#loving the crumbs and morsels so much

[cosmicangsts]

just wanted to thank you all for the support on this blog and the way i've been welcomed back into rpc as a whole after years and years of being away, epecially from writing doctor who. the fifth doctor is my doctor and is especially important to me, so seeing the support for me writing him has been FANTASTIC! you guys are the greatest and i enjoy writing / can't wait to write with all of you! and everyone's blogs are so beautiful too, i never thought i'd learn how to use caard LMAO. don't ever be afraid to holler at me if you want to write <3

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

Im saying to myself, “it’s ok, it’s not like there’s THAT many fans” when I know dang well there IS that many fans and it WILL crash…😭

yeah... Yeah....

[strwbrymlkshake]

finished my normalcy phase returning to the horrors

[hier--soir]

a lover's pinch | four

joel miller x f!reader

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

Saturday.

The conference centre is vast.

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

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

Your presentation.  

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

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

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

“Did you hear me?”

You wish she wasn’t dressed so casually.

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

She says your name sharply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Rachel,” you blink. “Joel. Hi—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joel Miller, Ph.D.

University of New England.

Keynote Speaker.

“Oh, shit.”

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

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

“You didn’t ask.”

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

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

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

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

“Where were we then, my dear?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is it that obvious?” you grimace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I suppose,” you say slowly.

“And what gave you that idea?”

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

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

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

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

“Do what?”

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

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

“Maybe,” you smile.

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

“Younger,” you counter quickly.

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

“Of course not.”

“It’s not.”

“You don’t date then?”

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

“Why not?”

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

“Where did you study?” you press.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And before that?” you press.  

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

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

Your dress feels too tight suddenly. Too warm.

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

“Mhm,” Joel nods. “With my brother.”

“You have a brother?”

He ignores that. “Where did you study?”

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

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

Only a little further than Texas, you think.

“You did good up there,” Joel adds.  

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

“What?”

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

“What?”

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

“And what did you expect?”

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

Joel nods, quiet.

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

“I was impressed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know the feeling,” you admit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then— “The Pendry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The hell are you doin’?” he rasps.

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

“Were you asleep?” you accuse.

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

“Were you hoping I wouldn’t?”

He doesn’t respond.

“You gave me a key.”   

“I know,” he sighs.

“Of course I was going to come.”

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

“Mm.”

“Didn’t say anything about it earlier.”

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

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

“So take it off,” you challenge.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Joel,” you whisper. “Look at me.”

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

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

“Sit on the bed,” he orders firmly.

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

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

“Tell me,” he urges.    

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Baby.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t have anything,” he says.

“I don’t care,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?” he gasps.

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

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

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

“I know, baby,” he grunts. “I know.”

“You’re so—deep,” you gasp.

“I know,” he soothes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where?” You call the shots.

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

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

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

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

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

You cup his jaw and hold him still.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joel doesn’t respond.

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

thank you for reading! x

[frenchoniontf2]

I love your blorbos so much-

May i request a lil trans tf2? Just a morsel, a crumb if you will.

YEAH!

Sorry i took s long to do this one i was planning to do it right away but i couldnt find the right mind to draw em

And looky!! I gave engie customised scars too EEJSJHEHEEHEHEEHEHEHHEEE

And a bonus MEEEDICCC with angel wings for it lol (i was too lazy to draw mdics body hair FORGIVE MEEEEE)

[agendergorgon]

I started out in the Worm fandom (superhero webnovel, very long) by writing a stupid fic about Worm's protagonist, bullied teen Taylor Hebert who is most famous for taking the often mocked power of insect control to such ludicrous extents that any other bug controlling villain looks positively , getting the powers of a big dumb monster from Evolve and going rawr and smash. I think it was cos it was the done thing at the time, cos I'd not written any fic before, and cos I liked Evolve. I've gone back and forth over the years but I think just smooshing Worm and another powerset you like or think might be fun to write is an over saturated market but its a market that exists. A bit after that and a few embarassing rewrites or other attempts at the same sort of thing, and one hit that I kinda just kept making after people seemed to like it, and I ended up making DADA, a parody of Worm fics in the style of the usual kind of crack fic where nonsense is substituted for plot and its more about jokes than saying much. There were a couple of jokes about trends in the wider Worm fandom but the main selling point is that Taylor's power is ill defined and never elaborated upon much, and that her costume is a papier mache version of her own face.

Like so. I fuckin love this pic, credit to Pericardium who drew this after I'd sorta given up after one arc, leaving all the notes for future chapters and where to take the story as one ugly ill put together mess of a final chapter. For the longest while, this picture was the last thing left of DADA if you clicked past that ending. And it still sorta is. This is the face of DADA. Most common thing anyone said was "Why does it look like that" or talking about how it startled them scrolling across the banner on r/wormfanfic. Peri got this down perfectly, a portrait not of Taylor Hebert but of the lumpy doll fanfic likes to make of her. I made a stupid mistake a few years down the line. I decided to keep writing DADA. Like a zombie limping back to life, or a Rob Zombie limping a franchise back to life, DADA returned with plans and aspirations and ideas for a new ending and went from a brief read it over a cup of tea fic to something that had to commit to its jokey bits, something trying to be more meta than it ought to have been and barely communicating itself well. So it died again with a new ending written out same way as it was last time, in crumbs and snippets and morsels. DADA is a curse of mine that limps back to life whenever I have a new silly idea for it. Its a world that runs on wordplay and Amelia Bodelia logic and entertains cartoonish misconceptions of how people's superpowers work. (Where notorious villain Jack Slash can project the cuts of his knives to strike from extended distances, the Jack Slash of DADA makes his knives shrink and grow to physically extend as far as he is reaching with them) Its a world where villains from my other fanfics have invaded it as a superfluous additional set of antagonists. So yeah, here's DADA, its a bit impermeable without exposure to fandom memes and it changes its mind on what it is constantly throughout, but my fiance likes it so I'm gonna keep updating it as long as I have ideas on where to take it. Taylor is dead, wormfic above all.

[invinciblerodent]

Breakfast in Bed Headcanons

(because why not)

Karlach-

Everything is burnt. To absolute cinders. You cannot reliably tell the difference between the toast and the eggs- not by appearance, taste, or level of crunch. (Well. From the shape, you're fairly sure the leftmost lump of charcoal was once a piece of bread. But you can't really be certain.) But, seeing how she's squirming- or better said, all but bouncing in her seat beside you in nervous excitement, her face split in two by the broadest grin and lit up with love and the sheer joy of finally being able to perform this little act of simple domesticity with you, it's still the best damn meal you've had in your entire life, and you dutifully eat every last crumb.

You don't know how she even achieved this smokey taste in your coffee. But it does taste like her kiss, and you're very happy and eager to compare the two. At length.

Gale-

For him, it's as much an act of love as it is a presentation, a showcase of not only his boundless affection, but also just one of his many skills, and it is -fittingly- flawless. Presented to you on a gorgeous platter is an aesthetically stunning, and downright sinfully indulgent comfort meal, incorporating every single one of your favorite things.

There is also not one vegetable in sight. You can't not eat every last crumb, all but moaning in pleasure at every bite, but it's so heavy and so much that you legitimately want to go straight back to bed afterwards. Good thing that he's beyond happy to join you- both in feeding each other little morsels between kisses, and in spending the next few hours entangled as much in each other as in the blissful languor.

Astarion-

The very thought that it even occurred to him to do this for you is enough to have you all but overcome with emotion. His results are middling at best (oversalted yet underseasoned, somehow slightly burnt and undercooked at the same time- of course, he can't bloody well taste what he's doing), but... not only has he not done this before, but hadn't needed to even think about feeding someone, or actual food in general in over two centuries. The mere fact that everything is at least edible shows that cooking for you is something for which he prepared, something he put infinite care into, and you find yourself having to stop every couple of bites to cradle his face in your hands and pull him in for a kiss, just so you don't start crying straight into your eggs.

He's not pleased with himself (it's a skill at which he's not only not immediately excellent, but also not naturally talented, of course he's unsatisfied) and grumbles a bit about how your reaction is exaggerated, but his big, fanged grin (and playful, teeth-clicking request for his own breakfast) is sweet enough to make up even for the salty dessert.

Lae'zel-

She's... a bit confused on the spirit of a Faerunian breakfast. Which is understandable, Githyanki cuisine is remarkably different from almost everything you can get here- but like in everything she does, she has got the capital letter Spirit and does her absolute best, so she sternly presents you with.... quite a spread. Her skill with the blade -the skill in which she's most confident- is taking center stage in a beautiful display of fruit and veggies with the (nosehair-singingly spicy) Githyanki spread she made, and it's delicious, refreshing, and yeah, she's right, sure to wake you up faster than even caffeine spurted straight into your veins would. But the best part is that from her tired eyes and barely perceptible fidgeting, you can tell she's been up at least an hour, fretting and preparing for this moment.

The pride blooming in her chest at your grateful praise also colors her cheeks a pretty coral pink. That too is the best part. As is waking up to her touch. Really, all parts of the this slow, soft, sweet day with her are the best part.

Wyll-

Wyll is prone to downplaying his skill in the kitchen, but despite what he'd tell anyone who asked, he is fairly competent at a very specific style of cooking. His absolute wheelhouse is comforting, homely meals, prepared from cheap and widely available ingredients that hark back both to his childhood in the lower echelons of Bladur's Gate, and feeding himself however he could in his years in exile. So naturally, the honey-sweet porrige and fresh fruit that he sets down in front of you may be simple, but it is dripping with his love, and presented with a bashfully charming smile, a theatrical bow, and artful poesy comparing you in sweetness to both the honey and the ripe berries.

He also makes a cheeky note (that nets him a playful swat on the arm) about the old adage of the path to the heart leading through one's stomach, and how he'll have to do this much more often as you take his hand, and gently lead him back to bed afterwards. It's much, much too early, and you're much too cozy to think about anything but him.

Shadowheart-

She's fairly competent at cooking, but it's undeniable that her skills are more based on trial and error and built around just getting something warm into your belly than anything more lavish than that. But what she does know how to do, and what she does take some amount of pride in, is how she makes a mean plate of scrambled eggs. After calling her on that particular bluff the previous evening, thinking nothing of it (and with your tongue lodged firmly in your cheek), you didn't expect her to sneak out of bed, and surprise you with a plate while still in her soft nightclothes the next morning. But frankly, even though you don't quite know how these eggs are supposed to be the best ones ever (is it the butter? it's probably the butter), what you are sure of is that she's never looked more beautiful than she does with yesterday's makeup flaked onto her face, a playfully embarrassed, yet devilish half-grin, and the sweet blush across her cheeks as she instructs you to quite literally eat your words.

Her smug preening in your dramatic praise of her unrivalled skill as a domestic goddess is well worth the tiny piece of shell that had escaped her notice and stabs you in the gums. (You choose not to mention it, even teasingly. You're fairly sure you'll take that secret to your grave.)

[somnolentdipso]

Trailing Pig Tracks

Note: Thank you all so much for allowing me to share these. Honestly had someone asked if I read these like for audio and well that just flustered me. It’s really tempting but I’ve only done it a few times. Maybe warm me up to the idea and we can get something going?

“Crave Every Crumb. Not even a mere Morsel.”

Despite being called lethargic and a subservient swine, you still wait on your wobbly and knobby knees for treats like a subservient pet. I swear I heard something rumbling in the kitchen while I took my break. My saké only ripples when your greedy self has managed to rise from your slumber. I suppose 3 different restaurant menus couldn't quell the rapids your salivating taste buds manifest and display across that greedy double...minor recount seems you finally hit triple chin. However...It would appear 3 client orders have already been ruined as of earlier today, and the proof is very evident. Your face is slathered in crumbs and frosting, and your body catches any drippings. Rolls being traced by melded chocolate and fresh buttercream frosting. Can’t you feel your breaths get sharper as I grab a chunk of meat from your ham hocks for thighs and caress and spank it with my wooden spoon as you wince and groan devouring what was known of a clients New York Cheesecake . Personally hearing your labored breathes after each swallow and the monsoon of gurgles within is rewarding honestly.

I adore the struggling gasp in between your demolition and then the blubber lapping up on you. An absolute glutton who strives to smash the limits and reach the goals I’ve placed upon you. You've fallen so far to the deepest ends of the scale yet you dare to venture further. Health risk...the temptations and dangers are quite the opposition you desire to greet like an old friend and gorge till you struggle. Feel the gurgles & relinquish the noxious gas to express your gratuitous for my words you mindless livestock. I practically look forward to seeing how much I have influenced one's into falling for gluttonous temptations!

For only now you are a helpless piggy lost within the pasture filled with dreaded desires for the lovely sin of gluttony to take.

May my words find a new place in your mind and live rent free🌙

[terabyteturtle]

Hello my fellow gamer! 😁

May I please request headcanons for Bayonetta, Joker, Sora, and Zero Suit Samus reacting to their female S/O surprising them at the Smash mansion and spoiling them with delicious food like this?

Yay, my first SSBU request! That food looks so good, I don't think I could choose just one picture. Anyway, I hope you savor this just like the fighters would savor that food!

Bayonetta

- "Why, thank you darling, I'm famished!"

- She will eat the entire plate and then ask for seconds.

- Bayonetta has the best table manners you could possibly imagine. Even if she's ravenous, you'll never catch her eating like a wild animal, especially not in front of you. She looks so elegant while she eats and somehow manages to never get a single crumb on her face.

- She will happily feed some to Gomorrah. It may be a spawn of Satan, but hey, demons need to eat too.

- Speaking of which, Gomorrah now loves you for this.

- She'll make sure that you have some too; she refuses to eat unless you eat with her.

- As a pleasant conversationalist, she has plenty of things to talk about. Bayonetta will happily listen to whatever you might have to say, but she'll definitely be the one to direct the conversation.

- She adores your smiling face as you both dine with delight.

- Between you, Bayo, and Gomorrah, there will be no leftovers; every last morsel will be gone.

- After you're done, she'll give you a big hug and a smooch, thanking you again for the delicious meal.

- You better believe that she will return the favor when you least expect it.

- After you're done eating, she'll insist that you relax while she cleans everything up.

- If you still have room in your stomach, Bayonetta will probably pamper you with dessert. Don't try to deny it; you'll only end up losing the fight.

- "Oh please, after all you've done for me, you deserve it, darling."

Joker

- The first thing he'll notice walking into the mansion is the smell filling the air.

- It's an amazing scent, and he'll be pleasantly surprised to see you in the kitchen.

- He doesn't even realize how hungry he is until he sees all of the food there, waiting for him.

- He'll eat so much, it's not even funny.

- Morgana will tell him to slow down numerous times, and Joker will completely ignore him every single time.

- You and Morgana will have to keep an eye on him because there's a large possibility that he might choke.

- He nearly did choke at one point, which was super scary.

- If Morgana tries to steal some, Joker will swat his paw away.

- He'll definitely have more than one plate of food. Good thing you made extra.

- When he first starts eating, he'll wolf everything down and all his manners will go out the window. As he continues, he'll slow down to a normal pace and eat like a normal person.

- He'll apologize afterward for being so messy and will help you clean up afterward.

- Leftovers for later? Hell yeah.

- Expect him to ask you for the recipes. He totally isn't gonna steal them to impress his friends back home.

- He'll give you a sweet kiss on the forehead as thanks for everything you've done for him.

- Post-dinner cuddles! That meal hit all the right spots, and the best thing to do now is to relax and let everything settle.

Sora

- He'll get SO excited.

- "Woah, this is all for me?! Thanks!"

- He'll eat way more than you expect him to. You'd never think that much food could fit inside his stomach. He'll just keep eating and eating and eating some more.

- You'll have to hide some food if you want leftovers, because at the rate Sora will go, it won't look like he's stopping anytime soon.

- He wants to show his appreciation as much as he can, so he tries to eat a ton. Sora won't wolf everything down, but he'll eat at a quicker pace than one should.

- Sora thinks everything is delicious; he literally has hearts in his eyes from how in love with the food he is.

- Looking up and seeing you chuckling and smiling at him makes everything even better. Just knowing that you made the food fills him with joy.

- He won't stop thanking you for everything. He'll say it ten times before he even starts eating.

- He keeps trying to talk to you while he eats. You constantly have to remind him to swallow his food before he starts speaking.

- When he's finished, he finishes it off with a big burp and leans back in his seat, hands patting his stomach. He'll thank you for the thousandth time before getting up to give you a hug.

- Ten minutes later, Sora'll get a massive stomachache from how much food he ate. He doesn't mind though; in his eyes, it was all worth it.

Zero Suit Samus

- She'll be shocked at first. All of this food is for her and her alone? No, this doesn't feel right.

- She'll feel bad that you went through all of this hassle just for her. But once you reassure her that it's no trouble at all and you're more than happy to cook for her, that tiny smile of hers will finally appear on her face.

- Samus insists that you eat with her. You've done all this hard work, you deserve to sit back and relax for a change.

- Out of all four characters mentioned here, she is the most calm about the whole thing. Don't mistake this for a lack of care; she greatly appreciates what you did for her.

- Out of all four characters, she's also the one who leaves the most leftovers. She wants to make it last; it sucks to spend hours on food only to have people eat all of it in one fell swoop in nearly half the time.

- She remains quiet for the most part, listening to what you have to say without interruption and only giving input when necessary.

- You can see the gratitude in her eyes as she consumes everything.

- Afterward, she thanks you calmly and helps you clean up.

- After a wonderful meal like that, movie night is a must.

[luck-and-larceny]

FFXIV Write: Morsel

Marrant’s first and second love is himself. His third love is also himself. But somewhere a little way after that is music. 

Those are qualities we share, I suppose.

Where we disagree is on the topic of image. Marrant cannot rest until he proves to the world that he's every bit as important, intelligent and talented as he fully believes himself to be. He is certain he's a divine gift sent from the Twelve themselves to be idolized and admired by an adoring public. The problem comes when he encounters people who do not realize this. These ungrateful fools cause him to lose sleep, for if there is even one person who might doubt his capability he tosses and turns in bed, fully consumed by a gnawing need to prove them wrong. 

I cannot even begin to comprehend that. To me, it's more fun to be regarded differently by different people. I thrive as much off people hating me as I do them adoring me. 

So when Marrant tells me that he needs me to steal Audr Shade’s latest musical composition because it will win this year's competition I'm not surprised. He could never handle people thinking someone else's work was better than his own (though it often was). 

I am surprised when Marrant tells me that he needs me to also rob his place of the composition he was going to submit to the competition because, “It's not good enough and I won't embarrass myself by letting them hear it. But I also won't embarrass myself by not submitting it.”

“But you will embarrass yourself by asking your ex-girlfriend– who we've already established hates you and you hate in return– to steal it from you? Why not just say it was stolen?”

He rolls his eyes to make it clear to me that he's already considered that and he's disappointed that I can't keep up with his superior intellect.

“Unless it looks like it was actually stolen they'll see through it. They'll gossip amongst themselves that I made the whole robbery up because I was too ashamed to admit my incompetence. Despicable little cretins.”

“Oh, absolutely,” I agree, “It's so hard to find good, honest people to take you at your word these days while you're hiring thieves to wreck your home so you can save face in a stupid little music contest.”

His eyes light up with rage. Uh oh. That means a boring lecture will soon rain down upon me. 

“It's NOT a ‘stupid little music’ contest. The fact that I need to tell you that says so much about you and your lack of culture. All these years later and you still don't care about the things that matter, do you?”

“Nah,” I agree, “You need this done tonight, right? I'll need addresses…”

“The Gridanian Songwriting Competition is the most innovative and creative music celebration in all of Eorzea–”

“Wouldn't know it from the name,” I interrupt, “They use up all the innovation and creativity budget before getting to that?”

He ignores me. That's probably the right call. “Every important name in music and aspiring artist attends the competition. The winner becomes the most respected name in music for the entire year. As a professional musician there is no greater honor than to be acknowledged by the committee. If you spent half as much time on your music as you do skulking about, breaking windows and shoplifting–”

“Then I wouldn't be able to save you from utter humiliation at this contest by robbing you. So really, thank the Twelve I'm such an uncultured child, right?” 

He sniffs and says nothing because he knows I'm right. I'll savor this tiny victory crumb.

“Audr Shade is a genius. A musical genius.” It is a great struggle for Marrant to form these words and if I didn't despise him so much I might even pity him. Instead, I relish this. This is delicious.

“But he's also a heathen,” he says. “He is rude, uncouth, undignified and undeserving of the award.”

“Sounds like my kind of guy,” I reply.

“You'd like him,” he admits with a shrug. “But I still need you to steal that music if you want information on the Tempest Tapestry.”

“I steal from a lot of people I like,” I casually shrug back. 

“You're a terrible person,” he says and I don't disagree. Instead, I take down the address and make my plans to rob the musical genius and this insufferable bore tonight.

I might be a bad person, but at least I won't be a bored one.

[arvensimp]

Requests are open right?

Mayeth I request a crumb (or several) of a reader that’s also touch starved? Who also struggles to cook so they naturally turn to Arven for help?

Absolutely! I kinda went a little loose w this one. I hope it's okay? I have some cooking scenes w arven in a different fic already so while it's discussed here I'm not going to write explicit lessons this time if that's okay?

--

Starving

Arven x touch starved!reader

No gendered pronouns used, teensy bit of angst. This one also has the 'single bed at the hotel' trope

--

After graduation, you and Arven start traveling the region together. He isn't entirely ready to be alone, and truth be told, you're really happy and grateful for the company.

Plus, the food is better when he's around.

Now, you're not trying to be self deprecating. Your sandwiches are.......serviceable. They count as. Food.

But Arven can actually make things that taste good.

And your pokemon seem to like his food a lot more, too.

You try not to let it bother you too much.

But....

Jacq had once taught a class about an experiment performed on baby pokemon and different types of "mother" pokemon. How baby pokemon always preferred a soft, cuddly mother over a metal mother, even if the metal mother provided food. They would just take the metal mother food and then snuggle the soft mother.

The problem in your case is that...well, your pokemon now have two soft "mothers" and one has vastly better food! So even if you weren't really metal, it still kinda felt like it.

Like, you know your pokemon still love you. You know... But at meal times when everyone is let out of their balls, they all rush right over to Arven.

You almost feel lonelier than before.

It doesn't help that Arven looks so...pretty... Just. All the time. You want to be near him constantly, helping him, talking to him, touching him? God, that probably sounds weird.

He's standing there chopping vegetables for your sandwiches, and his sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, exposing his forearms. They just...he looks...

You flex your fingers as if that would quell their itch to reach out and touch him from where you're sitting at the picnic table.

Meanwhile, all 12 of your pokemon, plus the dragon, are crowded around him in a clamorous huddle, desperately hoping for him to drop a morsel of the precariously stacked bacon, but nothing ever drops from a sandwich that Arven prepares.

You sigh, get up, and walk away to go stretch elsewhere.

You miss how Arven watches you from afar. How as you move you top shifts, showing just a peak of your tummy. How he almost spills the container of sandwich picks.

Your pokemon, however, do not miss the way he watches you. They attempt to push him away from the table, but he doesn't quite get the hint.

There are no morsels for them to pick up from the grass.

That evening you end up stopping along the edge of the lake, and the wind from the mountain brings in quite a bit more of a chill than either of you were expecting.

As you go to put out the campfire, you catch Arven shivering some, so you ask.

"Should we see about getting a taxi somewhere warmer? Or...?"

The two of you had avoided taxis for the most part, preferring to rely on your own two feet (or the dragon's four) for your transport, but there was no use in being miserable. It's not like you've got a set destination you're working toward anyway. The world is your cloyster.

Arven hums thoughtfully and takes out his phone to check an app. "It wouldn't hurt... It also looks like we might be in for a thunderstorm in the part of the region, so getting somewhere safe, warm, and dry would be best. ....I mean. You're cold, too, right?"

"Oh definitely!" You agree with a laugh. "I just didn't want to back out first. Can you call the taxi?"

He nods. "Sure thing. Medali's gonna be our best bet. Sound good? There's gotta be a hotel there where we can stay the night in from the storm."

Within minutes, the carriage arrives and Arven gets the door open for you. You pack yourself in and immediately realize...well, not a problem, exactly....but...

Well, it's a snug fit with the two of you here. You're pressed shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, and knee to knee the whole ride to Medali, and you can't help but silently thrill in it.

Arven is so warm, despite how cold it is outside, his body heat must just radiate from his clothing like some bizarre human space heater.

You wish you could lay your head on his shoulder.

His hair is probably soft...

You're lost in the reverie of imagining what it would be like to fall asleep cuddled up next to him when you land in town.

Arven pays the cabbie as you regain your faculties and look for an open hotel nearby on your phone.

Luckily there's one close by that seems to have a vacancy. You lead Arven there, and the two of you discuss potentially grabbing food at the Treasure Eatery for breakfast the next day.

When you check in, the front desk agent hands you the key to your double room and reminds you that pokemon are not allowed out of their balls at this establishment. You both acknowledge her and head up to the room.

"...."

"...."

"...You heard me ask for a double, right?"

"Yeah, we asked for a double."

"And she said this was a double. Yeah?"

"Yeah. She said it was a double."

The room only has a king bed.

Arven sighs and scratches the back of his head. "I can sleep on the floor?"

"You absolutely will not! C'mon. We're both adults. I don't mind. ...Do...do you?"

"No! I-I... I just didn't... I didn't want to, uh....make you uncomfortable?"

"Oh!" You feel your face heat up. "...No, it's okay..."

"...Okay. I'll just..." He gestures to his bag, then the attached bathroom to indicate his intent to get changed.

"Y-yeah! I'll do the same!" You reply, pointing to your own bag.

By the time Arven turns off the lights and returns to the bed, you're already tucked beneath the sheets, vibrating with nerves. He gets in next to you, moving gingerly, as if he's afraid of suddenly startling you out of the bed.

You both lay there silently for several minutes before he speaks, nervous and hushed.

"I-I, uh... I've never...shared a bed with a person before."

You think for a moment. Given his childhood, you imagine he never had any slumber parties, so that makes sense. Your heart breaks a little at the thought for baby Arven, and you reach out a hand for him in the dark.

"That's okay... You're doing fine, for what it's worth."

Arven takes your hand in his warm one and gives it a squeeze.

"Fuck, you're still cold?" He asks, sounding almost alarmed.

"...A little bit?"

"Your hand is like ice!" It's not accusatory, especially with a smile clearly evident in the sound of his voice.

"I don't know what to tell you! It was cold outside!" You defend through a giggle.

"Did you not warm up during the taxi ride?"

"I mean, that was temporary? We still had to go from the cab to the hotel? Plus, we were packed in so super tight, there wasn't any room to be cold!"

Arven quiets for a moment. "D....do you..." He pauses. "C...can...Or, would you like....like if I...?"

You're holding your breath without realizing it. "If you...?"

"Uh....s-spoon? Maybe? If you want? No pressure. We don't have to, of course. Just if you're cold, I'm definitely not, ya know? I've got heat to spare. So..."

"Yeah." You exhale.

"Yeah?"

"Uh....yeah. That... That sounds nice."

"O-Okay." Arven lifts up the blankets a bit, beckoning you closer, and you wiggle-worm your way to him, then turn around just before you make contact, so your back is to his front.

"Thank you," You sigh happily as he lowers the blankets and you feel the warmth start to envelope you. You shift just a bit to get more comfortable when--

"WhOA--!" Arven jolts up.

"What?!" You reply doing the same and reaching to turn on the bedside light.

"Your feet are icicles!? What the hell?!"

"I'm sorry?!"

He's laughing at this point. "S-sorry! You just really surprised me. I wasn't expecting to snuggle up to a literal cubchoo."

You press your feet against him more firmly, wriggling them beneath his legs while he squirms in playful discomfort. "Excuse you! Just stay still, and they'll warm up! You're the one who offered, anyway!"

"Yeah, don't make me regret it!"

You stop. "Oh. ...uh."

"N-no! It's okay, I don't really regret it. Really. It's okay."

"You sure?"

"Yeah," He lays back down and crickets his legs a bit overtop of your cold feet. "See? It's fine."

"Okay..." You relax a bit, turning the light back off and laying down again. "Thank you..."

"Don't mention it."

The room goes quiet again, and you think about what he said. About you being cold. Like an ice type. Like metal. ...like the metal mother. You curl in on yourself a bit.

"Arven?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you think I'm...cold? Like...as a person?"

"As in personality? Absolutely not, why?"

"It's just... I dunno. The pokemon all seem to just love you so much more... It's like they don't care about me anymore..."

"What are you talking about? All the pokemon love you, mine included. Need I remind you that Mabosstiff owes you his life?"

"I know...but haven't you noticed? The moment we all let them out for a meal or something, they're just...all over you. I can't even get the dragon to look at me."

Arven snorts. "Well, yeah. They're all a bunch of little gluttons. They just know I'm the one with the food, and if I drop something they wanna be close by."

"You never drop anything."

"Eh," you feel him shrug. "They can hope. Still, if you want, you can take over some of the cooking duties? I'm not one of those guys who, like, has to be in charge of food. I do it 'cuz I like it, and I'm good at it."

"That's the thing..." You say, feeling yourself curl in tighter. "I...I can't. My food is...awful. Even the pokemon hate it."

"Hey..." You feel Arven place a tentative hand on your upper arm through the comforter. "I can't say I've eaten your food yet, but... I'm sure it can't be that bad... And even then? You've got the so-called 'Cook of Legends' with you." You snort at the stupid nickname they'd come up with for Arven at the school. "I can show you a thing or two, if you like."

"Really?"

"Of course. How about tomorrow we head back to the lighthouse and just have some cooking lessons?"

"That sounds good... Can you show me how to make bread?"

"Hmm...That might be a lesson for a different day? It's a bit advanced and can be kinda time consuming, but I promise to teach it to you eventually." He says, squeezing your arm lightly through the comforter. Your heart does a little somersault at the gesture, and you nod.

Arven also makes a mental note to be sure you get some alone time with your pokemon tomorrow as well. He knows for a fact that your pokemon all still love you dearly, but he aches at the thought of you not being certain of it.

[alaska-mii]

ᴅᴇᴄᴋ ᴏғ ᴄᴀʀᴅs | ɪʟ ᴅᴏᴛᴛᴏʀᴇ sᴇɢᴍᴇɴᴛs x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

〖 . . . 〗ɪɴ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ dottore creates a carbon copy of himself in every stage of his growth that he undertakes. to address the elephant in the room — your reputation amongst the segments is, to be blunt, quite the lunchtime dispute.

〖 ᴀ/ɴ 〗more of a character study per say, than an interaction between reader and segment squad.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs: heavy descriptions of gore, obssesive behavior, pet names

〖 Ⅱ 〗ɪʟ ᴅᴏᴛᴛᴏʀᴇ sᴇɢᴍᴇɴᴛ: ᴋᴀᴘᴘᴀ

bearing quite the zealous streak, the verdant scholarly robes you often spot cascading behind him as he scrambles to and fro between endeavors betrays the years he had spent in the field during his legal reign of research.

absurd as it seems, kappa's prone to donning his heart on his sleeve, evidenced by the fawning, nigh tenderhearted nature he moulds over the blasphemy of his character rooted in each segment for your sake. and whether it be tainting the nonchalance of his genius or, in the scholar's case, festering beneath his bygone clean record, you reap the benefits of the devotion you've sowed.

despite the reputation he had garnered as the resident goody two shoes, a notion that even the others seem to gloss over as a half-baked jest, you've barely dug into the details of the open book you once pegged kappa to be. peering into the carmine eyes above the flush that dusted his cheeks if he happened to so much as glance at you — a cast to his palor you had once upon a time pinned the blame of to a candid crush, during the youth you had spent as a student yourself — they beheld such raw infatuation and frenzy in the razored grin below. both served as a wretched reminder of the doctor's sheer lunacy, buried beneath the cloak of a young, foolhardy scholar.

the scholar — though he sports the crammed role of the errand boy, bossed around and treated like another meager masked fatui agent — always seems to knit together occasions to gift you near heart attacks whenever he stumbles upon you as he flocks haphazardly throughout the palace, moments that he, of course, takes guilty delight in. the shock that bolts through you when he pinches you into an embrace from behind never ceases to send your composure into haywire, a secret the cheeky bastard devours.

you beam at the pitter-patter of steps echoing throughout the brittle corridors. it is always a delicacy to see a crumb of energy against such drabness within these halls, but kappa's stifling zest is a flavor you'd prefer not to taste.

as the rhythm of tapping trails away, you mark the coast as clear. alas, when you bite back a shriek as arms slink around your waist — much to his jovial laughter — you had ventured far into the den of the vulture's playground.

he chuckles breezily, nuzzling further into the racing thrum at your neck without shame. giddiness seeps from him in waves, "you'll have to forgive me, love,"

he squeezes you against him once more, lapping up the morsel of your choked rasps, before untangling the grasp he snaked around you. he stows those hands behind a cape of silk as if to conceal their breaching acts moments before.

the scholar flashes a serrated smile, ear to ear, "the feast you made yourself to be was an invitation far too appetizing to ignore."

〖 Ⅱ 〗ɪʟ ᴅᴏᴛᴛᴏʀᴇ sᴇɢᴍᴇɴᴛ: ᴅᴇʟᴛᴀ

the rogue has a penchant for brandishing the cold shoulder towards you, evidently due to the fresh memory of the rejection sustained from his homeland that seared into the soles of each gloomy traipse he treaded. no matter the hours you spend interrogating delta between the mounds of research — really piles of clutter atop his equipment — he entombs himself in, your pyring inquiries always seem to be greeted by blunt hums and the dreary rustle of a shrug. the vague responses you manage to wring from him are victories you savour.

in moments of weakness, after an onslaught of questions — fueled only by the desire to fathom such detatchment encapsulated within each twitch of his person — are thwarted by matching stubbornness, the urge to cleave his head from the column of his neck and chop at his candy blue curls if only to peak at the dense fog that clouded him so often entices you. the utter gloom he stokes is painted boldly on your poise, yet unbeknownst to you, the rogue's macabre thoughts mirror yours precisely, merely concealing it behind his bleak demeanor.

delta mulls it over when the muse strikes him. one time, he had halted when his gloves were soaked in gore to the elbows, gaze gliding over to your fidgeting. today, the droning sentence that had caught his attention, a murmur you sandwiched in yet another ramble: to prompt you into abandoning him would be yearning to peel a parasite from its host. a ludicrous — yet somehow touching — sentiment.

the rogue truly does ponder about it, balancing the options upon a scale chained by the hours you spun yarns of storybook tales and mundane chores throughout your days. you color him puzzled, weaving such a labyrinth between him and the coherent course of choice. the fleeting deranged idea plagues him though, tugs at him to wonder if you really are a species of nonhuman that initiates conversation to harvest some form of energy from him.

a mellow snore drags him from his sulking — ah, it seemed you've cruised into a drowse yourself. gingerly draped across a surface swept from rather noteworthy gadgets and documents, you nestled your chin into tucked sleeves. that particular tangled thread of thoughts is for another day.

the chair scratches along the ground as he unfurls from his seat. he ambles towards your slumber, focus latched onto you.

delta looms above you, reaching a languid hand to the crown of your head. how he yearns, yet he reigns his own talons in, collecting himself. then, as he observes you stir from your doze, it happens upon him like a whip.

your glossy, sleep ridden eyes meet his.

he wouldn't be bothered — he thinks as a tender, questioning, sleepy keen escaped those lips—were you a leech feasting upon his blood. so long as you needed a part of him to breathe.

〖 Ⅱ 〗ɪʟ ᴅᴏᴛᴛᴏʀᴇ sᴇɢᴍᴇɴᴛ: ᴏᴍᴇɢᴀ

omega's been favouring a curious hobby, as you've gauged as of late, which was his habit of dangling bait before you, humoring in your battle against the hook, and after he tugs you out of your element, judging if you'll squirm or yield as the gambler gobbles you up.

not a sole segment of ghastly skin tattered with scarred ingravings of past experiments, adorned with pale blue locks draping across sharp pristine wardrobe, coupled with those eyes granting only a shred of the endowment packed into his mind scratched beneath your skin more than that damned gambler.

an odd monicker, yet not without background — since it had always been a routine matter of chance with him. whether you had unlucky dealings with the others and if he was feeling rather malicious when he encounters you, or whether he'd notice the bounce in your step as his mood was bizarrely indulgent for once. each jest he sends is designed to coax an answer, not to dictate any of the perturbed backlash you let slip through the crevices of the etiquette you sculpted into your behavior.

and in exchange for obediently playing along with this game of his, you craft a mock of your own — the high and mighty gambler.

the morbid satisfaction that racks through you whenever you bear witness to the smugness draining from him is a trophy like no other. you know he loaths it as the harbinger bestowed with the second seat is infamous for his schemes founded upon logic harvested from centuries worth of shrewdness beneath his belt. only then does he clench his mouth shut, refusing to hand his pride to you on a silver platter without a fight.

how you both entertain yourselves by spewing barbed quips to one another is beyond even you. omega does seem to find amusement in your ruffled feathers, however. such a stark unlikeness to the spineless skirmishers who quiver at the offer of his honeyed venom.

you hear the rhythm of his clacking footfall only due to his current indulgence, you know he'd leave no hint of his incoming presence otherwise. the gaze boring onto your back bothers you too much to ignore. even through that beaked mask of his.

he notices the brake in your hastened stride. to tempt his dormant pestering tendancies would not be wise.

"going somewhere?" he drawls, moseying into place beside you. before you could respond, he drones on, "perhaps a stroll outside the palace would do you well. you cage yourself inside these walls so often that i've been meaning to ask the last time you've seen the sun."

the lure beckons you to throw another jab back. although, one-sided banter is one of the more pleasant things you'll encounter in his company. you hum instead, "but i've heard the weather tonight is the least bit inviting. besides," — an olive branch — "won't you join me either way?"

the question hangs heavy in the static air between the pair of you. you wonder if you should've held your tongue.

then, omega haughtily scoffs, "break away from the delusion you've fooled yourself into believing. you are not entitled to my presence."

he nears you, then. arms clad in moonlit silver tucked behind his back, a soft glow emitting from the liquid encapsulated in his glass earring, the sharpness of antiseptic and iron and the faintest, fleeting whisper of a floral aroma, all just swallowing you whole.

"however," he tilts his head, breath fanning at your cheek, the sharpened tip of his crow's mask a hairsbreadth away, "make no mistake, darling. the time i spend with you this evening is of my own free will."

he resumes his amiable snail's pace stroll, leading the trek to nowhere in particular, leaving you to scramble behind him.

〖 Ⅱ 〗ɪʟ ᴅᴏᴛᴛᴏʀᴇ sᴇɢᴍᴇɴᴛ: ᴇᴘsɪʟᴏɴ

if the bandwagon of torture was a worshipped diety, epsilon had taken it upon himself to employ his torment upon you as a sacred custom.

despite the frequent visits he suffocates you with, abiding by the disheveled schedule he had demanded you to heed, panic creeps into you whenever his mood sours at the farthest thing from you. few and far in between, the poor outcome of an experiment — a glass chamber had broked beneath the rampage of his hand, you had quivered quietly as you watched — other times yet often enough, the errors of his assigned researchers — there had been a bloodbath when he finished, you faintly smell the tang of copper clinging to you still — or, heaven forbid, a fault of your own.

the trecherous memory haunts you, a ghost forever paralyzed in sweltering agony and numbing horror clutching at your heels, never to forgotten and submerged from your mind. he remembers, too. yet it is an unspoken rule amongst you that both butcher and carcass would play pretend, unless you choose to relive the nightmare of a cleaver's blade.

ah, but that vexes him too. he doesn't wish for a corpse to be his everyday companion, rather, he urges you to sew together a semblance of an ordinary bond shared between a pair of animated lovers: to be a taxidermied toy, stitches and staples and a ploy at being alive. his scholarly days had been the target of his unadulterated disgust for ages, and he was not about to alter such inner resolve within him over a silly fantasy, but perhaps.

perhaps, a lifetime ago, he could have graduated from that wretched hellhole with his hand intertwined in yours, looping through one another in matrimony. perhaps you could have travled the lands together, never quite quenching your hunger for the unknown, never settling as wanderlust tainted the both of you. how charming — you would be the only home that daren't chase him away with pitchforks and torches. he hates that such enchanting dreams will always be a distant fairytale.

yet in a cruel twist of heart, epsilon does find solace in having you within arm's reach, ready to be beckoned at a moment's notice. he had been stripped of his prestige, now forced to operate within inky shadows — should there be a single aspect of his former life that would never escape his grasp, it would be his lover. the only one who could hold him wholly within the palms of your hands.

it's that truth that drives each word lashed towards you, every vice grip he latches onto you. he wouldn't part from you if death came to seize his soul, yet how effortlessly you could just let go unnerves him to his bones. surely you of all crowds would understand this overbearing character he acts behind — no doubt, you would read between the lines of the scripts he spouts.

no matter if epsilon gets lost within the scenes, melds with the butcher who lusts after the wounds he tears and stitches back together upon your flesh. nevermind if he feels a twinge of glee whenever tears are shed from eyes squinted with pain. you would be the needle of his haystack audience, always meant to throw yourself into a standing ovation at the end of his preformance. always meant to tell the butcher from the knife he wields.

splatter paints him another coat of skin.

he stares, the smothered trembles on your figure are earthouakes to him. eyes flickering to the puddle oozing from the crack of the door, to the mangled bodies that lay mauled behind it, anywhere but his own that fixes on the grimace crinkling your face.

shattering the moment frozen in the dead of the evening, he dares a step forward.

he stops before you — a bundle of nerves packaged by the stun of his scrutiny — and peels his soiled gloves from his hands. sprinkling dots of blood on your cheek.

he tosses the pair at your feet, you startle with a hitch of your breath. he catches your jaw, and at last, you timidly peak at his towering form above. you thought you would perhaps glimpse a note of the mayhem that plagues him, yet you only find a sickeningly soft glint glossing his twin crimsons.

epsilon kneels like a knight in a pool of dribbling blood. he presses his forehead to yours, chanting your name a prayer, "be not afraid, my dearest. so long as you stay by my side," he signs, hysteria bleeding into his voice, "i won't lay a hand on you."

a lie, stemming from the desperate need for stability, an offer to a fake haven that wouldn't crumble into the depths of the evening. you know the invitation is merely another slight of hand biding time for the other to lash out, for the other shoe to drop.

yet you can't help but take the bold-faced lie with greedy hands.

〖 ᴀ/ɴ 〗disclaimer, delta and kappa are my own. had a blast writing this, so please leave a note below!

[sweetestambrosia]

I want to have a tea party with you, just the two of us. You can wear that pretty dress you want more excuses to put on or that fun button down you like so much.

I want to sit outside in a beautiful garden, staring at you across a table laden full of tiny treats. Cakes, cookies, scones, and of course tiny sandwiches. So many beautiful, delicate things to stuff your face with. And of course some warm, aromatic tea to wash it all down with. I’ll make sure you eat every morsel, no matter how small. After all, I would never let a guest leave hungry. I’ll help feed you by hand, wipe the cream and crumbs from the corner of your mouth, telling you how good you’re being for me.

Sure, a button or zipper might break, but it feels so good, doesn’t it? Kind of ironic you feel so full from only tiny little pieces of food, but you had to help yourself to a bit of everything, didn’t you? When you’re all done, we can lie in the grass and I can rub your stuffed tummy as you doze off in the afternoon sun.

I’d love to invite you over for another one. How does tomorrow sound?

[ladylooch]

Any crumb of content for the Barzy girls? 🥺😂What would a first date with Mat be like?

Barzy and his thighs have been keeping me awake a few times this month… NGL.

Mat Barzal definitely shows up on the first date with a bouquet of flowers. He has no idea which are your favorite, but he walks into the local shop and asks for the most expensive arrangement they've got ready.

He looks so cool on your front step with his all black outfit, white sneakers, and perfectly styled hair. He hopes you don't notice him shaking in his damn designer sneakers waiting for you to answer the door. He's pretty sure he stopped breathing when you stepped into the New York night in that pink dress.

He is itching to hold your hand all the way to dinner, but instead stuffs his hands in his pockets to prevent lacing your fingers together.

He takes you to a local Italian kitchen that serves only a few dishes, but does them so well, it doesn't matter.

He pulls your chair out for you and scoots you into the table.

He asks for you to recommend a bottle of wine, knowing how much of a wino you are.

He'll accidentally bump your hands as you both reach for the pitcher of water for the table. "I got it." He assures you. He is constantly refilling your glasses with water or wine, depending which one is empty.

He insists on you getting your own dessert because of your love for New York Style Cheesecake. He pretends not to notice as you suck every last morsel of the sugary goodness off your fork. You pretend not to notice the way he shifts in his seat.

He tips the staff extra to keep the restaurant open an hour later so you can extend your date.

When he's walking you back to your place, he drapes his jacket over your shoulders at the first sign of a chill on your body.

He feels bold from the wine, and tests the feel of your fingers in his. He likes it more than he should.

When he gets back to your apartment door, he kisses your cheek, lingering until you turn your face to gently capture his lips. Your mouthes catch, pressing together in continuous smooches.

You ask Mat to come in. He declines. "I really like you. And if I come in, I won't keep my hands to myself." You want him to come in though. But "You deserve better than a handsy hockey player." Fuck, why is he such a good man?

He says he'll call when he gets home. And he does.

"I'm going on the road tomorrow night after the game. Can I see you again when I'm back?" "Yeah." You smile, biting your lip and picking at a snag in your pajamas pants. "You gonna watch me tomorrow?" "Depends, you gonna score?" "If I do, it'll be for you."

[selnyam]

FFXIV Write 2024: Morsel

Flidais Oakclamber, Viera adventurer hummed to herself as she moved about her kitchen.  It was early morning and she'd been up for a bell already.  The warmth of the heating oven spread throughout the whole Lounge, and soft music played from the Orchestrion up on a shelf.  Strong arms flexing, her hand worked with a pastry cutter.  Cold butter was cut into flour, sugar, spices, and oats.  Her fluffy Viera tail wiggled in excitement as she worked.  

‘Everyone will be so surprised’ she thought, as she finished the crumbs then turned to the basket of fruit nearby.  She picked up a pixie apple and with practiced ease used a paring knife to peel and slice.  A soft click of the Orchestrion indicated the shift to a more upbeat tune.  She tapped her food, smile growing. She loved these quiet moments, the early morning after her daily workout .  When the sun was just cresting, the world slowly waking.   

A soft pressure leaned against her calf and she glanced down.  Her Ruby Carbuncle,  Ciabatta, rubbed against her and chittered softly.  Flidais smiled and rolled a slice of apple in a morsel of topping then dropped it.  With an excited squeak the creature caught it and with a swish of his triple tails scampered off to enjoy his treat.  The Viera woman chuckled,  then tossed the apples with sugar.  The fruit then added to several pans, then the topping sprinkled over.  With an excited little hop, she slid the pans into the oven.  Pixie Apple Crumble was an excellent breakfast treat.

Flidais sighed and stepped from the kitchen, to return to her coffee and book while the meal baked.  Her eyes grew wide with horror as she saw Ciabatta, apple slice finished, lift his head from the coffee cup.  The magical creature licked his whiskers, a few drops still lingering.   The morning was about to get much louder and chaotic.

[dairy-farmer]

manipulated!jason and manipulator!tim

jason's fresh out of a break up and meets tim who's 10x worse than the last person he broke up with. by worse i mean, jason cannot escape tim at all.

tim's so good with body language, and mind games, to the point where he uses his knowledge for the worse. by worse i mean, he's never tired of making jason deluded.

no one can save jason, not even himself. why? he doesn't want to be saved at all.

tw/cw: tim calls jason a gay slur but erotically 😔

tim offers one thing that jason has always wanted but never been able to receive. unconditional love.

from the get go- bruce's love had been conditional. follow my orders or hit the road. alfred's love had hinged more on pacifying jason in order to avoid upsetting bruce. and dick's love was too insufficient for jason's starving heart. dick gave everyone a single morsel of love and you would be scorned by everyone else receiving their crumbs if you dared demand more.

the same went for every single one of jason's girlfriends. jason's entire life he'd been mistreated by men so his expectations of women were high. unfairly high was what they'd all said to him. they couldn't deal with him and his 'baggage'. it was too much they said.

at least...that was what the nice ones said because jason has a habit of dating pretty cruel girls and never breaking up with them. even when they cheat on him and call him names or slap him in public. not that it garners much concern. dick had broken down laughing when jason's most recent girlfriend left him a screaming voicemail calling him every cruel name under the sun for not buying a gift for her friend's baby shower and making her look "cheap".

but that's alrigh because in jason's mind girls can do no wrong. because even the worst one is better than the best man.

tim tells him that's stupid and asks if jason's a misogynist for refusing to hold shitty women accountable. he also asks if jason's really holding firm to that 'dating' code of his if he's seeing tim.

tim prods at jason's sensitive under belly, digs his nails into open wounds. metaphorically of course. tim's pretty small and if jason didn't want him to do something he's certain he could get him to stop.

tim gets into jason's head like how maggots crawl into fruit and rot them from the inside. even when he's not around it's like jason can feel him whispering in his ear about things.

tim doesn't scream or throw things at jason when he's unhappy.

he tugs jason close and strokes him like he's an abused puppy, murmuring gentle words of 'oh my baby'. and it gets jason on his knees faster than anything.

jason doesn't like boys. doesn't want boys. boys are evil just like men. but...but tim doesn't have a cock. he has a smooth, pretty little cunt just like a girl. he has soft little tits just like a girl.

tim softly calls jason 'ignorant' before softly whispering taunts in jason's ears when jason is fucking him that he's fucking a boy. jason's cock is in a boy. he's dating a boy. and he likes it. that means jason's gay. a faggot.

jason is trembling and curling against tim, burying his head into tim's neck and seeking comfort from the boy fingering his brain and swirling the gray matter around.

tim is mean to jason. but he touches him sweetly and softly.

he calls jason names but follows it with tender comfort and allowing jason to fuck him as softly and roughly as he wants because jason likes sex.

tim calls him a dog for always wanting to fuck and hump him. he says jason is a filthy depraved little animal while jason sobs and cums deeply inside him.

every time they fuck tim muses outloud about jason getting him pregnant and tim using their baby as leverage for the rest of their lives to get jason to do things for him.

tim is a thousand times worse than any girl jason has ever dated. he dangles love, companionship, acceptance, a baby, and the promise of a family in front of his nose like it's a carrot. before turning around and whipping him on the nose with a rising crop until his sensitive face stings with the pain.

jason doesn't know why. he doesn't understand why tim is like this.

but he doesn't ask.

because tim offers him everything he's wanted and more.

jason knows he's being taken advantage of. they only eat what tim likes. only have sex when tim wants to. only listen to music tim enjoys. only go out to places tim thinks are fun. only watch tv shows tim approves of. only hang out with people tim can tolerate.

jason knows he's being taken advantage of. his friends and family tell him he's being taken advantage of. they tell him tim is manipulating him, using him.

for what? he asks them and they....they don't know. they're not sure...

but that doesn't change the fact that tim is doing it!!!

unfortunately for them jason doesn't care.

he doesn't mind being tim's thing. his pet. the mouse to his cat.

jason doesn't mind at all.

so long as that love continues to fill his leaking heart, jason will do anything for tim.