this …

“Does that feel good, little one?”

Twitching at the sound of his voice, you give a stilted nod. “Yes, monsieur, thank you … but — but I don’t think I quite understand. Are punishments supposed to feel good?”

“Not necessarily, no. But this is only a part of it. Relax, sweet girl. I will ensure your guilt is appropriately mitigated in due time.”

You still don’t truly understand it, but you allow yourself to ease into it anyway. Relax into his touch. Slipping your eyes closed, you just take a moment to feel the sensation of him rubbing over your cunt. The press of his firm fingers pudges your lips to highlight how soft and pliable they are, the blunt tips of his gloves sinking into the slit. Even the thin layer of your panties is not enough to lessen the drag in any meaningful way, and it doesn’t seem to take long at all for you to start feeling sticky with arousal. It’s copious and excessive, almost implausibly so considering that he’d only touched you in this one specific spot thus far. Hardly at all.

You hadn’t thought you would be so easily excitable and yet the proof of it is in the way you tremble for him, the way your breathing gradually picks up to make your breasts heave under your blouse, and it quickly becomes difficult just to stay standing in place. You wanted to twist and pull away, give your drooling cunt even a moment's reprieve, but you don’t give in to the urge. That wasn’t what he’d agreed to, and you trusted his judgment …

So you stand there, trembling, while your stiff nipples cut up into your shirt in search of the same friction, and you try not to cry out. Your pussy tingles against his hand, the pressure it exerts so constant and steady that it rapidly starts to feel like the building pressure in you is reaching critical mass. Much sooner than you could have anticipated or guessed, it was as if your body was particularly weak for monsieur Neuvillette’s dutiful attention.

Softly wheezing when your legs buckle and threaten to give out, you subtly tip your pelvis further into his hand and it becomes that much more apparent how wet you really are. How stiff and engorged your clit had gotten. A violent shudder tears through you at the meaty, swollen drag of it under his fingers, head tipping back and. - -

He retracts his hand so suddenly it leaves you lurching in place. Raggedly gasping at the sudden loss, you turn wide, wild eyes on monsieur Neuvillette but he merely gives you that same somber expression as he interlaces his fingers on top of his bent knee once again, unfalteringly casual about it.

“That will be all for right now, mademoiselle. Thank you.”

You just gape at him, stunned and confused, with your skirts still hiked up around your waist like a shameless fool. “Wh - wha —“

A look of sympathy flashes across monsieur Neuvillette’s face. “This is the penance you wanted so badly. As many times as you like, I will bring you close to orgasm but I will not let you actually reach climax. It is the only suitable punishment I could think of for your specific … transgression.”

It takes a great deal of effort for you to do it, but you suck in a slow, shuddering breath to steady yourself. “I … I see. Thank you, monsieur. I understand now.”

“Very good. Now, run along. I’m sure you’ve got work to do elsewhere.”

He offers you a small smile that you think is meant to be reassuring but it does very little to distract from the throbbing ache in your cunt or calm your pounding heartbeat. Numbly, you drop your skirt and petticoat back into place and run your hands over it to smooth out the (now real, not imagined) wrinkles as you slowly make your way towards the door. It was like you were in a trance.

“And mademoiselle?”

You pause, turning to look back at him. “Yes, monsieur?”

“I would like to see you in my office again around noontime. Please do not forget and don’t be late.”

~*~

It hadn’t taken you long to realize just how insidious and cruel this strange brand of punishment truly was. You left his office such a sticky mess between the legs that even trying to clean yourself in the powder room did little good against the slick oozing out of you to stain your panties and make them stick to you, moulding against your cunt. It serves as a near constant reminder of how close you’d been to climax, how monsieur Neuvillette’s fingers had felt touching such an intimate part of your body, and how torturous it had felt to have that friction taken away so suddenly.

The wisdom of the Iudex impresses you even now though, for you did indeed see why he’d deemed this the only appropriate corrective measure that would fit the crime. You had unknowingly strung mister Danon along with your feminine charm and wiles, so it did indeed make sense to turn that back around on you in some way.

And although it does take a while, the distracting pulse in your cunt slowly fades into an afterthought in the back of your mind while you flit about the Palais tending to various tasks and seeing that everything was as it should be. At some point you even start to forget how your damp panties cling to you and that makes it much easier to view this trial as an easy obstacle to overcome. You would simply allow monsieur Neuvillette to carry out this task a handful of times, consider your self flagellation completed and then move on with your life.

Yes, this really was the best method of making your peace with the situation.

Comforted in your conviction, you return to monsieur Neuvillette’s office at the appointed time and issue a gentle rap at the door. His voice filters through without missing a beat, calling for you to come in, and you enter without reservation.

Perhaps you should have been more wary of underestimating him or this game you were playing but you think nothing of it as you make your way across the room to stand in front of his stately desk. He looks up at you with a brief smile that inexplicably makes your pulse thrum a little faster, and that surprises you slightly. Catches you off guard.

“Thank you for your punctuality, little one. I have a meeting scheduled after lunch is over so I wanted to tend to you before I got too busy.”

Self consciously, you avert your gaze. “Are you sure this is alright, monsieur? I don’t want you to go hungry because of me.”

“Nonsense. I planned accordingly and already ate before you came by.” Not lingering on the thought for very long, he takes a moment to straighten a stack of papers and neatly set them aside, out of the way. Nudging his high backed chair out from under the desk, he half turns and situates himself first before reclining against the backrest and finally looking up at you again. “Come. No need to feel shy.”

His words have the opposite effect of making you feel ten times more shy than you originally did, and you can feel yourself starting to blush again as you slowly round the desk to come up beside him. Standing just a scant few inches from him like this it occurs to you, suddenly, that you probably should have been a bit more apprehensive about returning to his chamber like this. He was going to touch you again … oh, perhaps you had not thought this through all the way.

“Here.” He says, drawing you back into the moment with a gentle pat against his leg. “Sit on my lap, little one. This should make things a bit easier for both of us.”

The flush that crawls up your face is an intense and overwhelming one. “M - monsieur, I — I couldn’t possibly be so presumptuous!”

“Is it presumptuous if I’m telling you to do it?”

Your spine stiffens at the slightly hardened tone in his voice, the edge that seems to cut across any of your weak excuses, and you quickly realize it is once again the Chief Justice sitting before you now, not the kindly monsieur Neuvillette. And he was looking at you very expectantly.

Swallowing your nerves, you reluctantly shuffle closer and turn to lower yourself onto his leg with a slow, stiff motion of your body. The firm pressure and warmth of him underneath you is almost enough to send you running from the room in hysterics, but before you can even think to change your mind his arm comes forward to secure itself around your middle. A surprised little yelp bursts out of you when he hauls you back against him to settle more firmly on his lap, completely disregarding how you tense up and shudder on top of him.

“There. Isn’t that much better?” He softly coos at you, tugging you back to lean against his front. Your face feels like it’s on fire but you don’t fight it, only whimpering quietly when he at last has you situated how he wants.

“M - monsieur …” You mewl into the suddenly statically charged office, unable to stop it, but he just quietly tuts at you as he turns his head to press his mouth against your hair.

“Now, now, you’re alright. I’ve got you. There isn’t any reason to be so nervous.” A violent tremor tears through you when you feel his lips purse against the side of your head in what you think must be a brief kiss — but you don’t get the chance to fully process the significance of that as he bends a little closer to put his mouth near your ear now. “Spread your legs for me, little one. Let me see you.”

Dizzy with the surge of white hot arousal that abruptly crashes into you with all the force of a sack of bricks, you give a weak, twitchy roll of your body against him and reach down with trembling hands to grab at your skirt. Slowly inching it up, you tip your chin down to watch with him as more and more of your thighs are revealed. The soft pudge around the tops of your stockings embarrasses you somewhat but not nearly as much as your panties do. Even from this angle you can see a dark, wet spot staining the crotch when you ease your legs open and you whimper softly at the sight of it.

“Goodness, you certainly soaked yourself earlier didn’t you? Poor thing,” With a quiet click of his tongue, monsieur Neuvillette reaches down past cotton and lace, and voluminous frills to slide his hand over your mound. Your breath hitches as you watch him do it, cupping your pussy with an almost apologetic squeeze, and you quickly turn your head away before you can say or do something else you’ll regret today.

You had to admit, it was very naive and shortsighted of you to consider this an easy penance just because it was not a constant, pressing concern at the forefront of your mind. How very foolish you had been.

“I was thinking about it earlier and I found myself quite curious,” He admits, still just holding your cunt in the palm of his hand. “Would it be too impolite of me to ask how often you usually pleasure yourself?”

Your chest dramatically heaves with the ragged gasp you suck in. “Monsieur Neuvillette, that’s … why would you ask me something like that?”

“Oh dear, I hope I haven’t offended you. That was not my intention, little one. Please forgive me.” A pause, while he turns his head to press his lips against your hair again. “It is just that you are so shy and your body is so sensitive. I wondered if perhaps you were too ashamed to take care of your own needs in this manner, that’s all. I’ve heard some women are.”

Lungs painfully constricting inside your chest, you stiffly lift your hands up to cover your face. Having the Iudex pet you so intimately was one thing, but discussing such matters with him was something else entirely!

“P - please forgive me, monsieur … you haven’t offended me it’s just — I have no experience with this sort of thing. I do it, sometimes. Pleasure myself like that. But I’ve never had anyone else t - touch me in that way before …”

“I see.”

Silence settles over the room for a long, drawn out stretch that soon starts to ride the line of being uncomfortable. You can just start to feel the sting of hot tears creeping through at the corners of your eyes when he gently pats your cunt with the flats of his fingers, startling a surprised noise out of you. Lowering your hands enough to see, you gape down at yourself as he somewhat possessively cups his hand around you again and gives the pudge of your labia a light squeeze.

“Such a silly thing you are.” He says against your head, displacing some of the little flyways there to send them dancing at your peripheral. You barely even notice it though, trembling at the faintest hint of a growl in his voice when it sets your guts to vibrate and seems to reverberate inside your chest cavity. You’d never heard him sound like that before but don’t get the chance to linger on that thought or question it, because he nuzzles further into you until it feels like he’s speaking directly into your ear now. “In the future you should try not to be so forthcoming with your body when it comes to men. Had I been any less honorable I could have all too easily taken advantage of you earlier and I could still do it now had I wanted to. I understand your desire for wrongs to be appropriately righted as that is the very foundation Fontaine was built on but this is not the way to go about it, mademoiselle.”

Your mouth warbles open but nothing comes out. All you can do is sit there, quaking on monsieur Neuvillette’s lap, while his fingers slip into one side of your panties and tugs them aside. The sight of your own cunt lips, puffy and flushed with arousal, surprises a faltering animal noise out of you that seems to echo endlessly inside the room. He pays it little mind though and simply curls his thumb to brush over your slit and the clitoris hiding within, smearing sticky slick with that fine leather glove and nudging your body into opening up to him. Legs twitching, you jerk your hands down to latch onto the arm locked around your middle, clutching at him even as you fitfully writhe against the sensation.

All at once your earlier arousal comes crashing back with a vengeance, temporarily forgotten but not near as snuffed out as you would have liked it to be. Your clit thrums under his stilted caress as if the climax you’d been close enough to taste but not able to experience had lain dormant this entire time while you ensured the water pitchers were filled, the snack tables stocked and the fireplaces were appropriately stoked wherever they were needed. It shocks you a great deal to realize how powerful your arousal truly is, and you buck your hips with a whiny moan that would have embarrassed you under better circumstances.

But better circumstances would not have found your cunt absolutely flooding with a deluge of fresh slick, nor would your clit have been swelling as eagerly as it does. You can feel the meaty, engorged drag of it under the soft petting of his thumb, almost idly drawing it back and forth with a total lack of urgency that makes your head spin perhaps even more so than the sharp stabs of pleasure do. You wanted to cum, and the knowledge that he would not permit you to just makes you want it even more.

“Please, monsieur —!”

Softly humming, he presses his thumb down a bit more firmly. “Are you already getting close, little one?”

You tip your head back to rest on his broad shoulder, panting up at the ceiling while shuddering waves of yet unrealized ecstasy crash over you, each somehow more powerful than the last. Instinctively, you inch your legs further apart even as they tremble fiercely for him and you think, idly, you probably would have vibrated right off him had he not been keeping you pinned against his front. You’re helpless to do anything except sensitively quake like this, and you do so with great enthusiasm.

“It is too much … I - I can’t take it!”

“You will.” He assures you, his voice soft again but it still carries that subtle hint of an edge underneath the surface. You didn’t understand it, why he would sound like that. What had brought it on. Was he even more displeased with you than he’d suggested?

The thought alone brings tears to your eyes almost as much as the cresting pleasure making you writhe on his lap, and you squeeze your eyes shut to keep them at bay. You didn’t want to make him feel bad for causing you to cry when you were the one who had asked for this … but oh, it was so very hard not to give voice to the sobs threatening to wrack your body when it was all so much. The firm, weighty pressure of his thumb petting over your cunt, his other fingers idly teasing along your slit where they were still holding your panties aside. The smell of him, the taste of him lingering on the back of your tongue, his sturdy weight underneath you. It was all too much, and it felt like you were drowning in him.

“Let this be a lesson to you,” He continues, unconcerned with the way you twist against him and choke on stuttering gasps. “Even more pressing than the matter with mister Danon, I’m far more concerned about how easily you gave yourself up to a man to do with however he pleased for the sake of penance. Needless self sacrifice is not justice, sweet girl. I do hope you’ll remember that.”

Bending his head close once more, monsieur Neuvillette presses his mouth to your hammering pulse, and you mewl at the contact. It is not so much a kiss, you abruptly realize, as it is a not very subtle threat. Like there was a beast lurking beneath that kindly gentleman facade …

“Oh, monsieur, I — I’m going to —“

“No, you are not.” He cuts across you, practically hisses it against your jugular, and you nearly jolt right off him when the arm around your middle slides up to lock across your front at an angle. Suddenly he pinches your nipple through your shirt where it’s stiff and straining against cotton, giving it a mean little tweak to make your back bow. Trying to twist away proves futile and you yelp at the pleasure laced pain even as your cunt drools even more obscenely in response.

You felt like you were going crazy. Truly wild with potent, cloying arousal so powerful, so overwhelming, you can’t even process what’s happening to you while you shake right to the edge of your release.

And just like that, the hand on your pussy retreats, pulling away altogether to leave your panties shamelessly askew in favor of latching onto the swell of your inner thigh and keeping them spread when you frantically buck your hips in search of that fleeting touch. You heave and groan, reeling at the total loss of friction, but it is useless. Monsieur Neuvillette is an unyielding presence at your back no matter how earnestly you squirm against him, and his gloved fingers give your aching teat another cruel tug to further stave off your release.

You’re more than a bit horrified, in a delirious, hazy sort of way, to find that the pain serves its purpose in chasing away your climax enough to leave your pussy absolutely throbbing in the wake of this denial. No longer teetering right on the precipice, it seems to force you back a pace or two and all you can do is look on longingly at the promise of oblivion beyond with yearning and desperation. Wanting, but not allowed to have.

You truly had underestimated just how tortuous this punishment technique could really be …

Through the murky fever you feel monsieur Neuvillette brush his mouth across your cheek to press at the corner of your eye, effectively drawing you out of your groaning stupor. Sucking in a ragged gasp, you clutch at his arm all the tighter and try in vain to lean away.

“M - monsieur?”

“You’re crying.”

Noising a soft sound of confusion, you blearily blink your eyes open to realize that they were in fact clouded with a swimming sheen of tears making them burn. Sniffling sadly, you start to reach up to swipe them away in shame but the hand on your breast comes up quicker and locks under your jaw, physically turning your face towards him.

Laying spread out on top of him with your head forced back against his shoulder, you look up at monsieur Neuvillette from just a scant few millimeters away. His expression is still somber and unreadable but … the glint in his pale lilac eyes makes your chest hitch. It wasn’t hunger the same way you’d on occasion caught other men looking at you — men like mister Danon, you realize in retrospect — but it is a hunger all the same. Something old and primal, from a long forgotten dark age that inspires a slow curling tendril of uncertainty low in your gut. You don’t think it’s lust per se, not in the usual sense, but a kind of lust, perhaps. One you didn’t have a name for.

One you weren’t sure if you wanted to learn the true nature of.

After silently studying you for a long moment, he finally drags his gaze from your face to regard the tall, stately clock standing sentry in the office, the only witness to this lurid state of affairs. “I still have some time before my meeting. I think we should be able to squeeze in one more session before I have to go.”

You very nearly give voice to a hysterical, broken sob, just barely managing to choke it back with a frazzled whine instead. “Monsieur —“

“Hush, little one.” He murmurs and leans close again, stunned surprise washing over you when his tongue flicks out to lick up a wet tear from under your eye. You gape at him in shocked disbelief when he pulls back enough to look at you again, leaving behind residual moisture on your skin, but he doesn’t even look the least bit put out or sorry for it. Like it was a perfectly normal thing for him to be doing. Perhaps it was. You had no idea – and if he recognizes your surprised reaction for what it is, he certainly doesn’t show it. “You have nothing to fear from me. I will ensure your punishment is properly administered and then we shall further discuss your other behaviors in greater detail. Rest assured, you will be appropriately corrected in time. I will personally see to that myself.”

⭐

Crossposted: here

#genshin impact #neuvillette #neuvillete x reader #self insert bullshit

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