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brand // nakahara chuuya

tw ⇢ chuuya is absolutely down bad, possessive!chuuya, body worship, obsession, cunnilingus, unprotected sex, praise kink, pet names, mild exhibitionism

wc ⇢ 7k

The scent of coffee and crisp paperwork hung heavy in the stillness of the office, broken only by the occasional shuffle of files or tapping of computer keys. To most, it was the mundane backdrop of another workday morning. But for Chuuya Nakahara, it provided the perfect vantage point to quietly observe his favorite distraction.

You sat across the room, seemingly oblivious to the weight of his stare as you chatted animatedly with a cluster of admiring interns. A husky peal of laughter spilled from your lips, prompting a familiar twisting in Chuuya's gut. Like depressing the soul from a silk bag, your natural charm effortlessly drew others into your radiant orbit.

Yet you remained utterly blind to your own allure.

With each dulcet giggle and casually artless brush of fingers over an arm, Chuuya's jaw clenched tighter. He watched, jaw muscle twitching, as one particularly bold intern leaned over your desk, lips tantalizingly close to the curved shell of your ear as he mock-whispered some no doubt asinine quip. The way your eyes crinkled at the corners when you laughed should have been illegal.

A low, guttural growl rumbled up from Chuuya's chest as your head fell back, exposed throat a brazen temptation. The urge to march over and yank you against him, to scrape blunt teeth over that creamy column and renew the bruises already mottling your skin, was overwhelming. To stake his claim in the most primal way possible.

But no, that wouldn't do. Not here, not with so many prying eyes to witness his loss of control. He was the master of his realm, alpha and omega. The idea of such a public display of weakness made his stomach churn.

No, when he finally made his move, it would be on his terms alone. An exquisitely calculated gambit to conquer you utterly.

The game was finally in play.

From that moment on, your every interaction was needling beneath Chuuya's skin like shards of glass. He watched, consumed by that same gnawing hunger, as you unwittingly flirted and teased your way through the ranks of the office. So effortlessly you captivated them, stringing them all along without a shred of awareness.

It was delicious torment for Chuuya, stoked higher with each innocent caress and artfully arched look from beneath a heavy fringe of lashes. By all rights, you should have been his from the very start. His to possess, his to shelter from wandering eyes, his to mark as utterly his own.

The breaking point came one hazy afternoon as he stood in the doorway to his office, covertly watching you chat with the new postal clerk. The young man's eyes raked over your form with undisguised appreciation, shamelessly drinking in the soft curves and inviting swell of cleavage peeking from your top.

As if in slow motion, you shifted position, back arching ever so slightly in a subconscious invitation. It was a subtle motion, one you likely didn't even register. But to the hungry eyes watching you, it was a revelation painted in neon lights.

That was the moment the maddeningly elaborate plan solidified in Chuuya's mind. He would put on a masterful spectacle, one designed to snare you so completely that you had no choice but to finally see him as he truly was.

The following days were an exercise in brutally focused restraint for Chuuya. Each lingering glance, every casual brush of fingertips over your arm as you laughed at some inane joke, chipped away at his resolve. The urge to abandon all pretenses and simply take what he desired clawed at his sanity like the relentless ticking of a doomsday clock.

But he couldn't, wouldn't risk ruining everything now. Not when the final act was so close at hand.

So he maintained his carefully cultivated facade of disinterested composure, all while plotting out the finer details. Acquiring the dress was the first priority - a sinful creation of ruched crimson silk and daring cut-outs designed to entice and enflame. Next came the accessories, each piece painstakingly chosen to be a brand of ownership crying out to the world that you were well and truly his.

The final touches fell exquisitely into place with dizzying speed. Venue secured, travel arrangements made, loose ends methodically tied up until there was nothing left but to execute the plan.

Chuuya could scarcely focus as the morning of the event dawned bright and clear. The weight of the small velvet box tucked into his breast pocket was a lead talisman burning against his skin with every breath. This was it, the cumulation of weeks' worth of meticulous scheming, all leading to this one singular moment.

He forced himself to maintain an aura of unruffled nonchalance as he strode through the office towards your desk. You barely looked up from the stack of paperwork before you, attention wholly consumed by the tedious task at hand.

"We're going out tonight," Chuuya stated flatly, allowing no room for argument. "Clear your evening."

Your brow furrowed minutely as you raised your head, opening your mouth to likely protest the short notice. But whatever objections you may have voiced died on your lips as you met the subtly blazing intensity of his stare head-on.

In that infinite breath, the world seemed to judder to a halt, static electricity cackling along your nerve endings. There was no refusing him when he got like this, radiating an almost feral aura of raw dominance. So you simply nodded, temporarily robbed of speech.

The barest ghost of a smirk played about the hard line of Chuuya's mouth before he turned on his heel and stalked away, leaving you to stare after his retreating back. The man moved with the coiled power and easy menace of a snared panther, danger and sensuality rolled into one. It was utterly bewitching.

Those last few hours crept by at an agonizing pace, each minute feeling like an eternity. You struggled to focus, mind incessantly wandering to that scorching look that had stolen your breath and set your pulse rabbiting. Just what did Chuuya have planned?

By the time the workday sputtered to a close, you were near vibrating out of your skin with ill-masked anticipation. The not knowing, the delicious suspense, was a uniquely heady aphrodisiac all on its own.

Which was why the sight of Chuuya leaning against the building's front entrance, an inscrutable mirage in his crisply tailored suit, very nearly stopped your heart on the spot. How was it possible for one man to exude such commanding, darkly magnetic appeal?

"Took you long enough," he chided, voice terse but thrumming with an undercurrent of silken promise that made you shiver. "We can't be late."

Without awaiting your response, Chuuya spun on his heel, long legs easily outpacing your stunned shuffle to keep up. It was just one more tantalizing brick in the foundation of exquisite tension rapidly being constructed around you.

At last you reached the car - a sleek, purring behemoth of mirrored obsidian and buttery cream leather. Settling into the plush backseat, you couldn't resist trailing your fingertips over the velvety smooth upholstery as Chuuya slid in beside you.

"Where-" you began, only to break off when he leveled you with a look that could have been carved from granite.

"You'll see," was his only terse response before signaling for the driver to depart.

The ride passed in a loaded silence, the air between you and Chuuya thickening with each aching mile until it felt like inhaling smoke. You stole sidelong glimpses at him, admiring the severe masculine lines of his profile and the way the passing streetlights gilded his sharp cheekbones.

Finally, you could bear the suspense no longer. "Chuuya, what's this all abou-?"

"We're here."

The words were toneless, yet somehow still managed to ring with finality. You swallowed hard, suddenly uncertain if you truly wished to know where 'here' was.

Chuuya was already climbing out, leaving you to hurry after him with your heart lodged firmly in your throat. As you stepped out onto the dimly lit street, the first thing that struck you was the pervasive quiet. Not eerie, per se, but begging to be disturbed.

The second was the gorgeous, multi-story heritage building rising before you. More manor than mere residence, it stood wreathed in artfully maintained gardens with myriad stone pathways winding playfully through the manicured foliage. It was...certainly not what you had expected.

Before you could voice any of the thousand questions whirling through your mind, Chuuya's hand closed with definitive authority about your wrist, tugging you against the solid wall of his chest. His free hand delved into his suit jacket to withdraw a small velvet box which he pressed firmly into your palm.

"Open it," he demanded, voice low and edged with that same unnameable intensity.

You did, inhaling a shocked little breath at the stunning set of jewelry nestled within the box's plush interior...

With trembling fingers, you lifted the exquisite ruby pendant from its nest of black velvet. Even in the muted streetlight, the deep crimson stones seemed to smolder with their own inner fire. Wordlessly, you turned it over, only to have the breath punched from your lungs.

There, engraved in a flowing script upon the ornate metal, were the unmistakable initials 'N.C.'

You whipped your head up to meet Chuuya's burning stare, a silent question seared into your features. He simply held your gaze, expression inscrutable yet blazing with unspoken promises that made your pulse spiral dizzily.

"Put it on," he finally rumbled, giving you the barest of nods.

There was no room for argument or negotiation, only complete submission. Trembling, you fumbled with the delicate clasp until the heavy pendant rested against the hollow of your throat. It was cool against your feverish skin, a claim of possession both brazenly overt yet darkly intimate.

Chuuya's eyes went molten at the sight, raking over the barbaric accessory before flicking back up to snare you in his smoldering scrutiny once more.

"Perfect," he purred in a rumbling timbre that danced like sparks along your nerve endings. "Now for the rest."

With those cryptic words, Chuuya produced a sleek garment bag from somewhere behind him and thrust it against your chest. You clutched it reflexively, mouth working soundlessly as you sought to formulate a coherent question. But Chuuya was already turning away, striding towards the imposing manor with the unwavering confidence of a man bound for the inner sanctum of his domain.

Casting one last bewildered glance at the softly rustling gardens surrounding you, you trailed after him. Each clicked footfall across the immaculately tended grounds resonated through you with finality. Like an outrider steadily advancing to lay siege upon some uncharted keep.

The double doors yawned open at Chuuya's approach, allowing you both to sweep unimpeded into the cavernous foyer with its vaulted ceilings and exquisite architectural detailing. The manor's opulence was simultaneously breathtaking and disconcerting.

"Get changed," Chuuya ordered without preamble, gesturing to the ornate wooden doors several paces further within. "And don't even think about giving me any arguments."

The look he pierced you with brooked no debate, so you swallowed down your growing sense of trepidation and nodded. With the garment bag clutched between white-knuckled fingers, you slipped through the doors and found yourself in a decadently-appointed boudoir.

Plush chaise longues and silk draperies abounded, giving the room an ambiance of sumptuous seduction that was dizzyingly at odds with the Gothic grandeur of the manor itself. You shook your head, trying in vain to quell the mounting disquiet fluttering madly within.

Each rustling movement of the garment bag's silk lining only served to heighten your unsettled state. But you knew there was no use delaying the inevitable, no deterring Chuuya once he'd set his mind to something.

With that resigned thought, you freed the dress from its protective cocoon with trembling hands. A punched-out exhalation escaped your lips, swallowed by the abrupt roaring in your ears.

The gown was...magnificent didn't seem an adequate descriptor. In deepest, most ensnaring shades of claret and crimson, it seemed to writhe as a living, sensual thing. Sumptuous folds of rich satin caressed with glistening silken trails of embroidered roses. Sheer side insets carved revealing glimpses of toned curves and supple skin. The plunging neckline was positively corseted in its scandalous indecency, the dramatic sweetheart bodice sculpted to accentuate the most intimate of feminine assets.

You traced one finger over the sinuous line of the gown, cheeks flushing at the thought of donning something so overtly designed to stir the most primal of urges. But you were already in far too deep to consider turning back now.

With a fortifying inhalation, you quickly shimmied out of your work attire and stepped into the gown's silken embrace. It clung to your figure like a second skin sheathed in scarlet petals, trailing sinfully over the dips and flares of your body in a wholly indecent manner. A silent siren's call to avarice and covetous lust.

You twisted this way and that before the gilt mirror, admiring and scrutinizing in equal measures. The pendant lay in a plush pool amidst the exposed upper swell of your breasts, its dark crimson hue a bloody brand for any who dared let their eyes linger. Somehow, it felt as if the dress had been expressly crafted for this one accessory alone.

With one final bracing breath, you gathered your resolve and swept towards the door. Better to rejoin Chuuya and hope for an explanation than remain barricaded away like a shamed concubine.

He was lounging with deceptive indolence in one of the foyer's opulent winged-back chairs, long legs outstretched before him in an image of unconcerned elegance. Yet there was nothing casual in the unerring way his gaze locked upon you the moment you appeared. Like that of a serpent hypnotized by a clutch of trembling prey.

"My my..." Chuuya's voice was a raptor's caress, smooth and seductive yet edged with thinly veiled possession. "If I didn't know better, I might think you were trying to tempt me, doll."

You flushed hotly beneath his ravenous scrutiny, suddenly uncertain and deeply aware of your compromising state of undress. The satin caressed your too-warm skin in a simulation of covetous fingers, sending prickles of vaulting desire shivering along your nerve endings.

Chuuya rose from his seated position with leonine grace, eyes never straying from where they blazed scorching paths over your displayed charms. Each prowling step he took in your direction seemed to fill the air with static, raising the fine hairs along your arms and nape.

When at last he stood mere inches before you, near enough that his body heat lapped against you in smoky tendrils, you had to resist the urge to sway forwards. To seek the blistering burn of that intoxicating radiance you knew lurked beneath his composed veneer.

"Look at you..." he breathed, voice a graveled rasp of undisguised want. His knuckles grazed your jawline in a lingering caress. "A delicious temptation in scarlet and sin. Do you have any idea how utterly sexy you are right now?"

A tremulous shudder gripped you at his words, at the sinful admiration blazing from his darkened eyes. Unconsciously, you leaned deeper into the cupping warmth of his palm, chasing that delicious frisson of sensation.

Chuuya's lips curved in a devastatingly carnal smirk before he abruptly dropped his hand, leaving you starved for his scorching brand once more. You fought back the urge to whimper at the loss, cheeks flushing hotly as you recognized your body's dizzying desperation.

"We should get going," he murmured, the words at harsh odds with the smoky timbre of his tone that seemed to caress over your heated skin like a physical touch. "Our reservations won't wait forever, pet."

With that, he spun on his heel and began striding towards the still-open doors, clearly expecting you to follow on obediently stumbling footsteps. Which you did without a moment's hesitation, drawn after him like a reliably enraptured moth to a searing flame.

The limousine was awaiting in the circular front drive when you emerged, engine purring in anticipation. But it wasn't the plush leather interior or sparkling crystal tumblers that immediately captured your eye. Rather, it was the enormous cascade of crimson roses spilling from an ornate crystal vase positioned in the center of the seat.

Rich velvet petals unfurled in an exquisite profusion, each glistening with twinkling dew-kissed diamonds that glimmered with ethereal brilliance beneath the car's golden interior lighting. It was like glimpsing the secret, sinful heart of a fairytale forest come alive.

So enraptured were you by the display that you very nearly didn't register Chuuya's hand at your back, exerting firm pressure to guide you into the lush interior. With infinite care, he deposited you amidst the floral splendor before sliding in opposite with that catlike grace.

The heavy door sealed you both into the cocoon of velvet opulence with a sense of finality that resonated through your very marrow. Whatever game Chuuya was orchestrating was clearly reaching its dizzying crescendo.

You scarcely dared breathe, nerves thrilling with indecipherable tension as you watched Chuuya accept two crystal flutes from the cabine's mini-bar. The pale amber liquid sloshed enticingly as he handed one to you with a smoldering look of heated possession.

"A toast," he murmured, voice like lascivious sin poured straight into your ringing ears. "To an evening that will forever banish any lingering doubts as to whom you belong to, pet."

His glass knocked against yours with a delicate tinkling clink, the sound carrying the solemn weight of a death knell. Wordlessly, you tipped the liquor past your lips in a burning swallow, scarcely registering the flavors. You were anchored adrift atop a roiling sea of Chuuya's unfathomable intentions, awaiting his lead.

No sooner had you lowered the glass than Chuuya was reaching for you with rekindled intensity blazing in his stare. One broad palm cradled your nape as he drew you flush against the rigid line of his body, coaxing your knees to bracket his lean hips in a scandalously intimate straddle.

The sumptuous dress bunched and pooled around your thighs in a provocative tumble of scarlet silk. Chuuya's free hand traced the daring neckline, following the plunging curve to where the dusky hollow of your breasts was left enticingly bare.

Beneath his smoldering stare, each nerve seemed to awaken into blistering life, searing awareness streaking from nerve ending to nerve ending. His hungry exhale fanned hotly against your parted lips as his fingers drifted inevitable lower, tracing patterns of molten lust across the exposed flesh left on display.

"All mine..." he rasped, words interspersed with open-mouthed, scorching kisses along the thundering pulse at your throat. "Tonight, you'll see just how far I'm willing to go to ensure the whole city knows that truth."

With a groan, he dragged you harder against him, claiming your lips in a branding kiss of possession as the limo thrummed to purring life and pulled away into the night.

The limo carved through the city's pulsing arteries in a blur of neon and shadow. You remained utterly transfixed by Chuuya, drowning in the blazing intensity of his eyes as he held you immobile in his searing appraisal.

With each passing minute, the tension thickened until it felt like inhaling molten desire with every breath. Chuuya's hands roamed in unhurried exploration, igniting licking flames wherever his fingers grazed bare skin. You squirmed helplessly against him, silently beseeching for something more, anything to slake this new aching need coiling low in your belly.

At last, the limousine rolled to a smooth stop, the muffled thrum of music and voices spilling in from outside. Chuuya offered you a slow, sinful smile before capturing your lips in one more devouring kiss.

"Showtime, doll," he purred against your tingling mouth. "Try to keep up."

With a smooth flick of his wrist, he exited the vehicle in one fluid sweep, leather oxfords striking the pavement with muted clicks. You hurried to join him, breathless and flushed in anticipation of whatever depraved delights he had orchestrated.

The venue was spectacular, all vaulted glass ceilings and glittering contemporary opulence. Immaculately dressed attendants glided amongst the crowd, proffering crystal flutes of effervescent champagne from silver trays. It was the very vision of rarefied indulgence.

And at its throbbing epicenter stood Chuuya, an indolent panther lording over his sumptuous court. His arm snaked about your waist, pulling you flush against his side with blatant possession as his gaze dared anyone to so much as linger.

"Exquisite, isn't it?" he murmured, mouth brushing the curved shell of your ear in an electrifying caress. "Though perhaps not quite as exquisite as how utterly breathtaking you look in that dress, sweetheart."

His fingers traced the plunging neckline with bold defiance, allowing anyone keen enough to catch the implication. You flushed hotly, mortified yet undeniably thrilled by this new, unabashed dynamic unfolding between you.

For the rest of the evening, Chuuya remained your phantomlike shadow, perpetually orbiting just within your peripheral awareness. His eyes followed your every move, every laugh, with a smoldering heat that seemed to bore straight through muscle and bone. That collar of rubies glittered like a shocking wound against your throat with each breath.

You basked in the laser focus of his attention, a silent sun worshipper tilting to receive the benediction of its radiance. Never had you felt so fervently desired, coveted down to your very molecules. It was utterly, devastatingly intoxicating.

And as the night's dying embers sputtered towards its inevitable conclusion, Chuuya drew you close in a shadowed alcove, one broad palm cradling your nape as his lips brushed yours in barely-there whispers of heated promise.

"Do you understand now?" he rasped, the graveled words sending frissons of liquid rapture spilling through your veins. "There is no escaping me, no sanctuary from my passion. I will chase you into the very fires of hell itself, if that's what it takes to make you truly mine."

Helplessly, you whimpered against the scorching brand of his mouth, the need and naked adoration thrumming through your very marrow in answer. In that suspended moment of freefall, only one certainty reigned...

You were so completely, utterly his.

The crescendo of the evening had reached its feverish apex, suspending you and Chuuya in a gossamer bubble impervious to the outside world. His eyes burned with banked embers of undisguised want, rendering you breathless and utterly enthralled beneath their molten scrutiny.

"Come with me," he rumbled, the words both demand and seductive entreaty as he pulled you into the protective cage of his arms. You followed without hesitation, craving the scorching caress of his body like a moth drawn to the beckoning flame.

Chuuya led you through a discreet side door and into the velvet-draped intimacy of a private lounge area. Plush settees lined the perimeter, affording furtive glimpses into secluded little worlds of whispered secrets and sensual intrigue. Yet it was the massive picture window, revealing a panoramic vista of the glittering cityscape below, that enraptured you most.

With your back to the sparkling lights and Chuuya a solid immovable presence behind you, it felt as if you hovered betwixt two celestial planes - earthly rapture and heavenly transcendence. His hands found your waist, exerting gentle pressure until you swayed back against the unyielding strength of his chest.

"Look at them down there," he murmured, voice a darkly sensual caress against the sensitive whorls of your ear. "All those lost, empty souls going about their meaningless existences without the first notion of true passion."

You shivered at the stark devotion, the unvarnished ardor ringing in his tone. Chuuya's arms tightened around you in a possessive band, surrounding you in his scorching orbit until it felt like the only truth that mattered.

"They will never understand what it means to burn for someone the way I burn for you," he continued inexorably. "To have every waking breath consumed by an all-devouring yearning for just one perfect creature amidst the stars."

His lips branded searing trails from the fragile hollow beneath your ear down the slender column of your throat, each press of mouth to fevered skin both worship and carnal demand. You arched shamelessly into him, skin awakening in tingling waves of desperation for his touch, his mouth, his everything.

"You are my first and final ecstasy, sweetheart," Chuuya rasped against the thundering pulse at the base of your neck. "My religion, my rapture, my ritual of sanctification. Never forget that truth, no matter what sweet oblivion may try to tempt you."

He turned you then to face him fully, cradling your face between his calloused palms as if you were the most precious treasure to grace his world. For a suspended breath, you simply stared into the fathomless depths of his eyes, mesmerized by the eternal inferno of devotion banked within their crimson depths.

Then, as if pulled by cosmic tides, your bodies collided in a burningconflagration of hushed gasps and tangling limbs. Chuuya kissed you with all the passionate intensity of a man laying claim to his destiny, his universe. Lips, teeth, tongues - all merged into one searing brand of exquisite possession.

You clung to him helplessly, adrift on a roiling sea of desire and overwhelming reverence for this incredible man who cherished you so ferociously. If loving him was your sole purpose in this life, then you would count yourself among the luckiest souls in existence.

When the need for air finally became too urgent to ignore, you broke apart with trembling gasps. Chuuya immediately tucked you under his chin, rocking you both in slow, soothing sways as your ragged breaths slowly calmed.

"You're mine," he vowed once more, the words both fervent prayer and inviolable truth. "Every atom of your being calls to me, beguiles me, inflames me beyond the bounds of rational thought. I will spend eternity honoring that perfect siren's call."

Head bowed in reverence against the strength of his chest, you could only nod your wordless acquiescence, profoundly humbled and adored beyond your wildest capacity to comprehend. Safe amidst the sanctuary of Chuuya's ardor, you allowed your eyes to slip shut in serene contentment.

And somewhere within that transcendent moment, you knew without a shadow of doubt that you need never fear being lost again.

The world beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows blurred into abstract washes of light and shadow as you remained cocooned in Chuuya's steadfast embrace. In the whisper-soft atmosphere of the private lounge, time seemed to still to a gossamer trickle, each breath drawn out into subtle eternities.

Chuuya's fingers traced idle patterns along the exposed skin of your back, raising delicious frissons with every meandering caress. You basked in the exquisite torture of his wandering touch, every nerve ending alive and thrumming in hopeless supplication for more.

At long last, he drew back just enough to capture your rapt gaze, eyes blazing molten trails over the curves and hollows of your face.

"Do you understand now, my darling?" His low rasp danced like searing embers along your sensitized skin. "This rapture, this all-consuming ecstasy - it is both my prayer and my pyre. You are the divine flame to which I will gladly let my soul be immolated, again and again, until the end of eternity."

You could only nod, rendered breathless and incoherent by the sheer intensity of his veneration. But even that small acquiescence seemed to stoke Chuuya's ardor to blinding new infernos.

"Then let me worship you as you deserve," he growled, the words seeming to vibrate from that primal bassline resonating through his very core. "Allow me to pay tribute to your perfection in the only way that will ever suffice."

With agonizing deliberation, he sank to one knee before you in a stance of utter fealty. His scorching gaze roamed over your form, eyes glittering with unholyztradesty as they lingered on each newly bared expanse of skin revealed by the bunching fabric.

He pressed his lips to the ultra-sensitive skin of your inner thigh in a branding caress of reverence. "Every divine inch of you shall be adored as it deserves," Chuuya swore with hushed intensity. "Hallowed...consecrated...until you know nothing but the most exalted raptures this humble worshipper can provide."

A tremor of pure, potent yearning gripped you at his words, at the devoted promise woven through each sensual lilt and rumbling timbre. You reached for him with trembling hands, fingers tangling through his sweat-damp crimson locks as if to anchor him to you forever in this moment of transcendent bliss.

Chuuya's smoldering eyes flickered shut on a low groan of rapture as he turned into the caress. His palms mapped scorching paths up the curves of your calves and thighs in unhurried exploration, maddeningly drawing out each lascivious inch.

When his questing fingers finally brushed the apex of your thighs in a shockingly intimate caress, your knees threatened to buckle from the sheer intensity lancing through you. Only Chuuya's steadying grip on your hips kept you tethered against the relentless onslaught of sensation.

"So exquisite..." he rasped in awestruck wonder. "So utterly perfect in your rapture that I fear my insignificant skills are blasphemously inadequate to honor you properly, my goddess."

You struggled to formulate a coherent response, to beg and plead for him to take you past the dizzying precipice, but all that escaped was a tremulous keen of plaintive yearning. Instead you resorted to guiding his seeking hand with shallow, sporadic bucks of your hips, silently beseeching him for that elusive, maddening friction that would finally shatter you apart.

Even in your rapidly fracturing state, you felt the volcanic upheaval of Chuuya's restraint at the explicit demand. He actually growled against the satin skin of your inner thigh, teeth grazing harsh and unforgiving in clear punishment. Or perhaps rapturous benediction - with this man, it became increasingly difficult to tell where one ended and the other began.

"Patience, my perfect temptation," he purred in a voice shredded by banked embers of desire. "The ecstasy I have planned for your undoing demands an eternity of exquisite suffering first."

Leaning forward, he lay another searing trail of open-mouthed kisses along the taut swells and shadowed valleys of your desire. Each brand of his lips stoked the inferno of your aching need higher and higher until you thought you would be consumed by the flames.

At last, when you thought the tension might shatter you asunder, Chuuya's questing fingers hooked the delicate silk of your panties, dragging the flimsy garment down your trembling thighs. The fabric fell away to a puddle of scarlet and ivory about your feet.

You could hear the hitch in his breathing, a stuttered inhale of sheer reverence and lust. Chuuya pressed another fervent kiss to the crest of your hip, the action a silent supplication to the divine. Then, with agonizing care, he slid the silken fabric of the dress up the curve of your hips until it rested high on your waist.

You gasped at the sudden rush of cool air against your feverish flesh, cheeks burning at the brazen exposure of your most intimate areas. Yet the momentary flash of mortification quickly dissolved beneath the heady rush of desire and the molten blaze of Chuuya's stare.

His pupils were blown wide, devouring any trace of blue in his eyes until they gleamed blacker than pitch. A low groan emanated from deep within his chest as he traced one long finger through the slick arousal glistening upon your quivering thighs.

"Exquisite," he rasped, the word a breathless prayer on his tongue. "Such perfect, unspoiled purity laid bare before me. Let us see just how far my goddess will let this humble supplicant push her."

Without preamble, Chuuya's hands curled around the backs of your thighs, lifting and guiding you into the cradle of his arms with unwavering certainty. Then, with a low growl, he pressed his open mouth against the aching swell of your desire.

It was the only warning you received before his tongue swept up the length of your folds in a languid, decadent caress. The searing contact ripped a cry from your throat, the sound swallowed in the plush darkness of the room.

Chuuya hummed his own rapturous approval, the vibrations resonating through your very core in waves of liquid heat. Then he was tracing teasing patterns along your swollen flesh, lapping up each fresh wave of moisture like a parched man at an oasis.

Every nerve was electrified, thrumming and humming with each lick and swirl and nip of his tongue. Chuuya seemed content to take his time, coaxing the most decadent sounds from your lips as you writhed against him, helpless and desperate.

His fingers dug bruising crescents into the soft skin of your thighs, keeping you in place for his ravenous exploration. And as his tongue delved deeper, sliding and thrusting against your throbbing entrance, you felt yourself begin to spiral higher and higher.

"That's it, my perfect goddess," he groaned against you. "Show me just how beautiful you are in the throes of ecstasy."

With those murmured words, he returned his focus to the pulsing pearl at the apex of your thighs. He alternated between suckling the sensitive bundle and laving over it with broad strokes. Each caress sent you spiraling higher and higher, closer and closer to the brink of oblivion.

Just when you thought you might combust from the sheer intensity of it all, Chuuya sealed his mouth around the pulsing jewel, fluttering his tongue over the straining point in rapid, unrelenting strokes. The added stimulation sent you hurtling towards the precipice, crashing and tumbling in a freefall of white-hot pleasure.

You shattered apart, vision going white as the force of the release crashed over you in endless waves. Somewhere in the distance, you were vaguely aware of Chuuya's rumbling groan of triumph, the feel of his fingers tightening into a punishing brand against your thighs.

Your muscles clenched and quivered in helpless spasms as the aftershocks shuddered through you, leaving you sated and spent. Slowly, Chuuya guided you back to earth, kissing and stroking until the world re-emerged from behind a gauzy curtain of euphoria.

He pulled you close as you came back to yourself, murmuring soft words of praise and adoration as he pressed reverent kisses to your temple. You melted into him, boneless and pliant as the blissful lethargy set in.

"My beautiful, exquisite angel," he rumbled in a graveled whisper, lips tracing the shell of your ear in a sinfully sensual caress. "Now it's my turn to show you how perfect you are in my eyes, just the way you are."

Chuuya's declaration resonated through you like the ringing echo of a divine proclamation. You turned to face him, wanting to drink in the raw devotion and passion burning in his eyes.

But the moment you met his searing gaze, all thoughts of sweet adoration and poetic worship fled, replaced by a blistering inferno of primal desire. Chuuya's eyes raked over your face with such molten hunger, such naked want, that a frisson of electricity jolted down your spine.

In an instant, he was pressing his lips to yours in a scorching kiss of carnal possession. The taste of yourself on his tongue was both sinfully salacious and exquisitely erotic. You could do nothing but yield, helplessly enthralled by the raw intensity of his need.

Chuuya's hand wound itself into the disheveled locks of your hair, pulling your head back to deepen the kiss. He swallowed your keening moan of pleasure with a rumbling growl, devouring your mouth as if starved for the very taste of you.

His other hand fisted in the delicate satin, bunching the material in a vice-like grip until you could feel the cool night air dancing along the heated skin of your exposed ass. The sudden awareness of the scandalous, vulnerable position only stoked the inferno higher, sending new rivulets of slick dripping from your pulsing core.

"Such a good girl for me," Chuuya breathed, voice ragged and darkly sensual as he dragged his lips down the column of your throat. "Always so willing to spread those pretty thighs and offer yourself up to me."

The words resonated through your every molecule, echoing the primal rhythm thrumming in your very veins. You whimpered, arching against him in wordless supplication, desperate for him to take you and brand you as his.

Chuuya answered with a guttural snarl, the sound primal and possessive. He surged to his feet in one smooth motion, lifting you with him. You clung to him instinctively, legs wrapping around his narrow waist in a desperate bid to anchor yourself against the blistering tide of desire.

Then his cock was brushing against you, the velvet-soft skin stretched taught and hot against the wetness pooling between your thighs. Chuuya's hand slipped down, aligning his hard length with your entrance before slowly, torturously sinking into the wet heat.

Your head fell back on a moan as he buried himself to the hilt, stretching and filling you so perfectly. For a moment, all you could do was cling to him and try to regain a semblance of breath. But then Chuuya began moving, rocking his hips in shallow, experimental thrusts.

His pace was slow and measured, each stroke a delicious torment that left you trembling and gasping. Chuuya's grip on you was punishing, fingertips digging into the supple flesh of your ass. You could feel the tension in his powerful frame, the way each muscle strained and coiled beneath the onslaught of pleasure.

But no matter how desperately you writhed against him, how tightly you gripped his shoulders, Chuuya refused to relinquish control. Instead, he kept his movements infuriatingly slow and languorous, each unhurried glide sending you further and further towards the edge.

"Chuuya, please," you whimpered, shamelessly rutting against him in search of more. "I need -"

"Shhh, doll," he soothed, the words punctuated with a low grunt as he hit a particularly sensitive spot. "I know what you need, and I'm going to give it to you. But I want to savor this perfect moment."

The raw emotion in his tone sent a shiver racing down your spine, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. You tightened your hold on his shoulders, nails scoring thin lines into the muscled flesh.

"Look out the window," Chuuya commanded, voice a low rasp of lust-drunk rapture. "Watch as the whole city bears witness to how beautifully you come apart for me."

Dazed and dizzy with desire, you forced your gaze to lift, drinking in the stunning panorama before you. It was a glittering expanse of lights and shadow, an entire cityscape laid bare for your viewing pleasure. And it was then that the true weight of Chuuya's command sank in.

Every facet of your pleasure was on display, an obscene spectacle for the entire city to witness. Anyone looking up from the street below would be treated to the lurid sight of your flushed, debauched body, writhing and arching against Chuuya in a frenzied state of utter wanton need.

Your inner walls fluttered and clenched, a rush of new heat and slick coating Chuuya's throbbing cock at the thought. He groaned at the sensation, a sound both exultant and agonized.

"Such a perfect little angel, aren't you?" His words were a darkly reverent growl, sending a fresh wave of pleasure jolting through you. "Let's put on a good show for them, sweetheart. Show them just who it is you belong to."

Chuuya's words were the final catalyst. The coil of tension wound within you snapped, sending you crashing and tumbling over the precipice. You cried out, a sound of pure rapture, as the waves of release washed over you in shuddering, relentless crests.

Dimly, you were aware of Chuuya's answering snarl, the harsh sting of teeth against the tender skin of your neck. His movements grew frantic, losing all trace of that practiced control as he chased his own climax.

His cock pulsed and twitched within you, each jerk and spasm intensifying your own pleasure. You rocked your hips against him, grinding yourself against the hard planes of his body. The additional friction pushed you right back to the precipice, poised on that shimmering knife's edge.

A single, well-placed thrust was all it took to send you spiraling into the abyss once more. Your teeth sunk into Chuuya's shoulder, muffling your wail of ecstasy as a gush of pure, hot liquid sprayed from your entrance, coating his thighs and cock in a torrential stream.

"Oh fuck, baby girl!" he grunted, burying himself as deep as possible as he found his own release. "Did you just -"

"Yes!" You sobbed, the word a strangled half-whisper as another rush of liquid gushed out. "Oh god, yes!"

Chuuya swore, hips jerking sporadically as he rode out the last tremors of his own orgasm. Then his arms tightened around you, cradling you against his chest in a protective band. His breath ghosted across your ear, a soothing murmur of praise and adoration.

"You're perfect, sweetheart. So utterly fucking perfect in every way. God, the things you do to me..." His voice trailed off into a groan of satisfaction as he pressed his forehead to yours, gazing into your eyes with such profound adoration that you thought your heart might shatter from the overwhelming intensity of it all.

"Never forget who you belong to, pet," he vowed, the words resonating with solemn promise. "I'll spend the rest of my life proving it to you, if I have to."

In the ensuing hush, the only sound was the slowing of your mingled breathing, the soft rustle of Chuuya's clothing as he adjusted his hold on you. Slowly, he lowered you until your feet touched the floor, steadying you with an arm wrapped about your waist.

You blinked up at him, a dreamy smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. The sight seemed to pull something loose within Chuuya's chest, the man giving a contented sigh.

"So fucking beautiful," he murmured, tenderly cupping your face. "Now let's get you home so I can continue worshipping this perfect body, just the way it deserves."

#bsd x reader smut #bsd smut #bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs smut #bungou stray dogs x reader #bungou stray dogs chuuya #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungou stray dogs #chuuya x reader smut #chuuya smut #chuuya x reader #bsd chuuya #chuuya nakahara

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killerpancakeburger · 1 month

Text

Another Headache

SUMMARY: You get another one of your chronic headaches, and the meds don't don't work. Soap's by your side though.

PAIRING: Soap x F!Reader (Soap calls Reader "pretty girl" once, that's the only mark of gender)

TAGS: Hurt/Comfort, fluff, suggestive at the end, Soft!Soap, Established relationship, Civilian!Reader, Reader works as Price's assistant.

WARNINGS: The suggestiveness at the end, mention of chronic pain.

WORDS COUNT: 1.8k

A/N: Lots of Soaps I like in there... pouting Soap, drawing Soap, needy Soap, Human calculator Soap (because of that one post that I KNOW I REBLOGGED BUT CANT FIND!! CURSE U TUMBLR!)

“1245.87… minus 56.43… divided by 98.62….” you mumble out loud to yourself, painstakingly inputting each digit into your calculator.

“12.06,” pipes up Soap without missing a beat, not looking up from his sketchbook where he's drawing.

You look up from the device and throw him a mildly annoyed glare, assuming he concocted a random number to confuse you. It's the first explanation that comes to your mind, the most logical one, even though it would be out of character for Johnny to make your work harder, even as a joke.

“Very funny.”

Then you press the result touch and your eyes widen as the machine provides the exact same answer.

“How in the hell…?”

You look at your boyfriend again, irritation gone out the window, replaced by amazement and a dash of admiration.

“Do you have a calculator for brain or something?”

“S'basic stuffs for sniping and demolition works.”

The explanation is way too abrupt for anyone who knows how much Johnny enjoys his job, rambling, and rambling about his job. You raise an inquisitive eyebrow.

“Can you develop?”

An amused smirk stretches his lips as he still persists in not looking at you.

“Bonnie, ye need tae focus oan yer work, or ye'll git us in trouble.”

You groan in protest. Being lectured about trouble by Soap “Troublemaker” Mactavish out of all people, you couldn’t make it up. That doesn't make him less right unfortunately.

Your supervisor, John Price, only allowed his Sergeant to hang out in your office during his free time on the express condition that it would not impact your tasks. You initially couldn’t imagine that blue-eyed menace sitting still for hours only for your sake; to do your own thing in your own side of the room in silence, without any physical contact, nor any other sign of acknowledgement? That was Ghost's idea of a good time, but Soap's idea of torture.

However, it turned out you underestimated his willpower, and his determination to take advantage of every moment that could be shared with you. The intimate knowledge that he was holding back this whole time, and that the minute the clock would strike the end of your workday, he would be all over you like usual, warmed your heart and sent pleasing tingles everywhere in your body.

Sympathetic to your plight, Johnny adds with indulgence and cheekiness in his tone:

“Ah ken how much ye like mah voice, but we'll make up fur lost time after.”

You roll your eyes at the suggestive taunt, still recognizing the comment for what it is - a consolation to compensate for his refusal to extend earlier. You bite your tongue to keep yourself from retorting about how distracting he's actually being even when drawing in silence, his biceps bulging with his posture, and the mix of concentration and serenity on his face strangely captivating.

The expression he wears when sketching is one you're particularly fond of. It reveals a different kind of intensity than the one he usually displays, when eager for battle or indignant in front of injustice. It is one not many are privy to, since he tends to favor the solitude of his bedroom to scribble, making this scene all the more special and giving it an intimate tone that's enough to make your heart race.

A loving smile on your face, you throw yourself into your work.

You can feel it coming from miles away.

That accursed headache. Pushing behind your forehead, between your eyebrows and sneaking behind your temples.

Its reasons could very well be everything or nothing; the mix of cold weather and your own tiredness, the acute light from the winter sun blinding your eyes in the absence of sunglasses, the long hours spent in front of a screen.

It is light yet harsh all at once. Muffled pain always felt worse than a sharp one. Yet you know from experience it is only going to hurt more from here on.

Gritting your teeth in a grimace of discomfort, you press your hand against your forehead. The coolness of your fingers provides a respite, albeit a short-term one.

Is there even any painkillers left in your bag? You can’t remember the state of your stock-

A familiar box is suddenly moved in your line of sight. Your usual brand of aspirin.

You look up to see Soap staring at you expectingly. You take the medecine with a grateful smile.

“You really are full of surprises today!”

He pouts as he hands you your water bottle.

“Wi’ how often ye git those bloody things, a'd have tae be a bloody eejit for nae knowing how tae deal with ‘em.”

He sounds like your chronic migraines offended him, personally, and it's both adorable and hilarious.

“That's still very sweet,” you insist after swallowing the treatment.

He brings a lock of hair behind your ear before tenderly kissing your forehead.

“That's me, “Sweet Soap” Mactavish.”

That drags a giggle out of you.

An hour later, as the meds miserably failed, you’re not laughing at all anymore.

At least your work is done for the day, granting you the luxury to suffer on the rec room's couch. Laying on your back, head on the armrest, you’re pressing the heels of your hands into your closed eyelids while groaning in agony. Any bright light or screen increases the pain, so keeping your eyes closed is the only protection conceivable.

Seated right by you, your legs laying over his lap, Soap squeezes your tigh in support, itching to bring you relief but unsure how.

“What can I do?”

You remove your hands from your face to peek at him. If the ache behind your temples wasn’t occupying all space in your thoughts, you would have fussed over his chagrined expression that wasn’t without reminding you of a worried puppy. He was torn between concern for you and frustration of not being able to do anything. Johnny absolutely hated not being capable of remedying a problem. It made you want to cover his face in kisses, not only to placate his frustration, but also because you were filled with cute aggression.

“Well, I have this theory that if someone hit me really hard in the head with a baseball bat, it would help…”

“How the bloody ‘ell would it help!?”

“The pain from the blow would replace the headache.”

“How does replacing pain with pain helps…?”

“I prefer the acute pain of a strike than the dull one of a headache. It's way more bearable.”

“M not hitting you with a baseball bat,” he exclaimed, clearly convinced that the pain had made you go insane.

“I'll just ask Simon instead.”

At this point, you’re insisting more to rile him up rather than out of seriousness.

“Nae yer not,” he retorts vehemently, voice bordering on a growl.

You're about to laugh when he suddenly gets up, still taking care to not send your legs flying off the sofa. Worried that you managed to actually piss him off, you half pick yourself up, raising on your forearms, but he exits the room before you can catch his expression, ordering you to not go anywhere. Not like you were planning to anyway.

You flop back on the couch, closing your eyes and massaging your temples. A moment later, deliciously cold fingers rest on your forehead. You hum in appreciation.

“Better?”

“I love you,” you declare boldly.

The husky laughter Soap emits in response is almost as soothing as his touch.

You suddenly open your eyes as a realization dawns on you.

“Johnny, why are your hands fucking freezing?”

“Put ‘em under cold water,” he retorts casually, like it was evident.

You sigh, closing your eyelids, endeared by his behavior but also a bit fed up.

“You're crazy.”

He chuckles again.

“Crazy in love maybe.”

You don't need to look at him to know the smug smirk he's displaying with that comment.

“Wipe that goofy smile off your face, Mactavish.”

“Make me.”

You playfully slap whatever part of his body is nearby, then sigh once more.

“It's only a temporary solution, though. Unless you intend to spend all night turning your hands into ice cubes.”

“Ah could try-”

“Johnny, no.”

“Johnny, yes.”

“Don't be silly.”

“Will have tae be, unless ye've got a better option.”

“Laying in the dark with a wet cloth could help… or at least it's supposed to.”

This is how you ended up in Soap's bedroom with the lights off, both of you laying on his bed, you nuzzled on his torso with his arm around your waist, a washcloth soaked with freezing water on your forehead.

“Is it working?” he asks, barely a few minutes after settling down.

You cannot contain a smile at the impatience in his voice.

“More or less. But what sucks the most with this method is.. “

“Aye?”

“I'm so freaking bored. Cannot read, cannot use my phone, cannot fall asleep either. And with no distraction, I cannot focus on anything but the pain.”

“Ah could distract ye... If ye wanted.” he immediately suggests.

“What are you thinking of, pretty boy? Surely nothing… inappropriate.’

Despite your playful words, your fingers start idly running down his chest, and the shiver that travels his skin in response doesn't leave you indifferent. You hear him suck in a breath, and he grasps your wandering hand only to press it flat against his pectoral, even raising his breast to deepen the contact. Meanwhile the hand holding you tightens its grip on your flesh before traveling lower to grab your ass.

“Now that yer mentioning it, ah read online that it could help wi’ headaches…”

“That what could help, Johnny?”

“An orgasm, bonnie,” he rasps.

You let out an amused sigh at the bold statement, trying to hide how much effect the rasp of his voice has on you.

“Hear me oot-” he pleads, apparently worried that you’re taking him for a perverted loser obsessed with his own pleasure over your comfort. “A'm not bullshitting ye-”

“I know, baby,” you appease him. “I know about the orgasm being a thing.”

“Ye know?... wait, ye knew this whole time? Why didn’t ye say anythin’?”

“Let's just say I'm skeptical of that method.”

“Did ye already try it?”

“Nope. But I'll believe it when I see it.”

“Then let me make ye a believer, pretty girl. Please? Pretty please? Will make ye feel so, so good, promise. Lemme take away yer pain, hen.”

He punctuates his begging by burning kisses, on your temple, your cheek, your jaw, your neck. His fingers sneak under your shirt, tickling your waist. The neediness in his voice and his touch makes you whine his name helplessly.

“Johnny…”

He echoes your whimper with a moan of your name.

“Alright, alright,” you capitulate. “For the sake of experimentation.”

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suddencolds · 2 months

Text

Atypical Occurrence [1/?]

Happy birthday to my dear friend, @caughtintherain!! I wanted to give you some Vincent suffering to chew on for the occasion, so please take this fic (or, first part of a fic) as a gift <3

this is an OC fic - here is a list of everything I’ve written for these two! chronologically, this fic takes place a month or so after the last installment leaves off :)

Summary: Vincent shows up late to a meeting. It just goes downhill from there. (ft. fake dating, the flu, a house visit)

—

Vincent is late.

Yves tries not to stare at the empty seat across from him. The meeting—their first meeting of the day—started five minutes ago. If there’s anything Yves knows, it’s that Vincent always comes in early.

In stumbles Cara, handling a morning coffee with probably more espresso shots than anyone should have at 8am. Then Laurent, briefcase in one hand, paging through a folder of files in his other. Then Angelie, Isaac, Garrett, Ray, Sienna. Then they get started, and Yves turns his attention towards the graphs projected onscreen at the front of the room, and tries very hard not to think about Vincent.

It’s five minutes later that the door swings open, near-silent.

Sienna—who’s presenting—stops, for a moment, to look back at Vincent from where he’s standing in the doorway, which means that of course, everyone looks.

Cara turns around in her seat, raising an eyebrow. Angelie frowns at him.

“Sorry I’m late,” Vincent says, quietly. “It won’t happen again.”

Isaac shrugs. Angelie looks a little concerned, but she turns back to her work, anyways. Sienna resumes her presentation. All in all, it’s nothing—or it should be nothing. Probably traffic, on the way here; a particularly unlucky commute. An unlikely occurrence, but—to anyone else—not anything worth dwelling over.

It might be a sufficient explanation, if Yves didn’t know better.

Vincent takes care to close the door quietly behind him, then heads over to the only open seat, across from Yves. He unzips his briefcase, quietly, unobtrusively, and takes out his laptop. Yves tries to focus on what Sienna is saying—she’s giving a review of a client’s current investment strategies; he’d reviewed her work on this just a couple days ago.

Vincent asks good questions throughout—he always has a good sense of what areas still lack clarity, Yves has found. Today is no exception. He takes part in the meeting with such calculated precision that Yves almost misses it.

Almost misses: the slight stiffness to his shoulders, as if it’s taking more than the usual amount of effort to keep himself upright. The way in which he clears his throat before speaking, like it might actually hurt. The way he rests his head on one hand, halfway into the meeting—as if even now, barely forty minutes into the workday, he’s already exhausted.

It’s subtle enough to go unnoticed, subtle enough that Yves wonders if he’s just reading too much into it—if, perhaps, Vincent is fine, after all.

—

He doesn’t see Vincent again until lunch.

Or, more accurately, he doesn’t see Vincent again until he’s headed down for lunch with Cara and Laurent. Vincent is already on his way out of the cafeteria, a takeout container in hand.

“You’re not going to eat here?” Yves asks.

Vincent doesn’t look at him. “I have some work to get done at my desk,” he says. He clears his throat again, like it’s irritating him.

“Okay,” Yves says. Vincent turns to leave, and Yves thinks of a hundred ways in which he could possibly prolong this conversation, and then decides against it. Vincent is already so busy.

“You look tired,” he settles on, instead.

He expects Vincent to dismiss this, to reassure him that it isn’t true. But Vincent looks up at him at last, blinking, as if he’s surprised that Yves noticed at all. His eyes are a little dark-rimmed underneath his glasses.

He doesn’t deny it, which is as much of a confirmation as Yves needs.

“The sooner I can get this work done, the sooner I can go home,” he says. Yves supposes he can’t argue with that.

“I guess I’ll see you around, then,” Yves says, even though he wants to say more, even though he feels like there’s more that he should be saying. “Don’t work too hard.”

Vincent nods, at this, and resumes walking.

—

Yves is probably overthinking it. There isn’t anything concrete, really, to justify his concern.

Vincent’s lateness to the meeting could just as easily be the consequence of an alarm he’d forgotten to set, his exhaustion just as easily a side effect—of recent late nights in the office, of arbitrary changes to the projects he’s on, of last-minute demands from clients.

The next time he sees Vincent is at the end of the work day. Yves always takes the elevators on the north end of the building—they’re ones that lead directly out into the parking garage. When he gets out to the hallway, Vincent is already standing there, waiting for the elevator.

Yves watches Vincent stiffen, slightly. Watches him raise one hand up to his face to shudder into it with a harsh, “HHihH’iKKTSh-hUH!”

A thin tremor runs through the line of his shoulders, as if he’s too cold, even though the office air conditioning is no colder than usual. His hand, cupped to his face, remains there for a moment more before he lowers it.

He sniffles, then, rummaging through his pocket for—something. When he doesn’t find it, he just frowns a little, sniffling again.

“Bless you,” Yves says.

“Yves,” Vincent says, his shoulders stiffening a little. He clears his throat, turning around so that he can address Yves properly.

It’s only a few seconds later that he’s turning sharply away, tenting both hands over his nose and mouth for—

“Hh-! hHiH—HIHh’DZSSschh-uhh! snf-!”

“Bless you again.”

Vincent sighs. “Don’t bother.” He really looks exhausted, Yves realizes. During their brief interaction at lunch, he’d already sensed as much, but the harsh white glare of the bright corporate lighting only makes it more evident.

Vincent looks a little paler than usual, if only slightly, and there’s a slight flush that spreads itself over his cheekbones. He looks—well, nearly as put together as always, distilled only by the slight crookedness of his tie, as if it’s been on too tight; the near-invisible sheen of sweat over his forehead. The slight redness to the bridge of his nose, the slight shiver to his hand as he reaches up to adjust his collar.

Yves frowns, taking this all in. “You look kind of…”

“Terrible?” Vincent finishes for him.

Yves winces. “...Well, terrible is a strong word. I was going to say, you look like you could use some sleep.”

“I’m… feeling a little off,” Vincent says, staring straight ahead, as if it’s not an admission at all. But Yves suspects, from the way he avoids eye contact, that perhaps it was something he was intending on keeping private. “You should keep your distance.”

The elevator dings. The sliding doors part, and he steps inside.

“First floor?” Yves asks, hesitating next to the panel of buttons.

“Yes,” Vincent says. Then, quietly: “Thanks.”

“You know, now that busy season is over, the world is not going to end if you take a sick day,” Yves tells him. “Even if you do like, twice the amount of work as everyone else on the team, if you needed to call out, I’m sure something could be arranged.”

Vincent smiles at him, a little wryly. “I must look pretty bad if you’re saying this to me.”

“Yes, I was lying,” Yves says. “Clearly, you look terrible.”

It isn’t true at all—even here, even like this, Vincent doesn’t look terrible, not even in the least. But Vincent still smiles, at this—a tired smile.

The elevator doors slide open.

“Text me if you need anything,” Yves says, impulsively. “Seriously. Tissues, soup, medicine—whatever. It’s not far of a drive.”

“That’s very considerate of you,” Vincent says. “I will see you tomorrow.” And then he steps out of the elevator, and Yves is left with an inexplicable sinking feeling in his stomach. As far as he knows, it has no place there. Obviously, Vincent can take care of himself. Obviously, Vincent can handle a cold. Yves has nothing to be concerned about.

—

The next day is rainy—a constant, torrential downpour, which makes his commute to work take almost twice as long as it usually does. It wouldn’t be spring here, Yves supposes, without dreary weather like this.

Back in uni, when he rowed crew, they’d practice out for hours out in the rain. Now that he spends the majority of his day inside, he supposes he can’t complain. The shelter of the office building is a reprieve.

Vincent doesn’t show up.

“I think he’s out sick,” Cara says, when Yves asks. “You know, it’s funny. I don’t think I’ve actually seen him take a sick day before.”

“For how hard he works, he definitely deserves one,” Garrett says.

“He seemed fine yesterday, when I saw him,” Cara says, with a shrug. “Probably came on quickly.” Yves nods.

But that isn’t quite right, is it? Vincent hadn’t seemed fine, had he? Yves thinks back to the things he’d noticed—Vincent, uncharacteristically exhausted during the meeting, though it was clear he’d been just as engaged as usual. Vincent, shivering in the elevator, telling Yves to keep his distance. How poorly had he been feeling already, yesterday? How poorly does he have to be feeling today to have called off of work for it?

He finds some time just before lunch to text.

Y: how are you holding up? Y: yesterday’s offer stands if you need me to bring you anything!

He doesn’t get a response from Vincent, which is a little concerning. He checks his phone halfway through lunch, and then twice more, in between his afternoon meetings, just in case he’s missed a notification.

“Are you expecting a text from someone?” Cara says, looking a little curious.

“Just a friend,” Yves says, which is and isn’t true.

To make a point—to Cara, and possibly to himself—he shuts his phone off. He very pointedly does not look at it again for the remainder of the hour.

It’s not until mid-afternoon that he finally gets a response.

V: Sorry to get back to you so late.

Yves sits upright, fumbling with his phone to get it unlocked. The text bubble pops up again, somewhat intermittently, to show that Vincent is typing.

V: If it’s not too much trouble, there’s a blue folder on my desk labeled 2-A.

Yves blinks at this, a little disbelieving.

Y: you’re asking me to bring you work files? Y: arent you supposed to be resting 🤨 Y: paid sick leave, remember? as in, leave your work at work??

V: I meant to pack them yesterday.

Y: that’s like a genie grants you 3 wishes and you ask for an extra day of assignments Y: terrible waste of a wish if you ask me

V: As a genie, you’re quite judgmental

Y: ok ok Y: as your loyal lamp dweller i’ll be over around 8pm with folder 2-A Y: you need anything else?

V: Nothing else V: You can just leave them outside my door

A beat. Then Vincent sends:

V: Sorry to trouble you

Yves thinks of twenty responses he wants to send to that text. Then, thinking better of himself, he shuts his phone off and gets back to work.

—

It’s a little past seven when he finally checks out of the office.

Outside, the rain hasn’t even begun to let up—it falls, straight and heavy, in large, globular droplets. The streets gleam with water. Yves leaves his umbrella in the trunk, tunes out everything but the static of the rainfall, and drives.

Yves has only ever been to Vincent’s apartment once—to pick him up for the New Years’ party Margot hosted—and even then, Vincent had met him at the door. But he recognizes the unit, nonetheless.

For a moment, he considers leaving the folder of files outside of Vincent’s door and taking his leave.

But it’s windy, and he’s afraid the papers might fly away, torn up by the biting wind, and get lost face down in a puddle somewhere, which would defeat the purpose of him coming here in the first place, and would probably also breach some employee confidentiality policy. So instead, he knocks.

It’s silent for a moment. Rain beats down on the slanted rooftops, a constant thrum.

Yves is about to reach out to knock again, when the door swings open.

There stands Vincent, in a pale blue hoodie and loose-fitting pajama pants, with neat rectangular cuffs.

He looks tired. It’s the first thing Yves registers—the unusual fatigue to his expression, which he can’t quite seem to blink away; the flush high on his cheekbones. The way he holds himself, his shoulders stiff, carefully, defensively; as if despite his exhaustion, there’s a part of him which wishes to appear presentable still.

It’s only a moment later that he’s taking a halting step back, ducking into a hoodie sleeve. Yves catches the shiver of his expression, his eyebrows pulling together, before it crumples, and his head jerks forward with a harsh—

“hHihh’GKkTT—! Hh-!! iHH-’DZZSCHh-uuUh!”

The second sneeze sounds louder and harsher than usual, even muffled into the fabric of his sleeve. It betrays his congestion all at once.

“Bless you,” Yves says.

Vincent emerges, sniffling a little. When he speaks, he sounds a little hoarser than he did yesterday. “I thought I said you - snf-! - could leave them on the front step.”

“You did,” Yves says, glancing down at the folder in his hands. “But it’s windy, and it’s raining. I figured you’d prefer to have your files intact. How are you feeling?”

Vincent blinks at him. He’s leaning heavily against the doorframe, Yves realizes, one hand gripped tightly around the frame, his knuckles white from the pressure, as if it would take him too much effort to stay upright otherwise.

“Alright,” he answers. “Thanks for making the trip here. I… it must’ve taken longer, in the rain.” He squeezes his eyes shut, as if his head hurts, as if the light coming from outside is exacerbating his headache. “If you ever need me to pick something up for you, I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Yves says. Despite himself, he reaches up to press his hand against Vincent’s forehead.

The heat under his fingertips is alarming, to say the least. Yves blinks, lowering his hand, and tries to keep the worry out of his voice. “Have you taken your temperature?”

Vincent shakes his head. “I don’t think I have a thermometer.”

“Have you eaten, then?”

Vincent averts his glance, looking sheepish. “I… was planning to stop for groceries, yesterday,” he says. Planning to.

Yves thinks back to the elevator ride yesterday. Vincent had probably already been feeling very unwell, then. And yet, he’d talked with Yves as if nothing was out of the ordinary. I’m feeling a little off, he’d said, as if anything about his current affliction could possibly be characterized as “little.” I will see you tomorrow—as if he had really, genuinely been intending on showing up at work.

“So I take it that there’s nothing in the fridge, either,” Yves says.

“If it’s any consolation, you’ll be pleased to know that I slept,” Vincent says, in lieu of answering.

Then he shivers—the sort of concerning, full-body shiver that is a little concerning, coming from someone who is usually unaffected by the cold—and Yves is immediately reminded that the door they’re speaking through is open.

“Can I come in?” he asks.

“You probably shouldn’t,” Vincent says, before his expression scrunches up, and he’s ducking away with a— “hh—! hHih-II—TSSCHHh-UH! snf-!”, smothered hurriedly into the palm of his hand. He sniffles, emerging with a slight wince. “This came on pretty quickly. It might be the flu.”

“It’s fine,” Yves says. “I got my flu shot in the winter. And anyways, I’ll be careful.”

Vincent is quiet, for a moment. Then, frowning, he says, “I’d feel terrible if you caught this.”

That’s the least of Yves’s worries—he doubts he’s going to catch this. Even if he does, it will just mean a few days off of work. Not the end of the world, by any means. Nothing to warrant the expression on Vincent’s face—Vincent looks upset, as if he’ll really can’t think of anything worse than Yves catching this. Like even the thought of it is worth being upset over.

Yves shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it, seriously.” He pushes past Vincent to step inside and shuts the door behind him. “Here, I’ll set these down on your desk. Where is it?”

“Down the hallway, to the left,” Vincent says.

Yves takes the folder, leaves his shoes at the door, and heads inside.

Vincent’s bedroom is small and organized—it’s the kind of bedroom that’s tastefully minimal, in the sort of unified manner that implies that everything in it has been carefully arranged. There’s a small white desk in the corner, a stack of files arranged neatly next to Vincent’s laptop, its lid halfway to shut. There’s a bookshelf, leaned up against the wall far; the bottom shelf looks to be filled with textbooks; the top shelf lined with books, both in Korean and in English. The walls are painted slate gray, the carpets lining the floorboards picked out to match, and there are pale blue curtains hanging from the windows, pulled tightly shut.

There are signs here, too, of his illness, but they are subtle. A tissue box, nestled between his pillow and the headboard, half empty. A waste bin at the foot of the bed, conveniently in reach. A small bottle of aspirin on the bedside counter; an empty packet of cough drops sitting at the edge of his nightstand.

Yves sets the folder at the end of Vincent’s desk, next to the rest of his files, and turns to face him.

“You’re not going to work on these until you’re feeling better, right?” he asks.

“Only if I can’t sleep,” Vincent says, which Yves supposes is a satisfactory answer. Then he twists away, his eyebrows furrowing, lifting a loosely clenched fist to his face to cough, and cough.

The cough is harsh and grating—his entire frame shudders with the force of it, his breaths shallow and raspy. He really sounds awful. This must have come on quickly, Yves thinks.

If it’s upsetting, seeing Vincent like this, it’s even worse to be standing here, in his room, doing nothing. So—if only to make himself useful, if only to convince himself that there’s something he can do—Yves ducks out into the kitchen.

The pantry is meticulously organized—glasses lined up in neat rows; stacks of bowls sorted by size. He fills a glass with water, shuts the cabinets, and takes it back to the bedroom.

By the time he gets back, Vincent is sitting at the edge of his bed. His glasses are folded neatly, left at the very edge of the countertop.

“Here,” Yves says, crossing the room, holding out the glass for him to take.

“Thanks,” Vincent says, taking it gingerly from him. He takes a small, tentative sip, and then another—his hands are a little shaky, Yves notices. “You - snf-! - should really go.”

“I’m not entirely convinced you’ll be fine on your own,” Yves says.

“Of course I will be,” Vincent says, with all of his usual certainty. He lays down, pulling the covers over his body. “I have been fine on my own for years.”

It’s meant to be reassuring, Yves supposes. But he doesn’t feel reassured in the least.

“Thank you again for bringing me the files,” Vincent says, at last, shutting his eyes.

“You could’ve asked me to get you groceries,” Yves says. “There’s a supermarket not far from here, right? And you’re out of cough drops.” He takes a few steps over, towards the desk in the corner of the room. “These—” He examines the bottle of ibuprofen on the table. “—are expired.”

“Just because you’ve extended this kindness to me,” Vincent tells him, “doesn’t mean I should take advantage of it.”

Yves blinks, a little taken aback. “It’s only groceries. I wouldn’t have minded, really.”

“See,” Vincent says, with a note of—something in his voice. It sounds a bit like resignation. “That’s just the kind of person you are.”

Yves doesn’t know what to say, to that.

Before he can think up a fitting response, Vincent’s breathing evens out. Yves lets himself listen to the shallow, steady cadence of it. Lets himself acknowledge the heavy, painful feeling in his chest for just a moment. Then he shuts the lights off and heads back out into the hallway.

#snz fic #sneeze fic #sneeze kink #snz kink #snz #i wanted to end somewhere more conclusive but i was falling asleep at my keyboard trying to end this so #please take this for now 🙏#my fic #it is very late rn so i am scheduling this for the middle of my work day tomorrow... now i need to run to sleep T.T #i will finish off the latter half of the house visit in the not too distant future!#yvverse #ps caughtintherain if you are reading this ily and i am so grateful to you for letting me consult you abt these two 😭😭 and i hope it's #okay for me to post this as a gift jafkhjfslk ANYWAYS pls read this at your leisure and happy birthday again!!!

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wis-art · 21 days

Text

When I'm not bound by constraints of starting workday at 6 am my natural way to live is just to go sleep at like 4-6 in the morning. I always throughout my life been a night owl. It's just so quiet at night, nobody to pester me. I am neurodivergent and always struggled to fit into the mould of the society and really perform well when I'm under constant state of panic about not getting enough sleep, like the only purpose to sleep is to just rest before work and it's mathematically calculated what's the moet optimal way to keep me working, and I am somehow just unable to sleep even on medicine and nobody ever gets how can I even be dreading bed time. It sucks. At least at night these rules don't exist, you're just kind of there and you can do anything you want nobody bitches in your ear about wasting time, nobody expects you to perform at the full capacity until your components fail, you're just free to do anything and look at the stars quietly and the sun rise while you're sipping on a tea.

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apteryxparvus · 8 months

Text

taste you on my lips

Pairing — Diluc Ragnvindr / Female Reader

Word count — 4,109

Content warning — drinking • making out • tequila body shots • suggestive themes

Summary — In the midst of a raging storm — lightning crackling and rain pouring down — you find yourself trapped at Angel's Share. As the drinks flow, your inhibitions begin to fade, and your not-so-secret crush on your boss becomes harder to contain.

“I’ll be going now,” Charles declares, his voice carrying a hint of weariness as he finishes tidying his bar area. With a practiced finesse, he meticulously wipes down the counter, the soft fabric of the cloth gliding over the smooth surface. The bottles of syrups and liquors stand in perfect order.

Angel’s Share basks in the warm embrace of the overhead lights. The dive bar is barely occupied on the chilly Wednesday night, with only a handful of regular patrons indulging in their favorite vices, leisurely sipping on their drinks.

“Bye! Take care,” you respond, a bright smile gracing your lips as you bid farewell to your colleague. However, beneath the façade of your cheerfulness, a gnawing anxiety creeps its way into your thoughts at the prospect of being left along with your boss.

The initial nervousness of being the newest employee (with no previous experience in the industry, at that) has slowly dissolved. You’ve managed to overcome the discomfort of serving customers, even in their inebriated state, and you’ve learned to assert yourself in the face of rowdiness.

But one insurmountable obstacle remains — the watchful gaze of Diluc Ragnvindr.

Not only is he the owner of Angel’s Share, but he holds the title of the most seasoned bartender. His discerning eyes catch even the tiniest of errors, and he is swift to deliver admonishments to whoever is responsible — which, more often than not, happens to be you. The weight of his scrutiny lingers in the air, a constant reminder of your inexperience and the need to prove yourself in his eyes.

And the undeniable truth of your crush on Diluc, so painfully obvious to everyone, only further complicates your already precarious situation. Your colleagues, as well as certain regulars, take great pleasure in teasing you about it. Kaeya, Diluc's charismatic adoptive brother, playfully pokes fun at you whenever he gets the chance. Jean, the childhood best friend of the brothers, and her girlfriend Lisa, constantly offer unsolicited advice on how to break through Diluc's icy demeanor. And while their intentions are well-meaning, these conversations leave you feeling mortified, unable to meet Diluc's gaze without the vivid memories of those embarrassing discussions flooding your mind.

"Relax, don't get too wound up," Charles teases, words laced with amusement as he makes his way towards the staff room.

You shoot him a withering glare. “I won’t.”

Contrary to your attempts to remain composed, your body betrays you as soon Diluc steps behind the bar, his towering figure casting a shadow over you. Every nerve in your body tenses, heart pounding in your chest, as his presence engulfs you entirely.

"Is everything running fine here?" he inquires, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down your spine.

"Su—sure, everything's going great, sir," you stammer, words faltering.

"No need to call me sir," he replies, his voice gruff. His calculating gaze sweeps across the dimly lit bar, taking note of the patrons still sipping on their drinks. "I'll go ask for the last round, and after that, you can start cleaning up and closing the bar."

Relief floods through you, grateful that tonight's workday will come to an end earlier than expected. You set about tidying the bar, washing and polishing the glasses scattered haphazardly.

But as you lose yourself in the rhythm of your tasks, Diluc interrupts your little reverie with his deep voice. "Here, let me help," he offers. Yet again, you become acutely aware of his imposing presence.

Startled, you nearly jump when his warm breath grazes your neck, igniting a trail of goosebumps across your skin. Your heart races as his body presses against your back, the firmness of his muscles evident even through the fabric of his tight shirt. The tension in the air is almost tangible as you struggle to maintain your composure in the face of this unexpected closeness.

"No—no, it's al—alright," you manage to squeak out, but Diluc pays no heed to your protest. He gently takes the wine glass from your hand, and you feel a slight jealousy surge within you as you watch him effortlessly reach the high shelves.

"Thanks," you mumble, your gaze fixated on the remaining glasses. Heat rises in your body, a mix of embarrassment and desire mingling together.

"I'll go restock the fridges," Diluc announces, moving away from you. A wave of relief washes over you, almost causing a sigh to escape your lips, but deep down, you secretly yearn for the warmth his closeness provided. "If you need any help, just come and ask."

You nod, your teeth grazing the tender flesh of your lower lip. There's absolutely no way you'll be asking for assistance. In fact, you're determined to finish the remaining tasks as quickly as possible, hoping to avoid any prolonged interaction with your boss.

You focus back on your tasks, diligently polishing the few remaining glasses. You wonder if he had noticed your nervousness, if he could sense the pull between you, or if it was all a figment of your overactive imagination.

Cleaning the rest of the bar becomes a welcome distraction from your swirling thoughts. You sanitize the beer taps and soda dispenser nozzles, making sure to leave no speck of dirt or residue behind. A sigh of relief escapes your lips when you are finally satisfied that every tool and glass gleams under the warm glow of the lights.

Your nimble fingers deftly untangle the stubborn knot of your apron, the fabric slipping free from your body. You place it in a small basket alongside the other soiled rags and towels.

The idea of helping Diluc refill the basement fridges passes through your mind, but the nerves and unease that have plagued you since the start of your shift intensify and make the prospect feel daunting and potentially awkward.

Lost in your thoughts, you're taken by surprise when Diluc's tall figure emerges from the basement stairs, carrying three crates filled with drinks. His commanding presence accentuates the powerful contours of his physique, leaving you breathless. You move to assist him, but he grunts in response and dismissively waves you away.

"I can manage," he grumbles, his voice slightly strained. "Go get changed. The weather report says there'll be a storm tonight."

You’re grateful for his concern, as the realization that you hadn't been aware of the impending storm, and you had arrived at work dressed in nothing more than a light hoodie and a shirt, dawns upon you. The late hour means the buses have most likely stopped running. And as much as you adore the rain and the cloudy weather, the idea of getting drenched is not appealing at all.

"Oh, thank you," you reply.

By the time you emerge from the changing room, clad in your comfortable clothes and with your backpack slung over your shoulders, Diluc has already finished refilling the bar fridges.

"Is that all for tonight, si— I mean, Diluc," you stumble over your words at the accidental slip of almost calling him "sir" again. "It’s going to be a long walk home if it does start raining."

Diluc's gaze meets yours, his eyes darkening. "You're walking home? Alone?"

"A—ah! Don't worry," you stammer, your words coming out awkwardly. "I'm used to it."

Your attempt at reassurance falls flat. "I can take you home. Mondstadt might be quiet at night, but it's still not safe for you."

You shake your head, silently protesting against the idea. The thought of being confined in a car with Diluc sends your mind into a frenzy; you’re sure your brain will short circuit with the close proximity.

"I'll go grab my keys, and then we can head out."

When Diluc returns, he's changed out of his uniform, now dressed in dark pants and a leather jacket that clings to his form. A pair of keys dangle from his hand, and he cradles a shiny, dark helmet in the other.

It takes a moment for the implications to sink in, and you immediately recoil from the idea. "No—no! Absolutely not!"

The thought of riding on a motorcycle with Diluc is too much to bear. The closeness, the need to hold him tightly, the inevitable contact between your bodies, it's all too overwhelming. The mere idea of him feeling your racing heartbeat threatens to consume you.

Diluc raises an eyebrow, his gaze piercing. "Do you not trust my skills?"

You realize the unintended implication of your outburst, and quickly backtrack. "I—I do, but I've never ridden a motorcycle, and I intend to keep it that way!"

He remains silent, his lips pressed into a thin line, as he leads the way towards the exit. Reluctantly, you follow him, steps cautious as you make your way to the staircase that leads to the front entrance of the bar.

Tonight luck is not on your side — as as soon as you swing open the large oak door, you are greeted by the most vicious storm you've witnessed in years.

The wind roars and branches to sway violently. Rain falls from the cloudy sky in fat droplets, drenching everything in its path. The streets are submerged in deep, murky water, as the sewers struggle to cope with the downpour. In the distance, a lightning strike illuminates the night, followed by a deafening thunder.

There’s no way you can navigate through his weather on foot. You bite down on your cheek, a mix of frustration and resignation flooding your senses. Turning towards Diluc, you shyly meet his gaze.

"It would be extremely unsafe to ride or walk in this weather," he comments, his voice laced with concern. "I would recommend either calling a taxi or waiting out the rain inside the bar."

"Highly doubt any taxis would be running in this weather," you respond.

He lets out a weary sigh. "Let's go inside then. We can share a drink or two while we wait for the rain to stop." He glances for a split second at the downpour. "Or at least until it slows down and it's safe to drive you back."

"I thought you didn't drink?" you question, trailing behind him as he leads you back to the underground bar.

"I don't," he answers curtly. "I'll be drinking non-alcoholic cider."

"Oh, right," you mumble.

As you make your way towards the bar counter, Diluc skillfully retrieves a bottle of cider, pouring it into a glass.

"What would you like to drink?" he asks, taking a sip of his fizzy cider. You ponder for a moment, unsure of how professional it would be to drink alcohol in front of your boss. But then again, you’re not sure you can mentally survive this encounter by being completely sober.

"Just make me a cocktail," you murmur, your voice shy and uncertain. "Whichever you prefer."

You watch attentively as Diluc prepares your cocktail. His strong hands deftly grab a bottle of whiskey from the top shelves, pouring a generous amount into a shaker. The rich aroma of the distilled spirit fills the air, mingling with the citrusy smell of lemon juice. He carefully breaks an egg, pouring only the egg white into the shaker.

Diluc vigorously shakes the mixture, his muscles flexing and straining with each movement. He adds a generous amount of ice and continues shaking. The ice clatters against the metal and fills the room with noise.

"Can you pass me a rocks glass?" Diluc's voice breaks through your mesmerized state, and you scramble to grab a glass, handing out a tall one.

"A rocks glass," he corrects you, and you can't help but feel a twinge of embarrassment at your mistake. Quickly, you put back the tall glass and retrieve a shorter one. He nods in acknowledgement, pouring the cocktail into the glass. As a finishing touch, he adds a few drops of Angostura bitters, a maraschino cherry, and a thin slice of dried orange as a garnish.

He hands you the drink, and you take a careful sip, feeling the explosion of flavors on your tongue. A moan of pleasure almost escapes your lips as the tangy embrace of the whiskey caresses your senses, the citrus juice dancing across your taste buds.

"It's freaking delicious," you announce. You take another greedy sip, savoring the taste. "What's it called?"

"Whiskey sour," Diluc answers, his lips forming a subtle smirk.

"It's not on the menu?" you inquire. Despite your extensive knowledge of the bar's menu, ranging from the tap beers and the special selections, to Dandelion wine types and the multitude of sweet and sour cocktails, you’re sure you’ve never come across this one specific drink.

"Some things are best kept as hidden gems," he muses.

As you take yet another long sip of the whiskey sour, you can’t help but wonder what other secrets lie within the depths of the man who stands behind the bar.

Diluc leads you to a booth, and you silently follow. He settles onto the plush red leather cushion, taking a sip from his own drink, his eyes never leaving you. Awkwardly, you take a seat opposite him, attempting to smile but feeling the unnaturalness of it.

The tension between you is palpable, the electricity between you both exciting and unnerving. You already feel the intoxicating effects of the alcohol coursing through your veins. Your glass is nearly empty, while Diluc's remains only halfway finished.

In a few swift gulps, you down the last remnants of your cocktail, tilting the glass to capture every drop of foam.

Diluc raises an eyebrow. “Another one?”

You answer with a timid nod, accompanied by a shy smile. “Do you think you can teach me?”

He nods, finishing his own drink in one swift motion, his crimson locks cascading around his face as he rises from his seat. You follow him, the alcohol already making you giddy as you stumble slightly.

The bar becomes your stage. Diluc’s instructions, whispered softly, guide you through the process. You follow them, carefully separating the egg white, and pouring the right amounts of juices and syrups.

You begin to shake the cocktail, feeling your muscles strain. In an attempt to steady yourself, you bite down on the inside of your cheek. Shaking cocktails has always been a challenging task for you — the amount of times you’ve forgotten to secure the lid and witnessed the mixture cascade over yourself and the bar counter serves as a haunting reminder.

A soft, almost inaudible sigh escapes Diluc's lips as he delicately takes hold of your arm. "Here, shake it like this," he instructs. His hands guide yours, his touch electrifying.

You finish shaking the cocktail, but his fingers linger over yours, and a warmth spreads through your body. He tenses, quickly withdrawing.

Snatching another rocks glass, its cool surface meeting your warm fingers, and with practiced grace, you pour the drink, watching as the foam gently touches the rim. You add the finishing touches, placing two cherries atop the foam — their vibrant hue contrasts against the pale yellow backdrop of the drink. You snatch a third cherry, savoring its succulent sweetness as you take a bite.

The whiskey sour stands before you like a work of art. With a mixture of pride and anticipation, you take a sip.

But as the liquid touches your tongue, a harsh burn fills your throat, the sourness causing you to grimace in distaste. You sputter, coughing. Desperate to mask the unpleasant taste, you reach for another cherry, but even its sweetness fails to save your tastebuds.

“Let me see,” Diluc says. The moment the cocktail touches his tongue, a fleeting wince betrays his thoughts. “It's… it’s something,” he manages to say.

You feel yourself wilt in embarrassment.

"It's alright. You don't have to drink this. I'll finish it, and I'll make you a new one," he offers.

"No—no, you don't have to," you wave your hands frantically in protest.

He remains resolute, his gaze unwavering. "I insist."

"But you said you aren't drinking any alcohol tonight," you counter.

A mischievous glint flashes in Diluc’s eyes. "I can make an exception or two."

With that, he sets to work, his movement swift and practiced — in less than a minute, he combines the ingredients, and pours the mixture. The glass is adorned with three cherries — a thoughtful gesture that does not go unnoticed by you.

He hands you the drink, and with a soft-spoken "thank you," you accept the glass, unable to muster the courage to meet his piercing gaze.

One drink blends into two, then three.

The rich amber liquid courses through your veins, as the expensive bottle of whiskey lies empty.

Diluc — his eyes glazed with a mix of intoxication and what you interpret as desire — uncapts another bottle. His nose and ears are tinged with a telltale of redness.

“How about some shots?” you ask, speech slightly slurred.

"Vodka?" he suggests, as he grabs the nearest bottle from the shelf. "Or Fireball?" he continues, presenting another bottle.

Your eyes fixate on the captivating sight of the cinnamon-infused whiskey, its intricate red dragon design beckoning you closer. You point to the Fireball bottle, and Diluc, understanding your choice, nods in agreement. He expertly pours two shots, the glasses clinking together.

Without any hesitation, you raise the glass to your lips, the fiery liquid cascading down your throat, igniting a burning sensation that travels from your core to the depths of your stomach. The intense heat warms your already flushed body.

"Another!" you exclaim, slamming down the glass. A sheepish apology escapes your lips as Diluc's gaze meets yours, a light glare mingling with a hint of amusement.

"Tequila?"

Your eyes light up at the proposition. "You know, the best way to drink tequila is through a body shot," you blurt out, your words escaping before your brain can catch up. Mortification washes over you, causing you to gasp and hastily cover your face with trembling hands.

"Or—or so I've heard from friends," you stammer, your eyes hidden behind your palms. Diluc’s soft chuckle echoes in the room, and curiosity prompts you to part your fingers slightly, stealing a glance at him through the gaps.

He runs a hand through his high ponytail. A blush spreads across his cheeks, but you're uncertain whether it’s a result of your words or the alcohol that courses through your veins.

"Perhaps we can test your friend's intel," his voice low, drips with seduction.

You freeze, your eyes widening in surprise.

“Of course, if you’re not comfortable please ignore what I’ve said.” Diluc crosses his arms, gaze fixed upon you. Silence hangs around the air, your mind racing. "But let's not pretend you haven't been staring at me and drooling since the moment you stepped into the establishment."

Diluc's hand gently cups your cheek, his thumb tracing the contours of your bottom lip. Unconsciously, you part your mouth in response, face inching closer to his.

"Please tell me to stop if I've misread the situation," he murmurs.

As an answer, you rise onto your tiptoes, sealing the unspoken agreement with a passionate kiss. Fingers curling tightly around the lapels of his leather jacket, you pull him closer, craving the press of his chiseled abs against your stomach. His calloused hands snake around your back, drawing you into an embrace.

A soft bite of your lip sends sparks of pleasure coursing through your body, encouraging you to surrender further. Your mouth opens, allowing him to deepen the kiss. Your fingertips glide across his hair, causing his perfectly styled ponytail to unravel.

Panting heavily, the two of you part from each other, lips slightly swollen and glistening under the seductive glow of the low-light lamps.

"F-fuck," Diluc breathes, his voice laden with a mix of longing and urgency. In an instant, his lips crash against yours again.

With a surge of boldness, your hand finds its way beneath his shirt, causing a shiver to run across his body.

“So, about those tequila shots,” you manage to whisper between kisses, voice laced with mischievousness.

“The tequila shots… yes.” the redhead murmurs. “Stay here,” he commands, voice deep. You comply, body rooted in place as you watch him with cautious anticipation. He strides to the bar, and returns with a bottle of tequila, salt packets, and lime slices.

“You first,” you say, reaching out and gripping the lapels of his jacket. You assist him in removing the jacket, relishing in the sensation of his warmth against your fingertips. Your gaze remains fixed on him as he tugs off his shirt, relieving the firm planes of his stomach. A tantalizing happy trail of red hair draws your attention.

With a newfound boldness you command him to lay down on the leather cushion, voice dripping with anticipation. He complies, body sprawling across the surface as you prepare the tequila shot. The enticing aroma of the liquor fills the air.

Carefully, you place the shot on his stomach, the cool glass making contact with his heated skin. Your fingers trail along his abdomen, and a shiver ripples through his body. Tearing open the salt packet, you pour a small amount near his navel, teasingly close to the zipper of his pants.

Diluc’s gaze is locked with yours, burning hot desire dancing within his eyes. He places the lime slice on his mouth, beckoning you closer. Like a moth to a flame, you lean in, lips hovering close to his navel. Tongue darting out, you capture the salt and lick the area clean.

You move towards the shot resting on his stomach, lips parting as you swiftly shoot back the burning liquid in one quick motion. Without hesitation, you shift your focus to Diluc’s waiting lips. Your mouths meet in a passionate collision, and the taste of tequila lingers.

As you remove the lime slice from your mouth, your lips reconnect, meeting in a passionate kiss. Tongues intertwine, dancing together. You reposition yourself on his lap, feeling his heat and hardness beneath you. The friction between you intensifies the pleasure, and you’re aching to seek more.

Your hands roam freely, exploring the contours of his body, tracing every curve and dip. The kiss becomes more desperate.

Diluc pulls away from the scorching kiss, his hands gripping your lower back possessively. A smirk plays upon his lips, eyes burning with raw desire.

“Your turn,” he murmurs huskily, voice laced with a seductive undertone.

A wicked smile graces his lips, as he takes charge in one swift and fluid motion — you find yourself laying on your back, the smooth leather surface pressing against you.

His hands begin to roam across the planes of your stomach, his touch alternating between gentle caresses and teasing pinches. His lips descend upon your neck, leaving a bite mark that marks you as his.

A moment later, he rises from his position, eyes gleaming with a predatory glint. He prepares another tequila shot, and grabs a packet of salt, along with a lime slice. With a gentle touch, he places the lime between your parted lips. He skilfully pushes up your shirt over your breasts, exposing your heated skin. Diluc pours the salt onto your exposed lower stomach, and places the shot glass near it.

The redhead positions himself between your legs, one knee brushing dangerously close to your womanhood. He sets his sight on the trial of salt adorning your lower stomach, and with a deliberate and slow movement, he leans in, tongue darting out to lick it.

The sensation of his warm, wet tongue against your skin sends shivers of pleasure through your whole body.

Diluc’s focus shifts to the shot glass, mouth hovering over the tequila. His mouth envelops the rim, lips forming a seal around the edge. He tilts his head back, and the fiery liquid cascades into his mouth, igniting his throat and stomach.

As he finishes the shot, he encloses your body with his, pressing against you possessively. His lips find yours once more, capturing the lime slice from your mouth in a deep, passionate kiss.

His desire grows even more intense, touch becoming bolder and more explicit. He presses a hand against your burning core, fingers applying just enough pressure to elicit a moan of pleasure from you.

“I need you,” Diluc murmurs, voice thick with desire. “Right now.”

You hesitate for a moment. “Here?” you question, seeking his affirmation, wanting to ensure that he is comfortable with continuing with your intimate escapade inside the empty bar.

“Yes,” he breathes. “I want you here , I want you now .”

Any lingering doubts are erased, and with a renewed sense of urgency, you succumb to the pleasure that awaits.

SMUT CONTINUATION ON AO3

Author's note: welp, diluc brainrot has taken over

#genshin x reader #genshin x y/n #genshin x you #diluc x reader #diluc x you #diluc x y/n #diluc #genshin smut #diluc smut #diluc ragnvindr #x reader #genshin oneshots #genshin imagines #diluc imagines

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angel-of-the-moons · 5 months

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Which of the moon boys do you think is actually great at math?

Personally?

Jake!

The man is intelligent, calculating, efficient. If we find out later in the show that he has been fronting "randomly", he would need to plan accurately down to the last minute in order to make sure Marc and Steven don't find out about him until they're ready (Or the Old Man tells them)

Jake would be quick, able to run math problems in his head. (For example: "Steven works at exactly 1pm Monday. Marc is letting him front two days on his own, including Sunday. Steven now has a bedtime of 9 or 10pm sharp. I can adjust accordingly but if he goes to sleep at 9pm Sunday evening, I can let him rest for 2 hours, run out to the docks and perform Khonshu's task in four. Steven's morning alarm is set for 10am on workdays. If I'm fast, Steven will get at least six hours of sleep and not notice anything is wrong.")

Marc...

I like to think that Marc was only able to handle hiding himself from Steven for so long was because Jake was interfering and subtly co-fronting to help manage the times Marc needed the body.

Counting things like ammo and cash? He probably had counters for both because he didn't have time to do the math himself when prepping his go-bags for excursions, even in the military.

Steven? Oh, Steven...

Steven, bless his soul, might know a lot about things like ancient Egypt and his other hyperfixations, but he doesn't give me a "math genius" vibe (im sorry bb but it's true!) So he probably has trouble with them if the numbers are too great.

When it comes to math, I think that Steven uses a calculator, either on his phone or an actual one (you know, the dinosaurs they used to let use in schools when we were kids) especially for money math, like when he's on the shift at the museum, for example, or budgeting groceries to accommodate he and Marc's dietary preferences; given that sometimes veganism can be expensive to replace "normal" or organic ingredients for in some places to make recipes work and taste well.

(Believe it or not it is extremely difficult for me to do math on account of my dyscalculia, so I definitely had to use a goddamn calculator for the Jake headcanon!)

#🌙 answered #moon knight #jake lockley #marc spector #steven grant #moon boys #headcanons

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cokowiii · 10 months

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So I’ve calculated that u update every 3ish days?

I update when I can. Usually I’m able to stay up and draw the pages on my last workday of the week up until Tuesday. I try to update daily but it’s hard when 4 days of my week is at work for 10 hrs

Sorry if I’m slow updatin makin y’all wait

#asks and replies

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donna-wants-to-be-an-alien · 1 year

Text

So, apparently I’m practicing short fanfic writing now... I did not expect this creative bug to bite me, but here we are! @what-the-stories-have-foretold hope you like it and it is what you had in mind! Y/N was feeling like blowing up any second. Or climbing up the walls and hissing at everyone coming up to them with more work. Why the fuck were they supposed to fetch everything, make everything, know everything?!

In the back of their mind they knew it wasn't really like that. That Y/N was stressed out of their mind and that everyone was doing their job. But this wasn't a moment they felt generous or reflective. Not when they felt like pulling their hair out with their teeth! Thankfully, the more troublesome people in the Agency seemed to have a quiet day today, so neither Dazai was being annoying, which in turn meant Kunikida wasn't screaming bloody murder every two minutes, nor was Ranpo particularly bossy today. Not that him being quiet was that great either. Y/N knew that the dark-haired man could be a bit oblivious to the people around him when it came to emotional needs, but they were maybe more than a bit miffed, that the so-called greatest detective didn't seem to notice his partner drowning in stress and exhaustion. Whatever, they were a grown-up and could care for themselves! No need for a man-child to help them out! As they huffed and just grit their teeth to finish the work day, Y/N didn't see the frown on Ranpo's face, nor the calculating gaze.

When it was finally time to end the workday, Y/N was almost crying with relief and startled when Ranpo seemingly popped into existence next to them. “Finally time to go home, huh?”, he asked with a weird undertone.

“Yeah, I cannot wait to get away from the ADA and into my flat for today,” came a somewhat biting answer. Ranpo hummed and gently grabbed their wrist. “I was hoping you'd come home with me today, actually...” Y/N was absolutely not up for this shit and faced him, mouth opening to give Ranpo a piece of their mind. And stopped short at his opened eyes, mustering them, and a deep furrow between the brows. “C'mon, let's go! I promise you won't regret it!” Y/N sighed and agreed, knowing it would be more stressful to debate over it and so they went home.

When they arrived, they seemed to coincidentally meet up with some food delivery, but then: “Ah, perfect timing!”, Ranpo exclaimed and paid the delivery guy. “Let's go inside!” The smell wafting from the bag made Y/N's mouth water. “Is that...?” “Of course it's your favourite meal, silly”, Ranpo said with a smirk. Inside the apartment, Y/N was quickly sat down, while Ranpo brought cutlery and dishes. While preparing a warm bath, they ate and the detective regaled funny and interesting cases he had solved, which lead to some much needed laughter and levity. As Y/N was relaxing in the bathtub and just existing for a bit, they opened their eyes to their precious partner bringing some comfy clothing. “Thank you for this,” they mumbled with a smile. Ranpo rolled his eyes, snarking: “Did you really think I wouldn't notice your struggles? Ever?”

#ranpo x reader #edogawa ranpo imagines #bsd x reader #bsd #bungou stray dogs

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drafthearse · 5 months

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KATZ WRAPPED 2023

spotify wrapped is fine and all but i have calculated some stats and rankings of my own, many pertaining to my sick and twisted list of albums to get through during the year.

overall, i crossed 429 albums off my list in 2023.

some of these were albums i had listened to in full years ago, but wanted to revisit because i had a feeling i'd enjoy them more (ex: in keeping secrets of silent earth: 3, year zero). many were albums where i was familiar with one or even a handful of tracks off them, but had never actually listened to them in full (ex: magma, living in darkness). but probably the majority of albums on the list, i had never heard at all (ex: angelfish, spanking machine). the math brings me out to 8.25 albums per week!

i added 779 new tracks to my music library this year, which is the most music i have ever added in a year. the first track i added in 2023 was "Diet Pill" by L7, and the last was "Double Decker" by Skating Polly.

my overall artists of the year were Sleater-Kinney, Jimmy Eat World, and Bad Religion.

i got to see Bad Religion live in 2023!

i also saw Backyard Superheroes, Joker's Republic, Save Ferris, HXLT, Death From Above 1979, Sunsetter, Cam Kahin, Anyway Gang, Tim Kasher, Sparta, Koyo, Thursday, '68, Thrice, The Upstart Crows, and Speed of Light! and i took terrible photos, as always!

my favorite artists that i really discovered this year from the list were Mary Timony, Bayside, and PJ Harvey!

my overall favorite track from the year was "Denise" by Fountains of Wayne!

my favorite track that i only discovered in 2023 was. also "Denise" by Fountains of Wayne

my overall favorite albums of the year were Coral Fang by the Distillers, Still Searching by Senses Fail, The Artist In The Ambulance by Thrice, and Futures by Jimmy Eat World.

relatedly, i got so fucking jumpscared while watching Pushing Daisies.

my favorite albums discovered in 2023 were Ghost Notes by Veruca Salt, Billy Talent II by Billy Talent, Becoming Something Else by Sugarcoma, and Sweet Weaponry by Cruiserweight.

my LEAST favorite albums discovered on the list were Tomorrow Is Nearly Yesterday, And Everyday Is Stupid by Crywank, The Silver Scream by Ice Nine Kills, Song and Legend by Sex Gang Children, and Lobes by We Are Scientists.

in total, i spent about 1163.5 hours listening to music in 2023, about 3 hours a day. this is lower than previous years, probably because i spent a bit more time listening to podcasts than usual. when i worked at a reptile and insect-focused pet shop, i would listen to Behind the Bastards for almost the entire workday.

in 2023, i created three new playlists to organize my music:

CONTROL is how i imagine Jax and Jim's hypothetical band might sound.

one two is a recommendation playlist for people who want music that sounds somewhat like The Mad Gear and Missile Kid by My Chemical Romance

fake emo is a massive compilation of songs that i consider to be Emo; not too much emotional hardcore, not too much pop punk. hopefully falling somewhere in between. emo purists please do not make fun of me.

thank you for reading. and now i shall begin the process of compiling the list for 2024.

#the list 2023

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starstruck-flames · 11 months

Note

Bear with me, I’ve never written Nanami before. But I’m feeling cute and murderous today, so~

“You’re always so fussy when I come back from work.” Nanami sighed, twisting the fabric of his tie between his hands until it was completely taut. The cloth groaned as he pulled it tighter — the sound alone was enough to send a shiver down your spine. Your body always responded so eagerly to Kento and everything he did to you. It’s almost like every fiber of your being knew what that noise heralded: he was going to restrain you.

You swallowed hard when Nanami’s steely gaze fell on you. His large, strong hands made quick work securing your wrists together. “Kento —” you spoke his name in a whisper, only for the man to gently hush your voice.

“Ssh, ssh, ssh — quiet, darling,” he cooed firmly, placing a single, swift kiss atop your bound knuckles. His breath fanned against your skin as he breathed deeply, finding solace in your scent now that the workday was behind him. “I’m home now. Let me take care of you.”

In a single, quick motion, Nanami hauled you over his shoulder. With your hands restrained, you could only release a startled yelp as he carried you off to the bedroom. Nanami wasted no time getting what he wanted. A huff of air escaped your lungs as he threw you onto the mattress and prowled over your body. You gasped feeling the warmth of his fingers travel the curves of your body. Every stroke, every loving caress was executed with calculated precision — as you had come to expect from your lover.

It never failed to drive you wild with desire. Nanami knew your body so well, it was almost unfair how he managed to play you like a fiddle — coaxing all kinds of sounds from your lovely, delectable mouth. His bare fingers danced across your curves until they dipped in between your thighs, pinching and fondling the newly-discovered skin.

His head dipped into the crook of your neck, lips feverishly grazing over every inch of your throat — leaving a trail of kisses and bites in their wake.

“It’s been such a long day,” he said. “I need to blow off some steam.”

FUCKFUXKDUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKDUCKC

UGH YOU DID SO GOOD YOU DID SO GOOD BB I HATE YOU I LOVE YOU!!!

WAAAA I NEED THIS SHIT SO FUGGIN BAD RN

#squish answers #Nanami motherfucking Kento!!#god it’s been so long since I was tied up… *sighs*#My darling Shadows ✨

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indecentpause · 3 months

Text

The Most Beautiful Puzzle: Chapter Eight

cw: police corruption, stalking

After you and the Inspector share some coffee and Josselin finishes his energy drink, the Inspector goes back to his office to handle some paperwork. Pascal doesn’t come down. When you mention it to Josselin, he says, “Pascal needs to get as much sleep as he can. He needs at least ten solid hours to function properly, and once you add in his workday, there’s not much left. I’m just glad he isn’t working at the hangar anymore.” “Hangar?” “He used to repair airplanes. To put himself through college as best he could.” You pop the last bite of bread into your mouth, and ask around it, “What does he do?” “That’s a good question,” Josselin laughs. Familiar jumps up onto the empty chair, then on to the table. He puts her back on the floor and says, “Oh, no, I’m not letting Dona see you on the table. He’ll flip if you rub your grimy little paws all over it." Familiar meows softly. The other two join her, winding around the table and chairs, afraid to be too far away in a strange place. “I know he works with NASA,” Josselin continues. “Remotely, obviously. He does math stuff. Calculations and things. He’s working on some design team for upcoming rovers and cameras and things too, but I don’t know much about it. I love hearing him talk about it, though, because you can see in his face how excited he gets and how much he loves it. But he uses a lot of specialized language I don’t understand.” You nod. Yet another unassuming person who’s way smarter than you. “Let’s go into the living room,” Josselin says. “I want to get the cats comfortable in as many places as I can. Dona said he’ll close the doors anywhere he doesn’t want them nosing around. Hopefully we don’t have to stay too long, but in the meantime, I’d like for them to feel safe to wander and explore.” “Of course.” Josselin picks up Grandpa and clicks his tongue, and the other two follow him to the living room.

read chapter eight on wattpad

or on ao3!

Current taglist: @abalonetea @only-book-lovers-left-alive @poore-choice-of-words @leadhelmetcosmonaut @jasperygrace @drippingmoon @athenswrites @magic-is-something-we-create @idreamonpaper @winterandwords @thelaughingstag @revenantlore

let me know if you want to be added or removed from my general or Puzzle taglists!

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dreamcrow · 1 year

Note

★, ■, ♦, ♒, ☼, ൠ ample headcannons for a boring workday! whatever character you want :33

(from this headcanon meme; thank you for the ask!)

★ - sad headcanon

ren didn't actually die when bellroc burnt down their house. :) i'm toying with the thought of them somehow discovering this, not very long after dying but maybe in the space of only a few human lifetimes—learning that she was still there, that they didn't kill her, that they could have gone back? god. god.

(originally this was filed as one of my fun "early days bells n nari bonding activities" but i can't remember how her magic made it work! orz)

■ - bedroom/house/living quarters headcanon

all of the order have multiple "rooms" within the vast interior geometries of the fortress; but of all three of them, skrael's bedroom is…dare i say, the most utilitarian? to have a single room dedicated only to a bed is, even now, a hideous luxury to his mind! he really uses it mainly only for sleeping, in an extremely plush nest of soft, silvery furs. of course it's also where he stores all his secret treasures (the knife bellroc gave him, for example—he's just as old as the other two, and just as much of a collector), but i always imagine it as a space that's perfect for sleeping, blissfully cool and dry and dark.

♦ - quirks/hobbies headcanon

nari is extremely serious about her greenhouse. one of the first (if not THE first) in the world. when she sneaks back into the fortress after [my timeline's equivalent of wizards], and sees that they've kept it up and in good care—even in her long absence, even for all the cause they might have to be (perhaps justifiably) angry with her—she feels something sharp and awful pierce right through her heart.

♒ - cooking/food headcanon

bellroc is the only (mostly) lactose-tolerant member of the order. (nari doesn't count, she cheats by making friends with bacteria.) they're the only one of them to come from a place where lactose tolerance was rewarded as a survival trait!!

☼ - appearance headcanon

oh god i have so many. what small hill do i want to die on this time, hmm lol. at the time i received this ask i was coloring this dopey little thing (fond), so how about:

skrael isn't actually technicolor blue. he's certainly pale (he'd say washed-out), he's clearly got…some kind of frostbite/peripheral cyanosis from the whole. freezing to death. thing. (though the marks on his wrists and ankles are a different kind of livor.) he's sparkly and even vaguely iridescent, yes! definitely, self-admittedly, the blue oni between him and bells. but to his own eye—he always thinks he looks [frozen; within a believable, if sub-optimal, range of human complexion] rather than what he'd describe by [the word for the color blue].

(which is of course, among other things, his dad's name. :)

ൠ - random headcanon

they don't know what we would think of as their birthdays. even if they could calculate modern calendars back that far—i don't think any of their birth cultures would have been able to remember such things so precisely! but they do remember, even at such distance, the season: bellroc in late summer, skrael in midwinter, and nari towards the end of monsoon season, just at the beginning of fall.

#tales of arcadia #the arcane order #bellroc keeper of the flame #skrael of the north wind #nari of the eternal forest #ask games #this was indeed revivifying after a busy morning but now i'm thinking about celebrating birthdays through history and #i might cry (delight)

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sinaliciousposts · 1 year

Text

Next prompt I wrote.

This time our fandom is Pokémon.

Pairing: Guzma/Reader

Step by step

Finally the workday is over. And at last it's the weekend. You have more than earned this time off. This week had been particularly exhausting, but you also wanted to prepare your students properly for their upcoming exams. And you also wanted to prepare them for the upcoming new rotation of the island challenge. While you slowly packed up your materials, you thought back to the time when you yourself had tackled the tasks that then consisted of the island challenges. You had never had the opportunity to master them completely. At that time, however, you were almost too old at 14 to even start. Your parents back then were simply overcautious. Before that, you had only ever listened to the stories of your friends, who continued to stick by you even after their travels. Then, just before your fifteenth birthday, your family moved to Johto and you had to break everything off and leave your friends behind. At this thought you couldn't help but chuckle.

Your briefcase in your hands, now packed, you left the classroom. Around you there was the usual commotion of students and their parents. Everyone was in a hurry to leave for the end of today's school day. You heard various people saying goodbye to you as you passed by and also returned a farewell remark. "Just a quick stop by the teachers' lounge and then off home.", you thought and went back to your nostalgic thoughts.

You had spent eight years in Johto before you were old enough and had enough money to move back home. Since then, you've been working as a teacher at the trainer school. At first, of course, only as a substitute while you continued your education. Many of your colleagues were extremely skeptical when they learned more about you. But you didn't care. In the meantime, even those doubts had passed. It has been a rough ride since your return. Your wish to continue exactly where you had to stop back then had unfortunately not come true. At least not right away.

"Heading home?", you heard the voice of the current guest lecturer, and you turned to face him. "Kukui. Hadn't noticed you at all. Yeah, it's finally my weekend.", you replied to the still young professor as you slightly cocked your head to the side and smiled.

"How's Burnet?", you wanted to know further from your old friend. He had to laugh. "She's doing all right so far. She thinks she can't wait for the finale to come, though."

"I can imagine that. When is the calculated due date?"

"In 3 weeks."

"Then it won't be much longer,", you said cheerfully. Suddenly he looked at you with a firm expression.

"And what are your plans for the future? Are you being treated well?", he wanted to know in a serious voice. You had to laugh for a moment. Him asking you if you were planning kids was absurd.

"Nah, cool it. We've got enough on our plate right now.", you deliberately ignored the second question.

With a glance at your watch, you continued, "I'll be on my way now. He should be done with his community service for the day by now, too."

"Okay, take care.", was Kukui's farewell.

That Kukui. He's way too overprotective, too. Just like your parents. While you continued down the road toward Hau'oli City, your trip down memory lane continued. It took long enough for you and Guzma to get things sorted out to continue your relationship. That had been the hardest part of moving back then. It had been young teenage love in those days and when you came back, neither he nor you knew if it could be something that was going to work in the future. In addition, he had gotten involved in things he didn't want you mixed up in. It took him a long time to get over his own fear and let you back into his life.

When you finally arrived in front of your apartment building, you pulled your keys out of your pocket and unlocked the door. Just a quick climb up the stairs to the second floor and you would finally be able to put on more comfortable clothes.

As you opened your apartment door, you could already hear the ruckus. "Fuck this shit.", it boomed repeatedly, followed by a crack. Closing the door behind you, you took off your shoes. Angry footsteps from the study announced your boyfriend's approach. As soon as he stepped into the hallway and into your field of vision, he froze. In his hands he held the sad remains of one of your decorative accessories. It was completely flattened. "Babe, you're back already," Guzma began, seeming to ponder how he could explain the state of your décor. "What happened?", you set your bag down with an amused sigh.

Guzma's right hand rubbed the back of his neck and his undercut. This has always been a nervous habit of his. "I thought I could reach my stuff on top of the closet...probably would have been smarter to use a stepladder after all," he paused as you took the remnants from his hand to look at them closely.

The wooden decorative cube had now become a not so decorative wooden disc. You couldn't help but laugh. It just looked too funny. Shaking with laughter, you pressed out, "How did that happen?" Your opposite cleared his throat while still running his hand over the back of his neck. "I might have fallen on it.", he muttered. Your laughter intensified. You let the ruined piece of furniture fall to the floor with a clatter and hunched over with laughter. "Tse, you know it did hurt a fair bit. There were spiky edges and shit on it.". You tried to calm yourself down again with deep breaths, and for the most part you succeeded. "Let me see. Where did you land on it?". Guzma turned his back to you and pulled up his white shirt. You could still see some marks. There were also a few scratches visible, which had made it through the shirt. "Aww, I'm sorry about that.", you comforted him, now no longer chuckling. "And that's only because my shit is just always out of reach.", he grumbled.

You pondered. He was right. Basically, his stuff, which he had brought with him, was always put away and thus out of reach, or was often lying around in the way, so that you either tripped over it or got annoyed because everything always looked messy. Also, you knew that if he was missing something, he had to go back to his parents to fetch it. And you didn't like it when he went back there too often. Guzma's relationship with his parents had never been the best. But since he had rebelled against his father's future wishes for him, the relationship had fractured even further. It had reached its lowest point when Guzma had to tell his parents that he had not made it to Trial Captain. His father was furious at the time and had tried to smash Guzma's previous trophies as well as Guzma himself. Since then he had rarely been home. Eventually not at all. Before you moved away, you were always at his side. Patching him up when it became more violent. Those times made you both stronger in your opinion. His dad's violent outbursts made his childhood so much worse. That was why in the end he had taken over Po Town, which had been destroyed by Tapu Bulu, and settled down in the Shady House. For Team Skull's actions and his connection to the Ultraspace incidents, he now had 100 more hours of community service ahead of him. In addition to the 200 he had already done, he was also working primarily with Kahuna Hala to improve his trainer capabilities. Guzma was a strong trainer who was both tactically astute and cool-headed. However, he had to learn that he should not underestimate his opponent. Otherwise, he would make mistakes that would result in his defeat.

"You're right.", you said in deep thought. Guzma turned back to you, his expression slightly confused. "Maybe I just need to make some space here.", you continued to mumble, still in contemplation. "Make space?", Guzma snapped you out of your train of thought. You looked into his stormy gray eyes, nodded, and began to smile. "In order for you to have more room for your stuff here, some of my stuff has to go. It's really that simple." He was still looking at you with a mixture of confusion and something else. Was it insecurity? Maybe you just had to straight up nudge him toward it.

"Like moving in together? You spend all your time here anyway.", you concluded. Epiphany came to his eyes. "Are you sure about this? Then you can't kick me out when you're mad at me.". "When have I ever kicked you out?", you wanted to know a bit irritated. He shrugged:"May yet come."

You rolled your eyes, picked up the trash from the floor, and walked into the kitchen to throw it out. "Uh-huh.", was your curt response to that. It made you angry that he insinuated something like that. Who of the two of you was not capable of putting his feelings into meaningful words?

As far as you could and wanted to assess, your way of communicating was not perfect, but it was still more constructive than his most of the time. You refrained from commenting on it, however, and began to look in the refrigerator for a possible dish that you could throw together quickly. Gradually, hunger made itself apparent. "I brought you something on the way home.", Guzma's voice reached out from behind you. He was casually leaning against the door frame to the kitchen with his arms folded in front of him. When you looked in his direction, he nodded his head towards the counter, where there was a small plastic bag. When you unwrapped it, your beloved stir-fried noodles appeared. They also seemed to be still hot enough. "Thank you," you grinned towards him and organized some utensils to enjoy your meal. "You haven't given me an answer yet," you spoke with your mouth full. His slight grin over your beaming face flickered briefly with uncertainty. His right hand went to the back of his neck a second time. "You know me better than anyone." he said flustered. "You always have." he added barely audible. "If you think that's a good idea, I'll get the rest of my stuff tomorrow or dispose of it and then I can move in here."

"What do you mean, 'if I think that's a good idea'? Sure I think it's a good idea. Otherwise, I wouldn't be suggesting it.", was your answer to him. Short silence hung in the kitchen as you looked at him as he seemed to be watching you closely. Maybe he wanted to find something in your facial expression or posture to dismiss your suggestion with a joke. You didn't want to give him that chance. Your tender smile continued to grace your face. "Okay. Then I'll text Hala right now that I won't be with him until later tomorrow. I'll do it in the morning then.", Guzma pushed himself off the door frame with his shoulder and left the kitchen. A short time later you could hear the television. You took your noodles and followed him to the sofa. He was sitting there with his smartphone in his hand. You put your noodles on the living room table and waited for him to put his phone aside. When he did, you took his hands into yours and looked him firmly in the eyes.

"I really want you to move in here. Please don't doubt me or yourself. I don't know what the future holds, all I know is that I hope you're in it.", you tried to make him forget whatever doubts he still had.

Finally a grin appeared on Guzma's face, making him the person you fell in love with a decade ago.

——————————–

I hope you liked it. Thanks for reading!

#guzma x reader #guzma #team skull guzma #pokemon fanfiction #pokemon guzma

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