#submissions followed by three public hearings | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

vindictusoverlord · 10 months

Text

Greetings, Earthlings! It’s a Tartaglia fic… Fontaine be hittin 🥰🥴

The word count in this one is: 7,023. Reposted bc Wattpad wildin, and I’m just tryna cook.

TW; Kink list including: CNC, daddy/mommy, breeding, slapping/biting, dirty talk, submissive!Reader, public(ish)

Thanks for tuning in.

-- ץдкรђค

----------

For the last three damn months, he had been playing this game with you.

In the beginning, your guard was high. Something about this uncomfortably friendly Snezhnayan man sent chills up your spine that didn't let up, even long after he had gone and left you to your devices. Being a foreign diplomat was a false cover and you knew that. The unfortunate business had it that your job was literally to assist him with whatever, wherever, and whenever he may need it, which often meant scrambling to complete paperwork he didn't want to do, or organize meetings with particularly difficult clientele he didn't want to deal with. Being in the business of legality left you with massive stacks of paperwork's following his Mora concerns, and the tax calculations along with them. Your boss fell beside himself whenever Childe entered the building, sprouting on and on about the Bank and Fatui's prominence, refusing to hear anything you had to say about the matter. Even if you understood why, the sad sack was nothing more than a Grade A ass kisser.

You wished you could print it on a name tag and sew it to his oversized forehead.

Truthfully, it wasn't just the way your boss behaved that upset you. The whole endeavor made you sick and nothing but loathing had emerged from your stomach towards the foreigner. It was a deep feeling, one that siphoned your will to be friendly and cordial and replaced it only with a senseless dread.

Hands placed on the edges of the sink, you sigh out, hunching your sore, overworked back. Much of your stress hung there, pressing angrily against strained nerves. In the mirror, you gaze at your reflection; water dripped from your hair to your skin, and then onto the cool tile with soft platplatplats to take up the silent air. It was cold today, and the atmosphere in your small apartment had been tense.

With a heavy heart, you raise a towel to your hair, wicking away the water, slowly working down to dry your body, before wrapping it finally within your (h/c) locks. It was going to be a long day, and you knew that, but nothing had prepared you for the next 17 hours of running around Liyue on behalf of Childe, your man-child of a boss, or the ever present dock merchants. By the time you got home again later that night, your feet ached and your body could barely hold itself up.

You collapse on your couch, flinging your shoes off back towards the door. The business uniform would have to do as sleep attire for now.

I'm so tired....

Your mind began to drift towards sleep. It was another night without dinner, but that hadn't seemed to bother you much the last few days. Carried softly to sleep by the soft sounds of the ocean, you—

Knock! Knock! Knock!

"(Y/N!)" The frantic barrage just a few feet away startled you awake. "(Y/N), please! Open up!"

You let out a hiss as you stand, feeling the soreness of your knees as you rise. "Okay, okay," you mutter, undoing the deadbolt, and opening the door slowly. "Do you know what fucking time it is? What is it?"

On the other side, your team's paper catcher stood straight as a board. His name was lost to your tongue most times, as he was nose deep in paperwork and served more as a scapegoat to the office than anything else. You believed it started with a T....

"(Y/N)! I'm so sorry to bother you this late; I know it's past the end of your shift and I'm sure you'd much rather be sleeping but—"

His voice prattled on and on;

"What does he want?" You pinch your brow. "Is it that ridiculous Shneznayan again? I already told you, man. I'm not running anymore errands for the fucking Fatui tonight, and sure as shit not for that Archon-forsaken Harbinger either."

The receptionists face went white as soon as the words left your mouth. He cleared his throat and forced a smile, stepping to the side. "The esteemed Childe requested to speak to you, (Y/N). I do apologize for the intrusion, but I um--" He looks back and forth, breath catching quickly in his throat. "If you'll please excuse me, I— I do wish you both a very pleasant evening." and with that, he scurried off. You open your door further to peer past, wondering where he could have gone so quickly.

And on the other side, the tall, red-headed man stands slides into view before you. His smile is sinister as he peers at you with a curious look in his eye. "Well, well! If it isn't the lovely Miss (Y/N). It truly is a pleasure to see you again."

Shit.

You straighten, holding the door firmly in place. "Likewise. What can I assist you with at this time, Childe?" It was hard to hide the venom in your voice.

He shifts his weight, crossing his arms. "I did request your help with something, but it sounds like you don't like us very much. Maybe I could ask your boss instead—"

"No, that won't be necessary." You step forward from your door. "I'd be happy to help. Just need my shoes first."

The solemn grimace on your face seemed to serve as entertainment to deepen his sadistic smile. You swallow your pride, and prayed this assignment would be over soon.

He led you through the quiet streets of Liyue, not daring to disturb the peace of the calming city. Below you, a skeleton crew of dock workers bustled about, and a few business's lights began to go out. A cold breeze had settled over the sea, bringing in a fog that only served to make the air more frigid.

You shiver, holding tightly to your arms, and never letting your gaze leave the man that guided you along. He held himself high. Everything about him, from his head to his shoes, radiated something across from resembling dignified and laid back. His long, white coat fussed in the breeze, the heavy tails trailing behind him as he walked along. His pace was quick, and it took a lot out of you just to keep up.

Oh, to be a Fatui Harbinger. You wondered to yourself, absently thinking about the leisure they must enjoy. An endless supply of money, power, and political outreach; well, they all enticed you. Part of you wondered if it was possible to reach that level of comfort here in Liyue, as your bills were barely scraped by with what you did earn... which was quite a bit more than most. It was expensive in the city, and as much as you worked, you knew it would not be enough.

Eventually, the Golden House appeared before you. It's long elegant steps laid out the path Childe began to follow and you carried on directly behind him. Your fatigue had set in strongly now, mind becoming blank from the long days. You needn't ask the task, as you'd been here many times previous. It was paperwork. Always fucking paperwork.

With grace, he brandished a polished brass key and pushed open the large double doors. The building was empty, as to be expected, and the echoes of your footsteps brought clarity back to your mind even if for a split second. Beyond the massive corridor, a few hallways darted off and separated into smaller offices. He leads you down to an office near the back, the only barely lit door slightly ajar in the whole building.

You'd never seen anyone else at the Golden House. It had always just been the two of you, and maybe your boss or the Quixing, but rarely. Keqing herself could hardly spare the time.

He turns to you, gesturing to the desk. "Yep, you guessed it! Paperwork." He chuckles, trying to lighten the mood. "Oh, come on, you can't hate me that much, girlie! I just need a few signatures and you'll be on your way."

You suck air through your teeth. Girlie. Cringe.

Without much else to say, you take your seat and get to work. The Harbinger takes a spot across from you on the opposite side of the desk. He kicks his feet up, gingerly placing his shoes as far as he can decently manage from the stacks of paperwork. From the inter pocket of his overcoat, he pulls out a book and flips a few pages to the middle. Now that he was out of your way, you could focus.

Soon, you'd go home.

After a few hours, it seemed that all the stacks had been finished. Your fingers ached.

"Is there anything else I can do for you or can I please go home now?" You sigh, not daring to move from your spot. You had a sneaky feeling he'd come up with something else.

He seems to ponder for a moment, closing his book. Your irritation grows quickly as you wait. Seconds turn to what feels like hours and your blood runs loudly in your ears. "You know," he says, "I really should find more work for you. Maybe it's not enough for you to be grateful to be employed."

He must have seen the anger on your face because he continues on as if it amuses him. "You really don't like me much, huh, girlie? I think the big man wouldn't be too happy to hear that you put up a fight and made me mad, right?"

He stands slowly, shirking off his overcoat and draping it over the plush couch cushion.

"Or maybe, you could apologize and be nicer to me," Childe makes his way around the desk, cooing his ultimatum. His aura feels like he's stalking you like prey; the pure bloodlust makes your skin crawl like a million bugs. "And we can move on, or," As he approaches you, he lowers his face to your exposed neck. You feel his lukewarm, minty breath burn against your skin, prickling it like a thousand needles. Your heart stops when he grips your shoulder, and as his hand creeps up to your throat, you feel that fear giving way to... what is that feeling?

He whispers so softly, you thought you misheard. "I can fuck the obedience into you."

You gulp, struggling on the frog in your throat. Realizing what he said, you jump up and wheel around, bumping hard into the desk. "Excuse me?" Your voice breaks.

"Now that," he puts his hands up, shaping a rectangle with his fingers. "I like that look on your face, Miss (L/N)." His arrogant laugh rings menacingly. "Are you awake now?"

You're taken aback by the tonal shift. His voice is lighthearted and fun again. "I—" you begin, and choke on your words.

"You?" Childe asks, amusement marching like a parade across his handsome face. "Go ahead."

You choke, clear your throat and say goodbye to your pride, and continue. "I'm truly sorry, Childe. For the way I've acted. I can't lose this job. I'm sorry."

He hums, moving the rolling chair out of his way. He steps closer, amusing himself with your ragged presentation. "See," he says, and quickly snakes a hand behind your head. His fingers tangle in your hair, forcing your head back to look at him. "That just won't do."

Without meaning to, you let out a yelp, bringing your hands up defensively to the arm gripping you. His other arm scoops and lifts you ass first onto the heavy wooden desk, scattering stacks of the finished papers all about the ground. Your back slams down with his weight above you, the man's face just inches from your own. "Say it like you fucking mean it."

Your breathing is ragged, chest heaving as he leers over your tiny form. His oceanic gaze pierces through you, an intense longing somewhere deep within the sultry lust; you feel him pressing firmly against your thighs. His hips are rigid and firm, unmoving against your squirming body. "I'm sorry, sir!" You blurt, cringing almost immediately after and expecting the worst.

His soft lips meet your cheek, gently kissing your quivering jaw. "Mm, I like that..."

He then pulls back, chuckling at your response. In kind, he releases your hair, purring at your response. "That's much better."

He straightens up and walks away from the desk where you lay, grabbing his jacket on his way towards the door. The suddenness of his retreat left you cold and unwanted, closer to unfinished than anything. His demeanor had surfaced something within you. It was close to a strong, unbound loathing, but your insides... well, they were alit with a mean flame of desire all the same.

"You're free to go home, girlie." He says, standing in the doorway. "After you clean this up, of course. Those papers are due to Ningguang by sunrise. I'll need you to do that, too."

You peered at the clock that now lay on the equally disheveled carpet flooring.

03:07 AM.

With a heavy, uneven sigh, you lower yourself from the desk and began gathering the papers. You found yourself doing that a lot lately, and grew rather tired of cleaning up other's messes.

Why did he do that?

-----

For several days following, Childe did not act different than he normally would with his business partners. He was cordial and polite, no longer requesting you at every second of the day. At times, his fiery gaze would occasionally linger on you when the two of you were alone, but would not last longer than a few moments if you caught him. The work load seemed to lighten, too, and at least that helped reduce your work stress. The problem that remained was the cuttable tension that arguably had you just as stressed as before. Every time you felt his gaze, you squirmed in your spot, aching.

What was all that about anyways?

It kept you up at night, steaming in your head an uncertainty and jealousy of his attention. All this time of harassing you, bothering you, overworking you, and now he had nothing to even say to you if you passed by. Looking back, it seemed to be often that the two of you would cross paths even if it didn't make sense to do so.

But because the work load had dissipated so substantially, you decided that for the first time in months, you should let your guard down a bit. Clearly, he had at least listened to you at some point. The new-hires had been exceptionally diligent leading up to the next traditional event Liyue was hosting at the Terrace. Overall, you allowed yourself to relax and take everything by stride. Taking over as a trainer had been very beneficial in the end.

It was a far cry to hope this lasted longer than a few days but it was worth a shot you supposed. The nameless Fatui agent held the door open before you as they had done many times before, you felt at ease for your summons to the Harbinger's office. Your palms felt steady, confident, holding the stack of manila folders. After receiving a friendly greeting from the desk agent and signing in, you made your way down the unnecessarily long hallway and to the ornate frosted glass door.

"Wow, look who it is!" He chimes, calling out shortly before you reached his door as if he knew you were coming. "You sure are fast!"

You pause, standing in the doorway. "More folders; Keqing herself signed off on your proposition to the festival."

"Is that right?" He asks, his gaze is fiery, challenging even, with his fingers interlaced under his chiseled chin. "Glad to hear it."

You nod your head, place the folders in the empty drop box beside the door, and turn for the exit. "If you'll excuse me."

"No, no, please stay for a moment, (Y/N)."

Oh, that tone...

You suck in your teeth, gazing around the room at anything else but him. He was so intimidatingly beautiful and the power he held in one finger could hold back a whole crowd with ease. He commanded obedience and it tortured you that that very thought had been in your mind every night you spent alone. Even the gentle voice he used here seemed to hold your being in place, churning a beast within.

The office was large; much larger than your living room and held a variety of extravagant decorum across the area. Two large velvet sofas, both dyed a deep burgundy, and a heavy, dark wood coffee table sat at a distance, with a large portion of the wall to your right covered in towering bookshelves. On the wall behind his desk, windows adorned with heavy velvet curtains scored out a panoramic view of the harbor and seafront. Small wrought iron shelves adorned with a variety of meticulously kept plants and flowers from different areas, and supplied the room with a very clean, humid atmosphere. Even the lighting, which was almost completely supplied by the noon sun, set the room leagues away from your own environment and shamed your personal cubicle.

The Harbinger before you stands, silently creeping around his desk to catch the door behind you. He quietly brings it to a close before pulling out a chair for you. "Please, have a seat."

He smiles, letting you rest in the plush chair. You mumble out a thank you, stiffening your back as proper as you're able. Childe leans across from you on the desk and crosses his legs at the ankles. After a moment, he speaks, "Is there anything that I, or the Northland Bank, can do for you to make your tasks more enjoyable, Miss (L/N)?" His hand holds his chin perked up and inquisitive, watching you from above.

Your face flushes, not coming up on any real words. You found yourself landing back on the typical response, relishing in it's soft ease off your lips. "N-No, not really. I've... not felt the best, so I may have been slacking on my duties."

"You've been doing fine, actually. In fact, you're far exceeding expectations but," He exhales heavily, grabbing his glass of dark wine delicately. As the man cups the glass, you find yourself lingering on his long, slender fingers. He catches your gaze and taps them individually on the glass teasingly. "Something's on your mind. You seem distracted~"

"Hmm— Nope, I'm okay!" You laugh nervously, scratching the back of your head. You remember how those same fingers felt twisting in your hair for those few moments. Within your chest, you feel your heart skip a beat and heat your veins.

"Just be honest. We're all friends here." There's that same devious smile on his lips as before, and your mind begins to wander viciously.

"Okay, sure." An inhale, an exhale, you stiffen. "But I meant it. I don't have anything to say."

He hums. "Nothing at all?"

"Nothing at all, sir."

"That attitude... you don't give me that when you're working for me anymore." He grins, gathering a view over your rigid form. "I really wish you would."

Before you realize what you're saying, you ask: "Oh? Is that so?"

"Oh~" A glitter in his eyes appears, his glare intense over the wine glass. "It'd make the punishment all the better, don't you think?"

You shudder with a bubbling anger, hating every inch of confidence this man has with in him. He knows that he's doing, and it pisses you off all the more. "I'll—"

He sets the glass down. "You'll, what? Hm?" Childe leans forward, close enough to your ear that you can feel his breathing. "You'll tell on me?"

The man drops to a squat, hands resting on his knees. This way, he's almost eye level with you and all the more intimidating. "Are you gonna tell them how much you liked it, too? What about how you desperately wanted me to fuck you right there in the office?

"Or," Childe brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, letting his fingers trace along your jaw, and finally, down your neck to your shirt collar, earning a hearty shiver. His other hand finds it's place on your lower thigh, making tiny swirls with his thumb. It slowly tracks up your thigh and under your skirt, tugging on the hem briefly before disappearing underneath. "How you think about me every night when you touch yourself? Biting your pillow and crying my name..." His breath comes out like a shudder, almost as if he's mocking you as he enunciates ever syllable. "'Tar...tag...li...a!~'"

Your body shrinks in the chair. His presence is so overwhelming. "Stop that..."

Instinctively, you reach out to push away his touch.

As soon as his soft lips graze against your neck, your heart is going a million miles an hour. The tip of his tongue trails across your sensitive flesh, raising goosebumps all over. "I can't stop," His fingers slide under the fabric of your cotton panties, moving in slow shapes along your sex, but you don't move your hands away. "Unless you beg me to." He mutters and your whole body almost caves in on itself.

His teeth sink softly into your skin, allowing just a small rush of pain and adrenaline to catch you off guard, bucking your hips by instinct. You rush to cover your mouth before any sounds come out, and Tartaglia grins against your skin, speaking in between the trail of sloppy kisses he leaves behind. "Such... a good... girl..."

The man lifts his face slightly to view your expression. "Oh~ Look at that~" He purrs, delicately moving his fingers in slow, circular motions over your clit. You can feel the heat bubbling up again. You think for a moment that he may have spied on you before when he mentioned your... private extracurricular activities. Just the idea of that alone was enough to bring the edge close. He was here, touching you, speaking so lewdly to you, and for the longest time, that had just been a dream.

"P-please..." You grip the arm rests of the chair, thighs twitching with anticipation. "That's not fair..."

"Aww, girlie," he casually removes the two fingers from under your skirt, placing his large palm against the side of your face. He cups your cheek so tenderly, holding up your trembling jaw almost as if he truly cared. "Are you scared of me?"

You gaze back at him through heavy eyelids, nodding slowly. How badly you fought yourself on the morality of all of this... It started to give way.

"Good," he growls, sending a firm smack to your cheek. "You fucking should be." He rises to his feet quickly.

A surprised gasp escapes your lips, your mind recoiling over itself. Without a second to spare, he grabs your face again and holds your chin firmly in place. "Stand up."

You shakily do so, noticing how much he towers over you. He hastily turns the two of you around, lifting you up onto his empty desk. Tartaglia moves his hands gingerly from your hips up your torso, snaking up the skin underneath your sweater. You feel every movement he makes, his lips leaving soft love bites on your neck, his rough palms against your warm flesh, and the way his chilled fingers pressed firmly into your sides to keep you in place.

Tartaglia kisses along your jaw, sneaking a kiss as he makes his way around. Your face burns as you return his fervor, finding a perfect chemistry. Chest in disarray, beating hard against your ribs, you arch your back to press into his towering form. He smiles and hums into the kiss, feeling your small hands reach up to tangle in his hair, your legs wrap like rope around his waist trying desperately to cling to his warmth. Your confidence seems to stir something in his mind.

He pulls back, just barely grazing your lips with his own. "You really piss me off, you know that?"

The harbinger's hips grind a bit rougher against yours, moving in something of an infinity shaped motion. You catch his bottom lip with your teeth and earn a deep growl from the man before you. He quickly lifts your uniform sweater above your breasts, cupping them firmly in this hands, toying with your nipples through the thin, lacy fabric of your bra.

Tartaglia moves down between your thighs once again, never breaking his rhythm within your kiss. A soft moan escapes your lips, lost in the heat of the moment.

Without hesitation, Childe shoves you back onto the desk, looming over you like a predator. He hooks his hands under your thighs, pulling you to the end of the desk. Your ass barely hangs over the edge; inner thighs still pressed up tightly against his waist. His eyes are dark, full of lust.

"I'm going to break you," Childe straights his back, trailing his hands back down your thighs, and then back up. He pushes up your skirt, revealing a black matching lace undergarment; you flush, overwhelmingly nervous.

Beneath his large frame, you felt a strong panic as his body weight pinning you against the heavy oak table.

You struggle to get away, squirming finally out of his grasp and headed quickly towards the door.

"Aht, aht, aht~" he coos, pulling your arms back and slamming you face first back on the desk. Your back is turned to him now, his hips grinding slowly against your bottom. "Where do you think you're going, girlie?"

You shudder. Your stomach churns from his demeanor, feeling overwhelmed by the grip of his hands on your wrists. He holds them firmly above your head with one hand, and for a moment, your panic almost caves. "Childe... please~!"

"Doesn't really sound like you're asking me, (Y/N), so," His soft lips graze across your nape. "No, I don't think I will."

You feel your skirt hike up your back again, and his free hand finds it's place fondling your bottom. He squeezes firmly, prepping himself to smack hard.

SMACK!

You yelp, a fierce heat radiating across your ass.

"Fuck you!" You raise your voice back at him. So badly do you want to lay onto him, to release a thick onslaught of curses, but your voice quivers and it comes out as little more than a squeak.

He almost softens, but the edge in his stance never leaves him. He smacks your bottom again, this time upon the other side. "Is that it?" He says, and hits you again... and again. Your yelps become buried into the polished surface of the desk, slowly becoming moans ruminating with something like fear. Your legs begin to buckle, shaking at the continued abuse, and the fire on your skin stings against the cool air of the office. You lift your head up.

"Fuck," your breathing is heavy, but you push it out like it was a dying breath. "You."

Childe laughs, gripping a fistful of your tussled (h/c). He moves his other hand to your cheek, swiping it across quickly. As if on command, your face instinctively contorts to the pain. Furrowing your brows, you look over your shoulder at him, doing your best to muster whatever anger comes to the surface.

"Oh~ I just love it, (Y/N)." He says calmly, sliding his rough hands softly along the developing bruises on your behind. His palms, weathered from years of battles and scarring, felt soothing along your welted skin. You lean into his touch. It felt like your head was reeling from the intensity of his abuse.

He smiles, leaning into your back. The man's lips grace along your nape as he whispers, "You are so beautiful."

Your face flushes a hot shade of red as bright as Venus itself. As his hands work their way back to your loins from the front, you grind your behind perfectly against his arching beltline. He groans against you, silently grateful for the harmony that you had both found. It saved your from the pain, at least.

It doesn't take long for him to pull you off the desk and set you, practically toss you, onto your knees. He takes your place, leans coolly against the frame, pulling his belt out of their loops in one quick swipe. He places it beside himself before bending to grab your hands. Steadily, you unbutton his pants, hooking your fingers over the hem with caution. You take a timid peek up at him.

His eyes....

They're carnal. Such likeness to a beast, or any monster of any horrible, fearsome storybook you had been read as a child. It shakes you to your core and makes you tremble something fierce.

You swallow hard.

This was it.

Childe's slacks drop neatly around his ankles, coming to rest over his loafers; and his cock springs forth. It was quite beautiful, you thought, admiring the proud curve. You marvel at the fact that he hadn't worn any boxers underneath such thin fabric, but of course, you knew this already.

With a sharp inhale, you straighten up. You hesitantly glide your tongue along the underside of his member, watching his expression shift and waver as you rise to your knees. And at last, after mustering all your confidence, all at once you wrap your mouth around his head.

His blue eyes rolled up towards the ceiling as your tongue went to work, dulled with lust. You kept a delicate watch on his everchanging expression, loving the sight of his pleasure distorting the lined features in the bright, atmospheric lighting. His hands find their way to your hair and twist within the soft (h/c) locks. "Fuck," He sighs out, propping himself up on one elbow. He guides your head up and down, allowing you to set the pace, and lets another soft hum escape his lips. "Where have you been hiding, huh?"

You smile up at him, deviance in your gaze, but never separating your mouth from his twitching cock. It was a lot to take in, but you held your breath and pushed on. Slowly but surely, the entirety of his length filled your throat, rubbing eagerly against your tonsils. He huffs, holding you there steadily. Your tongue moves with pressure in super slow motions, and with determination to impress, your fingers remain tightly clenched around your thumbs within your small fists.

"Archons..." He finally sighs, before letting your head go. His breathing is weighted.

To your surprise, you didn't gag. Taking this as a sign, you go for it again... and again... and... again, until Tartaglia is aggressively pounding your mouth into submission. You feel the ridge of his head fucking the back of your throat, your jaw slowly adapting to the use. His large hands hold your head in place, one tangled in your hair and the other pressing against the bulge of your throat as he thrusts, pulling out until the tip of his dick slides against the front of your tongue and back in, your cute nose pushing up against his toned stomach; It fills the air with gargled, lewd noises, leaving only the echoes of your taut cheek smacking on his pale skin. Tears well up in your eyes, smearing the mascara that donned your eyelashes so perfectly once before.

You're a total wreck.

Spit trails thickly down your neck, dripping off your skilled tongue like a small waterfall. Your soft, obedient hands play along your exposed nipple and under your hiked skirt, dancing along the sopping wet folds. When Tartaglia meets your gaze, his aura is hungry. It was everything about the sight of you playing so casually with yourself, his hard cock down your tight little throat, and his hands tangled in your mess of hair that he couldn't wait to pull as he fucked you from behind... His mind was whirling with the possibilities as it always had been when he was around you. It was so hard to control himself.

Slowly sliding out of your mouth, he looks down at the mess he's made you. "I haven't even touched you yet~"

You don't speak, dropping your face just below his member. You eagerly trace your tongue around his sack before engulfing them in your wet mouth. He chuckles again, exasperated as he runs his fingers through your hair. "Show me what you do when you think of me."

Tartaglia's voice is gentle as he speaks to you, like a siren song. It pulls a spark from your heart, and you comply eagerly. He uses his foot to kick your thighs further apart. It's obvious he enjoys the view.

Childe simply watches you make a complete mess of yourself. Whenever you'd lean forward to take him once more in your mouth, he'd yank your head back to look him in the eyes; The whole thing was just... so enticing... but... The man only teased himself as he watched you play. Those handsome features not daring to betray a single emotion amidst his unbridled curiosity.

He inhales, much more like a growl at the sound of your eager moans. As soon as his name left your mouth, it was over.

"Up and over," He mutters, scooping you up from beneath your trembling arms. The Harbinger bends you over the desk once more. One of your legs is lifted onto the surface, and the other unstably supports your heaving form. Childe spits in his hand and rubs it along his cock. You watch, full of lust and a bit of terror, almost praying that he'd be gentle.

Though, and you knew this well about yourself, you wished alongside your feeble hope that he would wreck you, breeding you senseless right here in his office. The idea of him remembering that every time he came to work... Well, that just about did it, huh?

"Ready?"

After a curt node, you feel the pressure of his cock against your entrance and wince. The man's free hand reaches around your lifted thigh, snaking around to help spread you. Slowly but surely, he enters, adding globs of spit as he does.

The fullness took you by surprise. Your raised leg immediately drops to the floor. All at once, you fall forward, nails digging into the wood. Tartaglia doesn't move while you adjust. He watches your reaction, taking an immense amount of fiery pride in making you act like this-- like a primal beast in heat. He knew better than to hurt you now, so he let his idle hands explore your beautiful body. Across your smooth belly, up to your heaving chest, toying with each hard nipple, and up to your shoulders. He traces his fingers along the curves of your arms, coaxing your hands back to his, and interlocks them against the small of your back.

"Deep breath~" He coos, letting his weight rest on your back. You arch into him, trying your best not to wince when his hips push even further into you. Back out, and back in... Childe sets a slow, steady pace. Soon, you adjust completely and let yourself enjoy him. You take every inch like a champ, no longer feeling the heated sting.

He whispers, "Are you my good girl, (Y/N)?"

You moan out a futile affirmation, mind melting all around him. Tartaglia smiles softly, letting his desire flicker just for a moment in his predatory eyes. He straightens up, using his feet to spread your legs across the desk once again, and slaps your behind hard.

He slides almost all the way out, snaking his hand to meet yours again up at the small of your back. He held you down easily with only one hand. "Damn right you are." A sinister grin creeps up onto his lips. "And what do good girls want?"

You whimper it out softly, "I want you to fuck me."

"I'm sorry, you want what?" He mocks you, grasping a handful of your hair from the nape once more. "Say it louder."

"Please," You yelp as he tugs you back. The tip of his cock was right— there— and you felt so empty without it. You ached almost and pleaded with him in your tone. "Please fuck me!"

And with that, he slams his hips against your bare ass on repeat. Over... and over... Your mind begins to melt. You had imagined it for so long and yet he was here... better than you could have ever thought. Tartaglia's massive cock filled you with an intense heat that bubbled up like a witch's cauldron. It stopped being a concern about what they could hear outside the door or the spilt wine glass that stained the elaborately designed rug on the floor. Time melded altogether and left you without wanting in his beautiful office. You came and came... and again, just shaking before him like a small dog.

Childe moves to adjust himself and lifts you into his arms. You face him, showing him the barefaced mess he'd made you. Makeup and tears stretched down your flushed cheeks, and behind them, a harsh red line on your left cheek and forehead from where your face had pressed so firmly against the solid oak wood.

He positions himself again and enters you, this time with absolute ease. You felt welcome in his strong arms, allowing yourself to lean back a bit and toy with yourself. It didn't take long for that tension to build up again. Every movement he makes fills the air with a lewd set of noises, and your fingers play wildly against your terminally sensitive clit. You stare longingly up at him, made obedient by his bombardment. His tip slams into your cervix like a fighters' uppercut and sent spasms up your entire spine.

"Please--I'm so-- close-- daddy, please~!" You let your voice ring out, feeling drool spill over your bottom lip and onto the top of your exposed breasts.

Childe tilts his chin. "Daddy? Is that what you want to call me?"

You struggle on your words. Every inch of you feels full and hot, like a firework show is about to start. You whimper out your beggings, pleading, praying to this godlike man before you, in-between each deep thrust. "Yes-- please--"

"Oh, yeah?" The man laughs, holding you close to his chest. His hands secure you firmly. You let your arms snake around his shoulders. Your glistening forehead finds its place against his own sweating skin, breaths intertwining in an intimate dance. His voice is husky as he speaks; "Say it to me again and I'll make you a mommy."

A spark shoots through you and you grin wildly back at him. "Then," you growl, kissing and biting along his neck and up to his ear. "Breed me, daddy."

Without a second thought, Childe slams you into the nearest sofa chair. You bounce on the soft cushion, hearing a muffled thunk! as it scoots back on the rug below, and he begins again. One hand folds around your small neck while the other pushes your legs back above your head. As if on display, your bottom half raises above your flustered face. He felt so deep in your stomach that even your moans felt choked.

He still resembled such a rabid animal. From the bloodthirsty smirk adorning his lips to his stance as a beast before you, you recognized the fear growing again in your chest. Your vision is blurry from the tears in your eyes.

He slaps your ass with his free hand, squeezing tightly into the flesh. His movements get more sporadic as he goes, his thrusts more violent and deep. "Fuck," Childe groans, arching his body foreword. He presses his forehead to the top of the chair. "Shit~ I'm gonna..."

As you move your now freed hands to his rippled, scarred up sides, you feel his cock twitching inside you, unloading his hot cum deep into your core. Your voice was hoarse from the heavy breathing and seemed to scratch along your whimpers. You swallow hard, holding the heaving man as close to your as possible. Tartaglia half smiles when your legs wrap around his waist to keep him in place. There was so much... he knew he couldn't move for fear of passing out, and this small fact made the harbinger chuckle against the fabric of the couch. He had been bested by a normal girl from Liyue and for this, you had his respect.

After a few minutes, he pulls himself out of you and stands back, almost wavering as he does. His seed dripped thickly from your sex, trailing down your ass to become a thick puddle on the ground. Childe marvels at you with something soft and sweet in his eyes. You flush.

"C-can I have a um—" you begin, stuttering over your timid words, and sit yourself up just a bit. You try to angle your ass off the couch to avoid making an even bigger mess, but a part of you wondered if it even mattered at this point.

"A towel? Yeah, of course." He walks confidently around the desk before opening one of the drawers. He pulls out two handkerchiefs and wanders back over to you, beginning the cleaning process. His hands are gentle as he moves the fabric around your bottom, tenderly cleaning up the mess he made. After he finishes, he sets the soiled one aside and swaps for the clean rag to wipe the tears and snot from your delicate face. "You're beautiful, Miss (Y/N). Do you know that?"

Childe's hand presses against your cheek, holding your gaze with his. "Stay with me. Just for a bit before you go? I'd be honored to have your company."

You sigh, your heart smiling while you refused to show it on your face. "Yeah, sure, that'd be nice."

When you try to stand, your legs almost immediately give way, trembling and buckling with every movement. You hadn't realized how sore they were. Childe notices, you pulls you into his arms for support, matching your slow hobbling speed. He walks you to the further part of the office where the couches and bookshelves presented an immaculate study area and sits down first. A hand extends out to you, of which you take gracefully, and rest onto his lap.

He holds you against him, allowing you to lay on his sturdy chest. He was warm and comfortable. It was funny that you miraculously felt safe now. But for a while, you almost forget what had brought you here.

For now, you would rest.

#tartaglia #childe #genshin x reader #genshin impact #genshin fanfic #genshin smut #genshin x you #fanfic #fanfiction #genshin harbingers #harbingers x reader

72 notes · View notes

noodyl-blasstal · 1 year

Text

Blupjeans Week: Bet (day 2)

It's @blupjeansweek day 2. This follows on from yesterday's prompt. You can also read on Ao3

"It's going to be fine."

"Easy for you to say, you just casually revolutionised thermodynamics, you're gonna walk your viva." Barry could hear Lup rolling her eyes at that one, though he stayed resolutely focused on the raggedy copy of his thesis which was, at this point, 70% sticky notes. Could he read what any of them said because of how much they overlapped? Shut up.

"Natch, evocation is never going to be the same thanks to cha'girl's research, but that doesn't meant you're going to fail, Barold."

"No, they're just going to MPhil me out."

Lup sighed heavily. "Oh no, you worked hard and gained mastery in a subject, how terrible, what an embarrassment."

Barry did look up then, didn't she get it? He’d thought she’d get it. It was an embarrassment! She’d watched him put so much into this, the stupid well thumbed, badly bound paper stack represented four years of late nights, early mornings, cancelled plans, 3am anxiety… he thought she understood. She’d lived it with him, they were working for the key to the next level, if they gave him the wrong one what was even the point? "You think…?"

"I'm being flippant because that's not going to happen. Once again, I've read your work my guy, it's good, in fact, it’s great. In fact, right now, you’re arguing with established fact.” Barry grimaced as Lup spoke, but she ploughed on. “... you've already published three chapters of this thing in peer reviewed journals. 6/6 esteemed peer reviewers agree!"

"But they publish bad science all the tim…"

Lup cut him off. "Barry stop. You know you’ve done good science because a) I would have told you if you hadn’t, and b) peer reviewers might be lazy but you’re not. You know your submissions were solid, just look at the citations.”

“But…” She was right. But Barry still struggled, sure she hadn’t said anything incorrect, he knew he’d done solid work, but he also just knew that he’d fucked this up.

“...But what? But maybe they're idiots who can't recognise genius? They're gonna recognise it, Barry. It's impossible not to recognise how brilliant you are. That thesis is just you yelling “I’m Barry Bluejeans and I know what the fuck I’m talking about, pay me money about it.” Plus, publish a few more chapters and you can do PhD by publication without those losers to worry about anyway."

Barry didn’t even register the second part because Lup thought he was brilliant! Lup thought he was brilliant and she was telling him and he kept shutting her down instead of just being grateful about it. Maybe if he tried to accept the compliment. "Than…"

Lup started speaking at the same time. "In fact…" She paused to let him speak, but he shook his head and gestured to her, he could try being gracious another day. "... Okay, if you're sure." He nodded. "I think, Baraldo, that we should make a bet, you and I. I may as well profit from all this self doubt, so I bet you're gonna pass with no corrections."

Barry laughed bitterly. Whatever she was betting she'd be losing. "Lup, I'm going to fail."

Lup shoved his shoulder gently. "You're not and you know it. Be serious."

"Oh, like yours was serious?"

Lup's ears flicked back defensively. "Serious? Barry, c'mon. Obviously we all know cha’girl’s out here shaping the future of evocation, but you're doing magic within magic on all your spooktacular stuff. The chapter on spell wheels? I'd never considered it, and even if I had, I definitely would have taken at least 10 minutes longer than you to come up with something so elegant. You know what you're doing, I know what I'm doing, it's why we're such a great team."

They did make a great team. They’d met the first day of undergrad at orientation. Barry the lone mature student in a sea of babies, then Lup and Taako had appeared, and sure there was The Nerd Incident, but they cleared that pretty fast. They coincided in most classes, worked together in labs, and powered their way through a ridiculous amount of higher education together. There hadn’t been any question about it when the option of choosing housing came up, they lived together off campus and were joined by a rotating cast which had pretty much always featured Taako (well, until this year), but LupAndBarry, BarryAndLup? They were a constant, they worked. “We do work well together.”

“You can say that again.” Lup glared at him as he opened his mouth to repeat it. “...And you know exactly how smart I am, right?” Lup asked. Barry could taste the trap-ness of this question, she was an angler fish and the question was a beautiful little light, he was going to answer it honestly and wholly and she was going to chomp him down with her big clever teeth.

“You’re incredible Lup, your research is amazing and you’re passionate and eloquent and so smart…”

Lup’s teeth closed. “Then you know I know my shit well enough to know your shit’s good, so, what’s your bet?”

“I pass with major corrections?”

Lup raised an eyebrow. “Question, or an answer?”

“I pass with majors.”

“Fine. If you want to lose whatever you’re betting then be my guest, Bluejeans.”

“I don’t think I have anything you want.” Barry said, and he wasn’t sure, it was a ridiculous thought, but he could have sworn that Lup’s ears reddened at the tips. She coughed loudly, then almost shouted “Jeans.”

“What?”

Lup coughed again and spoke in a softer tone. “I get rights to your wardrobe. I know your jeans are comfier than mine.”

Barry hesitated. He’d already lost a good chunk of his shirts and sweaters to Lup. Not that he minded most of the time, he usually managed to steal his favourites back briefly on laundry day, but his jeans? He only had three pairs and they all served specific purposes in his life, he couldn't afford to sacrifice them, no matter how cute Lup would look in them. But, <;i>but</i>, there was no way he was actually going to pass without corrections, everyone at least got minors and Barry's supervisor definitely didn't think he'd even manage that. According to the available evidence, this seemed like a safe bet. "Deal!"

Lup grinned big and wide and dangerous . "GuyWhoJustLostHisJeansSaysWhat."

"What?" Barry asked.

Lup snickered. "Just asking what you wanted from me if your externals are somehow struck incapable of recognising brilliance?"

Oh... yeah, Barry had forgotten this part. Lup's brash overconfidence in his abilities had essentially signed her up to do whatever he wanted. He could stick her with dish duty for the next hundred years; make her actually use the dregs of her body wash before she moved onto the next one so the edge of the shower wasn't a terrifying pile of upside down barely balanced bottles; he could ask her to tell him whether there was an expiration date on their whole thing, whether the end of study meant different directions and fond memories, phone calls which dwindled as she remembered less and less… "You have to come home with me." He blurted out the thought before he could properly consider what he was asking. Was that too much? Oh it was probably too much. A trip home meant a road trip, motels, meeting his Mum. There was no way Marlena wouldn't pick up on exactly how he felt about Lup, not that she hadn’t already, but it was easier to lie on the phone. Plus, there was no way his Mum wouldn't love Lup too. How could anyone not? Then he’d only disappoint her when Lup moved on with her life and left him behind. Maybe he could back track, do the dishes thing instead…

"You have yourself a deal, Mr Bluejeans, may as well use that title one last time. Now, I have some outfits to plan, go eat the sandwich I made you, then I'll help with the last minute prep." Lup disappeared in the direction of Barry's room.

Barry resigned himself to losing another few shirts while Lup investigated his wardrobe and obediently shuffled his way to the kitchen. It was definitely time to eat, he wasn't entirely sure when he last did… probably the last time Lup shoved food at him. He definitely had to thank her when this was over.

"...And why did you decide on Necrostics?" Lup looked expectantly at Barry.

"It was the most logical methodological approach as it incorporates acknowledgement of the agency held by constructs and the undead while also acknowledging the influence of social and summoning factors. I modified the approach to ensure it was appropriately controlling for the new spells I developed."

Lup clapped her hands delightedly.

"It was that good an answer?" Barry asked.

"It's that good a wardrobe. I cannot wait to get my hands on it, Barold, you're gonna be living in your pants… although…" Lup narrowed her eyes.

"Absolutely not, no!"

Lup shrugged. "You can't watch your stuff all the time, Barry. Cha'girl needs some new sleep shorts."

Barry felt his face flame at the thought of Lup sleeping in his clothes, Lup wanting to. "I'd better go now!" He said, too fast and too loud. "Gotta go get it over with."

Lup jumped up. "Cool, I'll grab my book and and few other bits and come with. There's some comfy chairs in the corridor with my name on them."

Oh. Lup was going to come with him. Lup was going to wait for him. "You don't have t…"

"I want to."

–

"Good luck Barold, you've got this." Lup hugged him firmly, he squeezed back. If he didn't let go he didn't have to go into the scary room. Can't defend your thesis if you’re in the middle of a hug, that’s just science. Lup pulled back slightly, then dipped her head to kiss him on the cheek.

Barry didn't have time to react before Lup pulled away and planted herself across the corridor chairs, head buried in her book.

"Are you ready, Mr Bluejeans?" A voice asked from the door behind him. All Barry could do was touch a hand to his cheek, turn, and nod.

–

"Congratulations again, Dr Bluejeans, this may be the most enjoyable viva I have ever taken part in." Said Dr Combish, opening the door for him.

Barry was going to pass out. The adrenaline finally drained out of him, weeks, months of panic, gone. It was over. An outright pass? It was so rare, so ridiculously unlikely. He should be raring to celebrate, but mostly he just wanted to go home and sit very still in the dark. He stepped into the corridor, remembered to thank Dr Combish, and stared numbly at the door as it closed. What did he even do now? It was over. A whole chunk of his life was just… done. He had the keys to the next stage, had the fancy title, had everything he'd worked for and… and?

"Hey Bear?" Lup nudged his arm gently. "How'd it go?"

"I… I passed?" Said Barry. "Yeah. They. Well. I passed!" His voice broke momentarily, to say it was so surreal. "Lup! I passed!!!" He grabbed her into a hug. "I did it! We did it! Thank you, thank you thank you thank you!"

"Knew you could." Lup said thickly, hugging him back. They didn’t say anything for a while, just held on tight. “We… we should do something.” Said Lup, eventually. “Celebrate, you know.”

“We’ll celebrate together when you pass next week.” Barry didn’t even have to think about it. Whatever he could do, Lup could do better, there was no way she’d be correcting anything.

“Fine, but we’re getting pizza, from the good place.” Lup grabbed her backpack from the chairs.

Barry stared for a second. “You… you’re wearing my garden jeans. Lup!”

“And they look great on me. Told you I believed in you. Fair’s fair.” Lup winked, wiggled her butt, and grabbed his hand. “Now, let’s get you home, Baraldo. We need to ring Marlena and tell her, she’ll be having kittens.”

Barry couldn’t do anything but nod.

#blupjeansweek2023 #Barry you idiot; see how smart you are!#Lup grabbed those jeans so fast - she's been secretly wearing them for years but now she doesn't have to hide it anymore #Noodyl Writes #TAZ fic #The Adventure Zone #Blupjeans #Barry Bluejeans #Lup Tacco #Lup

82 notes · View notes

thehorrortree · 8 months

Text

Deadline: December 31, 2023 Payment: $0.07 per word Theme: Character-driven fictional short stories written by Black women writers. All genres are welcome. We’re Currently Accepting Submissions! Next Deadline: December 31, 2023 at 11:59 pm ET (short fiction – all genres and narrative essays) *updated 10/1/23 CLICK HERE TO SUBMIT! short stories. essays. melanin. Whether you’re an established writer or are just starting out, we want to hear from you! midnight & indigo, a literary journal celebrating Black women writers, has issued a call for submissions to review short stories and narrative essays. We publish content on our digital platform and in our literary journals (paperback/ebook/audiobook). In 2024, we will publish our first long-form anthology! Writers are invited to share their original, fictional, or personal stories. Stories can funny, entertaining, serious, or sincere. Stories must be character-driven and leave readers with something to think about. All genres are welcome! How to Submit: Format: All submissions should follow proper manuscript format and Microsoft Word .doc format. We will not accept submissions that do not follow our guidelines. All stories must be submitted via Submittable — we will not accept stories via email. You may submit up to three stories at any time. Our average response time is 120 days Word length: Short stories: 1,500-8,000 words. Narrative essays: min. 1,200 words Please note: Calls for Submissions will be held on a rolling basis with deadlines four times per year: March 31st, June 30th, September 30th, and December 31st. Submission does not guarantee that your work will be published. All submissions will be considered for our long-form anthology Genres: All genres and writing styles are welcome. It may be helpful to view our current short stories, essays, and literary journals to get a general sense of what we publish, but don’t be afraid to push the needle! Compensation: We pay for all accepted pieces. Information is available below Fiction Guidelines General Literary Fiction We are looking for previously unpublished, CHARACTER-DRIVEN fictional short stories written by Black women writers. All genres are welcome. Subject matter and plots can run the gamut, but we want emotion, grit, soul, and writing that forges an immediate connection with the reader. Word count requirement: 1,500-7,000 words We offer $0.07 per word for Short Stories accepted for publication in our literary journal (eBook, print, audiobook, and/or podcast) and online publication on midnightandindigo.com. Rates and word count based upon the final, edited piece Submissions should be submitted in proper short story manuscript format with your name, email address, and the story’s total word count on the first page. For our purposes, you do not need to include a mailing address or phone number. CLICK HERE for an example of proper short story manuscript format All submissions will be considered for publication in our upcoming print anthology (est. December 2024) We do not accept work created by AI. Any submissions not entirely created by a human author will be automatically rejected. Black Speculative Fiction We are looking for previously unpublished, character-driven, speculative short stories written by Black women writers. Speculative fiction is a broad genre encompassing fiction with certain elements that do not exist in the real world, often in the context of supernatural, futuristic, or other imaginative themes. This includes, but is not limited to, science fiction, fantasy, superhero fiction, horror, utopian and dystopian fiction, fairytale fantasy, and supernatural fiction. Word count requirement: 2,000 – 7,000 words We offer $0.07 per word for Short Stories accepted for publication in our annual Speculative issue (eBook, print, audiobook, and/or podcast) and on midnightandindigo.com. Rates and word count based upon the final, edited piece Submissions should be submitted

in proper short story manuscript format with your name, email address, and the story’s total word count on the first page. For our purposes, you do not need to include a mailing address or phone number. CLICK HERE for an example of proper short story manuscript format All submissions will be considered for publication on a rolling basis on midnightandidigo.com or in our annual Speculative fiction special issue (online and/or print – October 2024) We do not accept work created by AI. Any submissions not entirely created by a human author will be automatically rejected Essay Guidelines We are looking for previously unpublished, first-person POV fictional essays written by Black women writers. Essays can be funny, entertaining, serious, or sincere. Content must uplift, inspire, and leave readers with something to think about. We want emotion, grit, soul, and writing that forges an immediate connection with the reader around your experience. Submissions cannot include list formats or “5 Ways to…” inspirational instructionals. Word count requirement: min. 1,200 words We offer $150 for Essays accepted for publication on midnightandindigo.com Submissions should be submitted in proper manuscript format with your name, email address, and the story’s total word count on the first page. For our purposes, you do not need to include a mailing address or phone number. CLICK HERE for an example of proper manuscript format We do not accept work created by AI. Any submissions not entirely created by a human author will be automatically rejected Rights: Each author retains the sole, individual copyright on her contribution. We only ask for first North American serial rights on any story we publish. This means that the story should not have appeared anywhere else, either in print or online. (This includes publication on an author’s own website). We accept first world eBook, print, and audiobook rights, and non-exclusive anthology rights for our published anthologies. We also accept non-exclusive online rights to publish and archive your story on our website(s) or on our podcast. You will be asked to agree to our contract as part of the submission process. CLICK HERE TO SUBMIT! Via: midnight & indigo.

13 notes · View notes

lillianawayne99 · 1 year

Text

CastAway Chapter 20

Pairing: Gojo, Itadori, Sukuna, Nanami X OC

Genre: Action Romance

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: Teacher-Student relationship, canon with a twist, reverse harem, smut, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, violence, major character death, M/M, M/F/M, three way, unprotected sex, sex outdoors, sex in a public place, fingering, manhandling, dominant Gojo, switch Yuuji, submissive MC, quirofilia, dry humping, Sukuna and Yuuji share control, voyeurism, exhibitionism, orgasm control, choking, dacryphilia, double penetration, praise, degradation, creampie

Synopsis: Calliope, a wolf in sheep's clothing, enrolls at Jujutsu Tech to protect herself from a world she's never seen before. In her efforts to stay alive, she finds relationships that could mend her soul or tear her apart.

Previous Chapter // CastAway // Masterlist

Yuuji stared up at Gojo through hooded eyes. He groaned again as Gojo tugged on his hair. With one hand on Yuuji’s waist and the other in his hair, he pushed us backwards until Yuuji’s back hit the tree I’d sent Sukuna flying into. Yuuji and I grunted as we were forced to a sudden stop.

Gojo took another step forward, keeping the three of us pressed firmly together. Using Yuuji to hold us still, bright blue eyes shifted their gaze to mine. Feeling Gojo’s eyes on me, I turned to look at him. His gaze darkened as he saw his own lust mirrored in my eyes.

All three of our chests heaved in unison as the weight of what we were doing sank in. No one else was here, no one would know, and yet the fear of getting caught was starting to hit us. Well, based on the look of pure lust in Gojo’s eyes, it was hitting me and Yuuji. Gojo didn’t seem to care about getting caught, or maybe it turned him on even more.

“Safeword?” Gojo asked, his eyes boring into mine.

“What?” I asked as Yuuji’s breath faltered behind me.

“Do you have one?” Gojo clarified, glancing behind me at Yuuji to show he was asking both of us.

“Yes. Why, am I going to need it?” I followed Gojo’s gaze, glancing repeatedly between the two men I was caged between.

“I know we’ve already broken many rules, but we’re about to break a lot more. A few laws too. I need to know if this becomes too much for either of you.” Gojo emphasized his point by releasing his hold on Yuuji’s head, caressing his cheek before cupping mine and turning my head so I focused my eyes on him.

“Poughkeepsie,” I uttered. Hearing the word leave my lips sent a pang down to my core.

“Poughkeepsie?” Gojo asked, his brow raised in curiosity.

“Poughkeepsie.” I nodded, noticing the glint appear in Gojo’s eyes as I confirmed he’d heard me right.

“And a gesture? For if you can’t talk.” Gojo glanced at Yuuji behind me, his blue gaze quickly finding mine again when I responded.

“Taps for if I need to stop. Squeezes for if it’s too much but I don’t want to stop. And,” I hesitated, glancing at Yuuji, the determination in his gaze reassuring me to finish speaking. “Hair pulling means more.”

Gojo smirked at the last part. “Show me.”

I nodded and placed a hand on each of their arms. First, I tapped my fingers and then my hands on them. I waited a couple seconds before squeezing rhythmically. Squeeze, release, squeeze, release, squeeze, release. I knew I would squeeze them during sex, so the rhythmic letting go would differentiate the signal. Finally, I reached up to grab a handful of their hair and pull.

Both of them let out a small groan as I pulled their hair, but Gojo quickly regained his composure and turned his attention to Yuuji. “Yuuji-kun, are you comfortable using these?”

“Yes,” Yuuji breathed out in response, his growing erection flexing against my ass.

“Good.” Gojo’s tone turned dominant again.

He roughly shoved his chest into mine, forcing me to grind against Yuuji and Yuuji’s back to press harder into the tree. Gojo ground into me, and through me, Yuuji. I let out a sound between a whine and a moan as Yuuji groaned behind me.

Gojo’s hand traveled past my cheek to fist in my hair. His arm rested on my chest, holding me in place as his lips captured mine in a demanding kiss. He eagerly, forcefully, pushed his tongue into my mouth. He tasted of sweet mint as his tongue danced with mine.

While Gojo kissed me, Yuuji released his hold on our sensei’s jacket to place his hands on my thighs, sliding them upwards to my waist. I whined into Gojo’s lips as Yuuji slid a hand into my pants. I arched my hips backwards, giving him a meager amount of space to continue moving his hand downward.

I gasped into the kiss as Yuuji’s fingers delved between my folds, gathering my wetness, before focusing on my clit. My shoulders unconsciously leaned back into Yuuji as he rubbed in slow circles. While Yuuji teased me with his languid pace, Gojo let go of Yuuji’s waist to slide his hand into my pants.

With his palm on the back of Yuuji’s hand, Gojo pushed two fingers into me. Gojo swallowed my moan as he massaged my walls and Yuuji quickened his pace. Gojo’s long, deft fingers effortlessly found the right spot to press against. He curled his fingers inside me and pulled.

The motion made me moan into his lips, prompting him to do it again. A deep groan left both our lips as my walls tightened in response. Satisfied with my reactions, Gojo pressed his fingers into my walls. Keeping them buried in me, he moved his fingers back and forth in a come hither motion. His knuckles pressed into one side of my walls as his fingers rubbed the other.

Not wanting to be left out, Yuuji pushed into my clit and massaged faster in smaller circles. His fingers slid easily as I grew wetter by the second. Despite how wet I was becoming, Yuuji managed to keep his fingers constantly on my clit.

Gojo’s fingers in my hair and Yuuji’s hand on my waist tightened their grip as my hips began to shake. Using their bodies to hold me in place, they pressed into me and used their hands between my legs to keep me standing.

My hips bucked as I whined, panted, and moaned into Gojo’s lips. He groaned in response and kissed me harder, not letting my oncoming orgasm break the kiss. As my walls began to throb, Gojo pulled his tongue out of my mouth. He ran the tip of his tongue along my bottom lip, breathing in every noise I let out.

His lips curled into a smirk as I screamed into them, my hips bucking and hands fisting on his waist as I came. They didn’t stop. Their fingers continued their motions, building in speed to prolong and strengthen my orgasm.

Gojo finally broke the kiss, pulling my head back into Yuuji’s shoulder. He watched as I came undone around his fingers, my eyes screwed shut and mouth parted.

I opened my eyes as my orgasm passed. Gojo’s blue eyes were trained on my face as I panted. He winked at me before slowly pulling his fingers out of me. Raising his hand, he smirked down at me as he placed his fingers in his mouth and cleaned my juices off them with a groan.

Following Gojo’s lead, Yuuji removed his hand from between my legs. Gojo grabbed his wrist, moving his gaze to focus on the man behind me as he placed Yuuji’s fingers in his mouth. Yuuji moaned softly against my ear as Gojo sucked on his fingers.

Once he was satisfied, Gojo pulled Yuuji’s hand away and let go of his wrist. Gojo let go of my hair to grab my waist with one hand and Yuuji’s with the other. He backed up, pulling us with him without letting any space come between us.

He took one more step before grabbing my waist with both his hands and spinning me around. The second my eyes focused on Yuuji, Gojo hooked a foot around Yuuji’s ankle and pulled. As Yuuji fell, he pushed me down.

Yuuji grunted as I fell onto him with a yelp. He glanced behind me at Gojo, as if expecting instructions or an indication why Gojo knocked us over. I followed his gaze to see Gojo move to sit on a fallen log nearby and motion towards us, or rather Yuuji, to get on with it.

Needing no more encouragement, Yuuji pressed his lips to mine the moment I turned back towards him. His large, heavy hands grasped my hips, pushing me down into his groin and grinding his hips into mine. Sensitive from my orgasm, I whined into his lips as he skilfully rocked his erection against my clit.

He groaned into the kiss, grinding against me a few more times before growing impatient and sliding his hands up to grasp my shirt. Yuuji broke the kiss for the split second he needed to pull my shirt off and throw it to the ground. His hands returned to my hips, pushing me down into him as he bit my bottom lip, tugging on it.

He shuddered beneath me as I moaned in response to the bite. His grip tightened, digging his nails into me. Sukuna flipped us over, hands wrapping around my pants as I kicked off my shoes. The moment my shoes were off, he pulled my pants and underwear off together.

Two pairs of eyes raked over my body, the upper ones hazel and bottom pair blood red. He, they, sat on their knees to discard their shirt before tossing their shorts and boxers to the side as well. Calloused hands tore off my bra before demanding lips crashed into mine.

Resting on his forearm, fingers lacing through my hair, Yuuji used his free hand to line himself with my entrance. Sukuna thrusted into me harshly. Groaning into his lips, my back arched as he pounded into me without giving me time to adjust.

My arms wrapped around his waist, clawing at his back as he thrusted into me. Moaning and panting into his mouth, Yuuji breathed in every noise and breath I let out. With one last press of his lips to mine, he lowered his head so his cheek rested against mine.

I felt his lips curl into a mix between a smile as smirk as I cried out against his ear. My back arched into him as I clung to his back, leaving red lines in his skin as I raked my nails along it. With every thrust, he pounded into my walls in all the right places.

Feeling me start to tighten around him, Sukuna growled into my ear, “What do you want, pet?”

I only whined and moaned in response, unable to focus on saying anything with the way he was ramming into me.

He chuckled and slowed his pace, taking away my chance of reaching another orgasm. Sukuna languidly dragged his length through my walls, maintaining the strength in the snap of his hips. His teasing made me cling to him harder, wrapping my legs around his waist in an effort to bring him closer to me.

He gently ran his teeth along my neck, down to my shoulder, then licked his way back up. “Say it, kitten. Or I won’t give you what you want.”

Fueled by my need to cum, I whined desperately into his ear, “Please … please make me cum!”

He snapped his hips into me the way I needed twice before slamming into me and holding himself in place. “Make you?”

“Let me!” I cried out, digging my nails into him as tears began to form in my eyes. “Please, please let me cum!”

He nipped at my ear with a low chuckle. Satisfied with my begging, his back trembled under my hold as he pounded into me with nearly inhuman speed and strength. I cried out, head thrown back, clawing at his skin, as my body shook and I finally reached the release I needed.

Spurred on by my walls pulsating around him, Yuuji fisted his hand in my hair as Sukuna fucked me through my orgasm. Another hand snaked its way between us to grasp my throat. Squeezing the sides, they chased their own orgasm as I grew lightheaded from the pressure.

Their hips faltered, thrusts losing their rhythm, as thick, warm liquid shot into me. The feel of him throbbing inside me sent me into another, smaller orgasm. Yuuji shuddered above me as we came together.

We laid there, panting and holding onto each other. He pulled back enough to look down at me, brushing hair out of my face and pressing a gentle kiss to my cheek, before rolling us over.

I moved my hands out from under him to rest on the ground beside his head. Leaves and branches crunched as we caught our breath.

Gojo ran his fingers up Yuuji’s balls, along the base of his shaft, to where his still hard length was nestled inside me. I whined and glanced back at him while Yuuji groaned softly.

Blue eyes watched our reactions with a smirk. “Ready for round two?”

Yuuji’s erection twitched as I nodded weakly in response.

Next Chapter

Reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated!

#jjk fanfic #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #itadori yuuji smut #gojo satoru smut #sukuna fanfic #jjk reverse harem #lilliwrites #calliope davis

23 notes · View notes

gudrunbrangwen · 1 year

Note

i am 99% certain i know who you're talking about. we're still in mutuals because i'm afraid of her after noticing how many rumors about p***** t***** linked back to her but what the fuck happened if you don't mind sharing?

hmmmmmm yea. no comment re: p.t. but i can speak to my own experience

it's still hard to talk about but i was dazzled by a relationship with a B-list tumblr lesbian when i was seventeen and she was nineteen where she used me as her therapist and refused to let me leave when i realized the relationship was wildly unbalanced and unfulfilling. she was incredibly charming online but during her first physical visit it became clear that she did not care about who i was as a human being and we had zero chemistry. we kissed maybe twice during a nearly three-year relationship and when i attempted to get out she would threaten self-harm and suicide in retaliation. this went on (with my total compliance -- i can't think of a single way she abused me which i did not eagerly collaborate with her on and make compassionate excuses for) until, about four months after our "official" breakup (one she vetted for nearly six months before she felt comfortable going public with the news)............ i was taking a two-hour exam at college and left the classroom to find almost thirty voicemails calling me names, accusing me of cheating, telling me she hoped i was happy with whoever had poisoned me against her. four months after the breakup. and i finally blocked her phone number. and she made tumblr post after tumblr post (including one with my phone number so her followers would call me to "talk some sense into me") stating that if i did not speak to her she had a plan for killing herself. i have comprehensive screenshots of this meltdown, but they are boggling and upsetting and i don't care to share them in the context of just uhhhh LOL answering an anon on my succession blog. so i deleted the blog i'd had since i was a kid. i had enough. i cannot tell you how surreal it was to break down and call her, weeks after, just missing this person who had alienated me from my friends and family to such an extent that i believed she was one of the only people in my life who loved me, to hear zero emotion in her voice as she told me it was over because my blog was gone. the relationship was no longer a public source of clout for her and therefore not worth her attention. she immediately moved on to bullying a different cartoonist into submission. i did not realize the extent of what i endured until i was able to connect with other people who dated her and we were able to compare stories. i even apologized to her, owning up to my behavior in the relationship (after a stint in codependents anonymous and early transition anxieties made me dead-set on doing the right thing with zero regard for the reality of my situation) and then realized with horror that someone she abused soon after me also apologized around exactly the same time. all of our stories had frightening similarities -- the idyllic super-online early days, her dead-faced disinterest when she met us in person which would flip into picture-perfect happiness as soon as she pointed the camera at herself (one ex had a story about her seeming bored and even being pointedly mean to them until she insisted they take a selfie, at which point she would not stop kissing them as long as the camera was on). like i am a human being who has certainly hurt friends and partners and then made clunky choices when it came to amends, i'm not some saintly victim because i encountered this person (and neither are any of the other people i connected with who had similar stories about her), but i'm not gonna put my hands over my eyes and pretend i don't see a bloody trail of repeated behavior with her just because none of us are perfect survivors. literally no survivor ever is

and LOL i don't mind sharing. while also bearing in mind that social media is truly not the forum for understanding any of this, like this is Her Domain for a reason. survivor testimony, no matter how articulate, just does not hold a candle to practiced DARVO tactics and the tried and true appeal of being shamelessly and flippantly cruel on the internet for fun. like i can be as honest and earnest as possible Online but if i think for a second that that'll save me i'm fucked. like i am smart enough now to know this LOL. the complexities of that relationship, what it was like being on this site between 2012-2016, how much shame and fear around transness played into it, how tied up fandom behavior was in interpersonal abuse........ like. i'm gonna make comics about it because that's where my power is. like i'm grateful i am no longer so afraid of this person that i feel like i can't Share My Truth Online but also this is not the end-all-be-all for how i express myself. it's much bigger than fuckin..... posting u know

#don't relog again gracias #sorry this isn’t under a Read More the app was fritzing. trying in vain to stop me from posting

9 notes · View notes

chattingwiththelightkeeper · 8 months

Text

Mind Your Manners

It is no secret we live in a world where being polite and kind is forgotten. Just take a trip to your local grocery store to see it live and in person. If you are daring, head on over to Wal-Mart for a display of truly poor manners. The D/S lifestyle is no different. Just ask any submissive about the crass messages they receive daily the number of unsolicited gentleman-sausage selfies that roll in. Today we will take a minute to remind the dominant population that saying please and thank you should be part of their interactions with their submissive(s).

It seems that so often d-types forget that submissives, especially

those in a relationship, process a request differently than vanilla people. When a dominant makes a simple request, a submissive may not take it as ‘an order’ but since they take pride in pleasing their d-type, they want and in fact, at times need to please or serve. So when a submissive hears, for example, “Since you are in the kitchen, could you grab me a ___” they do not feel, as a vanilla might, that this is simply an if it is a convenient request because they internalize even a simple request as a chance to serve and please their dominant. One is left befuddled when they see or hear of d-types asking their submissive to do something for them but not saying please with the request. Even if a d-type is telling their submissive to do a task, they can still mind their manners and say things like “Today, would you please do ___ for me” or “I want you to write in your journal three times this week for me please”. Now, there are times, especially during play when it can be fun, exciting, and erotic as heck to order a submissive to and fro but outside of those times, whenever humanly possible d-types need to remember, please.

There are many memes, gifs, and the like that circulate all over the kinky internet where submissives are shown saying “Thank you Sir/Ma’am, may I have another”. Whenever I see one of these my brain always defaults back to 1978’s classic comedy Animal House where there is a scene where the fraternity pledges are spanked with the house paddle and must always say “Thank you, sir, may I have another” after each wallop. Once again, I think dominants need to say thank you to their submissive when they do something for their dominant. It is fun to hear a submissive say thank you after a healthy smack on their bottom but d-types need to remember to say thank you for the big and little things their s-types do for them. No matter if it is fetching them a hot beverage or exploring a fantasy together, saying thank you must be part of a dominant’s vocabulary. One suggestion for dominants is saying thank you not just when a submissive does something but also at the end of the day saying thank you for doing X, Y, and Z for me today. The more a submissive feels appreciated, the more they will crave to do for them.

While please and thank you may seem old-fashioned, using them is a simple and easy way for a dominant to always reinforce just how precious their submissive is to them. A bonus of all of this is if a d-type is in the habit of using these words, they can sound like a polite person in public, rather than the kinkeriffic dominant they are, discreetly giving an ‘order’ to their submissive in a vanilla surrounding and the vanilla world will simply believe the dominant who said please and thank you is just a polite person, never grasping what is happening under the surface. Lastly, dominants must always remember that submissives have the right to say no at any time and for any reason, so using good manners, helps make the s-type feel appreciated which means they are less likely to want to say no. So please join in doing this and thank you for reading.

How do you feel about minding manners while keeping it kinky?

If you enjoyed this, I invite you to give my podcast a listen 'Chatting With The Lightkeeper,' a top 25% most-followed podcasts on Spotify but available on all the major podcasting apps and follow my socials for more exclusive content: Instagram, Facebook, and X (formerly Twitter) for a deeper dive into the wonderful world of D/S.

As with all of my thoughts, please see this disclaimer.

©TLK2023

#d/s relationship #bd/sm community #dom/sub #d/s community #my writing

2 notes · View notes

the-twisted-tales-tavern · 4 months

Text

Dungeon Master's Corner

or, the Rules of Engagement for this Blog

Rule #1: Be Respectful. While I might be writing utterly depraved filth as a hobby, I am still a human behind this screen, and harsh words and forceful tones will not make me want to write for you—it will make me want to block you.

Rule #2: My Characters, My Style. While I do take requests, at the end of the day I write what I want and for who I want. How I present those characters is up to my personal discretion, and if you don’t like it, you can walk away.

Rule #3: Patience. Behind the screen, I am a man who works a full-time job that is mentally exhausting, so there may be days or even weeks that go by without a post. If that is upsetting or frustrating to hear, you don’t have to follow.

Rule #4: Preference Gets Priority. While my asks and submissions boxes are always open, I will always be more eager to write for prompts or images that align with the monthly or weekly theme, and leave other posts on the backburner.

Rule #5: Yes’s and Nos of Kinks. This blog primarily writes very explicit erotica, and as such many kinks will be on display. Below is a list of kinks, broken up into which will and won’t be allowed on this blog. If they upset you, please unfollow.

Kinks that ARE ALLOWED:

Monster-fucking

Bestiality

Non-consensual sex

Netorare (Cheating)

Mind-Break

Public / Outdoors sex

Ear/Nipple Fucking

Erotic Asphyxiation

Bimbofication

Hypnosis

Erotic Transformations

Kinks that are NOT ALLOWED:

Pedophilia

Age-play

Diaper-play

Scat/Piss/Fart

Snuff

Gore

Hyper-proportions

Food-play

Obesity

Vore

Rule #6: No Children Allowed. THIS IS NOT A SAFE SPACE. This is a blog dedicated to erotic fiction and fantasy, and is not a place for anyone under 18 years of age. If you aren't a legal adult and you are following this blog, you will be blocked.

Rule #7: Three Strikes. If you follow the rules above, then we'll be fine. If you break any of the preceding rules, though—if you push me about requests, if you nitpick my kinks, or if you try to force your kinks onto me—then you'll get a strike. After three strikes, you will be blocked.

If you have read the entirety of this rules list and are willing to listen and obey them, send "How Do You Want To Do This?" to the ask box. DMs will be ignored.

#dungeon master's notes (important posts)

1 note · View note

ocd-kenobi · 2 years

Note

I’m not really new to Star Wars, but I’m more of like a casual fan who doesn’t really have an opinion about the characters and the plot, so I read any kind of meta that come across on my dashboard from my followings’ reblogs. I do notice this quite extreme different characterization though when it comes to Obi-Wan, where one side characterize him as very self-assured, give affection/touch freely, and extroverted; while another as the opposite of it. (1/2)

Having read your tagged excerpts and similar posts that provide thorough reference of the latter characterization from the novels, I can’t help but wondering if the former one comes solely from the prequel movies? Or if you have read other novels that seem to contradict the latter one, yet support the former one? (2/2) (Sorry for the complicated wordings and thank you for answering)

Don't apologize! It's a complicated question!

There are absolutely two Obi-Wans in fandom. It's very interesting! For reference, I have watched just the movies for most of my life, and only in the past three months or so watched most of TCW and read about a dozen official books. The reason I feel this is relevant is that I started reading these books and watching this content with the intent to figure out what the hell people are talking about when they write Obi-Wan as confident and dominant. I sought to prove myself wrong. Of course, no human can claim to have a truly objective mind, but I tried! I have paid close attention to how Obi-Wan is described by all the many different authors of official Star Wars books. And I just haven't seen a smidge of self-assurance! The closest I've seen is that he can easily put strangers at ease and can modulate his tone to convince strangers that his instructions are worth trusting--that is, he can appear "authoritative" to strangers (which is not authoritarian), and Anakin is aware of this ability (and lacks it, because his social skills are very different.)

So basically, no, I don't see much in the novels that contradict my view of him. I don't have to work hard to keep my characterization of him consistent (not even his OCD).

But The Clone Wars is a different story! To address the core of your question: I suspect that the difference in characterization is not between pre-prequel fans and prequel movie fans, but between people who obsessed over the movies first and people who obsessed over TCW first. (I have not run any research studies, so feel free to provide data!) I do NOT see anything in TCW that contradicts my characterization of him, but I CAN imagine watching TCW (especially as a young person) and reading him as the self-assured character type and then viewing everything else through that lens. Not much of TCW is from Obi-Wan's "POV"; it's a cartoon, and its younger characters are its emotional center, so Obi-Wan is mostly just his public-facing mask and seen through Anakin and Ahsoka's eyes. When I watch TCW, I'm imagining what's going on in Obi-Wan's head, but I'm rarely being shown or told. You can make what you will of him (and Anakin, too, but that's another story.) I have to work equally hard to see my preferred characterization of him as I do to see the daddy-dom characterization of him. But I have tons of book quotes and movie moments to fill in the blanks with, so I'm content. That animation style can only carry so much!

I really would be curious to hear other perspectives on this btw! I'm open-minded. And I hold no judgment for people who have any kind of different characterization of him!!! I think it's great that people can do whatever they want in fandom and I hate elitism in fan spaces.

I hope that answers your question! Also, just for the record because I hate leaving things unsaid: I actually think Obi-Wan is more extroverted than Anakin is!

EDIT:

Was just talking with my wife about how many people who prefer a more dominant Obi-Wan characterization came to that preference out of discomfort with people overdoing it on the submissive Obi-Wan characterization. Like, it’s absolutely possible to make him so submissive and pathetic that he would seem out of character!!! And I can absolutely imagine coming across that and thinking, “I don’t like this. Obi-Wan is actually a passably functional human being.” and swinging full-force in the other direction. So I guess that’s another potential sociological backstory for why the rift exists lol.

#asks #small wiry curious #him

15 notes · View notes

thepariahcontinuum · 2 years

Note

Parahuman power ideas:

1: A tinker whose specialty is to build a crappy, gas-powered device they solves the last problem they heard a person mention. Gets headaches if they hear something the shards can't/won't solve or if he hears another problem before finishing the current project.

2: A blaster/stranger whose blasts become harmless to anybody that sees them. They glow and travel at maybe 20-30 mph so spotting them isn't hard.

3: A breaker who turns into/from lunar sediment. Has no control over their "body" while transformed.

I originally wrote up these three as a cluster trigger but I think I'll leave it up to you if they are or not.

Okay I did a cluster as one of the recent submissions to this so I'm gonna say that this isn't a cluster.

Also, in going to make it a rule now that unless you're specifically asking for a cluster or capes that have a reason to be part of the same submission that you send ideas one at a time....These bulk asks are getting a bit much.

The first one: Oh there's potential for this one....This is a villain/mercenary rogue by necessity. This is a guy who would have loved to stay out of all of the cape nonsense and use his powers to run a legitimate business, the problem is that there are laws which effectively stop Tinkers from running a business that competes with non-Capes. Eventually he decided that if he's going to be forced out of legal work that he should commit to the bit.... He's something of a one-stop shop for quick and dirty, cheap but largely effective solutions that a lot of the small to mid tier villains without the means and resources to have their own in-house people. He is on the other hand someone who will be at every Endbringer fight he can reach, usually with a big gas-powered mech or tank.

His entire aesthetic is steampunk, a mix of gentleman and inventor; hides his face behind heavy goggles, wears a top hat and has a very twirly moustache.

Cape name: "Captain of Industry"

The second one: so you didn't specify but I'm imagining these blasts as similar to Legend's lasers but heavily nerfed because of the limit you specified.

I feel like this guy is ex-military like Narwhal, possibly a sniper which would make the limits of the power fitting in that twisted way Worn does....He was honourably discharged after Triggering and managed to make a living as one of those background capes the PRT just has guarding things and out of the limelight.

Until he found a marketable niche.

He's a blaster, but he likes to function as a striker.... Basically he wears a really subtle costume with a regular coat over it and is the person to take point on engaging villains, primarily getting close enough to fire a blast from point blank..... Doesn't matter how slow the blast moves if it hits you in the back of the head from half an inch away. He's still not massively popular but he's got a use and enough of a cult following to justify them making merch and giving him a few public appearances and interviews.... Although a lot of them are with podcasts run my utter dicks.

Cape name: "Astonish" (Partly because of comic names like "Astonishing Spider-Man" and partly because of the Pokemon move Astonish which makes the opponent flinch)

The third one: Okay I'm gonna need some clarification on this power...Do they actually became a lump of lunar sediment and just exist as a lump of crumbly dirt with no power to affect anything? Because that would be entirely useless beyond being a screaming red flag about this characters self image.

Or is it what I imagined.....A Hulk like scenario where they become a rage monster made of disconnected moon rock and dust, with the breaker category coming from the fact that each of the disconnected parts can function somewhat independently? Because that has some potential.

I don't have much of a background in mind for this character, only that she's a patient at the asylum who checked herself in upon realising that she had absolutely no control over her actions in her alternate state and that changing back was difficult.....Also, she's gotta be involved in the half built moon city, if only tangentially.

Cape name: "Lunacy"....A pun I am not ashamed of.

#worm web serial #wildbow #parahumans #Worm OC #735598445a

18 notes · View notes

hitman-two · 1 year

Text

Brad Colbert Smutty HCs

Happy New Year Smutty Motherfuckers! Godfather would be proud disturbed. ▸ They don’t call him Big Boy Brad for nothing. That’s a lie. No one calls him that. Except you.

▸ Blowjobs are Brad’s bestfriend. He refrains from placing his hand in your hair and gripping your hair, unless he knows you’re comfortable with it, but he has incredible self-restrain when it comes to you. Perhaps annoyingly so for you when you just want him to fall apart beneath you. However, as soon as your lips engulf him inch by inch, that self restraint wavers as he rolls his eyes back to a fluttering close, parts his lips and lets out a sigh/exhale of breath. Almost like it was the most relaxing thing he’s ever had. ▸ You could’ve given him a blowjob only hours prior and he’d still have this reaction every single time.

▸ Brad is an extremely private man. Unlike Ray, there’d be no semi-public shenanigans whatsoever. But he will, very subtly, tease you in public. No one else notices, but you know Brad well enough to know exactly what he’s up to. ▸ Despite not being adventurous publicly, he has no issue taking you in every single room. You eat at the table? That’s where he’ll eat too - if you catch the drift... -wink- ▸ He loves when you ride him. Loves watching you bounce up and down. Loves gripping your hips and thrusting up into you. Adores watching you throw your head back in pleasure. ▸ You know that scene from True Blood? Eric x Nora, Season 5, Episode 11? That particular scenario too. You're still straddling him, but it's that rough, desperate closeness. ▸ It may seem like he uses you the first night he’s home, but he doesn’t. Try to take it as a compliment. He’s spent months without you. He’s had the occasional combat jack to you, but it’s never the same - and since being in a relationship with you, he’s found himself not having as many combat jacks as Ray assumes he has. So, as soon as you get home, it’s a very desperate ’I miss you’ fuck. It’s desperate, intense and over within a few minutes. He’s asleep soon after. And pretty much checked out until early hours of the following morning. But it’s not using you for sex. No. So far from it. He’s wanted nothing more to come home to you and be with you in the most intimate way possible… He’s placed you first, over the need for sleep. Otherwise he would’ve come home and just crashed. ▸ He’s a gentle-fuck. Can fuck roughly but he’s still gentle about it. Which may or may not annoy you, depending on how badly you want him to put all his strength to good use. This is his second relationship and he doesn’t want to fuck it up so he’s always very cautious. ▸ One way to make him completely come undone? Take advantage of when he’s soaking in the bath. Come in and sit on the edge of the bathtub. Have a little chat before it turns suggestive. Dip your hand beneath the water… You’re able to pull out the little gasps and moans from him. And also a whine when your hand leaves him and you leave him, alone, in the bathtub as you saunter out of the bathroom. Make no mistake though. Soon, you’ll hear the splosh of the water as Brad gets out and pins you to the bed within three quick strides of his long legs (holy shit did I just create a smutty one-shot idea here? Excuse me while I steal my own idea). ▸ Brad loves receiving. As submissive as it sounds, he loves it. But make no mistake. He is far from submissive. He still carries an air of dominance about him. Sergeant leader and all. ▸ A little kink of his is when you call him by his rank. He’s heard it from his men before, doesn’t really talk about what happens when he’s deployed… but hearing you say *’Yes Sergeant’* in the most submissive manner…. Oh god, it excites the Marine more than receiving a proper recon mission that allows his warrior spirit to finally shine. ▸ It’s not all about Brad though. He gives you just as much pleasure and attention as you give him. Many times it’s him lifting you up on the counter and letting his hands roam over your body. Fingers that are trained for violence, just ghosting over your skin, over your sensitive areas…ducking beneath YOUR his tee, trailing upwards until he hears that little gasp from you. Brings that little smile from him and his lips are ghosting over your neck. Just soft foreplay until one of you snap and then he’s carrying you to the bedroom where you’ll never know whether he’ll be taking you a little roughly or will be taking his sweet time with you. Either/or, Big Boy Brad never disappoints. ▸ He grunts softly more than he moans. And gasps a lot more than he’ll ever admit. But that’s only privy to you.

I can see this particular HC going one of two ways; ▸ Brad and his porn mags: He uses those magazines to get him off because he doesn’t want to be thinking about you. He misses you like crazy but you are literally the only damn good thing in his life, aside from his bike, and some romantic chivalrous part of him doesn’t want to taint that. So he purposefully puts you out of his mind. Or, he’s a guy. He uses it to get himself started but ends up closing his eyes and finishing to thoughts of you, abandoning the magazine altogether. Honestly, half the time he wonders why he even brings it with him. (No, he does not carry a picture of you while overseas. Absolutely not. Most especially when Ray shares the same Humvee as him.) ▸ Now normally Brad does not like to be disturbed when he's working on his bike. That's his personal time. Leave him alone. But no way can he resist watching you come out in one of his tee's, lingerie underwear (or none!). Soon your otherwise clean skin will have grease marks painted all over it as he sits you on his bike... gasps and moans echoing through the garage (there's a reason why Brad doesn't like having close neighbours).*

|| Disclaimers: I did write most of these specifically for a friend. One of them I had already HC’d with Brad/Nate a year ago. The rest were just too good to not share on my blog.

*Another smutty one-shot? Also if you don't agree with any of it, that's totally fine. This is just coming from my perspective. Regardless, I hope this was enjoyable to read. A particular HC listed, regarding Ray, might've made more sense if I posted Ray's HC list first. Oh well. Like our Lieutenant, I only ever get what's passed on from Godfather (Godfather ragrats everything)

#Brad Colbert Smut #Brad colbert x Reader #Brad colbert x Reader smut #Combat Jack Spice Rack #It's New Years and I'm sat on Tumblr writing smut HCs over Marines who would be absolutely disgusted #What a way to end 2022 #But I'm online with the same type of people so CHEERS!

19 notes · View notes

cuadratique · 3 months

Text

Fantasy Species Music Preferences

Elves: The stereotype is that they were the original masters of classical, mainly because their music academia is insufferable about the supremacy of their composers, many of whom are still alive. They’re best known for acoustic layered with enough choir bucolic to make Fleet Foxes feel urban by comparison. Their other scene is symphonic/ballad/power metal dripping in heroic wanderlust. Drow elves are the rank and file among goth, but suffer from sectarianism. Elves don’t consider an album complete if it doesn’t have overarching lore. Singles are a faux pas.

Dwarves: While in the surface it sounds like straight viking metal, around four minutes in you realize the time signature has been progressing the whole time. No song is less than 6 minutes long, and 10 minutes is common. A separate scene featuring an odd mix of Gregorian chant, skald epic, and blues is localized to the point where a neighborhood’s favorite band could be unheard of the next town over. The rhythm section always kills, and their bassists would be legendary if they ever bothered to appear in public.

Goblins: EDM that mixes the manic energy of !!! with the smoky haze of Little Dragon. Songs occasionally devolve into noise music midway. Their stoner rock following is consistent and has enough fuzz to grow shag carpet on. Their soundcloud community spammed the site into submission on more than one occasion when their rival rap scenes got into an internal war. LPs are unheard of, and most music comes out in random bursts of singles.

Halflings: Their stereotype is a genre sitting squarely between limerick and shanty most of which is about the comfort of returning home, or growing a garden. Single-handedly created and killed the soft and pop rock genres in one career length. Their presence in pop totally dissolved when it became dance-oriented. Halfling groups release LPs in almost mechanically precise intervals between two and three years depending on the artist.

Orcs: Singly supporting the sustained thrash and industrial scenes. Leans mostly into hard rock and metal, with dedicated musicians that specialize in trading solos just to flex. Co-opted the punk scene from its goblin founders so hard that goblin punk groups on soundcloud are assumed orcish at first. Shanty-like acts hold a special place in each orc’s history, but few acts catch on. Every orcish musician has a side project written out that they can’t find the right partner to play it with.

Humans: None of the other races understand the abandon and improvisation capability needed for human jazz, and have a hard time hearing influences in fusion music. The elves came close with a scant few math rock groups, and orcs keep trying but can’t cooperate long enough to play more than a song or two with humans.

#music #dwarfposting #elfposting #orcposting #goblinposting #halflingposting #shitpost #d&d #COVET #!!!#little dragon #fleet foxes

1 note · View note

breadvidence · 6 months

Text

DAMMIT I.IV

On AO3

SUMMARY: Two suicidal old men with moral scrupulosity in a three-legged potato sack race towards domesticity. Dallas 2014/Brick crossover, all adaptation decisions arbitrary.

Note: To experience the final scene as the author did writing it, get as drunk as Grantaire at midmorning and listen to “Mamma Mia” by ABBA on repeat. Warnings for suicidal ideation, homophobia.

Javert fails to intimidate his new therapist, a prune of a woman who looks as if she has weathered a Methuselah’s time of worse behavior than his. He likes her no better than the last, continues in his ambivalence about whether the profession is respectable, and will attend their sessions because they have been scheduled on his behalf as part of the discharge process. He has interrogated enough witnesses to recognize when he is being handled, and to come to the unfavorable realization that he is one of the chatty ones, the kind that play out the rope themselves. It mollifies him somewhat when she lets him ramble about Valjean, and annoys him to know that she’s deliberately letting him decompress from topics he likes less.

“Fine,” he admits the second session. “I’m frustrated. That’s not his fault.”

She looks attentive. The bitch has gotten blood, already, on the topic of childhood, which he has thus far refused to acknowledge as having any significance to his adult self.

“So he won’t offer an opinion,” he goes on. “I know he won’t. Well, I shouldn’t expect him to, then.”

The therapist makes a note. “He doesn’t offer—do you ask?”

“I don’t like asking questions,” he replies, and cannot account for the shame that follows. He pushes past this, ventures, “It’s unfair to him that I’m being a dick, isn’t it? When he hasn’t had the chance to…” He makes a vague gesture, lost to describe what he actually wants from Valjean. “Though when I was direct with him, he spent a week in hiding. Ah, well, I say direct, it might have been taken as—aggressive. I didn’t mean to be. I was very… startled.”

“Hmm,” replies the therapist.

“I’m not defending myself,” Javert says, defensive. “Anyway, has it been a God damned hour yet?”

⁂

Ignorance and poverty have been the antagonists of Jean Valjean’s life. Another letter of denial from the Comptroller of Public Accounts in the matter of releasing the factory and related properties has him wondering if he ought to allow Susan Combs a special seat at a table populated otherwise by abstract concepts. Yes, the liquid assets are more than adequate for a young woman of Cosette’s sensible and modest temperament; yes, if he looks at the matter square, he could have left her with nothing but his cash on hand and been satisfied that she would graduate from medical school with no debts. Regardless, while he is a man of few wants, what he wants for Cosette he pursues voraciously. He takes this latest letter into his study and unlocks the bottom drawer in which the papers related to this matter are secreted—the names Jean Valjean and Fantine appear on them, and he is not yet ready to hear how they sound when spoken by Cosette’s sweet voice.

A chime—a message from Javert. The man’s name in direct juxtaposition with the bank statement the phone sits on top of makes him think, perhaps for the first time, about the man’s opinion; namely, what his reaction would be to Jean Valjean’s withholding information about the fortune from Cosette, though legally it is in her name only, and he ought not have access to it, courtesy his status as a dead man. A plain statement of that’s fucked up, perhaps, and confusion. Perhaps? He wonders if he ought to make some study of the man’s psyche, if nothing else to be able to guess at his reactions; he has not yet managed to disentangle himself, might not anytime soon, and the surprises are never pleasant when he fails to predict Javert’s behavior.

There’s been a shift in demeanor: he would call it presumption, were it not also submissive: Javert has taken to asking direct questions, what are almost requests for judgment. Jean Valjean abhors the role of judge and spurns it, to no effect. Over a surprisingly decent meal—he makes excellent rice—Javert had looked up and asked, Do you think that this Enjolras boy deserves to go to prison? Despite receiving empty words in response, he persisted—not in the moment, when he accepted what conversational switchback he was set on, but overall. The next attempt to engage him is more impersonal, Do you think we should be involved in this Iraq situation?

The third is agonizingly intimate, delivered over a passable shrimp paella. “Do you think suicide is a sin?”

This would not be the first time Javert forced him to jump out a window, and Jean Valjean considers it. There are topics on which he believes himself to firmly grasp not the theory of the moral problem so much as the consequences, and he would discuss that; he rather thinks the consequences in this case are clear, and that it would be belittling to Javert should he act as if the man, with all his suffering, did not know them. Cautious, he says, “‘Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? and one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father.’ There is no death that He does not attend.”

“What a direct answer,” Javert replies, with a rough noise that is almost a laugh.

The sarcasm pricks, when Jean Valjean has spoken more clearly than is comfortable. “Fine. Yes, it’s a sin.”

Javert looks at him with something in his eyes that is uncharacteristically obscure, and says, “Thank you.”

Perhaps it is not obscure—perhaps Jean Valjean does not want to understand. He will contemplate it later. At the moment, he suppresses his own sarcasm, the question Are you thanking me for calling you a sinner?, because he knows that he will not like the answer—no, that is not what Javert wanted from him, nor what he got. He hauls them onto the next topic, bland, Bible translation preferences.

But—“I’m a thief,” Jean Valjean blurts, while he is washing the dishes.

Javert, who is on the couch with his ever-bothersome left leg elevated on cushions, squints at him. “Okay. What did you steal this time?”

“Not recently,” he clarifies, and because he cannot say you should not view me as a moral authority without openly acknowledging the dynamic between them, he falls silent.

Javert says, “You’re really more of a fraudster, at this point.”

“I trust your professional judgment,” replies Jean Valjean, who does not feel bad about the fraud at all, but has suffered under the weight of his thieving.

“You still think of yourself that way,” Javert says, as if musing aloud. “As a thief. I know—I, ah—you are technically a fugitive, a felon, a criminal. All that. But—”

“I am,” Jean Valjean interrupts him, who suspects but has been saved the confirmation of what his old pursuer thinks is within him, that has earned him reprieve, and seen the old legal tiger tear himself with his own unforgiving fangs. In any case, this I am is not something that pains him to say to Javert. The man already knows; there is relief in the honesty, to hear, You are a criminal, and say, Yes. It could not suffice for his conscience—nothing would, until the day Cosette was freed entirely of his shadow—but served for it like ice on a canker. “All that I have done that might be of good—what little use I’ve been to others—has been in repentance of my crimes. I was the worst of wretches, and sinned against the best of men.”

“Seems like—” Javert’s voice is low, almost a mumble. “—if you’re such a penitent, you could’ve simply served your time.”

“What penance would that be? In prison I would’ve only become more wretched still.” Jean Valjean puts away the last of the dishes in a silence that is not uncomfortable—for him, at least.

Jean Valjean, in reflection upon that evening, dislikes the vulnerability he allowed himself, and has shied away from analysis of that obscure, earnest look after all, for discomfort over the warmth it prompts. He puts aside his paperwork in favor of seeing what this strange mess of a man wants to share with him today

New outpatient psychiatrist looked at my med list and said yikes, Javert has texted him. Literally yikes Fauchelevent. yikes!

Jean Valjean does himself no credit with the surge of validation which this occasions. He tells himself that this is a time for sympathy. The fact that Javert has texted rather than waiting for their next in-person conversation indicates great disorder. He sends, Do you want to talk?

No why would I

He contemplates. I am sorry.

Yikes

So you said.

An hour later, Javert texts, What’s next I question the surgeon on how many pieces of metal should go in my spine. Do I have a fucking medical degree? I do not Fauchelevent. Doctors aren’t respected because they dont know what the hell they’re doing. Right?

People get second opinions on surgeries, Jean Valjean offers.

It is some time before Javert texts, Guess next time I am going to do myself grievous bodily harm detach my pelvis from my spine again or w/e I’ll make sure to research beforehand you know in case i survive for the best doc and request that guy

That would be your right, Jean Valjean replies. He should prepare his documents to re-file so that he can regain control of his own fucking factory, and he wants to focus on that, but he sets the task aside again as he waits for a response.

What if the new psychiatrist is the one whos wrong?

Jean Valjean struggles against his personal distaste for the medical establishment, aware that Javert’s continued survival is as much a surprise from the mental perspective as the bodily. Those who take to bridges are often certain of their path into the water, and make a second offer if the first is refused. He fumbles over the text, uncomfortable, too, about having his words be so permanent. I suppose you will have to see how you feel.

☹️, Javert sends.

Jean Valjean stares at this text as if it holds terrible importance. He has known other people of their generation who use emojis liberally, but it is the first he has ever received from Javert. His instinct to respond with lol is surely incorrect. He thumbs through to his contact card, taps his number, impatiently waits for the call to connect, and asks, “Do you need someone to be there in person?”

A long silence hums over the line. “Valjean, what would you do if I sent two sad faces?”

Jean Valjean would almost call the tone—no, he does not know. He will not say. He recalls it to mind each time, in the following two weeks, that Javert acts an entire ass. Titrating down on medications does not treat him well, and by God, does he pass on the suffering.

⁂

Javert has testified for the plaintiffs in three of this prosector’s cases, who looks at the affidavit for non-prosecution on his desk as if presented with a fresh log of shit.

“You’ll find it doesn’t contradict my original report,” Javert says, keeping his tone level.

The prosecutor looks startled. “Of course. I’m sure it’s all perfectly in order. But—you’re a hard-ass. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve never known you to say a word on the stand that could be construed as opinion rather than fact, but I’ve heard you talk outside the courtroom, too. Why wouldn’t you want these jackasses strung up?”

“That question is answered in the affidavit,” Javert replies.

“Yeah, yeah, sure, but in legalese. C’mon.” He picks up the stack of paper, but doesn’t start to read.

Nowhere in those documents does Javert perjure himself, but that was the work of many days of picking agonizingly between phrases and a lawyer’s review. He has no faith in his ability to elide Valjean’s role in his escape without resorting to outright falsehood if questioned directly in a trial setting. The argument in the affidavit that mitigating circumstances and his lack of injuries remove criminal culpability from his alleged assailants does not reflect his sincere thoughts on the case, but he can conceptualize that reading of the circumstances. The sin is lesser than of breaking his oath on the stand. He has never respected victims who declined to prosecute, and has always taken satisfaction in knowing the state would take their place, ensuring the injury to society would be righted; given his reasons are not in the pursuit of justice, there is some comfort that this is a gesture he makes, and not a choice.

“If nothing else,” says the prosecutor, into the silence, “don’t you want to see them get what’s coming to them for fucking with you? With the police?”

“Retaliation has no place in the justice system.” It is a relief to be able to say something he has always believed, if imperfectly understood. He levers himself to his feet and does not miss how the prosecutor’s eyes flick to the crutches. “Of course I’ll answer a subpoena if one is issued.”

“But you’re making no promises that you won’t be a better witness for the defense than for me, eh?” He stands and holds out his hand to shake, then withdraws when he realizes that Javert’s are both occupied. “Frankly, it might work out for the best. Their friend getting shot makes them too damn sympathetic. A jury could be more open to finding them guilty of lesser crimes. Not that it’ll get that far—mark me, at this rate we’ll offer them some petty misdemeanor charges, and they’ll take the pleas.”

“You have my contact information if you need clarification,” Javert replies, and leaves before the unease stirring in his gut becomes conscious thought.

In the car, he leans his forearms against the steering wheel and finds he needs a moment to press his face into his hands and breathe. In the past, the prosecutor’s words would have been something to dismiss, implications quiet enough to not hear. So he worries more about the win than the correctness of the charges; so; so. So. Javert shakes it off. He has to be home; he has a delivery coming. He has not entirely lost the talent of bottling away cognitive dissonance and does so now.

He has purchased a dining room set because it is practical; he has had a guest, it has been awkward and inconvenient to make the desk or couch serve for the meal, and if he is going to be the kind of man who invites people into his home—or a person, anyway—he ought to check the boxes a host should check. It stings his pride to ask the delivery driver to help shift all the furniture into its new place, but his pride is a much deflated quantity these days in any case. He intends to make no particular point about it when Valjean comes over.

Valjean tries to pay for it.

Javert maintains an expression of perfect blankness. “I just got the set. I’m not looking to sell.”

“I don’t want it,” Valjean says, in evident pain. “I mean—you didn’t have to—for my sake—”

“I have more free time,” Javert interrupts. Approaching this more difficult line to deliver, he finds by couching it in purely theoretical terms he can maintain a level tone as he continues, “I might invite old colleagues over.”

Valjean’s mouth o’s, his warm skin tone takes to a flush beautifully. “I—I didn’t mean to presume—of course you might—I’m sure they’ll appreciate your cooking—”

Javert, in suppressing his reaction, feels the moment his lips press a little too tightly together.

Damn the old cat, Valjean catches it, his eyes narrow. In disbelief, he asks, “Are you screwing with me?”

Javert gestures at himself, eyebrows up: me?

“You are. No, don’t dissemble, you’re bad at it.”

He shakes out a silent laugh. “Excuse me, sir, I spent years looking at that shitty neck tattoo and pretending I didn’t absolutely know your identity. I am an excellent dissembler.”

“Javert,” says Valjean, very gently. “You used to grimace at me when we passed on the street as if I’d run over your dog then lied about it. You would literally shake your head.”

“I was always polite to you,” he protests.

Valjean touches his shoulder with an open hand in a comforting gesture that distracts him terribly, and says, “No, you were always proper. —You’re really not going to take my money.”

“Never,” Javert replies, with a liar’s stutter and great confusion: he does not know which of them would be the whore should he say, Keep your hand on me and you can refurbish this whole goddamn apartment. Just that, light fingers over clothes. He might excuse the response, were it skin on skin; he hasn’t gone this long without a fuck since he was sixteen. But—no. An innocuous part of the body, a barrier of fabric, Valjean’s warmth. It is not the first time they have touched, but now he is not profoundly drugged. Ah, he thinks. Shit. But there is no time to reflect. He can still milk some harassment out of this conversation, and on occasion his mockery makes Valjean smile, or even laugh.

The reflection catches him later. He is reminded of his first crush, his eleven-year-old self’s terror in learning what a faggot really was, except whatever’s waking now is even more vulnerable and idiotic than a cock. He’s disconcerted. All the same, a deformed mooncalf of an affection hardly ranks on his scale of emotional problems. There’s no fear, not even the wariness which comes with the risk of a heterosexual man catching a straying glance; if Valjean didn’t beat the shit out of him for the crude pass he made in the nineties, he won’t go to gay panic now. He plays a while with the idea of Valjean’s pity and what might come of it until he realizes the inherent shame of having his hand on his cock and another man’s body in his head has a nuance that does trouble him. He chases the discomfort but cannot bring it to bay. If he wanted to make a moral objection over beating off to Valjean, it really ought to have been back in the eighties, though even he doesn’t blame the young man he was for being too distracted by those muscles to grasp the ethical problem of desiring to take the dick of a prisoner under his authority.

He thinks, a little wistful, about the prison riot fantasies of his teenaged self. Ah—no, he most definitely shouldn’t get off to those. It’s certainly disgraceful, inarguably sinful, probably immoral, and embarrassing to boot. An entirely different problem than the one that has him wilting now. Is there a way to text a question to Valjean that will illuminate this problem without embarrassing the man? Possibly. Damned if it’s worth the effort of figuring it out, though. He would sacrifice his freedom to Javert’s duty, there might even be a road which ends with his cock in Javert’s mouth, but the sweet bastard won’t give him what he wants: a shred of his moral sanctity. His answer to Javert’s question about suicide appears to have been a fluke; there’s been no repeat.

Deposition this week, is the message he sends. Busy etc.

Jean Valjean responds with Of course… Let me know when you’re free.

⁂

It has been eight days since he last saw Cosette in person and three days since they spoke over the phone. She texted him today Papa its been a week!! letsplease have lunch. Of course he responded immediately with prevarications. He is debating whether a week colloquially might mean more than seven days. He has asked Google. He has even considered texting Javert for his opinion, but it has been five days since they spoke, and it is possible that whatever the man hopes to gain from his offer of friendship he has finally resigned himself to not getting.

Cosette’s text is timestamped 8:09AM, his reply 8:13AM, and the clock on the wall tells him now it is eleven o’ clock, with the dark outside delivering the shock that it is not late morning, but night. He has not even got out of his sleep clothes.

The knock on the apartment door has him halfway to the window with the fire escape before he registers why; the rhythm, the harshness, on its tail will surely come a barked police, we have a warrant. He imagines Javert’s silence as indicative of a breakdown, of confession—or—camera footage from the riot finally being traced back to him, though he kept his face covered; it would not be the first time he was recognized by his body, he thinks, somewhat hysterically. The knock comes again, but—more hesitant.

So be it. “Coming,” he calls, and goes.

Well, that would be why the policeman’s knock, he thinks, looking up into Javert’s face. It should not be a shock; he is the only person beside Cosette who knows to find Jean Valjean at the Southlake address. Only, they have never between them made the least hint that his visits to Javert’s apartment should be reciprocated, and what is technically an open invitation was meant for one purpose, which this man can no longer fulfill. Jean Valjean stands a moment merely observing him, with the hair standing up on his neck. To an unfamiliar eye, there’s nothing here to remark on; merely a man in a suit, buttoned-up, hair neat, expression grave. Except the tie is a little undone, and askew. He leans his shoulder against the jamb in an abrupt motion, losing his balance on the crutches as he hasn’t since the first few days he was on them.

“Good Christ,” says Jean Valjean, and tries to put himself under Javert’s arm, to support him into the apartment.

Javert does not—quite—hit him, but the shove is more than a reaction to an unwanted and unexpected touch. His expression flickers to what is almost disgust before it dies again.

“All right,” Jean Valjean says, in a soothing tone that he used on Cosette when she was in one of her rare tantrums. He moves out of the way. “Please come in.” He does not ask, Why are you here; they cannot avoid the answer, but he need not prompt it.

Javert enters and stands at the center of the room with his head bowed, without having made the least observation of his surroundings. He takes no heed when Jean Valjean shuts the door and circles around to stand in front of him. He says to the floor, “I’m a perjurer.” His tone is cold, and his voice slurs in a way that might’ve been drunken, but there’s no smell of it on him. His accent has shifted further East into the Bible Belt than Texas, which Jean Valjean associates with his most drugged moments.

“Okay. Did you take anything before you came over? Any of your medication?” He ducks his head, trying to get a better look at Javert’s pupils.

He turns his face aside, bruised eyelids low, which is unhelpful—hopefully not deliberately so. “Do you think of me as someone who would drive under the influence?”

“Sometimes we make unethical decisions not because of who we are but because of the situation we are in. You don’t have to answer the question.” He seems too coherent for overdose, at least. “Will you sit down? You aren’t steady on your feet right now.”

He straightens on the crutches, as if to prove something, and sighs deeply. “‘A false witness shall be punished, and he who breathes out lies shall not escape.’ Is that the proverb?”

Not quite, but that does not seem like the salient point. “Javert.”

“‘Do not murder, do not commit adultery, do not steal, do not bear false witness, honor your father and mother’—shit, Valjean, I ought to find something to steal, for completeness’ sake.” His lips twitch up over his teeth, fall flat again. “Ah, wait, did I miss one? Idolatry?”

“The story of the rich man seems more my concern,” he replies, and reaches out. “Please, Javert.”

He steps backwards. “But I’m being false now, too. It’s not God I’m fucked up over. I’ve made a mockery of justice. They could tell. The prosecution and the defense are both cautious of me. Bad witness. Scattered, hesitant. Unstable. The whole truth—hah! Do you know how often I’ve been in court? How many depositions I’ve given? I know these fucking people. They know I’m a suicide, but now they think—but that’s for the best. If they think I’ve gone insane, they won’t know I’m a liar.”

He gathers the deposition went poorly.

“It would have been one—one thing only—one moment. A single decision. Then death, then Hell, but not this hell. It’s ongoing. This, this—” He spits a profanity, too garbled to distinguish. “I don’t blame you, but—you son of a bitch—I want to.” His voice has ratcheted higher. There are neighbors to think of.

“When did you last sleep?” Jean Valjean asks, and puts gentle hands on his shoulders, trying to lead him to the couch. Because he has no reference for someone so profoundly upset other than Cosette, and it is a promise he would make to her, he adds, “We can make it okay.”

Javert lunges forward; when he drops a crutch so that he can seize Jean Valjean by the collar, the noise of it falling is loud. Leaning close, he snarls into his face, “You will not turn yourself in.”

“That doesn’t actually seem like an ‘okay’ resolution to me,” he replies, blinking as he tries to focus on blue eyes close enough to blur.

“You’ve been a fool in the past, sir. Don’t pretend like that’s not true.” He lurches back, left leg near almost giving under him as he puts space between them. “Please, tell me. Have I done right?”

Jean Valjean thinks: if this were his daughter, he would press her to his chest and let his heartbeat speak for him. There are times when a cry of despair cannot be answered by words. He does not know what to do for Javert. “I see that you acted according to your conscience,” he says, “and that is more important than whatever your actions mean to me.”

Javert surprises him by looking merely exasperated. “You don’t have even one straight answer for a drowning man?”

You are not very adept at drowning, he does not say. God has chosen that you not drown. No; he suspects that Javert is not, despite his strict Catholicism, a very religious man, and speaking of God will not comfort him now. He sends his prayer to the Holy Spirit, comforter of men, for intercession. He looks to God in himself, and knows: he must not lie. Not to this man, not now. “You must bear yourself up.”

“I’ll fall,” he replies, with a gesture towards the crutch on the floor.

“Then let it be to your knees, and no further.”

Javert leans towards him, desperate. “When you saved my life—”

“Wait. I’m sorry. When what?” Valjean regrets his interruption, but the shock is great. “Javert, surely you would have come through your suicide attempt without me.”

His distress frays on the edge of confusion. “That’s—not what I meant. Let’s never talk about that. No, during the riot.”

“When I took you off those boys’ hands?” Valjean is baffled. “When was your life at risk? I suppose you were in plainclothes, and when the police stormed the building, they might have—”

“Not from the police,” Javert says, scandalized over the concept even now. “The protestors had a pistol. Enjolras had already shot a man.”

“Who also had a gun,” Jean Valjean points out, in a reasonable tone. “You weren’t an active threat. I’m quite sure you were as safe as anyone in that building.” He evaluates the other man. “Are you—are you aware of that?”

“No,” Javert spits, and puts his face in his empty hand. He is quiet for a long time, fingers digging into his jaw, his cheek. “My God,” he says, and it’s no prayer. “I think you might be right.” The noise that wracks from his is wretched. “Everything I’ve done is on the grounds that you saved my life.” His hand falls to hang beside him. “But I don’t suppose it matters what took me off the road of false righteousness, so long as I’ve left it.”

Jean Valjean does not observe, Police have shot many unarmed men on the excuse of feeling threatened, though it seems pertinent. “I see that you struggle. You are very tired, Javert. Let me help you.”

“You kill me,” Javert says, but the intonation is all wrong, the vocative, an imperative. You. Kill me. He begins to laugh, convulsive, choked guttural noises in his chest.

Jean Valjean closes the space between them, because he has nothing to offer but his presence, and he’s worried the man will fall.

Javert reaches his hand out towards the wall, but it is too far. That seeking touch comes instead onto Jean Valjean’s shoulder, neither quick nor fumbling, dreamlike, and presses there. He settles his feet, corrects the angle of his hips, straightens his spine, he reorients himself to up, to down, to the subtler directions against which the body resists. It is such a literal and vulnerable show of his disorientation that it dizzies Jean Valjean, and he does not stumble away only from a sense of obligation to be the upright measure for this wavering man. When he puts his hand on Javert’s arm, the muscle beneath it relax.

“Sleep here for the night,” he offers. “The morning is soon enough to talk about all this.”

Javert grimaces. “You won’t be able to get me back on my feet after a night on a couch, and I think we’d both rather not even address the thought of me in your daughter’s bed.”

Indeed not. “Can I convince you that you shouldn’t drive right now?”

Javert stares at him with blank red-rimmed eyes.

“Well, then. You can use my bed.” It seems a simple enough solution.

The hand that even a moment ago was a gesture of comfort becomes a restraint as Javert moves restlessly beneath it, his desire to escape as clear as his compliance to being held. “No. I’m not going to put you out of your bed, Valjean.” His gaze wanders away. “I shouldn’t have come at all. This come apart is beneath both of us. I—I’m—”

“Fuck it,” says Jean Valjean, and sees the tactic work: it shakes the other man’s attention back to him. He does not want to outright tell him to do something he’s already rejected and have them both go on to live with the knowledge of his capitulation, and gropes for another solution. “ It’s a large enough bed for two. Come lay down, and I will too. Will that satisfy you?”

He goes tense—suspicious, even—but the effect of the direct command is predictable. When he says, “But not in a queer way,” it’s a sop to homophobia and not a real protest.

“No,” Jean Valjean says, with a sigh. Then, “I’m sorry, I don’t have an extra toothbrush.” He bends to retrieve the fallen crutch. “Follow me—it’s through here.”

Javert follows him, lamb-meek, and enters the bedroom with as little show of interest for his surroundings as he came into the apartment. Now that he is committed, he is prompt: he sits on the edge of the bed so that he can begin to remove his clothes, tugging loose his tie, shrugging off his jacket, putting fingers to the buttons of his shirt. His gaze is fixed on the opposite wall.

Jean Valjean says, strained, “I don’t think any of my pajamas will fit you.”

“That’s fine,” Javert replies, his hands on his belt. Pale skin shows from throat to the blond hair that thickly thatches beneath his belly button. These are not new territories, but Jean Valjean has not thought of them since he first saw the man broken and exposed in a hospital bed. The tattoo is so low on his pelvis that only part of the dog’s ears shows above his pants.

It seems wise to retreat to the bathroom. Undressing can be more intimate than being undressed.

When he returns, having done what he could to refresh himself with a splash of water when he would have preferred the shower he probably missed during his haze of a day, Javert has stripped to boxers and socks, the rest of his clothes neatly folded on top of the dresser. The muscles of his arm and chest are notable—he was not a soft man before his fall, and he is very intense about his physical therapy—but his ribs are too close beneath the skin, and there’s no meat on his thighs or those sharp shins. The scars are expected but unsettling, freshest the marks where surgeons forced metal plates and screws down past skin and fat and muscle to fix bone to bone, and—there are others; there are stories of violence to be told.

“I sleep on the left side,” Jean Valjean says, surprised that Javert has not snarled over his wandering eyes. He has not felt the sins of lust since his awakening to God and therefore gives little thought to them, including how one might interpret Leviticus 18:22 or Romans 1:26-28, but he imagines the conjunction of Javert’s conservative politics and Catholicism do not lead to a kindness for gay men.

Whatever comments Javert has are lost beneath the fall of heavy eyelids, the gust of a heart-sore sigh. With an undignified squirm he gets the covers out from under his ass and tucks himself perilously close to the right side of the bed, limbs tucked, as if such a big man might hope to take up only a little space. It is a queen sized bed, and Jean Valjean is smaller but not small; they will feel each other’s heat tonight.

He leaves the bathroom light on with the door cracked, so that Javert will be able to find his way if he wakes in the night, hits the bedroom switch, and and settles himself down, feeling the weight of another body on the mattress for the first time since—since—has he ever felt this? Children crawl into bed with their parents, though he never allowed Cosette into his. His sister’s little ones never tried to join him on the couch. Fifty-five years ago, did he lay between his father and mother? He prays he sees them again in Heaven, for on this Earth he does not know even their faces, much less this specific comfort. And—it is. A comfort.

Animals feel thus in the den, he tells himself, as he listens to Javert’s breathing go deep and even.

He is awake when the man turns over and casts an arm across his waist. Well, Javert did implicitly accuse himself of adultery, and while he has spoken of decades alone, there’s still space in his past for a wife. From how he, unconscious, tucks Jean Valjean into the crook of his body, he is not inexperienced in bed-sharing. To wake him and force him away would only be a disruption, most likely accompanied by drama, which in the best scenario ended again in sleep that might result in the same position. Sweat on his skin, Jean Valjean stares into the dark and counts the breaths that sigh sweetly over the crown of his head. The sensation of knees tucked into the crook of his knees is unaccountably fascinating—has the skin there always been so sensitive?

⁂

Jean Valjean wakes first. There is a moment, as he lay with an ankle linked over his and a groin snugged against his ass, that he is overwhelmingly conscious of another man’s cock in a way he has not been since such a thing was a threat. The moment passes. He is well aware that a heterosexual can use his body for violence against another without either being—he does not know the appropriate word—without, in any case, anyone involved being gay; Javert’s being straight is therefore not the source of assurance; Javert, himself—he is not a threat. Certainly not here, in this bed. Not, Jean Valjean realize, startled, anywhere. The hand that splays long-fingered and broad-palmed across his belly belongs to a friend. He extricates himself from gangly limbs, praying, and takes it as a blessing that Javert does not stir with some unpredictable and exhausting panic.

He makes it as far as relieving his bladder and starting the coffee machine before this changes. There is the alternating tack-thump of a man on crutches in the kitchen doorway, to which he turns.

Oh no, thinks Jean Valjean, with the stirring memory of this courageous despondency before him. Javert thinks he has done wrong. Jean Valjean wants his coffee and for this tension headache to succumb to the aspirin he dry-swallowed. He blurts, “Good morning. Please don’t.”

Javert opens his mouth. Closes it. Asks, “What, specifically, am I not doing?”

Jean Valjean has spoken without forethought and is at a loss.

His voice very small, Javert says, “I think I just needed to sleep. It might’ve been a couple days.”

“That’s okay,” Jean Valjean says. “Do you want toast? I’m sorry, I can’t offer better.”

“What, not even eggs?” He runs a hand back through his hair, of which the night has revealed a slight curl that is normally tamed from it by day. “Fuck. I didn’t come here to crawl into your bed.”

“I wouldn’t imagine so,” Jean Valjean replies, bemused.

Javert knits his brows at him. “No? Well—all right.” He passes a hand over his face. “There’s coffee?”

“Soon.”

“Thank God.”

On which they can agree.

There have been worse mornings.

#dammit #fanfic (mine)

1 note · View note