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f1fnatic · 11 months

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LIAR ⤿ c. sainz 55

→ ( in which. . . ) you and carlos have been dating for three years. carlos started to grow distant. after charles shows you a picture of his infidelity, you catch him in the act after a day at work.

→ ( fanfic genre. . . ) written

→ ( pairing. . . ) cheater!carlos sainz x longtime!girlfriend!reader

→ (content warnings/disclaimers. . . ) mentions of sex, language, yelling, cheating, alcohol consumption, angst

→ ( author's note. . . ) this was my first time writing angst/cheating. it was fun experimenting with this type of writing. i hope you enjoy! see end for more.

→ ( masterlist )

"you fucking liar!" echoed through the otherwise quiet apartment. hurried footsteps sounded from the hallway, another pair following the first close behind. was this what everything came to? walking out on your supposed soulmate after years together? how did you get here? and what did you do to deserve this?

one week prior ↴

you had noticed the distance growing. carlos was becoming closed off and almost secretive. he didn't confide in you as much as he used to. you didn't think twice about it and assumed it was something to do with work. ferrari had been going through a rough patch, both him and charles struggling to start or finish a race for the past three weeks.

you understood how stressful being a driver was. you had been around formula 1 for a while now, because of him. you and carlos met when he drove for redbull, in 2015. the two of you started dating shortly after in 2017.

you were always there for him, through thick and thin. through the blood, sweat, and tears. after every win, podium, loss, dnf, dns, etc. you understood how hard it was for him to perform well but not get the results wanted.

so, when you received a picture of carlos with another woman, a blond, on his lap, hands on his shoulders and lips touching, you were livid. charles had sent it to you, with a simple caption that read "i am sorry." it was the after-party of a not-so-successful qatar grand prix.

rage, confusion, sadness, and disgust coursed through your veins. the thought of him finding comfort in a woman who wasn't you made you sick. your hands shook, eyes blurred, and breath quickened.

you could not believe that carlos would ever cheat, especially on you. you had given him everything. love, attention, comfort, and compassion. and this is what he gave you in return? you had sacrificed so much to make him happy. you felt useless. had you thrown away six years of your life just to get cheated on? did he feel guilty? did he regret his choice to kiss a random girl? thoughts sped through your mind.

what did you do until he got home? your apartment no longer felt like a home. it felt gross and unnatural to be in there. to think that the person you shared it with was sharing a different room across the world. did he share your bed with someone else as well? the pictures of the two of you that hung on the wall seemed to mock you.

every passing minute became more and more painful. could you act like everything was fine when he eventually did get home? or would you lose it immediately the second he walked in through the front door?

unfortunately, you knew that only time would tell.

present day ↴

today was the day that carlos got home. you were at work, trying to distract yourself from the inevitable conflict about to occur. you reached the front door of your shared apartment. shaking hands held the key and you placed it in the lock and turned it. pushing open the door, the apartment was quiet, suspiciously quiet.

you noticed that the kitchen was a mess. plates and cooking utensils were in the sink, dirty and waiting to be washed. two wine glasses left discarded on the quartz bar. a bottle of red cabernet left opened and almost empty. one of the glasses had lipstick stains littered around the rim.

your heartbeat quickened. adrenaline began to pump through your body. you quickly toed off your shoes, and your feet ached after a long day. you also discarded your purse and jacket, making your way to your and carlos' bedroom.

as you got closer, you heard moaning. your heart dropped to your stomach. you opened the door as soon as you reached it. low and behold, it was carlos and the same blond from the picture that charles sent you. the blond was on top of carlos, head back and mouth open in euphoria. carlos had the same expression as her on his face.

tears immediately welled in your eyes and quickly fell. you felt defeated. it was one thing to see a picture of your boyfriend kissing another girl, but to catch him with that same girl in the bed that you shared, in the same bed that he fucked you in, was different.

finally, carlos opened his eyes and noticed you in the doorway. his hands found the blond's hips to stop her from moving. his eyes widened with guilt and surprise; mouth wide open in shock.

"y-y/n?!" he shouted. the blond turned to look at you and god, she was pretty. you partially understood why he did it. she covered herself with one of the loose sheets and unstrattled carlos, allowing him to get up.

"y/n, i can explain-" he starts.

"explain what, carlos?!" you shout, cutting him off. "how on earth can you explain me walking in on you fucking another girl in our bed?!"

"it was a simple mistake, mi amor, that's all." he tried to reason, smiling meekly. the nickname that once held so much love now held nothing. the name that made butterflies flutter in your stomach now made them sink.

"you fucking liar!" you screamed. "this was on purpose!" it echoed through the now quiet apartment. you turned your back on the pair and walked away. your hurried footsteps sounded from the hallway, carlos' pair following yours closely behind.

"y/n, stop!" he yelled, grabbing your wrist and turning you around to face him.

"do not fucking touch me!" you say, yanking your wrist from his grip. the complete and utter audacity he had to try to attempt to explain why he cheated. "was i not enough for you? did i do something wrong? did i not fuck you the right way? did i not get you off fast enough? huh, carlos? what made you decide to throw away six years together huh? six fucking years!"

carlos stares at you, his brown eyes that you thought were breathtaking were now filling you with disdain. "tell me carlos!"

"i-i don't know why," he stutters, turning his gaze to the floor, taking a sudden interest in the hardwood paneling. "you were enough, you still are enough. please y/n, we can move past this. i was drunk and stupid, my judgement was clouded." he tries to reason, reaching to grab both of your hands.

"no, stop it. no amount of time can get me to forgive you for this. i will never forgive you, carlos." you said his name with such disgust that he flinched. "charles showed me a picture of you kissing her in qatar in a bar during an after-party. i have known for a week. but to think that you would take her into our home and fuck her?"

"wait, wait, wait. charles texted you?" carlos questioned. there was anger present in his voice. "why the fuck did he text you?" it seemed that he was upset at the fact that charles told you he cheated.

i scoff, crossing my arms. "unbelievable, you are unbelievable. you cheated on me and you are caught up on the fact that your teammate texted me proof? how much of an egotistical cunt do you have to be?"

"me? i'm the unbelievable one? you're the one walking out on me because of a stupid, drunken mistake." he says nonchalantly, glossing over the insult. it's almost like he didn't care that your relationship was ending.

"fuck you, carlos. i am done. we are done. do not call me, do not try to find me to convince me to come back to you." the tears were flowing vigorously down your cheeks. you knew your makeup was running, but you didn't care. "i am fucking done. thanks for nothing. i hope have fun fucking that slut and that you are happy with the choice you made." you finish, walking away through the home that once brought you so much joy to be in.

you gathered your things. purse, shoes, phone, coat, and keys. you would get everything else later. you opened the door and then slammed it once stepping outside. it was then when every emotion hit you at once. violent sobs wracked your body making you shake. you slid down the door hugging yourself. you could not believe it. you don't know if you ever would.

after eventually calming down, you decide to call the one person who made you aware of this whole situation. you clicked on his contact's name and then the call button. you placed your phone on your ear to hear two rings before he picked up.

"hello? y/n? why are you calling." asked the voice.

"charles," you pause. the question of 'was this a good idea?' ran through your head. but, at this point you didn't care. carlos and what he thought was the least of your worries. "i need you to pick me up."

low key happy with this one, wrote it last night and like where it went. i think i might turn it into a charles x reader :P let me know in the comments if you want that :) thank you for reading! as usual, feedback and requests are welcome; make sure to leave a comment and kudos! (only if you want :P)

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merchant-wizard-and-jerry · 6 months

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(This is going to be linked as the card drawing post from now on)

*Warning all effects are permanent unless stated otherwise wise and all effects can’t be undone by undoing the magic*

(This means that if your arms turn to metal, you can’t revert the spell that made it happen, because the armed in the eyes of the universe are naturally metal now, but instead can convert the metal back into flesh like you would do if the arms were always metal.)

(The lore reason why is the supreme being made it…. Aka I am the writer of this story and deck and I say no you. (In a joking manner if you or a love one rolled something you don’t want to happen tell me and we can work out a solution))

(List of effects)

TP who TC Gains partial divinity

TP who TC can ask one question to the universe and gets a true answer

TP who TC is immune to all undead for 24 hours

TP who TC can ask one request of the Flock of seagulls

TP who TC gains absolute mastery of there most proficient skill

TP who TC gets there perfect ideal of a follower summoned, the follower is made of stained glass

All people who wants to attack TP who TC becomes completely peaceful

TP who TC has the vision permanently enhanced by 4x

TP who TC brain grows 10x as fast and smart for 1 hour

the next good effect drawn from TD is doubled

TP who TC has everything blue that there touching enchanted randomly.

TP who TC gains a skeleton key

TP who TC has there mind gain armor, it helps reinforce there mind’s processes and also help ward of wind magic form effecting it

TP who TC has a calming aura for 1 week, anyone within that aura has their emotions calmed.

TP who TC arms turned to metal (I forgot to say, for 1 hour)

TP who TC splits into five identical clones 1/5th the size. Each have a randomly selected 1/5th of TP who TC’s powers. At the point of them splitting is when there memories split. Each will grown to normal size over the span of a week. Once one dies, its powers and memories are randomly split among the remaining clones (of that batch). Each clone can split but the above side effects still apply.

TP who TC is recognised as a minor noble in the nearest nobility system

all eyes in a 1 mile radius of TD glows gold for a year

TP who LC gets magic equal TP who TC's magic capabilities for 1 spell

TP who TC can see how corrupt anyone is

TP who NC has there card effect double

TP who HTC has the ability to identify any living thing’s clade

TC turns into, upon being drawn, a random minor magical item. TP who TC will be registered as that item's true owner, that ownership will either be passed to a designated person or person with their best interest in mind upon death of the previous owner.

TP who TC can identify if it’s safe to drink any water they see

TP who TC gets 10 currency

TP who HC has control over a small company of knights

TP who TC gains scales for 1 hour

TP who TC begins to be observed by a god

TP who TC will have all cuts immediately scab over for the next month.

TP who TC is turned into an animal chosen by TP who NC for 4 hours. TP who TC keeps their mind, unless this card is drawn again in the same time and the same animal is chosen. If it is picked again but with a different animal, TP who TC will hybridize as both animals.

TP who TC has the effect they last were under that was triggered by a card reapplied as if they drew it again.

TP who TC chooses a person who will NC

(Automatic custom card)

TP who TC has there element shift one element, this effect either last 1 year or until TP who TC comes to except one lie they believed was true was a lie

A random seed in a 1 foot radius around TP who TC will grow to complete maturity. If there is no seed, a seed will from that when planted will grow a perfect replica of a random card with the magic effect at 1/10th efficiency

TP who TC plays a game of 20 question, if you win, you get a clue finding spy glass. If you lose you lose an eye.

TP who TC next spell will go wild

all water in a 30 foot radius of TD turns into wine

TP who LC has its effect happen to TP who TC

TP who TC has the direction they move relative to gravity altered by the person who NC

TP who NC has TP who LC effect added to theres

TP who TC becomes the target of tempest the clown. Tempest is a weather demigod who wishes to bring joy to kids by showing them weather phenomena… up close.. at full scale.

TP who NC will gain the ability to know where you are at all time

TP who TC will be transformed into a computer software sprite on a piece of digital hardware. The card is transformed into that piece of hardware. Both effects last for 1 day

TP who TC has all there hair light on fire, they are not armed nor is there hair

TP who NC can choose one of TP who TC’s skills to lock for 1 hour

TP who TC experiences 1 years worth of advanced mutation that would be handy in this situation

all grass in a 3 yard radius of TD turns into a fungus based alternative

TP who TC will lose all their hair and have it regrow in a 24 hour period

TP who TC will have all open injuries and non-sensory body holes (peircings, behind, belly button, etc) transformed into functioning technology ports

TP who TC is swarmed by pollen

TD loses its magical effect for 10 minutes

TP who TC gets struck by lightning

TP who TC if they have a scarred over stump it grows cactus spines making it impossible to restore, if not you are immune to cactuses.

TP who TC loses their sense of smell for 10 min

in a 1 yard radius around TP who TC rain will clouds form and rain for 1 week

TP who TC becomes a telepathic potted plant for 1 hour. TP is completely immobile, but still conscious and is able to talk to anyone nearby via telepathy. Any person who touches TP is affected by magic: (Roll 1d4 to decide the effect given) 1. Becoming a telepathic potted plant without other effects. 2. Being fully healed and restored as if they drank a powerful healing potion 3. Clothes are replaced by plants equivalents made from leaves, grass, flowers, moss, and other plant materials. These new clothes do not cover up well and ordinarily resemble Druidic clothing, but also resemble the clothes they were previously wearing. Depending on the magical power or significance of their previous clothes, they may be possible to recover via summoning magic. 4. A large tree appears nearby and they are temporarily transformed into a dryad linked to that tree for one day.

TP who TC becomes a potted telepathic plant for a year

TP who LC attacks you

TP who draws TC loses the ability to understand speech for 1 hour

TP who TC loses all of wealth

TP who TC has there most prized possession trapped in this card for 1 year or until they tell someone a deep secret

all events that took place in the last hour reverts in a 20 yard radius of TD

TP who TC Dies

TP who NC will gain control of your body for 1 minute

(List of terms)

The person (TP)

The deck (TD)

Drew this card (TC)

Drew last card (LC)

Draws next card (NC)

Holds this card (HC)

(Rules)

You can ask pay for a card with 10 currency

When you pay you can specify out of character whether you want a random card or if you want me to make a new one for you to draw that will be added to the deck

If I make a new one I’ll add it to the list

Also if the card calls for good or bad it is referring to thirds, the first 1/3 is good, the last 1/3 is bad and the middle in neutral, round down and give the neutral the extra cards.

If you pick random, roll for me out of the numbers and tell me what you get

#wizard island island #wizard tumblr #wizard posting #wizard #wizardposting #wizard blogging #wizard shit #magic shop #thank you

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pearlessance · 2 months

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Fishnets & Old Fashioned's

Summary - Tommy Miller wants a big titty goth gf and isn't above begging on his knees to get one.

Pairing - Tommy Miller/goth!bartender!Reader

Warnings: explicit sexual content MDNI, begging, dom/sub undertones, switch!Tommy and switch!Reader, tongue piercings, nipple play, dirty talk, semi-public, hair pulling, vaginal fingering, kneeling, body worship

[crossposted on AO3]

There are very few things in the world better than a nice, strong drink after a long day at work. In fact, it tended to be Tommy Miller’s favorite part of the night. That—and chatting up the prettiest girls in his favorite bar.

Tommy and Joel would often go together after a particularly rough day in the unforgiving Texas heat, and the best bar in town was the best for no reason other than the bartender. Frank was a mean, old bastard—but Christ could he mix a perfect Old Fashioned. It was exactly what Tommy craved after a day like today, where everything went wrong and nothing went right and his calloused hands were marked up with cuts and splinters.

Except Frank, apparently, wasn’t working today. And you stand in his place behind the rickety mahogany bar. A small slip of a girl, nearly half Frank’s size but somehow no less intimidating. In fact, Tommy finds himself even more intimidated by you, with your dyed hair and ripped fishnets beneath a tight, black tank top that sports the white skull of the Misfits logo.

He sits at the bar beside Joel, but his eyes never leave you. Your fingernails are painted black, thumbs sticking through the netting over your hands, and Tommy thinks you look terrifying and captivating and lethal and beautiful all at once. It’s rare to see girls like this in the deep south—girls who embody the shadows as a fashion accessory, girls who look like they may sprout horns or claws at any given moment, girls with siren eyes and fatal lips and switchblade curves.

Tommy Miller will be the first to admit that you scare him. Tommy Miller will also be the first to admit that yeah—he’d definitely let you eat his soul.

You’re mixing a cosmopolitan for some uppity lady at the other end of the bar, and he watches your nimble fingers as you place the lime garnish and slide the glass to the customer. You give her a pretty smile, and Tommy admires the crimson stain on your lips and wonders if it’s possible to seduce a succubus.

When you walk over to them, he can’t help but attempt to immediately create rapport. He doesn’t know the Misfits well but has heard their new song on the radio once. He leans in and asks, “You gotta name, vampire girl?”

You don’t laugh, but it doesn’t deter Tommy in the slightest. You brace your hands against the bar and say, “Depends on who’s askin.’”

“No one special,” he says with a casual shrug. “Just the man of your dreams.”

The cutest snort leaves your nose, and it feels like a win. “Let me guess,” you say, pointing a finger at Tommy. “Old Fashioned. And for you…” For a moment, you narrow your eyes at Joel. “Either Jack and Coke or Johnny Walker on the rocks.”

It’s like witchcraft, he thinks. Because you’re completely right and Tommy’s only ever known Joel to order a Jack and Coke—and suddenly he’s fumbling, trying desperately to turn your attention away from his brother. “How did you do that?”

“Experience,” you say. “You need a double? You look like you need a double.”

He does—but Tommy isn’t sure whether to take your words as an insult or not. He finds that he doesn’t really care either way, because you're looking at him now and he’s grinning like a madman and desire creeps up his spine as you lean over and fill a glass with ice. Tommy’s always been an ass man, swore up and down once he always would be—but holy fuck, he feels himself changing. “A double would be great, darlin’. Maybe I can get a little something on the side, too,” he says with a playful wink.

“Jesus,” Joel huffs.

You set to work on mixing their drinks—Joel’s first, and then Tommy’s. When you set his on the bar, there are two glasses—one that looks like his normal Old Fashioned, and a shot glass filled with a clear liquid. “A little something on the side,” you tell him. “You guess what it is and I won’t charge you for it. Guess wrong and it goes on your tab.”

His first instinct is to say it’s vodka—it’s still like water, completely crystalline. But when he tries to pick it up to smell it, you put a black-painted finger up.

“Nope. That’s cheating.”

“It could be anything,” he argues. “What if it’s gin and I guess vodka?”

The corners of your pretty mouth turn up into a smirk. “Is that your guess? Vodka?”

“No,” he says quickly. “No, no—uhm…,” he stutters. Tommy has no goddamn idea and knows he’ll never be able to guess correctly, but you seem to be enjoying his struggle, so he flounders a bit longer than necessary.

But then you raise the stakes.

You lean forward, layered silver necklaces glittering in front of your god-blessed cleavage, and he has to try not to stare too long. He definitely stares—but not enough to be weird about it. “Guess correctly and I’ll give you my number, casanova.”

It feels a little like gambling. Tommy knows he has a way with women, knows a flash of his dimples and a little southern charm goes a long way around here. But something tells him it’s just not gonna work with you, and he wants you so badly that he’s willing to make himself look like a fool if that’s what it takes. “How long ‘til the offer expires?”

With a glance at an imaginary watch, you say, “I’m here until two. After that…who’s to say?”

Tommy sits there and watches you walk away, watches you give that pretty smile to another man who orders a shot of tequila.

When he takes a sip of his Old Fashioned, he wonders what the fuck is in it because it’s the best goddamn drink he’s ever had. Better than anything Frank has ever made him, better than any he’s gotten at that fancy bar in Houston he went to a year ago—smokey and bitter and strong and delicious.

Joel calls him stupid, says he’s insane for even looking at a girl like you, mentions how much younger you are and how you’re likely just entertaining him for tips. Tommy orders another drink anyway and promises to get a cab home when Joel insists he’s ready to leave.

The crowd dies down the longer the night stretches on, and you keep placing drinks in front of him moments after he finishes the one in his hands. Once, when you have your back turned, Tommy dips the tip of his index finger into the shot glass.

But before he can bring it to his lips, you’re suddenly standing right in front of him. Your hand flits across the bar and encloses around his wrist. You click your tongue and his gaze is transfixed on the flash of metal in your mouth. “Cheaters don’t get prizes,” you tell him.

Tommy watches dazedly as you bring his finger to your lips. “Cheating? I would never do something…” he loses his train of thought, because you suck the tip of his finger into your mouth, cleaning up the clear liquid, and he can feel the metal barbell pierced through your tongue. It sends a jolt of electricity dancing along his spine and he wonders how it would feel against other parts of him. When you pull away slowly, Tommy clears his throat and blinks a few times before he can resume his sentence. “…I’d never do something like that,” he finishes.

Two in the morning approaches way too fast, and while it may seem a little strange that he’s sitting here all alone for so long, pondering over this clear liquid, he finds that he loves watching you move. You’ve got some kind of dark magic about you, he thinks. Men throw themselves at you, some even more so than Tommy, but you never give them half a chance. He watches as you turn those siren eyes on them and take the words right out of their mouths, watches as you state clearly and silently that while their attempts interest you, none of them ever hold you.

He thinks about the phrase god is a woman, but wonders if the devil is, too.

After the last call, Tommy remains the last person in the bar. You graciously allow him to keep seated even as you clean the sticky bar top and turn the chairs upside down and lay them on the tables. You emerge from the back room a little after two-thirty with a black backpack shaped like a bat and a ruby leather jacket. “Last chance, casanova,” you say. “Got a guess yet?”

Tommy licks his lips. “I need a hint.”

“No hints. Time’s up. Guess.”

There’s the faintest smile on your face, and Tommy hopes that even if he guesses wrong you’ll take pity on him and give him something. He gives it his best shot; “Tequila?”

You don’t answer. Instead, you lift the shot glass to your mouth and swallow half of it. You slide it to him, and even though Tommy is more of a dark liquor person, he drinks the remaining liquid and cringes at the taste. “Should’ve followed your gut instinct,” you say.

Tommy hates vodka. Even more so now than he did the morning after prom. Still, he can’t help but laugh. “Oh, come on, darlin’,” he says. “I guessed it once. That’s gotta count for something.”

Through a soft laugh, you ask, “Why are you so determined? It’s just a game.”

Because he’s spent the last three and a half hours fantasizing about what a great lay you would be. Because he knows deep in his bones that you’d do some shit that’d make a man fall in love. Because he wants to unravel your pretty mystery and drink in that hypnotic poison. Because yes—it’s just a game, but Tommy Miller is no fucking loser. “I like to win.”

You let him walk you out, even let him walk you to your car at the back of the dark lot. Don’t you know how dangerous a situation this could be? All alone with him, beneath the cover of night…he isn’t a bad man, but something tells him you wouldn’t mind it even if he was. You say goodnight, and Tommy calls a cab and fights the urge to return to the bar the following night.

He waits until the weekend, like a normal person, despite the fact that he thinks of nothing but dyed hair and silver necklaces and fishnets and tongue piercings until then. He doesn’t carpool with Joel to work Friday morning, because he has every intention of staying at the bar and playing his hand until the early morning hours again.

But before he arrives, Tommy decides to turn his charm up a little. He stops at a local florist on the way and spends probably too much time deciding on which ones you’d like best. He settles on a half dozen roses whose color reminds him of that crimson stain on your lips but stops short at the checkout. Behind the counter, a bouquet of the very same roses is set in a half-empty vase—except the petals are dark and wilted. Tommy knows immediately that those are the ones he needs.

The florist raises her eyebrows in concern when he asks specifically for the dead ones, and Tommy promises he’ll pay full price for them if that’s what it takes.

He walks out of there with a bouquet of dead roses and sits on the same stool at the bar as last week. You’re serving someone across the room, a tray of margaritas in your hand. Tommy admires your long legs, thinks fishnets look even better on your thick thighs than beneath that one Misfits top. Your leather boots shine beneath the low lighting, and he has the sick desire to be crushed beneath them. When you finish serving the group of girls in the booth and turn back to the bar, his heart races in his chest.

You make him nervous, Tommy realizes. He wants to please you, wants you to like his gift, wants you to give him that pretty smile you always give everyone else. But when you set the tray behind the counter you don’t even look up at him before you start mixing another drink. Tommy thinks about how that makes him feel, how dissatisfied he is without your attention. But then you slide an Old Fashioned over the bar and give him something even better. “You miss me or something, casanova?”

Tommy hands you the dead roses and nods. “Like hell, vampire girl. You gonna let me take you out or what?”

You inhale the sickly sweet scent of the flowers, and when you look up at him through those dark lashes all the blood in Tommy’s head rushes straight to his dick. “You don’t wanna go out with a girl like me,” you say.

He folds his arms over one another and leans across the bar. “And why’s that?”

You laugh like God, Tommy thinks. And for a second he’s lost in the sound, the cluster of clinking glass and murmured voices fading into the background of his mind. But then you give him the sweetest, most innocent smile and say, “Because I’ll break your heart.”

“So?” The question is paired with a shrug, and it comes out of his mouth before he can stop it. But Tommy, once again, is more than willing to look like a fool to have you if only for a night. “C’mon, sweetheart. Give an old man a chance. I swear I’ll make it good for you.”

“Would you now?”

He nods once. “The best date you’ll ever have.”

“You don’t even know what I like to do outside of here,” you say. It’s a reasonable concern, and a true one. But he wants to know.

You snort and shake your head when he suggests playfully, “Picnic in the cemetery?”

“Right next to dear old grandma?”

“Be the first woman I ever bring home to meet the family, baby.”

Another man at the end of the bar snaps his fingers in the air to get your attention and Tommy suddenly feels like fighting. He doesn’t, though—and reminds himself when you giggle at someone else’s joke that you’re just working, just doing your job.

Friday’s are slower than Saturdays, it seems, and by midnight the only people left in the bar are you, Tommy, and a guy in a booth half passed out. You emerge from behind the bar with your backpack slung over your shoulder.

“I’m gonna step outside for a minute. Keep me company?”

It’s the most exciting thing he’s heard all night. Tommy jumps to his feet, the bar stool scraping noisily against the sticky floor. He lifts the partition up for you to walk through. “Ladies first.”

The midnight air is cool against his skin, and he notices as he leans against the siding of the bar that you smell like cherries. Cherries with poisoned pits. You pull a little metal box from your backpack, and Tommy watches you pull out a joint, place it between your lips, and light it. He watches you inhale deeply, watches you lick your lips, watches that metal barbell in your mouth like it’ll grant him his salvation.

Tommy can’t help himself. His words spill out of his mouth. “You are so pretty,” he says.

You laugh lightheartedly and turn those siren eyes on him again and he’s weak in the knees. He takes the joint when you offer it. Tommy hasn’t smoked weed since he was twenty-one, but the taste is nice, somehow earthy and fruity at the same time, and your eyes are searing him to the bone. “Thanks,” you say softly. “You’re pretty too.”

He chuckles and passes it back to you. “Well ain't you a peach,” he says. “If I’m so pretty why don’t you let me take you out?”

There’s a moment of hesitation before you answer. And for a split second, Tommy thinks you might actually give in to him. But then you ask, “Have you ever been with a girl like me, casanova?”

No, he hasn’t, and maybe that’s a part of the appeal. All he knows is that he wants to slip his fingers underneath your black tank top and fill up his hands with your softness. He flashes you an award-winning smile and answers, “First time for everything.”

A soft snort leaves your nose. “So, no, then,” you say, the smallest bit of disappointment laced through your tone. You take another long drag from the joint and smoke swirls around your pretty hair. “Probably couldn’t even handle it.”

His mouth falls open in mock astonishment. “And how do you figure that?”

“Call it intuition,” you say. “Or experience.” Tommy takes the joint from between your fingers and his lungs ache as he inhales. Your eyes stay there, right on his mouth, even as he slowly exhales and licks his lips.

It’s right then, as he watches your siren eyes darken, that he knows he’s made a dent in that black heart of yours. Or at the very least, he knows he’s making progress. The thought excites him so much he can’t hold back his smile. “You ain’t ever experienced me though, darlin',” he says.

“You’re persistent,” you say. “I’ll give you that.”

The weed is going straight to his head, creating an airiness in his limbs. Tommy asks playfully, “What’s it gonna take to convince you? A fancy date? Maybe dinner and a movie? Maybe we’ll take a day trip to San Antonio and visit that old school gothic cathedral they have down there. You ever seen it?”

“No,” you say with a shake of your head. “It sounds cool though. I’d probably like it.”

Tommy nudges you with his elbow. “Name the time and place and I’ll take you, vampire girl.”

“That wasn’t a yes,” you tease.

He hangs his head between his shoulders and quickly decides he’s not above a little groveling. “Come on,” he says. “Just one chance. What’s it gonna take? Name your price, baby. Want me to pick up some roadkill and set up a taxidermy date?” You let out a pretty laugh, and it feels like such a victory that he keeps going. “How about I build you a haunted house? A personal one all for you—I work in construction, you know. I could make it real nice. Ghost hunting? There’s an abandoned building just up the road, looks creepy as shit.”

You’re smiling so hard the apples of your cheeks are flushed the sweetest shade of pink. “That old apartment building? You wanna find the ghost of the maintenance man?”

Tommy shrugs. “Hey, if that’s what you wanna do, I’ll grab my wrenches for a summoning circle. Go all out for you,” he says. You shake your head, and he continues. “I mean, anything you want, I’ll do it. Sell my soul? Tell me where to sign. I gotta pen in my back pocket. You wanna drink my blood?” He pats the side of his neck, right above his jugular vein. You let out another laugh, and it brings so much joy to him that Tommy can’t help but laugh with you. “I’m all yours. Swear it. You want me to beg on my knees?”

“Now there’s an idea,” you say through your giggles.

And he knows it’s a joke, knows you’re not serious, and maybe it’s the weed making him feel so carefree and blithe but he fucking does it. In the front of the bar, where anyone could pull in and see him, Tommy Miller drops to his knees in front of you and places his warm, calloused hands on the back of your fishnet covered thighs. Your skin is so soft, he thinks, and he has to fight against the urge to lean forward and bite the supple flesh. Instead, he looks up at you through his lashes, noting the way your laughter stops and your breath stutters. And because his inhibition has been shattered by his need for you, he says lowly, “Is this what you want, sweetheart? You want me to beg for it?”

He watches your tongue dart out to wet your lips and swallows the low groan at the back of his throat. “Maybe,” you say, breathless.

Tommy leans forward, eyes never leaving yours, and presses a wet kiss to the soft flesh of your thigh. He can’t resist his smile when he feels goosebumps break out across your skin, and so he does it again. This time his lips are much greedier, much closer to the inside of your thighs, and he daringly decides to taste you. He can feel the rough edges of your fishnets across the flat of his tongue and wonders how he’s gone thirty years of his life without ever dating a goth girl, wonders how he’ll ever go back. He wonders how the fuck you’re so magnetic, how just existing this close to you makes his cock throb in his jeans.

His mouth nears the edge of your black denim shorts. Tommy expects you to stop him, expects you to laugh or shove him away. But you don’t. You instead slide pointy, black painted fingernails through the thick curls of his hair. Your touch is gentle, and lazy — such a contradiction to his desperate movements.

“Let me take you out,” he says. “I can make you feel so good, sweetheart.” And to prove his point, he does the one thing he’s wanted to this whole time; Tommy Miller softly bites the inside of your thigh, delighting in your sharp inhale. He kisses the sting away, tasting you again, taking your scent deep into his lungs. He wants to devour you, he thinks. He wants you to devour him. “Please,” he pleads, sliding his hands upwards to rest on the decadent curve of your ass.

Your hand in his hair tightens, pulling at the dark curls lightly. “Well, since you asked so nicely,” you say. There’s a too-long pause, and Tommy’s grinning like a hopeful idiot, and then you tilt your head and whisper, “No.”

He lets out an exasperated breath and presses his forehead against your abdomen. He can feel his cheeks warm from embarrassment, but then he looks up at you again and the mischievous glint in your pretty eyes makes the chagrin worth it. “Goddamn, girl,” he says. “You are mean.”

There’s no argument to be had from you, but your siren eyes stay fixed on him even as he stands from his knees and Tommy swears that dark desire still lingers in them. Especially when he straightens to his full height, towering over you, and places both palms against the brick wall of the bar. He cages you in, and you’re trapped, and more than ever before Tommy thinks he sees that demeanor falter. “Just a little bit,” you reply.

“Wanna know somethin’?” He leans his head down, presses a kiss into your hair, and says, “I can take it.”

You take your crimson stained lip between your teeth, biting so hard the matte color smudges the smallest bit. Tommy knows he’s getting to you, he can see it. But you still resist him and say with a shake of your head, “Break’s over.”

He lingers at the bar until close and asks one more time as he walks you to your car if you’ll go out with him. Still, you say no again and as he’s laying in bed that night, Tommy Miller decides to cut his losses. He still wants you — Christ he wants you, but he’s not willing to beg anymore. He’d done all he could do, and he doesn’t want to make your workday miserable. He doesn’t want to be one of those guys.

Still, when he comes back for a drink with Joel after work on Tuesday, he can’t hide his disappointment when he sees Frank standing behind the counter. They talk about you, though, when Joel tells Frank that Tommy ‘has it real bad for that scary chick.’

They go to a different bar that weekend instead of their usual. Tommy still has fun though, and chats up a pretty blonde girl who’s real nice to him. He doesn’t have to beg her on her knees, and it’s a nice change of pace. She even kisses him and moans into his mouth when he grabs a handful of her ass.

Except she’s got glossy pink lips, and her legs are bare beneath her white, pleated skirt, and Tommy wants the feel of fishnets in his hands. He wants the softness of your body, wants the warmth and the curves and the fucking chase. He wants to work for it.

She offers, but Tommy doesn’t go home with her. Instead, he sleeps alone in his bed. And the next night after work, he goes to see his very favorite bartender.

He walks in alone—Joel’s at home, helping Sarah with some art project—and it’s still early in the evening, but the bar is packed full of people. Tommy catches a glimpse of those fishnets that haunt his every thought, and watches you bend over to pick up straw wrappers from one of the booths. His usual seat at the bar is taken by some college kid, so Tommy sits at the very end.

Immediately, he can tell your nerves are shot. It must be overwhelming, he thinks, to be the only person working on a night like tonight. So when you walk past him, smelling of poisoned cherries, he snakes a hand out and wraps his fingers delicately around your wrist. You startle at first, but your whole body deflates when you see him. “Oh, thank God,” you say. “Come help me.”

Tommy doesn’t hesitate. He stands to his feet and lets you tug him back to a room with a padlock on it. While your fidgety fingers work in the code, he asks, “What’s the occasion?”

“Beginning of summer break,” you answer with a sigh. “And word got out about our new buy one get one deal on specialty drinks. It’s been busy all day.” The lock clicks and the door swings open. You flip the light switch and point to one of the three kegs beneath the shelves of sealed liquor bottles. “I can’t lift it,” you say. “And the one out there is empty.”

With a curt nod, he lifts the keg easily — it’s not any heavier than the steel beams he’s been carrying around at work. But he still sees the way your shoulders sag in relief, and tries his damndest to keep his eyes away from your low cut top. It’s a failed attempt, but Tommy thinks it’s gotta count for something. “Where d’you want it?”

The corners of your mouth turn up just slightly, and he can hear the innuendo on the tip of your tongue, but you never say it out loud. You just tilt your head, and Tommy follows you behind the bar to help you replace the empty keg. When he lifts up the partition to let himself through, you stop him with a hand around his bicep. “You’re staying a while, aren’t you?”

It hadn’t been the plan, truthfully. Tommy had just wanted one of those perfect Old Fashioned’s and to resign himself for the night. But your eyes are wide, and your dyed hair is pulled into a disheveled pointy tail, and the fishnets underneath your shorts have sequins on them, and you’re just too goddamn pretty. So he touches the tip of your nose and says, “Anything for you, vampire girl.”

Your answering smile is worth sitting in all this chaotic energy, Tommy thinks. It reaches those bright eyes made up with all that black and silver eyeshadow. “I’ll buy your drinks,” you say. “As payment.”

He nods, even though he pulls up the calculator on his phone to keep track of his drinks tonight and decides to put the cash into the tip jar the moment you’re not looking. Tommy settles into his stool and watches you flit around the room, watches you take orders and make fancy drinks and uncap beers. It’s so busy, but you’re juggling it all impeccably and he finds it admirable.

Somehow, even with the mass of people, you never fail to place another drink in front of him the moment he finishes one. You thank him way too many times, explain that having him here just in case is comforting, and Tommy’s glad to hear it. He keeps his comments and those dirty thoughts to himself, even though they push behind his teeth, sitting on the tip of his tongue. He and his whiskey and orange peel are perfectly content to sit in the corner and eye fuck the bartender, thank you very much.

He has to replace the keg one more time, it’s that busy, but he doesn’t mind it at all. Especially when you bend over to pick up a case of some hoppy IPA before he can grab the keg. There’s next to no room in the closet, and your ass is less than a hand’s width away from his jeans, and he has to close his fucking eyes. He wants to ogle you, goddamn does he want to—but Tommy Miller knows himself. Knows that if he starts looking, he’ll want to touch, and if he starts touching, he’ll want to fuck.

So he clenches his eyes shut tight and follows your orders. The night dies down slowly, and when you make the last call and start taking dishes to the back room, Tommy wipes the peanut shell dust from his fingers and holds his hand out to you.

At first, you stare at it, confused. And then when he points to the white rag in your hands you shake your head and say, “No. That’s like, illegal, isn’t it? Working for free?”

“It’s hardly free, darlin’. Give it here.” He reaches for it again and nearly loses his train of thought when you bite your bottom lip in contemplation.

But then you nod, and hand him the cotton towel, and watch him for just a moment as he turns and starts wiping down the empty tables. He creates a pile of watered down, half empty glasses on the bar, saving you an extra trip, and turns the chairs upside down when he’s finished. Everyone slowly filters out, and when you emerge from the back again the bar is empty save for Tommy and all your tables are bussed and clean.

He’s sitting at the bar, finishing his last drink, and your shoulders sag in relief that the night has finally, finally come to a close. He sits in silence as you count out the register and take the extra cash to the back room. When you start counting out your tips, you split it and push half to Tommy. “Here,” you say. “For all your help. I made more than I planned for, anyway.”

“I didn’t earn those,” he says, pushing it back toward you. “Keep it.” And he means it—he truly, truly does. Tommy would like to think he’d do it for just anyone, which is partially true. That southern charm is deeply rooted in him. But you’re…you, and apart from the fact that he wants to fuck your brains out, Tommy Miller also just straight up likes you. You’re funny, and kind hearted when you’re not putting on that mean-girl front. He can tell you’re good. And it makes him feel good, helping when he can.

But despite all that, he’s still Tommy fucking Miller. And he does, very much, want to fuck you. So he crosses his arms across the bar, leans in close and whispers, “You can repay me another way.”

A cute little snort leaves your nose, and you laugh and shake your head, but you don’t reject him. “Oh, yeah? And how’s that?”

“Guess,” he prods.

You narrow your eyes slightly, and Tommy can see the outline of that silver barbell pushing against the inside of your cheek. “A date?”

His mouth pops open in mock astonishment. “Oh, my my! I thought you’d never ask, sweetheart.” You’re laughing, and Tommy’s cheeks hurt from smiling so hard, and he wonders when the last time was when he felt excited about a date. A date with no promise of sex, just a simple, clean date. He takes your hands in his and presses a kiss to each of your knuckles. “Yes, of course I’ll go on a date with you, vampire girl.”

Your giggles die down, and the silence is comfortable but..heavy. He can tell something’s weighing on you, and he wants nothing more than to grant you ease.

“What is it, baby?”

Those pretty eyes of yours flicker down to his hands, calloused and rough and huge around yours. “Seriously,” you finally say. “Thank you for all your help. I don’t know what I would’ve done without it.”

He shrugs his shoulders. “No big deal,” he says. “Really. Should be a crime to not help a pretty girl in need.”

The corners of your lips turn up into a smirk, and he can see that you’re fighting it, but the joy is so plain on your face. You pull your hands from his and say, “Let me grab my bag. You can walk me to my car.”

Tommy nods once. “Yes ma’am.” He waits patiently for you to grab your things, and after you guys leave and you lock the door he tosses his arm around your shoulders. “You don’t work on Tuesday’s or somethin’?”

You stop in front of your car—black, and shiny, and he can see through the windshield that you have a glittering bat-shaped air freshener hung around the mirror. “You stalking me now, casanova?”

He shakes his head. “No. Just missed you is all,” he confesses. And it’s the truth, the god damn truth, and it’s so fucking weird for him to miss a girl he barely knows but here he is doing it anyway. It makes no sense that he’s had more fun watching you work than he did kissing that blonde girl last weekend. Tommy takes his arm from around your shoulder and gently takes your chin between his fingers instead, forcing you to look up at him. He notices the way your breath hitches, the way your pretty eyes are swallowed up by something dark. “That a crime?”

It’s a stark contrast, how different you look right now. All innocent and starry eyed and not at all mean. You look sweet, Tommy thinks. And he wonders if you taste that way, too. His mouth waters at the thought, and he runs his tongue along his teeth. “No,” you breathe, gaze following the movement. “N-no, just…”

“Just what? Hm?”

Your cheeks burn, and Tommy loves the pinkness against your skin, and he knows you have nothing to say. He knows you’re getting nervous. Eventually you exhale and say, “I don’t…know.”

Tommy likes that he makes you nervous. He likes you like this, all trembling fingers and honeyed eyes and sugary lips. But even more than that, he likes it when you look up at him through your lashes and softly, so fucking softly it’s barely audible, say, “You can kiss me if you want.”

He doesn’t waste a fucking second. He goes easy, at first. He presses his lips to yours firmly and discovers he’s right in his assumption of your saccharine. You taste a little like cherries and a little like moonlight and a little more like home. It reminds him of hot Texas nights under the stars, and being a little too drunk, and he kisses you deeper. Allows his tongue to swipe over your bottom lip, and you reward him with the sexiest little sound.

Your lips part for him, and Tommy is nothing if not a man starved for you, and so he drinks you in. That metal in your mouth feels even better against his tongue than he’d ever imagined. You’re so soft and his hands are on your hips and he can’t stop himself from squeezing the supple flesh, from pulling you closer, from pulling back for a wretched breath of air. “Goddamn, baby,” he grumbles, grinning from ear to ear, and then your mouth is on his neck, and his morals are somewhere on the floor.

Because he wants to do this right. For once in his life, Tommy Miller wants to take a girl out. He wants to do it real classy, too—wants to get to know you, wants to take you out to a nice dinner and tell you how beautiful you look in your fishnets, wants to take you to some uppity museum in San Antonio and show you fancy paintings and that gothic cathedral that made your eyes glitter when he mentioned it.

But your mouth is so hot, and your hands are tangled in the curls at the nape of his neck, clawing at him for reprieve. His heart is beating so fast. He swears it almost stops when the words tumble out of his mouth because he really, really does not want to ruin this. He sounds desperate because he is. “Can I touch you?”

“You are touching me,” you quip. He can feel you smile against his neck, and Tommy’s head falls back in frustration. You know that’s not what he means, but you don’t say no, and so he decides to show you.

Tommy hooks his arms around your thighs, grinning at the little gasp you make, the way you cling to him with all your might. He lays you back against the hood of your car and wraps his hand around your neck, and kisses you like he’ll never get another chance to.

And this time, you let out more than a whine. You’re moaning into his mouth, breathing fast, wrapping your legs around his waist, and pulling him in. It takes him by surprise, and Tommy laughs softly.

“Eager little thing, aren’t you?”

“No,” you immediately say, defiant. “I just know what I want.”

His heart hammers behind his ribcage. He wants to keep hearing your voice, wants to ingrain the sound of it into his skin like a tattoo. “Tell me, baby.”

The low flickering of street lights illuminates your face just enough for him to see the deep, dark flush of your cheeks. So dark it nearly matches that crimson color on your lips.

When he realizes what’s happening, Tommy shakes his head. “Nah,” he says. “Don’t go all shy on me now, vampire girl. After all that talk?” He clicks his tongue and leans in close. His breath is warm against the shell of your ear. “Now, I know you can use the word no. I know you’re real good at it, too. You gonna say it now, baby?”

Despite the way his cock throbs in his jeans, pressed against your thigh, Tommy hopes you know he’s not one of those guys. He won’t do anything you don’t want him to do. He won’t even make you feel guilty for saying no, if that’s what you choose.

And when you open your mouth to speak, he half expects some smart remark to come out. Something like in your dreams or you wish. But your words are breathy and your siren eyes are wide as you whisper, “Touch me.”

His fingers curl around your neck—not squeezing, though. Tommy’s real gentle with you. “I am touching you,” he parrots.

And then you fucking beg. Literally, beg, and Tommy Miller feels like a teenage boy about to cum in his fucking pants at nothing but the word, “Please,” in your mouth.

He inhales a shaky breath, willing himself to calm the fuck down. This isn’t about him, he thinks. This is about you. It’s about showing you just how much he likes you, about proving himself a man worthy enough to touch you. And Tommy’s not sure if he is, not yet anyway, but he knows he can make you feel good.

The metal of your silver necklaces are cool against his palm. He moves his hand down your sternum slowly, over the curve of your breast, and stops just below the end of your cropped shirt. It’s black, of course, and modified—cut to shreds, really, only covering the most intimate parts of you. The fabric is soft and billowy and a size too large. He’s thankful for the extra room, though, because it makes it a little too easy to slip his hand beneath the curled edge and shove it over your breasts.

Your bra is black too, made of silky lace. Tommy takes one of your breasts in his hand, and it spills out between his fingers, and he silently confesses to himself that, yeah—he’s definitely not an ass man anymore. He leans down and presses a wet, open mouthed kiss to the flesh, and he can feel your nipple harden through the sheer lace. He hooks his thumbs beneath the band around your ribcage and pushes that up too, to join your top.

And bared to him, you’re even more beautiful than he imagined. And he tells you as much. “Such a pretty little thing,” he murmurs against your skin. Tommy holds both of your tits in his hands now, and slides his thumb over one nipple while he surges forward and takes the other into his mouth.

A shudder leaves you, and your hands fist themselves in his hair. He can feel your heartbeat against his fingertips, pace picking up when he swirls his tongue around the hardened peak. And when he bites down gently, you let out a gasp and push your hips up against his.

You don’t utter a word, but Tommy thinks suddenly he has you all figured out.

He kisses a trail to your other breast, spreading his spit lingering on the first with the pad of his thumb. He’s rougher this time, sucking harder, scraping his teeth against the sensitive skin.

“Oh, God,” you moan, fingernails scratching at his scalp. “You’re so…”

The words go unfinished, because he presses a hand to the seam of your shorts and all the breath seems to leave your lungs. All the thoughts seem to leave your brain, even—and Tommy thinks you look real fucking cute right now. “So what, baby? Hm?”

You’re shivering, wiggling your hips to generate some kind of friction, but Tommy doesn’t give it.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Use those words of yours. I know you can.”

“Surprising,” you admit. But he takes it as a good kind of surprise because you're pretty putty in his hands.

Tommy undoes the button of your denim shorts. He hooks one arm around your hips and jerks you down the hood of your car. “This what you want, pretty girl? Don’t want me to ask for it. You want me to take it. S’that it?”

You don’t answer, but he knows. He knows. Tommy unzips your shorts real slow. And he’s a little surprised to see that beneath all that black exterior, you’ve got baby pink panties on. Not crimson, not seductress red—pink. And they’re the sweetest things he’s ever seen. He trails his fingers along the edge and watches you squirm. “Please,” you say, begging again. Begging for him. “Touch me. I need you t-to, right now. Please.”

He slips his hand beneath your shorts, beneath your fishnet stockings and the pink cotton. And what he finds surprises him. “Aw,” he cooes, pressing a kiss to your collarbone. “Guess you really do need me, huh? You’re so wet, baby.” He runs the tip of his middle finger through your slit, exploring you, memorizing, gathering your slick and bringing it upwards. When he circles your clit, he laughs at the way your back arches off the hood of the car.

“Oh, fuck—yes,” you tell him. “Right there.”

Tommy presses harder, begins to move his fingertip faster. “Here, baby?”

You’re nodding, eyes squeezed shut. “Yes, fuck, yes yes—mmh.”

He closes his mouth around your nipple again, using his free hand to keep your legs spread as far apart as possible. When he snakes his finger down and presses it into your sweet pussy, it takes a significant amount of strength to keep your legs open. You fight him, and your moans echo in the empty parking lot. Tommy is only vaguely aware of the passing cars on the freeway, and finds himself thankful you parked in the back of the open space. “Feels good, hm?”

“So fucking—mm—so fucking good,” you say. The praise is enough to convince him to slide another finger in, and it’s met with a pretty moan of approval.

His cock has never been this hard, Tommy thinks. It’s pressed against your thigh still, and every one of your little movements makes it worse. It makes him near delirious. He wants to bury himself inside of you but knows to save it for later. When he knows more about you, when he knows what it looks like when you cum. He’s got his fingers hooked upwards, caressing that sweet, soft spot, and his pace is unforgiving. He wishes your shorts weren’t in the way, but he does what he can with the clearance you’ve granted him. “Dirty little thing,” he says. “Wanna be touched so bad you spread your legs out in the open.”

Your nails are sharp, leaving indentations at the back of his neck. It only spurs him on more, that little bit of agony. “Don’t stop,” you tell him. “Don’t stop, please—yes—oh God.”

Tommy presses his thumb against your clit, sliding it through your dripping pussy with each rough thrust of his fingers. He can feel you squeezing around them, sucking him in even deeper. “There you go, baby,” he says, pressing a gentle kiss to your jaw. “You gonna cum for me? Hm? Pussy’s so fuckin’ wet.”

When your legs start to tremble, Tommy keeps his pace steady. He wants to tip you over that edge, wants to see the way you look when he makes you feel this fucking good. He leans back, breath coming fast, and admires how absolutely fucked out your look. Mouth hanging open, moaning his name, brows knitted together in concentration. Your hands bury themselves in his flannel, desperate for a tether to keep you grounded. Tommy grins, hand on your thigh leaving to instead wrap around your neck.

“Such a pretty girl,” he says through his smile. “You look so good when you fuckin’ behave, sweetheart.”

Your back arches off the hood of the car and your knuckles turn white in his shirt. “Oh, fuck—I’m gonna—”

“I know, I know. Cum for me, baby. Cum all over my fingers—yeah, just like that.” Wetness flood between your legs, filling his palm, and it’s so fucking hot that Tommy moans in response. “Yeah, there you go,” he says, cock throbbing in his jeans. “Good girl, such a good fuckin girl, baby.”

It’s even better than he imagined; you look ethereal. He traces the arch of your body with his hand around your neck, moving it down the slope between your breasts, between your ribs, down to your hips. You fit so perfectly in his hands he starts to wonder if you were tailor-made for them.

When your fingers loosen and fall away from his flannel and your breaths begin to slow, only then does he slip his fingers out of you. He caresses your pusy in his hand, chuckling darkly when he slides over your clit and you let out a sharp gasp, thighs clamping closed around his hips at the sensitivity. When he finally pulls his hand from your denim shorts, his fingers come away glossy and covered in your slick.

Tommy locks eyes with you, raises his hand to his mouth and moans as the heady taste blossoms across his tongue. “Mmm. Better than bourbon,” he says through a low laugh. He licks his fingers clean, and you watch with rapt attention.

He takes a step back, adjusts himself, and holds his hand out for you to take. You let him pull you upwards, off the hood of the car, and he can feel your siren eyes on him as he pulls your bra and t-shirt back into place and buttons your jeans. Your legs are still shaking the smallest bit, and it feels like a victory. “Uhm…thanks. Again,” you say.

A smirk tugs at his mouth. “Turn around,” he orders. He’s a little surprised with how quickly you obey, as if any defiance that once existed within you had been snuffed out the moment he existed within you. Tommy watches your shoulders shake with anticipation, but all he does is pull your cell phone from your back pocket.

He calls himself, saves your phone number under 🦇🖤Vampire Girl🖤🦇, and tucks the device back into your pocket.

“Tuesday at ten,” he says, gathering your hair in one hand and laying it over your shoulder. He leans down, lips less than an inch from your throat. “Let me know where to pick you up.”

You nod softly. “Uhm, I—uh…yeah. Yeah, okay. I’ll see you Tuesday.”

Tommy kisses your jaw and leaves without another word, feeling like a goddamn king.

[PART TWO]

[masterlist]

#ao3 fanfic #pearlessance #ao3 writer #joel tlou #tommy tlou #tommy miller #tommy miller x you #the last of us hbo #tlou fanfiction #tommy miller smut #smut #x reader #reader insert #bd/sm switch

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impala-dreamer · 6 months

Text

Who We're Pretending To Be

A Story from the YOU Universe

~Joe finds himself getting too close to one of his grad students and he fights the urge to fall completely.~

Joe Goldberg (Jonathan Moore) x F!Reader

5,019 Words

Warnings: NSFW.

A/N: If you've not seen the Netflix show YOU, this may not be your thing. Still a great story, but it helps to know the show. Also, if you've not seen the show, I suggest you get right on that because it is AMAZING.

Set between Seasons 3 & 4. Slight spoilers for s4, but not really.

Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist ~ Patreon ~ Published Works

The classroom seems cold today, like there’s something missing. It’s distracting. I can’t quite put my finger on what’s off, but there’s a charge in the air like something’s about to happen; as if lightning could strike at any second.

I don’t mean proverbial lightning, as none of my students seem to have grasped any of the contextual undertones of the book we’re discussing, but actual, live lightning. If I opened the windows behind my desk just a crack, a bolt would sneak through and bury itself in the base of my skull. Maybe that’s what I need- a jolt of electricity, something to break me out of this fog that crept up around me and climbs forever higher threatening to suffocate me.

I think I’d take the lightning to the skull over suffocation, but we don’t always get what we want.

I’m perched on the edge of the desk when the door opens and Y/N comes rushing in.

Suddenly, all of my attention is on her.

She’s never late. Never rushing, always at least ten minutes early for every appointment, every class. She seems- off today, as well. Perhaps she can feel the imminent lightning strike as well. Wouldn’t that be funny? I find a kindred amongst these idiot grad students who can’t even seem to end this horrid debate.

“I am so sorry, Professor Moore.”

Y/N’s voice cracks a bit, which in itself isn’t very unusual. She’s one of the quieter students I’ve encountered, and the only American in my current circle of acquaintances. Her accent is faint, as if she’s attempting to hide it from her schoolmates. She’s been here a while, I can infer; sprinkling in local slang and adding letters to words where back home there would be none. She’s trying hard to fit in, but why? Why not be herself?

“I got held up by-”

I hold up my hand and smile softly. “It’s fine, Y/N. Please take a seat and try to catch up.”

For fuck’s sake, she’s only twenty minutes late, but it looks like every second has weighed her down like lead.

The others pick up their debate and I sit back a bit, cross my arms, pretend to listen. This teaching thing isn’t as hard as everyone makes it out to be. Occasionally, I toss out an idea and let them run with it. Sometimes, I pay attention, mostly I don’t. Mostly I’m thinking of You. Of how beautiful You looked at that art show, of how You gasped when you saw me like You couldn’t decide if You wanted to run to me or away.

From the corner of my eye, I see Y/N timidly raise her hand and You are temporarily pushed aside. She keeps her hand up but close to her chest, as if the very act of asking to speak is somehow terrifying.

How can someone so brave be so terrified to do something as common as speak in class? She’s clearly not a scared person by nature- she moved across an ocean to attend university when she could have gone for free back home to whatever state college she decided to attend. I’ve peeked at her transcripts- she’s smart. Not win a genius grant or a full ride smart, but smart. Why is she so nervous?

I smile and a bit of her nerves seem to quell. Her shoulders relax an inch and she smiles back.

“You know you don’t have to raise your hand, Y/N,” I tell her, laughing gently to put her at ease.

She dips her chin and then looks up with the most beautiful gaze I have ever seen. Her lashes flutter upwards in slow motion, the darkness of her pupils expand, pushing nearly every fleck of color away except the gemlike glow cast by the stained glass window over my head. She smiles and her lips shine like glass. Soft, pink, beautiful glass. I can’t look away and yet I absolutely have to. Thankfully, she speaks and I can act like I’m moving away to sit in my chair and not to get away from her.

“Sorry,” she says, sweet voice sweeping over the room. “I just didn’t want to jump in because I was late but-”

“But you have something to add,” I finish for her.

Her eyes float back to me and the atmosphere shifts. The foreboding of a lighting strike vanishes and the room seems to warm up. Quickly, I sit and scoot the chair close to the desk, set my elbows on the top, clasp my hands near my lips. I can’t stop staring at her.

She nods. “Yes. If that’s alright.”

There it is again, the tiniest speck of British on her tongue. How long has she been living here, and why? It can’t just be for school. She’s too interesting for that. She dresses to blend in; muted colors and clean jeans, her hair always swept back, face free of plastering makeup or too much color. There’s only ever that pink gloss and a gentle brush of mascara. It’s as if she doesn't know how beautiful she is, or perhaps, she doesn’t care.

Or was she one of those kids who never really got any attention until they blossomed but by then it was too late to fit into their personality?

She chews her lip nervously and shyly looks away from me.

No, she knows. She knows how beautiful she is, she just isn’t one to flaunt it; doesn’t need the attention. Or is that how she draws them in?

She’s already talking, but I can’t hear a thing she’s saying. I can hear her voice, that honey like glaze she adds to things when she’s speaking passionately, but the actual words, the meaning- I can’t follow a damned thing. I’m too busy trying to figure her out.

You flash through my mind for a moment; a sweet memory of a smile in the library when You didn’t think I was looking.

What is it about a smile that says so much without words? Does it show who we really are or who we’re pretending to be?

“I just think that love shouldn’t be so easily condemned.”

Y/N’s comment breaks through my thoughts of You and I clear my throat, straighten up in my chair, focus.

Across the room, Nadia rolls her eyes, clearly disagreeing with Y/N’s interpretation. “This isn’t love, it’s obsession. The two can’t and shouldn’t be intertwined.”

Y/N bites her bottom lip and shakes her head.

What does that lip gloss taste like? Berries, perhaps… No. Stop it. Focus.

“I disagree.” Y/N sits forward and tucks her hands below the table. “Love is obsession. Obsession is love. It’s not a tautology, no, but you can have one with the other. If you’re not even a little obsessed with the person you love, is it really love at all?”

My mind is zinging, my ears ringing. Does she truly believe that, or is it all for the sake of debating Nadia? They’ve been at war most of the semester, but this seems truthful, deep.

The bell rings before I can recenter and add anything. I give my head a little shake and stand up, the chair rolling back behind me.

“Class dismissed. Great job today. Lively, wonderful discourse.” I fake a smile at the rest and then settle on Y/N.

She’s taking her time, hanging back as she gathers her things. She stuffs a notebook into her bag and the pen she’s been using rolls away from her.

“Crap.” She lunges across the table for it, but it’s too close to the edge, too far from her reach.

I drop down at the last second and save it from a dusty fate of rolling across the floor. “Gotcha.”

She’s staring when I stand up. Our eyes meet and she doesn’t shy away, but looks even deeper somehow. A smile lifts her cheeks and my pulse quickens.

No.

She holds out her hand and there’s a fleeting second when I want to trace my fingers across her palm, feel how soft and warm she is, but no. I toss her the pen and turn, trying to get her out of my head.

I have more important things to do than become a tired cliche. Some professor falling for a student. It’s an outrageous thought, and besides, I don’t need Y/N, I have You.

I hear the zipper close and a chair being pushed in. She’s leaving.

She lingers in the door and turns back to me with a sweet smile. “Have a good weekend, Professor.”

Her tone is so genuine, so kind that it nearly knocks me backwards. I can’t remember the last time anyone has truly wished me a good time. It’s such an overused pleasantry, so common and boring, but not when she says it. Not when she smiles at me like that, with her eyes still and focused on me.

The warmth spreading through me is real as well and I can’t seem to push it away. “Thank you,” I managed, barely able to stand let alone return the sentiment. “You too.”

The rest of the day goes by quickly but it feels like forever. Two more classes, two more groups of students droning on about what the author really meant, when none of them, not a single one seems to be able to read between the fucking lines. None of them can step back and see the whole picture, capture the meaning as a universe unto itself and not just a line in black and white on an otherwise blank page.

Y/N could read between the lines. Y/N would understand the sum of it all. She would get it.

Stop. Thinking. About. Her.

On my walk home, I think about You. Wondering what You’re up to, where You are tonight. The sun is setting, dragging the sky down into a deep pink and I wonder if You are seeing the same colors where You are. Someday, we’ll sit together on an island in the Pacific and see what that sunset looks like. Would You paint it for me, I wonder…

Y/N crosses my mind for a moment as I gaze at the light reflecting off a window as I pass. Would the sunset hit her shining lip gloss in the same way? Would the pink deepen with the sky? Would she smile if she caught me staring, back away if I leaned in to drag my thumb across her juicy, pink bottom lip?

No.

Darkness has settled and I haven’t moved to turn on a lamp. I’m stuck, glued to my sofa, my hands nailed to my thighs. I keep my eyes open for fear of seeing her face, but bouncing around the room looking for a distraction is only giving me a headache. I need to get out. I need something to do. I need-

A knock at the door.

Who would be knocking at my door at nearly ten o’clock at night?

Curiosity pulls me off of the couch and I switch on the lights as I head to the door. The peephole is clouded as fuck, but I can see her outline. My stomach tightens, my shoulders tense.

What is she doing here?

Her hand raises to knock again, but I unlatch the door before her knuckles hand. I find her dangling in the air, her startled face the most appealing thing I’ve seen in ages. Her eyes go wide, her jaw drops just enough to give me a peek at her tongue. Quickly, she rights herself and shies her gaze away. She chews her lip and I notice the pink gloss is gone, replaced by a deeper red.

Everything about her is different tonight. Her hair is down and fresh, her eyes are lined in black and the color blended above brings out the prisms in her eyes. Her clothes are strange as well: a short skirt, tall boots, a blouse that’s too tight to hide anything. There’s a gold string around her throat, something old, a gift perhaps from a dead relative, or a chance find at an antique shop. She would like diving through boxes of discarded wares looking for treasures, wouldn’t she?

Or maybe I’m just distracted by her appearance. Maybe I should stop trying to pick her apart and send her far, far away.

I’m not that man anymore. I’ve changed. I’m good. I have to be good for You.

It’s been too long since either of us has said anything and the fact of it is hanging in the air between us like some kind of glowing, awkward sign.

Thankfully, she speaks.

“Um… Hi.”

It isn’t much, but it breaks the painful silence.

I smile, confused but curious. My ultimate downfall.

“Y/N. What are you doing here?”

I should say something about it being inappropriate, something about contacting me only during office hours, but she knows. That’s not why she’s here. I can see it in her eyes.

Her hands are tucked behind her back, I notice. She’s holding something, not just shoving her tits in my face, although, I can’t say that I mind. She sees that I’m looking and turns to the side a bit to hide it more.

She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, calming herself, steeling her nerves. Why is she so nervous? What secret is she hiding? What plan has been brewing all day in her head?

That’s it, isn’t it? She was late this morning, distracted and timid because she was planning to come here.

I should be flattered, but I’m too intrigued by her boldness as she slides past me into my flat.

“I know this is highly inappropriate,” she says, the confession like a song on her lips. “But… I… Well…”

Her nose scrunches up in the most adorable way while she searches for the right words. It’s endearing and makes me want to sit for hours and listen to her talk, discover exactly who she is and why.

I’m still standing in the open doorway, I realize, so I move aside and let it close. My back presses into the door and I hold my tongue, letting her get to the point.

She’s struggling, dancing around it in her head.

I want to crack open her skull and watch the thoughts spark through the gray matter like shooting stars.

“If you’re worried you’ll get in trouble,” I say, trying to get things moving, “you won’t. I’m just wondering why you’re here and how it is that you know where I live.”

She laughs and digs her tooth into the corner of her lip. “I’m not… stalking you or anything, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

I almost laugh. Almost.

“Nothing that nefarious,” she goes on. “But I did do something bad.”

The nerves seem to fall away from her the more she speaks and her demeanor changes. Her voice deepens ever so slightly and her hip pops to the side as she looks me over. Is she… flirting with me?

“I doubt you’ve done anything newsworthy, Miss Y/L/N…”

She takes a step forward and her lips pucker gently.

She is flirting with me.

“I hope not,” she says with a little laugh. “You see, I work part time in the admin office…”

I didn’t know that. I don’t know a lot about her. So many things to uncover, so many artifacts to dust off and examine.

“OK…” I push off from the door and take a step towards her. She counters, stepping backwards, guiding me to follow.

“And, well, I accidentally was looking at your files and-”

“Accidentally?”

She presses her tongue between her front teeth and smiles, eyes falling across my face. “Accidentally on purpose,” she clarifies. “I was… curious.”

“About me?”

Another step closer but she doesn’t move this time, letting me close the space between us by a few forbidden inches.

She sighs sweetly. “A little, yes.”

I dip my chin and look up, lifting my brows in question. She pulls in a quick breath, clearly enjoying the look I’ve given her.

“OK, maybe a little more than a little.”

One more step and I’m closer than I’ve ever really been to her, except just now when she invited herself in. I take a breath and she smells warm like vanilla, sweet like honey. The fantasy of berries on her lips falls away and I suddenly want to bury my face in the crook of her neck and do nothing but breathe in her scent, feel it invade my senses, infect my bloodstream.

Her chest heaves with a heavy breath and her eyes grow a little darker. She wants me.

“Maybe a lot curious,” she whispers, lifting her chin and blinking slowly.

Is she daring me to kiss her? Can she feel the lightning between us? Dare I?

No. She’s a student. She’s off limits. She’s not… You.

She must notice my hesitation and steps back a pace. She clears her throat. “Anyway. I saw that it was your birthday today.”

It’s not my birthday. Not my real birthday, anyway, just the one on the fake passport with the fake name and real photo.

I smile because I have to. “It is.”

Whatever she’s hiding behind her back shifts between her hands. “And, well, it’s presumptuous of me but I’ve never heard you talk much about friends or family and… you don’t wear a… ring. I just… Well, I know how hard it is to be a world away from what you know, and this city isn’t exactly kind in general, so…”

She’s rambling and I don’t ever want her to stop. Her voice ebbs and flows over me like a sultry tsunami and I can feel my fingers twitch, my blood rush through my system faster and faster.

“I just don’t think anyone should be alone or forgotten on their birthday so-” Finally, she reveals the mystery behind her back and holds out a green glass bottle. “I took a chance that you were a scotch man. At first I thought wine, but I know nothing about wine, and the guy at the shop said this one was good, so… Happy birthday, Professor.”

She hands me the bottle and without thinking, I take it. It’s not expensive by any means, but it’s the gesture that counts. She doesn’t let go right away, holding it with me, as if she can communicate her desires through the blown glass.

“Thank you.” I smile, let my finger brush against hers. “This is… very thoughtful.”

She lets go but doesn’t move otherwise. Her eyes are locked on me, her stare so pure.

I have to get her out of here.

Y/N shrugs and smiles, so confident now, so sure. “It’s nothing, really. I don’t even know if it’s any good.”

Her meaning lingers and I nod, gesture to the sofa as I start to peel off the seal on the top of the bottle.

“Join me for a glass?”

She bites her lip again and I nearly lose it.

“Love to.”

The scotch isn’t terrible but it’s not great. More like something you’d grab if you were just looking to get drunk, not necessarily gift someone you’re trying to impress.

Is that what she’s doing here? Trying to get me drunk? Surely, she knows she’s impressed me long before today. The looks between us in class, the lectures directed almost entirely at her have not gone unnoticed, but this, this is different. This is dangerous. She is dangerous.

The sofa suddenly feels too small. We sit close, drinking and chatting about life in London. She tells me about her family back home and how she had to cross an ocean to escape a misspent youth and an abusive father figure. I lie my way through a few answers but mostly, I let her talk.

The more she drinks, the looser her tongue gets, the freer her gestures. More than once, her hand falls to my knee and even though I should, I don’t push her away. Even though I should stand up, take her glass, ask her to get the hell out of my house, I can’t. I can’t do anything but stare at her lips as she speaks, drown myself in the tone of her voice, memorize the shape of her ears, her nose, slope of her shoulder. I’m lost in time with her and even though I know the clock is careening past midnight, I don’t care. I don’t want her to leave. I don’t want her to move. I want to be frozen in this moment with her. I want to die in her arms but not before…

“Professor?” She laughs gently, loose and relaxed from the alcohol. She leans in, her shoulder pressing against mine. “Are you even listening to me?”

Honestly, I have no idea what she’s been saying, but I can’t let her know that. I shift a bit, turning towards her. There’s barely room left for the Holy Ghost, as they say, but I doubt he’d begrudge me a little closeness, especially on my- on Jonathan’s birthday.

“I’m listening,” I whisper, captivated by the way she’s glowing. “I’m always listening to you.”

She squirms a bit and smiles behind her glass, takes another sip, downing the rest. There’s a drop of amber gold on her lip and it takes every ounce of restraint in me not to sweep it away with my tongue.

She pats the back of her hand against it and the moment is gone.

“Ya know, you’re one of the best teachers I’ve ever had. And I’m not just sayin’ that. You really are. I get you. I see you, Jonathan Moore. I see inside you.”

She slurs a bit, but not enough for it to be considered a crime if I touch her. That’s all I want to do, just a simple touch. Just to feel how soft she is beneath my fingers, how smooth the curve of her cheek.

Ripping myself away from the impulse, I take the glass from her hand and set hers next to mine on the coffee table. “I think you’ve had enough, Miss. Y/L/N.”

Her hand lands on my chest, right in the very center of me. Can she feel my heartbeat? Does she know how much I want her?

“You can call me by my name, ya know,” she says, dropping her chin and smiling. She’s so close that it would take but a tiny nudge to taste her. “Everyone just calls me Y/N/N.”

This is insane. She needs to leave. I need to slam the door behind her and never open it again.

“Y/N/N.”

Her name falls from my tongue like an incantation and her eyes go hazy. She leans closer, her breath fanning over my lips.

“Say it again,” she asks, nearly begging, “please…”

Fuck, this isn’t good. I can’t do this. I shouldn’t do this. I need to- Fuck, what does it all matter? She’s beautiful and interesting and smart and sitting next to me barely dressed and all she wants is me to whisper her name. What’s the harm?

“Y/N/N.”

The spell falls over her and I know it’s too late to back away. Her eyes fall closed and she leans in, pressing her crimson painted lips to mine. She exhales, pushes herself into the kiss, lets out a tiny moan.

She feels so good and it’s all I can think about. She pulls back and I lean in, needing more. My arms wrap around her, stealing her away. She melts against me, opens her lips to my tongue. The vanilla on her skin mixes with the scotch on her tongue and I’m blown away.

“Professor…”

If feels wrong, so fucking wrong, but I can’t stop tasting her, can’t stop breathing into her with every ounce of air in my body.

I let her go for a second, thinking she’s changed her mind, but no, she’s even more ready than I am.

She stands up, fits her knees in between mine and slowly unbuttons her blouse.

My eyes are huge, I know it. I must look like an idiot but I can’t help it. She’s here, beautiful and curvaceous, teasing me, undressing for me. It’s all for me. She’s here for me.

The blouse floats to the floor and she looks down at me, a hint of previous nerves returning. Her bra is pale pink and covered in lace. Something so pure and innocent covering up something I would kill for.

I would, I realize. I would kill for her.

She wiggles out of her skirt and her hips are distracting. I want to touch, to feel my bones crushing into hers, to sink myself deep inside just to see what it’s like, to know her, to feel all of her.

“You like?” she asks, innocence ringing in her soft voice.

What happened in her past that would make her ask such a thing? Who hurt her so badly, who crushed her self esteem to the point that she wouldn’t be able to tell if I was enjoying her delicious display?

“Of course. You’re… absolutely stunning.”

I can’t say more or I’ll break. I reach for her and she slides into my lap, locking her thighs around mine. She presses down on me and my cock responds, all blood and logic rushing down to push back at her ass.

She wraps her hands around my neck and bends to kiss me. Her fingers tangle in my hair, she curls them, tugs gently, testing, enjoying. Her kisses deepen and her hips roll. I’m about to lose my mind.

“I’ve wanted to do this since the first day of class,” she moans, scraping her nails across my scalp.

The sensation is intoxicating and my eyes roll back a bit as she tugs hard. Her right hand is locked in my hair and her left is dragging down my chest. I should stop her. I should stand up. I should…

“Fuck.”

Her hand sneaks into my slacks and she scoots back onto my knees for better access. I can’t even think straight as she rubs at my cock. Her hand is soft, warm, firm. I know I’m moaning, but I can’t help it. I might just die here beneath her.

Her tongue glides across my lips. “So hard to sit in class and not dream about fucking you…”

Something snaps inside of me and I let go. I grab at her tits, peel the delicate lace down and pinch her nipples hard until she’s crying out and arching against me.

“I can’t even read anymore,” she admits, nearly breathless as my lips seal around her left nipple. “Every page makes me think of you. I can hear every word in your voice. I- oh God-”

I bite down just enough to stop her train of thought and I look up to see a blank, beautiful stare.

“I want you,” she whispers, lips never quite closing after.

Fuck. This is what I was trying to avoid. This feeling, this hunger inside of me. This need to fall into someone else, this treacherous lust that forces me to act.

“Please…”

Her hand falls to the nape of my neck and it’s so delicate, so tender that I break.

Wrapping my arms around her, I stand and twist, flipping her over onto her back. She gasps and reaches for me, kissing through the shock while I tug the slacks from my hips. She yanks at my shirt, fumbling with the tiny plastic buttons, licking at every new inch of exposed flesh.

“Want you inside me so bad,” she sings, nearly praying as if I’m some ancient god on high that can make all her dreams come true.

I don’t know about all of them, but this prayer, I can answer.

I tear the lace from her hips and fall down over her, crushing her into the old sofa. Her breath stops for a blessed second and I swear I can hear her heart racing through the silence. She runs her hands across my shoulders and down, curling them around my hips while spreading her legs wider.

“Please… Please… Please…”

Her whine is pathetic but I can’t get enough. If I had it in me to drag this out, to tease her for hours, I would, but the scotch has clouded my head and the sight of her strung out and desperate makes it impossible to wait.

She inhales hard when I sink into her. I can feel myself falling but I press my hands beside her head and hold on as best I can.

She feels like heaven.

Or the closest thing to heaven I’ll ever know.

Wet and warm and tight, I can feel her throbbing around me. Every thrust is like magic, making her shiver and squirm and tighten up even more. She clings to me, nails digging into my arms, mouth searching and thirsty for more.

“Jon-”

I almost go insane. It’s not even my name, but it feels so right on her lips that I wish it was.

I feel her orgasm; her body clenching down on me and pulling me in deeper. It’s so hard not to scream her name at the top of my lungs. Nearly impossible not to stay here forever.

I fall down, shove my face into the crook of her neck and thrust a few more times. I know it’s over too soon, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

She rakes her hand through my hair, gently this time, and finds my lips, kissing me sweetly.

“Hi,” she laughs when our eyes finally focus and find each other through the afterglow.

God, she’s beautiful. So giving, so loving, so perfect in a million different ways that it’s actually breaking my heart.

I smile and peck her lips as I go soft inside of her.

“Hello, You.”

2024 Forever Tags (Always Open! Send an Ask!)

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eatmeandbirthmeagain · 4 months

Note

Other fanfic idea : a girl goes to the church where king Baldwin is buried and she somehow finds something that takes her immediately to medieval Jerusalem , you make the rest ❤️

♡ A Ripple In Time - King Baldwin x Time Travler Reader ♡

♡ Fluff ♡

A/N: Hello Anon, thank you for the request. I hope you like this and its what you had in mind! Sorry for the abrupt ending, I just didn't want to make this really long and boring haha. As always, this is based on the film Kingdom Of Heaven, not the real historical figgures. Enjoy!

TW: Leprosy

“Hey, young lady! keep up with the group! We don't want you getting left behind” the tour guide called out. Y/n looked up at her group who had already started moving away from where she stood. ‘“Sorry sir” she called out, catching up to them as they began moving into the church.

“Alright everyone listen up!” the tour guide spoke as they came to a stop. “This church is not only an ancient monument, but it's also the final resting place of King Baldwin the fourth of Jerusalem. This man is a well renowned historical figure, not just for being a ruler, but also for his strength in continuing to win many battles, despite being diagnosed with leprosy at the young age of nine”. The tour guide explained. “Just over there, is his tomb. Now, tours aren't allowed in there, workers only. So we will keep moving on to one more spot, then grab some lunch if you guys are hungry” he continued.

Y/n was displeased by this. She needed to enter that room. That was the only reason she took this stupid college ancient history class in the first place. A full two years of begrudgingly passing exams and engaging in conversations with the idiots who also took the class, just for this?

She needed to enter into that room.

Y/n was a physics student. She was gifted with intelligence from a young age and had found her passion in the language of the universe. Mathematics. She was determined to find out all there was to know about its secrets. Including time travel.

She knew about the layers of the atmosphere and how there were ten that humans know of. The third layer was the three dimensional reality that humans exist in. She knew that anyone with access to the fourth dimension, had access to the fifth dimension. And if you had access to the fifth dimension, you could travel through time. Even bend it to your will if you wished.

After a major scientific breakthrough earlier in the year upon the discovery of the fourth dimension and the creation of a device that pressed atoms together so hard that it created a tear in time itself, she was ready.

She had not told anybody about this and attended the college class trip to Jerusalem, thinking it was a perfect opportunity for a proper test run. She had tested the machine before already, sending herself back only a few minutes then documenting the results. So she knew this would work, but she needed privacy and the tomb was the perfect place. The machine could only take her back in time to the place the machine was located. So if she wanted to see some action, she would need to be in a place that saw a lot of action. And 11th century Jerusalem seemed like a perfect place and time.

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

She waited around until everybody had moved off, hoping that the tour guide would not notice her absence again. Thankfully, he didn't. Her lack of friends in that class greatly helped her slip away unnoticed also.

She looked around to ensure she was alone before trying the door to the tomb. It was unlocked. She opened it just enough to slip through and entered.

The room was cold and dark, aside from some light entering through a stained glass window. Y/n paid no attention to her surroundings, simply removing the device from her bag. If this worked, she would go down in history. She would be the greatest physicist of all time.

She grinned in exitement as she threw her backpack over her shoulder and prepared the device, entering in the date she wished to return to.

She pressed the final button and immediately, the world spun around her. Y/n closed her eyes, feeling reality shift. When she opened her eyes again, she was surrounded by dessert. The church was gone and it was dark. About half a mile infront of her was a large city. A kingdom. It worked. It actually worked. A grin formed on the young woman's face. She had done it.

Quickly reaching into her bag, she removed some clothing. Clothing that she had crafted herself to blend into the environment and time period. She removed her clothing, aside from her underwear and bra and slipped on the handmade robes. She put everything, including her backpack, into a large bag that she had also handcrafted to blend in and slipped it over her shoulder. Now she was ready to enter the city.

Y/n could see the kingdom, illuminated by the dull firelight of torches. She knew where she would go first. The castle. She wanted to have a look around, observe the way of life of the locals. That King Baldwin man seemed interesting. Maybe she would get a look at him. But her main priority was collecting as much evidence of this experience as she could without being caught.

It would not be difficult, she knew enough about the mindset and way of life of people from this era, from that class and her own research. So she could blend in well enough.

Her main concern was contracting a disease, but she brought antibiotics as well as hand sanitizer, her own water and food, as well as soap. So as long as she didnt touch much, she figured it would be fine.

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

As y/n approached the kingdom, she noticed that it was surrounded by a large wall. The gates were shut. Luckily, she had prepared for something exactly like this.

Smiling at her innovative genius, she reached into the large bag and removed a long rope with a thick hook attached. Putting the bag back over her shoulder, she took a few steps back and threw the rope with all her strength. It landed perfectly, gripping the top of the wall. She tugged the rope a few times, ensuring the hook was secure before she began to climb.

Y/n was not a delicate woman. She was in fact quite muscular. Her body had been trained for many years through a rock climbing hobby, which was now proving useful.

She reached the top of the wall and stood up to admire her work. She sat down on top of the high wall and pulled the rope up from the side she just climbed up and moved it to the side of the wall she needed to descend. Once that was in place, she abseiled down the wall with ease.

Upon reaching the bottom, she shook the rope to remove the hook and threw it back into her bag. Now the fun could begin.

She slowly made her way up to the castle, stopping to avoid royal guards who walked through the city. Eventually, she made it.

The castle was also surrounded by a large wall, so she repeated the process of scaling the wall with the rope and hook. Y/n decided to take a break on top of the wall to compose herself and devise a plan for entering the castle.

She opened her bag and took out a box of cigarettes and a lighter. She lit up a cigarette, inhaling the smoke deeply and exhaling it through her nose, allowing it to warm her up from the inside. The night air was cool and still. Peaceful.

By the time she finished the cigarette, she knew what she wanted to do. She would enter the castle through a window or balcony and explore. The only issue was the royal guards who she knew would be throughout the entire building. If worse came to worse, she had a handgun in her backpack. But she figured she wouldn't need it. She stubbed out the cigarette and made her descent down the wall.

Y/n walked cautiously around the outside of the palace, using the darkness as an advantage to avoid the guards. Eventually she spotted a balcony. Perfect. Throwing the rope up, it hooked the balcony with ease. There was no wall to assist her climb, so she was forced to climb the rope with no support.

This was no issue for y/n. The years of rock climbing had continued to prove useful. When she reached the balcony, it was even darker without the flaming torches on the outside of the castle lighting her way. The only light was from the dull glow of candle light coming from inside the room the balcony led to and the full moon.

The door was open. Putting the rope back into her bag, she entered to explore. Upon closer inspection, the room appeared to be a bedroom chamber of sorts. It was large and lavish with a desk and a bookshelf. That was when she noticed a large bed, off to the side of where she entered.

Y/n could see a figure, laying underneath the covers. Out of plain curiosity, she approached the bedside of the figure. It appeared to be a man. He lay on his back, with one bandaged hand on his chest and the other laying beside him. He wore white sleep robes and his cheeks and nose were covered with bandages, exposing his forehead and lower face. He had softly curled blonde hair and appeared to be quite young. Maybe twenty. Around her age.

Y/n was taken aback by his beauty. He was gorgeous. His eyes were shut peacefully and his lips were parted a little as he snored softly, chest rising and falling evenly. Clearly in a deep sleep, lucky for her.

It was then she realized. The bandages. The lavish room. The balcony. This had to have been the King Baldwin that the tour guide had spoken of. He was much more handsome than she expected. She noticed on his bedside sat an iron mask, that must have been what he wore during the day.

Y/n smiled to herself at the sight of the sleeping young man. As much as she didnt want to take her eyes away from him, she needed to continue on. She reached the door and slipped out, leaving the king to his peaceful rest.

She walked down the hallway slowly, stopping the check behind her every now and again. It was a beautiful architecture, with intricate carvings all around. Y/n stopped to remove her camera from the bag to take some photos. She took a few pictures of the hallway and continued moving.

Eventually after one to many close calls, she figured she must be leaving before she was caught.

She made her way back to the king's chambers to exit via the balcony. She slipped through the door and was greeted by a comforting warmth and the young man’s gentle snoring. She gave him one last look before heading for the balcony.

She was just about to remove the rope from her bag when she heard somebody call out a soft “hello?”. Y/n froze in place. Her eyes went wide. “Fuck” she thought, turning around slowly to see the king sitting up in bed, propped up on his elbows, eyes wide. He looked terrified.

Their eyes met each one another. "Why are you here? I will not hesitate to call the guards” Baldwin said, attempting to keep his voice steady, but it still trembled. “I'm not going to hurt you, your highness” y/n replied, putting her hands up in a surrendering motion. “I was just leaving. I have not stolen anything, I am unarmed and I have not harmed anybody. I promise” she said confidently, awaiting his reply, ready to grab the rope and climb down in case he didn't buy it.

“Why are you here then?” he sounded less afraid now, more curious. “You would not believe me if I told you” y/n replied softly. He tilted his head to the side, studying her carefully. It reminded her of a curious dog seeing something new for the first time. “What is your name madame?” he asked after a few seconds.

“My name is y/n. I come from a very far away land” she could have sworn she saw him smile a little. “I am sure I would believe you if you told me why you were here,” he replied. Y/n sighed, picking up her bag and approaching him slowly.

“I come from the future" she said bluntly. "For my research I have returned to this time in Jerusalem to observe the past '' she saw no harm in telling him this, it's not like anybody would believe him. Even by morning, he may think that she was just a dream.

“Is that so? How did you travel to the past then?” y/n smirked at this, ready to show off her device with pride.

She reached into her bag and pulled out the device. Baldwin moved over on the bed, giving her space to sit.

She explained how it worked as simply as she could. He asked plenty of questions, each one with complete interest and curiosity. The two spoke for a long time about the device.

“Y/n you are incredible” he said eventually. The young woman chuckled at his words. She looked up to meet his eyes. “Truely, you are amazing. I would love to see you again. Perhaps another night?” he offered.

“That would be lovely, your majesty,” y/n said with a smile. He returned the smile before moving a bandaged hand to cover a soft yawn. He looked very tired.

“I will leave you to get some rest now” y/n said, standing. “Alright” he replied, sounding somewhat disappointed. “I'll be back tomorrow, swear it” she said with a smirk. “I look forward to it” Baldwin replied, yawing again and laying back down.

“Goodnight your majesty”

“Goodnight, y/n”

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

As y/n climbed down the rope, she thought about the interaction carefully. Needless to say, she was surprised.

She had thought he would have panicked and called her a witch when she explained the device to him. But no, he was just interested in her work. She decided she would return to the future for the night then return to the past to meet with Baldwin the following night.

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

Y/n made her return to the future and regrouped with her class. She was amazed at the fact that she could spend hours in another century then return as if no time had passed at all.

That night, when her class retired to their rooms, she returned to the past. Following the same process as last time. Change her clothes. Over the first wall. Dodge the guards. Over the second wall. Dodge the guards. Until she reached the balcony.

She climbed the rope and entered the room to see the young king, just as she found him the night prior. Fast asleep. She walked over to him slowly so as not to startle him.

Y/n kneeled down and rubbed his shoulder softly to wake him. His ocean blue eyes fluttered open to meet hers, a small smile spread across his face.

“Y/n, you returned. I thought you were a pleasant dream” he said sleepily. She smiled at his adorable words. She liked him, that's for sure. He was the only man she had ever met who actually listened to her speak about her work without becoming intimidated by her intelligence and attempting to upstage her.

They spoke about many things, y/n sitting on the edge of the bed and him leaning against the headboard. Their conversation was pleasant for both of them.

They spoke for hours, until Baldwin grew tired. He layed back down and y/n tucked him in. He felt himself falling for her every minute they spent together. She was the most intelligent woman he had ever met, and her stories about the future were incredible. He enjoyed learning about what was to come for humankind greatly.

They agreed to meet up the following night. And again, and again. This continued this for a month before Baldwin offered the question.

It was late and y/n was about to leave. The young king was very tired and speaking whatever was on his mind seemed like a good idea at the time.

“Y/n. Please. Stay here with me. I want to make you my wife. Your wisdom is encapsulating and you're beautiful. So, beautiful…” his words trailed away as he dozed off, leaving y/n to stand by his bedside, completely lost for words and overcome by happiness.

A large smile crossed her face. She bent down and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Yes. I will stay in your time and be your wife Baldwin” she whispered softly to the sleeping man.

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

So, they were wed. And the origins of the new queen remained nothing but a secret shared between husband and wife.

#king baldwin iv #king baldwin x reader #king baldwin iv x reader #king baldwin x you #kingdom of heaven #king baldwin iv x oc #king baldwin #kingdom of heaven fandom #the leper king #kingdom of heaven 2005 #kingbaldwin #koh fandom #koh

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m1ssunderstanding · 25 days

Text

Notes on Nowhere Boy

Finally posting the long version of the close-watch I did for @sleeper9's Fete zine. The bad thing about me is I hate spending money and love pirating shitty quality versions of movies. The good thing about the Beatles fandom is we're used to dealing with grainy pics. Anyways, here goes!

The opening ten seconds really do set the tone for the film, and here's why. It's the opening of A Hard Day’s Night where the boys are running from a hoard of screaming fans and George biffs it. John sees him go down, laughs, and keeps running. Only here, it's just John. George’s fall has been erased, making John into a cocky, if slightly insane, little lone hero.

Mimi: do I ignore you? No. So please don't ignore me. Me: ummm, yeah you do ignore him, Mimi. Enough to leave deep psychological scars. But it's fine. Moving on.

Ugh, Uncle George is so sweet! I wonder how much of John's sweetness he learned from him. I wish we knew more about him.

Actually that was Jim that set up a cord running into Paul's room from the radio downstairs. But it fits Uncle George's character, so it works.

Why did they make Mendips look a lot more working class than it actually was? No fancy iron fence, no pretty hexagonal outcropping, no stained glass veranda?

Aaron Taylor Johnson is nailing it though. The laugh sounds very John, and this posture? Perfect.

Okay but if that doesn't heartbreakingly encapsulate John and Mimi I don't know what does. Uncle George has just died. John goes to Mimi, wraps her from behind in a tight embrace and lets out a sob. Her response is to push him away. “Please, let's not be silly. If you want to do that, go to your room.” Alright, it's making me feel things, it's winning me over.

John making his cousin Stan go and ask Mimi where Julia is is also extremely accurate. Always had someone to do the dirty work for them, all of them.

Mimi's concern as John's going to visit his mother in the “bad” part of town is very good to have in too. “And you will be careful, hmm? Careful who you talk to.” And John's response, “it's only Blackpool, Mimi.” It's true. It could've been Speke, or the Dingle. Which Quarryman did I read saying Mimi didn't like John even leaving Woolton?

John's hurt little face when he finds out his mum, all this time, has been less than a bus ride away is a very clever way to show us his painful confusion about the whole situation.

Trying to remind myself that this is a very anti-Julia pro-Mimi movie that will try to make me think she's crazy. But it sure is doing a hell of a good job. She hasn't seen him in years and suddenly she's hand feeding him desserts, kissing him every chance she's got, flirting all over the place. “Do you know what it means? Rock and Roll? Sex.” “Don't tell Mimi, alright? This is our little secret. Promise me.” And to a poor affection-starved boy, that's going to feel good. That's going to put thoughts in his head like “this is how it should be”. I mean I know she was wild and fun and sexy and irresponsible. And I know John did have weird thoughts about her. But I hope she wasn't actually this crazy.

But the weird Freudian thing aside, he's got to be so terribly confused hearing the woman who effectively abandoned him declaring her love for him. Between Mimi and Julia, John would've had such a messed up idea of what that word meant.

The Daily Howl, my absolute beloved!!

Nowhere Boy John watching Elvis: damn I've gotta get the girls screaming for me like that! Actual John watching Elvis: he's so beautiful! He's perfect! I'm in love!

Also I do not think sixteen year old John was that good at fingering. Just saying.

This part always drops my heart cold into my stomach. Poor John. Poor poor baby. You can hear his little boy voice calling, “mum? It's me.” And she mutters, very annoyed, “go away.” Again. I have to remind myself that this is a purposely negative portrait of Julia. But then. It is true that she was a mostly absent and wholly undependable figure in John's life.

Sometimes dialogue is absolutely perfect. Like this – “Aw, why couldn't God make me Elvis Presley?” “Cause he was saving you for John Lennon.” “Aw I'll get you back for that, God!” And this – “you haven't told Mimi, have you?” “No point going through her bullocks if I don't have to.” “Why? She has to go through yours.” “Yeah well I never asked her to, did I?”

Ugh this whole movie just hurts so bad! How he looks to Julia as Mimi is ordering him out of her house, just begging her to claim him this time. And she doesn't until he makes a stand for himself. And then, later. “How long can I stay?” Is met with nothing. Not even a fake “long as you want, love.” It really plays into the title of the film. This boy's got nowhere to call home. And then, the final straw. Look at his face as he hears Julia agree that he does in fact need to go back to Mimi's. If I did that kind of thing, I'd actually be crying right now. Fuck, why was I knit-picking, this movie is working so well.

As he's announcing he's leaving Julia's, John wants her to tell him to stay. To at least pretend it's not what she wants. And she doesn't even look at him. Imagine if they did something like this in the John biopic mirrored with a scene with Paul in the breakup?

He's just so adorable looking at that guitar like he can't believe it's real.

John's gathered the og Quarrymen in the bathroom and Pete goes “I take it we're not here for a communal crap.” Idk Pete, wouldn't put it past him. It's not far off what you all do already.

It's making the Quarrymen look kinda cool here, and I really want them all to be shit except John, just because that's what I get from Paul's description. Not that he's biased or anything. He could've been watching John play with Elton John and David Bowie and he'd still say everyone faded into the background.

Also Mimi would Not have been there. Not on her life.

Okay now we're sort of seeing them from Paul's perspective. Bunch of losers surrounding this inimitable shining star.

Accurate that the first thing John says to Paul is about jerking off.

The dynamic in general is just so well-done in this first scene. John instantly testing Paul. How much shit will he put up with? And Paul instantly having none of it, showing off, and winning John over.

All the other Quarrymen just know it's time to dust off the ole resume.

But! Paul's fete “audition” is so toned down for this film. Although of course, accounts vary. He did 20 flight rock, yeah. But he also did it on someone's borrowed right hand guitar turned upside down. And he did little Richard and played the piano, and tuned John's guitar for him. In one telling of it, John says he asked him to be in the group right there on the spot. So. Yeah.

But either way, watching John watch Paul is just gorgeously gay. It's giving extreme “Oooooh, he likes hiiiiiim!” It's actually illegal not to queerbate using Lennon/McCartney and I'm glad all moviemakers seem to understand the law.

Cut to “John, your little friend's here!” Can you imagine if they'd showed the “chalk and cheese” whirling dervish moment? Or Mimi making Paul use the back door? Those might change some thoughts and feelings in this movie.

And then we get the reciprocated “Oooooh, he likes hiiiiiim!” Moment as Paul's too busy checking out John’s buddy Holly Look to remember where he is, let alone what cord they're on. And it's so sweet because Paul's the first person who gives John the idea that his real self is actually cooler than his tough-guy act.

The little matching feet tapping?? Eee it's so cute!

But why miss the opportunity for them to sing in harmony here?

Sometimes the dialogue is extremely inaccurate. “So mummy’s cool about baby Paul wanting to be Elvis?” “Oh she would've loved it.” Like hell she would've. She would've been as disapproving as Mimi. Then again, maybe it is accurate for Paul to be lying about that.

“Well she – she sort of – died. You know, em. If we're gonna do this we should write our own stuff.” Okay yep there he is. That's Paul.

Also love how John gets his first calluses after Paul the bossy taskmaster comes into his life. (You know. And the reason to push himself and a person who cares enough to take the time to show him things and it makes John all dreamy staring at the stars that night etc) Anyway. It's perfect.

And the first gig we see after Paul joins is in a venue on a real stage with a much bigger audience, and the matching suits of course.

Mimi selling John's guitar because of a bad report card is like the lighter, kinder translation of what happened in reality when she had his dog put down while he was staying at Julia's.

So they kinda make up for not letting Paul sing etc by having him nail the guitar instead of screw up at this gig like he did irl.

And he's stealing Julia's attention, which is clearly Not okay with John. Reminds me of that quote of Paul's about how they were both in love with John's mum.

George is appropriately infantile. Good. Cutie.

The Quarrymen playing “That's Alright, Mama” as John's making up with Julia since she bought his guitar back for him. Okay. Very clever.

Paul does Not like John disrespecting his mother after the show for obvious reasons. (“I said something wrong now I long for yesterday.”) But clearly he doesn't have the full picture here. I wonder at what point irl Paul got a full run-down from John on his messed-up family life. Or did he just have to pull it together piece by piece over the years?

And of course he jumps to light Julia's cigarette. Boy was patting his pocket for a lighter like it was the race of his life. Mister steal your mum.

Here we are, ladies and gentlemen, Paul McCartney’s number two complaint about this movie: John was Not taller than him. How dare they? Slander.

That's one hell of a jacket.

At the party, John's of course pissed to find Paul serenading Julia in the kitchen. But Paul just wants a mommy so bad, John. Why can't you just let him have yours since you clearly don't want her? Right, because you really, really do. More than anyone can understand. But when you showed her that – how bad you wanted her to be your mum, not just a friend – she hurt you. Forced you to go through your abandonment all over again. So now you can't show that anymore.

The washboard over Pete's head is almost exactly accurate, isn't it? John does not handle people leaving him well.

Ugh his little voice cracking on the word “mum.” John Lennon is a poor poor baby and I will die on that hill.

I wonder how John did find out about Victoria and the real story of why he was with Mimi. No matter how, though, that's certainly a lot of mess for a young man to be carrying around with him all the time in his head.

“When your father came back from the merchant Navy, he wanted to try and save the marriage, but your mother would have none of it.” I do feel like we're going with Alf’s version of events here, the one he sold John in order to get into his good graces after he was famous. Which is, again, not fair to Julia. I wonder how little Julia feels about this movie.

In fact, I think this part – “who do you wanna be with, John? Do you wanna be with me or do you wanna be with your mum?” – has been categorically disproven. But it certainly does make for some high drama. And John himself did believe his father's story, so there has to be at least some emotional truth there.

Nowhere Boy John: There's no point in hating someone you love. I mean really love. IRL John: How do you sleep, you cunt?!

There he is. Art School John. Though he fell in love with every iteration of John, I think this one never left his head because he was one of the earliest Johns, and he was a John Paul had to fight for, you know, with all the Stu business and dead mother anger.

He really does an excellent job of playing John, though, when he's written right. “Woman took her kit off and we painted her breasts. Not actually physically. I got my eye on you two.” Ridiculous. Charming. Off- putting. Adorable.

Ignoring the fact that I prefer to think of “Hello, Little Girl” as being about Paul (“you never seem to see me standing there”) and they're making it about Julia, this is a lovely scene. With John somewhat unsure still of his songwriting abilities and Paul looking up at him from the floor full of admiration.

Oh he's gonna murder someone. To be fair, I think playing Julia's banjo at her funeral is exactly the type of insensitive thing Paul would do, because he just thinks and feels in music and it makes Sense to him even though of course it's going to piss John off.

Hilarious, and probably accurate tbh, that Paul's pissed John off so he gives Pete a bloody nose.

But here we go, the number one complaint about this movie from Paul, which I think is actually valid. John never hit him and that was important to both of them and it's disrespectful to portray it and play into the myth of their rocky, angry relationship.

But maybe in 2009 that's what it took for them to be able to show John Lennon and Paul McCartney in a genuine, loving embrace, crying into each other's necks about mothers. It has to be preceded by John punching Paul in the mouth.

If I was John's writing partner, my biggest beef with this movie would actually be the scene where they're recording ISOATD and making it look like John wrote it and played the guitar solo. But Paul's never even mentioned it. Which I guess really shows he cares far more about the legacy of his relationship with John than his career legacy. Which. If you mean more to Paul McCartney than his fucking music? Well then you must be just about important enough to have your own movie.

This is really the Vote for Mimi Smith campaign, isn't it? Putting across the screen the fact that John called Mimi every week until he died as “Mother” plays in the background is brutal. Ouch. But it's true. “It's Mimi time.”

#paul mccartney #the beatles #john lennon #mclennon #george harrison #nowhere boy

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niki-phoria · 2 years

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Hi hi hi !! Can you do a scenario where chishiya's gn! s/o (who's normally sweet and sunshiney) finally snaps and cusses someone out or smth? I thought it would be p funny lmaosjsks (also unrelated but like who's ur txt bias)

i'm so obsessed with doctor chishiya you don't understand

pairing: chishiya x gn!reader (they/them pronouns used once) genre: fluff word count: 1.3k

warnings: not canon compliant, pretend this is before chishiya also starts sacrificing people ig ??, canon typical violence, death, cussing, i can't actually remember how arisu arisued his way out of this game so this could've actually gotten all of them killed lmao, i am incapable of writing fics if they don't end in a confession idk

a/n: thank you for requesting !! i couldn't really figure out how to make reader sweet so i just made them super cooperative (if that makes sense lmao) i hope you like it !!

also i am a beomgyu stan at heart but kai has had a GRIP on me since cysm something in that studio choom fancam changed me idk

requests open !! read my rules first

a group of people are already awkwardly standing around when you approach the building. a ‘ding’ chimes as soon as you enter the doorway, confirming your participation. you grab one of the phones on the table and sign in before moving to lean against the wall. chishiya stands next to you, subtly judging the people around you.

“registration closed. game: dead or alive. difficulty: three of clubs,” the announcement begins. “rules: players must choose between two doors to exit the building. game clear: players exit the building safely within the time limit. game over: players enter the wrong room or run out of time.”

a clock hanging on the wall lights up with a timer counting down from two minutes. the people around you begin to panic.

“life or death?” a woman reads. she’s wearing an apron covered in flour, nervously looking around the room. “how do we know which one to choose?”

“just pick one,” a man argues. he’s in jeans and a stained shirt that reeks of alcohol, even in the borderlands. his words slur together a little. “we’re all gonna die anyways.”

“nobody has to die,” you interrupt. “we can work together to win this one. we still have one minute and forty seconds left.” you glance between the two doors. they both look the same- artwork printed on the top half of a door labeled either “life” or “death.”

“it’s life,” a man wearing a business suit says. his voice is deep and confident. there are no wrinkles or imperfections in his clothes though he looks tired. he peers at you through thick glasses perched on his nose.

a high school girl nervously runs towards the door, swinging it open and stepping inside. less than a second later, a laser shoots through the ceiling and her body falls to the ground. your body stiffens next to chishiya. you stare at her corpse in shock until he starts pulling your arm, shoving you through the death door and slamming it shut behind himself. the room sets alight as soon as he does.

“why would you do that?” the woman wearing an apron yells. “she was just a kid!”

“these are death games,” the businessman apathetically responds. crooked fingers raise to push his glasses up, staring at you. “sacrifice is always necessary.”

“we’re running out of time,” a teenager mumbles. he still has a bike helmet strapped on. “we need to choose another door.”

time continues to tick down. panic engulfs the room. the woman nervously glances between the two doors before she closes her eyes, placing her hand on the handle of the life door and swinging it open. after a few seconds she lets out a relieved gasp. you’re quick to follow her out of the room, shutting the door behind you.

the next room looks exactly the same as the others. a gray room with two doors, one labeled ‘life’ and the other ‘death.’ the timer is becoming faster now.

“we should take turns choosing doors,” the woman suggests. “i picked the last one, it’s someone else’s turn.”

“that sounds fair, right?” the high school boy anxiously fiddles with the clasp of his helmet. he glances at the time before turning to you. “i think they should go.”

you flinch a little from the sudden suggestion but nod. “okay.” before you can leave to open a door chishiya pulls you back by your arm, leaning in to whisper in your ear.

“pick death.” he has no expression when you look at him but gives you a small nod towards the door. your hand shakes a little when you set it on the handle, swinging the door open and stepping into the room. after a few seconds of nothing happening, you let out a small sigh of relief.

“who goes next?” you ask, looking between the teenager and the businessman.

“your friend should go,” the businessman says. “he said something to you before you picked the door. what was it?”

“why does that matter?”

“he hasn’t said a word since we got here. for all we know, he could be a part of the games.” the woman shrinks back away from you at his words. you scoff.

“you really think whoever is running these games is sending in spies?”

“he’s right,” the teenager says, moving to the other side of the room next to the woman. “how do we know who you are?”

“we’re running out of time,” chishiya says. only thirty seconds remain on the timer. he grabs your hand, moving to the ‘life’ door and opening it. after a few uneventful seconds, the others rush into the room behind you.

“he’s gotten every single answer right,” the businessman argues. “how?”

chishiya sighs. “the building is shaped like a square. there’s one room in the middle and eight rooms surrounding it. the girl who opened the first door led to the room in the middle. if we stick to the edges of the building we’ll be able to complete the game.”

“how long have you known how to win?” the woman yells. “why did you let that girl die? how can we trust you?”

“i wasn’t sure until the second room.”

“if you’re so sure, then open the wrong door.” the businessman says. “if you’re right, then the middle room will have more than one door and we’ll be able to see inside.”

“are you a fucking idiot?” the words leave your mouth before you realize what they are, only spurred on by the anger coursing through you. “seriously, who do you think you are? you’ve done nothing but guess your way through the game and now that we have a strategy you’re complaining about the plan working? shut up and listen for once. he’s saving your lives!”

you take a breath to calm yourself, almost shrinking back to chishiya’s side. he glances over his shoulder at you, silently reaching over to take your hand into his. the group stares between you, chishiya, and the businessman but you ignore them. the warmth of chishiya’s hand in yours calms you.

“it has to be death,” he says, turning back to the group. “open the door.” nobody moves until you drag him with you to the door, swinging it open and entering the next room.

you follow chishiya through the rest of the rooms until you end up at the final room. “wait,” he pulls you back, next to his side. there are only ten seconds on the timer. “the ‘life’ door leads to the middle room but the ‘death’ one goes back to the original room.”

“the entrance and exit must be the same.” you rush to the door, quickly throwing it open and running out of the room. the fire barely misses you as it scorches the room, setting it alight in flames. you pant, leaning back against the wall of the original room.

your phone chimes in your pocket. “game cleared. congratulations.”

chishiya’s hand remains in yours, leading you out of the building. the cool night air feels good against your skin. he squeezes your hand, letting himself slightly relax. “thank you,” he whispers. “for standing up for me. for trusting me.”

you nod, pulling him into a hug. chishiya stiffens a little, awkwardly standing in front of you before hesitantly wrapping his arms around you. “of course i trust you. i love you.”

chishiya presses a kiss against your forehead, pulling you a little closer. “i love you too.”

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aayakashii · 4 months

Text

I wrote this in like 2 hours so I apologize if it's bad but!!! I was struck with inspiration and had to write it + I am a sucker for fics abt dancing because I'm a dancer so ✋️ ANYWAYS

Pairing: Romeo Lucci x MC

Tags: PINING; romeo doesnt accept his feelings; gender neutral MC; the song that is mentioned in this fic is this one

the house never loses

The casino had closed for the night.

Fragments of life were scattered on the floor – pieces of glass, candy wrappers, dirtied pills, crushed beer cans.

Romeo curled his lips in disgust.

Everyone was distasteful. Brute, graceless little things that only served to be his source of income. Couldn't even clean up after themselves, the mindless sheep, blinded by the possibility of being rich quickly.

He wasnt really one to judge, but at least he was smart.

He knew he had to win. He had to be the dealer, the house, no matter the situation. He would never be the customer.

That was how things fall apart.

You lose control, someone else pull the strings of your life and then you trip – and fall. And lose, lose, lose. One bet after the other, golden coins falling through the cracks of the floor underneath you, forever out of reach.

No, he couldn't be anything else besides the dealer, he wouldn't allow otherwise. He had his family as a bitter example of steps he should not follow.

Still, under this position of power, he saw all the grimy beings that walked on this godforsaken place – traitors and hypocrites that tried to hide their greed behind a mask – and he hated them all.

"Dirty pricks that can't even pick up after themselves", he thought, kicking another empty beer can.

He wouldn't clean it, however. Obviously. He had his pawns to do that for him and today, specifically, he had the worthless honor student do that job for him.

He sighed, massaging his forehead to ease the wrinkle between his brows.

"Honor, my ass", he mumbled, remembering how they messed up yet another prototype order earlier that day, which landed them the merciless job of cleaning the casino after it was closed.

Romeo clicked his tongue, remembering the faces of the rest of the staff once they realized they would have a night off at the expense of someone else.

In the end, it was a dog eat dog situation. He wouldn't be surprised if people started sabotaging them just to get more days off. He put this sudden conclusion at the back of his mind, patting himself on the back for being so smart and way ahead of everyone around him. Then, he stepped on a cigarette butt and stained the burgundy carpet with its ashes.

"Where the fuck is that basic bitch?" he groaned, kicking the cigarette butt under one of the poker tables, maneuvering faster between all the stools, readying himself to give them the scolding of a lifetime.

He expects excellency from himself – it's only natural he expects the same from everyone around him, although this habit always seems to leave him disappointed.

Romeo's ears perked up as he stomped his way towards the back of the casino.

It housed the bar area, with a small stage for (now rare) jazz performances – after Sinostra was banned from leaving the campus, it also meant people from outside were also banned from coming in. Believe it or not, there aren't many jazz musicians among university students.

The bar stood behind matte glass doors that kept the sound muffled for those that wanted to drown their sorrows away after losing one too many games.

Romeo made his way to the entrance of the bar, as his ears picked up a few stray music notes coming from the inside of the place. He readied himself to scold whatever student was inside after closing hours – after all, if they wanted to use the space, then they should pay for it. It's only obvious.

He opened the door quietly, in order to catch them by surprise, squinting as he tried to assess who was inside despite the permanent mist of cigarette smoke that hung in the air.

The song came from a phone that stood on the bar counter, the words too jumbled and distorted by the busted speakers, but with a melancholy that touched him still.

He opened his mouth to call out whoever was inside, yet the words stuck on his tongue like cheap candy.

The first thing he saw were the arms.

The arms moved slowly, as if they were swimming in honey. Fingers grasped the thick air that surrounded them and seemed to mold it into a silk veil that surrounded their body.

Then, he saw the legs.

Softly, silently, they carried their body through slow twirls. They lifted one of them up, bare foot en pointe, landing it graciously to once again turn around themselves.

And finally, he saw their face.

Eyes half lidded in pure concentration, they saw nothing but the world they created for themselves as they danced.

The words died inside Romeo's mouth as he saw his worthless honor student dance to the song.

He gulped harshily as he watched them grab their own chest, suffering silently for some estranged lover they were probably seeing in their mind's eye as they danced.

Romeo felt his own heart race, his purple eyes going red and teary as he tried not to blink, so he wouldn't miss any moment. His stomach twisted inside out – or, at least, it was how he felt it – as he wondered if they were thinking of anyone specific while they looked so desperately in love.

His breath hitched at the thought and he discarded it in a pile of things he would rather not think about, on the corners of his mind.

They threw their arms out slowly, as if they wanted to hug the entire world – or fly away from it, only to lose it all while they bring their hands to their face, in theatrical despair.

Romeo wondered how it would feel to be the one in between their arms and loved so desperately, and the thought was too big, to persistent to be put aside.

His hands twitched as he tried to take a step inside and ask who was it that they thought of as they ran their hands on their lips and body, but as he heard the song grow into its highest peak, Romeo instinctively closed the door, before he could see whether or not that secret performance would have a happy ending or a sad one.

He rested his head against the glass, feeling the coolness of it spread on his flushed face.

Romeo put his hand against his heart, feeling the fast beats in contrast with the muffled and slow ending of the song inside, and breathed deeply, realizing he had been holding his breath like a predator does with a prey on the wild.

"Romeo?" their voice sounded shaky and scared, as if they had just been caught committing a crime. As if they were his prey.

Romeo cleared his throat and opened the door once again, this time fierce and quickly.

"Ah, there you are, you BB." they winced as he yelled the insulting abbreviation "I was looking for you. Didn't you see how dirty the casino is? You are supposed to clean everything, not just this place."

Romeo saw as they pursed their lips, looking down, an expression of annoyance and sadness making itself clear on their face.

"I- I know. I was just finishing here." They lied, dejected.

"Well. I expect this place to be spotless by tomorrow. I don't care if you need to spend all night here. Just do your job!"

"Yes, Romeo." they sighed loudly, picking up a broom, and then walked briskly past him, frustratingly avoiding him as much as possible.

Deep inside, however, he knew he couldn't possibly blame them. Not with the venom he spits on their face at every single encounter.

Romeo kept looking inside of the room, staring at the phone they left on the bar counter, consciously refusing to observe them as they walked somewhere else inside the casino.

He refused to look at them as they moved graciously between the tables; refused to think about the faint scent of vanilla mixed with cigarette and sweat on their body; refused to acknowledge his racing heart; and refused to look them in their eyes for too long.

Romeo refused to lose control of his own strings.

After all, he was the dealer, he was the house.

He wasn't supposed to lose.

#tokyo debunker #tokyo debunker x reader #tokyo debunker romeo lucci #romeo lucci #romeo lucci x reader #tokyo debunker x mc #romeo lucci x mc

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charmedreincarnation · 1 year

Text

Quotes I live by: Loa edition

“Whatever the mind can conceive and believe, it can achieve.”

~Napoleon Hill

“Dream lofty dreams, and as you dream, so you shall become. Your vision is the promise of what you shall one day be; your ideal is the prophecy of what you shall at last unveil.”

~James Allen

“Create your future from your future, not from your past.”

~ Dr. Joe Dispenza

“What lies behind us and what lies before us are small matters compared to what lies within us.”

~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

“The law of consciousness is like a coin: heads, you win; tails, you lose. It is up to you to choose the outcome of your life.”

~Stephen Richards

“You will become as small as your controlling desire, and as great as your dominant aspiration”

~James Allen

“If something you want is slow to come to you, it can be for only one reason: You are spending more time focused upon its absence than you are about its presence."

~ABRAHAM HICKS

“Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of human freedom—to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances.”

~ Viktor Frankl

"The point of power is always in the present moment."

~Louise Hay

"The only limit to what we can achieve is the power of our own minds."

~ Henry Ford

“You can have anything you want if you are willing to give up the belief that you can’t have it.”

~Dr. Robert Anthony

“Your opinion is your opinion, your perception is your perception, change them and you change your life."

~Wayne Dayer

“Paradoxically, what works against us also works for us. If you can dream it, and believe it, then you can do it!”

~Tony Robbins

“Whether you think you can or think you can’t, you’re right.”

~Henry ford

“If you believe in what you are doing, then let nothing hold you up in your work. Much of the best work of the world has been done against seeming impossibilities.”

Dale Carnegie

"You are responsible for your life and the power of your consciousness. Nothing can stop you from fulfilling your true potential."

~Deepak Chopra

"Your outer world is a reflection of your inner world." ~Unknown

"The key to success is the power of imagination. Create an image of what you want and make it your focus."

~Tony Robbins

“People are like stained-glass windows. They sparkle and shine when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in; their true beauty is revealed only if there is light from within.”

~ Dr. Elizabeth Kubler-Ross

"Nothing can bring you peace but yourself."

~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

"Go confidently in the direction of your dreams. Live the life you have imagined."

~ Henry David Thoreau

#law of assumption #manifesation #manifesting #motivating quotes #quotes

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oscarisaacasimov · 4 months

Text

The Princess Bride swordfight - how Westley won

Inigo is a better swordsman that Westley.

Let me explain:

... No, there is too much, let me sum up:

In the books, it is explained that Inigo is a wizard. That is the only other plateau above grandmaster in sword fighting, and it is mentioned in the book that there are only 3-4 other Wizards in existence.

He is also a Spaniard, and for those of you with any knowledge of historical fencing, you'll know that the Spanish Destreza style of fencing is widely regarded as the most lethally efficacious.

(Watch The mask of Zorro to see some excellent Destreza style training)

Westley was a prodigy. If he had started fencing at the same time as Inigo we wouldn't even be having this conversation. He learned everything he learned in 5 years compared to Inigo's studying for his entire life.

But Wesley also learned on a ship, which means he more than likely learned to focus on an entirely different form of fencing. I'd wager to say that Westley was at the level of a grandmaster, but as far as the sharpness of his mind goes, he was twice as brilliant as Inigo.

Westley is always observing, and he not only learned that Inigo was a Spaniard, but saw the ornamentation of his handle, and had an up close look at his right hand's callouses just as he was cresting the cliff, and in that short amount of time, put it together that he was facing a swordsman of "inconceivable" skill, which is why he immediately plays against Inigo's ego by drawing his sword left-handed behind his back, while panting.

Inigo sees this and thinks he's going to get to fight a left-handed fighter, and wants him to be as rested as possible.

Wesley then endears himself to Inigo, treating his opponent with respect and bringing his would-be assassin to the point of actually having him say, "You seem a decent fellow I hate to kill you."

Which is leagues beyond the level of affection he had for him just 5 minutes prior.

He then proceeds to tucker him out, and uses his terrain to his advantage, forcing Inigo to fight in a more constrained close-quarters manner, instead of out in the open where he would have had the clear upper hand.

He indulged him in fighting left-handed because he wanted to encourage a protracted duel, knowing that even though that was Inigo's goal, it was also his weakest point, because a swordsman of that level of skill hasn't likely, for many years, actually had a protracted duel.

He then begins to banter about swordsmanship with him, which, in my opinion, was simply to confuse Inigo about what was going through Westley's mind, and how he was controlling the situation. (Remember, Westley wins all three of his duels with Inigo, Fezzik, and Vizzini by using his mind. Utilizing their assumptions about him against them)

It isn't until he clearly has the upper hand, and Inigo is exhausted, swinging with both hands on his sword, that he engages in his final tactic: distracting him by flicking his hair out of his face with his sword. A move that he knows Inigo is going to respond to no matter what, as evidenced by the two blade marks on either side of his face.

Westley meant what he said when he stated he would rather destroy a stained glass window than an artist like Inigo, as he recognized Inigo's skill wholly and without mistake.

Inigo was, and is, a better swordsman than Westley, he just wasn't even half the tactician.

source: Facebook group "The Princess Bride: Inconceivableposting" by Ian Patrick Pearce.

#the princess bride #princess bride #inigo montoya #westley #sword fighting

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dophaminezest · 10 months

Text

GUYS! GUYS. LISTEN!!

Life series winners ROYAL AU?!

I made an au where the winner of each season of the life series is given a 'crown' at the end/their victory. After that, the winners are escorted into this 'castle' or palace of some sort. They now rule, they now have the power, they are on top... or it seems to look like that.

Actually, the watchers just want to keep them somewhere, lock them in a building, they aren't allowed out until there's an new series. But they do indeed, have power and status to rule over the 'losers'.

Instead of the rulers changing every season, let's have them SHARE the status and power that the ruler have. They are all equally powerful, so the more people that are in the castle, the less powerful they become.

So what do they do?? They try to win again. The more you win, the more control you have, the less power you lose.

They also have stained glass paintings of the winners, all right next to each other, each labled

'The sun'

'The moon'

'The stars'

'The mars'

Even though equally powerful, some rulers are favored and liked more than others, some see them based on how honorable their victories are.

Martyn isn't liked verry much, he lacked honor in his victory, they all see him as a blood thirsty power hungry man,

Pearl is also always behind grian's shadow, him being the sun and all.. but it won't be a big problem if pearl's life in double life hadn't been so lonely. She couldn't escape her loneliness even AFTER the series is over. (I need to confess that I made this au based on Celestia and luna from mlp)

Also there seems to be a pattern amongst victories.

•sad ending for the winner

•happy ending for the winner

•sad ending for the winner

•happy ending for the winner

Two must sacrifice or witness a sacrifice, whilst the other two won in battle.

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galesdevoteewife · 3 months

Note

Right back at you! Could you tell us about their wedding ? 8, 18 and 19 🥰

Hello hello!! Thanks for dropping the ask!! Loved to do more Wedding prompts!! ✨✨

8. Traditions - The overall ceremony was a much simplified version of the traditional Dekarios ones. Many customs involves seeking good luck and my HC Gale snorted at and skipped lots of them. "All that's needed are the right words, gestures and substance components." type of Gale who would ignore the regulations and superstitions.

It still serves as both family gatherings and singles mixers as the traditional ceremonies do.

Dekarios family dances and ice-breaking games.

The rings followed Waterdeep traditions.

All the traditions are from Dekarios or Waterdeep. In my world Menzoberranzan don't have this type of weddings.

18. I Now Pronounce You... - Zilvera inherits Gale's family name, becoming Zilvera Dekarios and Mrs. Dekarios. Gale smiles every time he reads or hears someone call her that way. Zilvera likes how it links their name like a pair, although she rarely introduces herself with the surname. Just in case, because she wouldn't want to stain its reputation on her behalf.

19. Guests -

🎶People were chatting, playing, dancing, singing, drinking, eating, mingling 🪕

A group of children made a bouquet for the bride using the flower decoration on the table. "We think you are beautiful," the brave boy holding the flowers at the front said nervously with blushing cheeks.

Astarion was flirting with the most innocent-virgin-looking cousin.

Shadowheart set up a drinking contest with bets, and made a fortune out of it. She can hold her wine and she skillfully cheated.

Lae’zel was bored until Shadowheart persuaded her to start a martial arts arena: "Shouldn't a true warrior be able to win with any weapon?" Contestants chose food from the table as their weapon. The loser would have to eat the food afterward. Baguette was a popular choice. SH again made her coin purse even heavier. "My animals need to eat, and I am a responsible owner." She said with a glass of wine in her hand.

Elminster was there. Gale was playing cool but he was thrilled inside. He opened a precious wine for his idol and Elminster played along as if he was here because he wouldn't want to miss the wine. Only El knew the true reason of his visit, the old wizard has always been a mystery.

The ceremony moved Wyll to tears. The magically chilled beer moved Karlach to tears. They both missed the food and air so much.

There were piles of wedding gifts.

Barcus and some of his gnome friends, from Ironhand and from Gondians, attended. He brought her a very fancy firework show as wedding gift. The gnome's visit was also a business trip; they planned to expend their business in Waterdeep.

Zilvera looked at Barcus with an arched eyebrow. He stood there stiffly, posing like a scarecrow. "Are you trying to give me a hug?" "I just feel like it’s appropriate for the occasion. You want it or not?" "Maybe, but I am not bending down. How about you jump into my arms?" "You wish!" "Hm." She smirked, it’s good to see the familiar grumpy face. "Here, take this. I brought you a wedding gift so you won’t blackmail me later. Find a secluded place and toss it into the sky, as high as you can…damp coal! I said secluded place! Would you ever listen to my instruction...!"

"…Listen. I'll only say this once." Barcus said while they both looked up to the sky, knowing the drow's ears would pick up his every word no matter how loud the fireworks were. "Zilvera, you are a better person than you think. You deserve all of this. May you always find inspiration and strength in your union, my friend."

In my HC post-game Zilvera was in close contact with Barcus, who was now leading the Ironhands and collaborating with the Gondians, to help them recover from Gortash's doing. They needed money and wanted their skills to be known, while the drow wanted to build her own merchant guild, so they hit it off. Zilvera grew increasingly fond of these little fellows for their impressive skills and their character. She especially liked Barcus; they had become true friends.

♡ Wedding Prompts ♡01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31

I appreciate Barcus's character and quest line so much, his was lots of fun! ("We love collaboration. Challenge. Solving problems with the power of reason, creativity and invention". Yup that's my cup of character ☕) He also have this firework dialog at tiefling party, it was very him 😂

youtube

#bg3weddingseason #thanks for the ask! <333 #Yeah Lae'zel conquered with baguette that night #Btw I also love teasing Lae'zel to say thank you she was so cute lolol #Gale's wedding #gale romance #gale x tav #bg3 spoilers #baldur's gate 3 #gale of waterdeep #bg3 #gale dekarios #bg3 tav #bg3 gale #drow oc #bg3 barcus

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autumnslance · 3 months

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23: wearing someone's clothes.

(Have 770ish words, I made myself feel things when writing.)

She had to dump her entire pack to find the dress and its accessories. She had packed it near the bottom, wrapped in other clothes to keep it safe. Practically hidden, in case someone came snooping—but also from herself, in some ways, after giving in to the impulse to bring it along.

“Our mother bought this fabric,” her sister had said, as she struggled with the pattern. “She always meant to make it into the traditional dress for me, but…” her sister trailed off, leaving her younger self to nod.

It had not been practical, to grab the sewing bag and cloth among their few possessions as they fled. An impulse, her sister said. A memory of home and family and traditions, as they built a new life so far away. Sewing skills not up to the task, her sister finally admitted defeat, and found a local tailor willing to work with her to create the dress, the pants, the shoes. The blade-bracer their father had already fit to her sister’s arm.

She remembered helping her sister put the dress on, after thoroughly washing her hands and filing her nails, not wanting to snare or mar the fabric, admiring how it felt, how it looked, and how her sister looked wearing it. She remembered watching her sister, beaming and brilliant, flowing like fire through her forms, a deadly dance of their own, the fabric accentuating every move.

She held the bundled fabric to her face, willing herself not to cry, though the warning prickles stung at her eyes. Years of storage preservation had wiped out any lingering traces of her sister’s usual warm, spicy perfume, let alone her natural scent.

She didn’t remember what either smelled like anymore, anyway. Not really; it was just an impression.

“When I grow up, I want to wear it!” she had exclaimed once, watching her sister twirl for her amusement.

“Someday we’ll make you a dress of your own!” her sister had laughed in response, cupping her face and pressing a kiss to her forehead, making her fuss and squirm. She wasn’t a baby, after all!

She wished her sister were here now, to cup her face and kiss her forehead.

What she had was the dress. They had never made her one of her own. They never had the chance.

She shook out the clothes, wrinkling her nose at their state after storage and being folded in her pack for moons, and set to cleaning out the smell and steaming out the wrinkles. She had an appointment of her own making to keep, but she wouldn’t—couldn’t—simply wear her sister’s dress this first time without showing it the proper respect.

Their mother had chosen the fabric for its color and its resilience both. She was grateful for that as she finished her work, looking at it all hanging together. She hurriedly bathed herself next; travel grit and grime, salt and sand, blood and bile seemed to have accumulated even with all her other—oft hurried—washing up. But before she wore her sister’s dress for the first time, she had to be clean.

She remembered the near-ceremony her sister had induced in everyday bathing, when preparing to wear the dress for an important event. As she brushed out her hair and put it back in its tail, she remembered all the times her sister had done so for her, while talking about the styles and fashions of their people.

She put on the dress, pleased that it fit so well. She looked in the stained, cracked glass serving as her mirror, and sucked in a breath.

Everyone always said she looked so much like her sister; if they had been closer in age, they would have been mistaken for twins. Her vision swam and stung again, even as she smiled at herself, and in a way, it was like having her sister smiling back, finally seeing her in a woman’s traditional dress.

A dress worn for special occasions, made strong enough to last through time and rigorous use.

What occasion was more special than winning back one’s homeland?

She hugged herself tight, wrapped in her sister’s dress, made from cloth their mother had chosen and begun to shape, and wearing the blade-bracer their father had forged for her sister’s arm. She had left the mask behind, but still carried her family with her into this final battle that they were not here to see, yet were a part of. Because they were part of her.

Embraced by those memories, the woman in the red dress squared her shoulders and stepped outside to fight through the storm.

#final fantasy xiv #lyn writing #stormblood #lyse hext #yda hext #ala mhigo #some headcanons applied

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oneshotnewbie · 1 year

Text

Tempting Bad - Part II

Authors Note: Way too long and a little rushed, but I wanted to put everything you asked me into this request. I tried to shorten it a bit but I didn't succeed. So sorry for that! Also parted in two parts because Tumblr did not let me post the whole thing :(

Trigger warning! This one-shot includes the topic of suicide and the plot is presented. If this triggers you too easily or you just can´t handle the subject, I urge you NOT to read this work. I am NOT embellishing this topic under any circumstance. Read at your own risk.

Summary: Life consists of small moments that shape us, stay in our memories and make us who we are. Often we don't even know what influence we have on other people, how we appear to the outside world and how we affect other people's lives. And this influence leaves traces

ᕚ---ᕘ

Your eyes were swollen, your cheeks red and hot from crying when you got to your apartment and slammed the door shut. Leaning against it, you painfully slid down along the wood before pulling your knees close to your torso and burying your head deep in your arms.

With multiple, deep sobs you let out your pent-up sadness that had accumulated deep inside you while you felt a noose tighten around your neck and the ground pull out from under your feet.

You tried to calm yourself, which was not easy. The only thoughts floating around in your head were thoughts of hanging your life on the hook and your own death. Sobbing and completely lost, you gave these thoughts the strength they carried within and let them win.

For weeks, you put up with everything life has thrown at you, but the ground had been torn from under your feet.

Desperate and almost in a state of panic, you got up on shaky legs and immediately searched for a pen in various drawers before ripping the paper out of the printer on your way to the coffee table.

Totally lost in your own anger and destruction, you cleared the things that were on the table with a simple sweep of your arms onto the floor. The cracking and clinking of the glasses on the parquet floor were absent in your ears, the only focus laying on the blank sheet of paper. You began to write absent-mindely and after the first word, the pen just flew across the paper.

Tears had smeared the ink between the lines, stains of them waving the paper. By now you had slumped off the couch onto the floor, one hand cupped over your mouth as you gazed into the distance in silence. Hurt with words and harmless statements, hurt with actions that brought you down.

You were rarely hurt physically, but the emotional pain caused your body to suffer as well. Why you deserved it, was uncertain. But it was cruel and you knew that pain would never go away living that way.

Meanwhile, you hurried through the apartment, trying to find a suitable place for the letter before you put it on the dresser near a picture of your sisters and yourself on one of the happy days. "I hope you forgive me,"

Whispering the last words into the void, you said goodbye to your place of rest, love and protection before you set off to carry out your plan. Walking the streets of National City among crowds, with the hood low over your face, you made your way off to a place you usually went whenever you needed to think.

A bridge with train track below, on which departing and arriving trains passed, noted by their loud noises. For the first time in forever, you felt like you were entering a foreign district, even though you had been coming her for years.

Your legs were heavy as lead and you could feel your heart trying to find a way up into your throat. Completely out of breath and trembling, you remained at the barrier and ignored the few looks you drew from joggers or walkers.

The adrenaline rushed through your body before you climbed over the barrier and were now standing on top of a two inch wide metal beam that kept you from a twenty meter free fall. Your heart was beating fast, blood pounding in your ears while your hands were shaking and a lump was forming in your throat.

You slowly put one foot in front of the other. When you got to the edge of the bridge, you stopped and enjoyed the wind blowing through your hair while you spread your arms like a birds wings. "Do not do it, doll. Please"

You flinched, staggered on the iron beam, but managed to keep your balance. You cocked your head to the side to see the person standing back on the slope and studied them, quickly realizing who it was before a small smile crept onto your lips. It was one of the very few people in your life who could stop you from taking the final step. "Lee, what are you doing here?"

"Kara called me in panic, asked if you were with me.." began the CEO of L-Corp to speak, carefully taking small steps towards you. The raven haired knew exactly where to look for you, had she known the places you went when you needed space and distance. "Come down and talk to me, please"

"Talk about what? There is nothing to talk about, nothing matters anymore,"

"What is on your mind and what led you to this decision. Please, break your silence," she spoke to you urgently and pleadingly. Her usually strong and spiteful voice had dropped into a worried tone, and seemed almost choked as she whispered, "Let me help you"

A cold shiver ran down your back and made your body tremble again, but your tears had dried up. You stood still and silent, your gaze directed to the train that was approaching from afar. "The daily insults so full of hatred have destroyed my soul," your throat went dry, like you did swallowed sand while feeling a cold pressure in your chest. "I can not go on living like this"

"You have an entire family behind you that is willing to help. You just need to talk to us"

Lena´s firm words mingled with your interrupted thoughts and made you sob quietly. For a moment, you felt dizzy and though you were going to fall. But it was just an illusion that made you cling to the railing even tighter, yet it brought you to a realization.

You wanted to live. For your family but above all for what was still ahead of you.

"It will get better, Y/n…" a phrase you have been trying to convince yourself many times over the past few days but failed every time. When those words came out of her mouth, they sounded real. Honest.

Your thoughts faltered briefly and you looked up at emerald green eyes that seemed to glitter in the setting sun. "Really?" you doubted, and your trembling legs retreated to the center of the platform. Standing right on the boundary between solid ground and the abyss, you laid your cold-shivering hands on the iron concrete and looked up again, feeling the icy wind blowing through your hair and making your tears seem colder on your skin.

As soon as the raven haired saw the chance, she grabbed you with an incredible strength and pulled you over the parapet into her arms. Her arms wrapped tightly around your body, holding you close with a firm grip and breathed out a sigh of relief.

Lena laid her head on your shoulder before her eyes closed and focused on your trembling body, which seemed to shatter under her embrace. Your heartbeat seemed to slow, your breathing evened out with the steady rise and fall of your chest. There was only sobbing and a slight hiccup that broke the silence. "Shh, I am here"

And you were more than grateful for that. Grateful, that she saved you from a mistake you probably pulled through if she had not shown up.

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