Chaotic writer and artist ♫ 21+ ♫ Trans women are women ♫ Masterlist ♫ Guidelines ♫ General writing tag is #nille writes ♫ One Piece Reader insert blog is @quartermera
we gotta stop treating other peoples headcanons and interpretations as some sort of malicious attack on the character itself. I know you love the character and you feel that certain interpretations go against the core of their being, but that doesn’t actually mean it shouldn’t exist. you’re tiptoeing a very conservative line when you take away other people’s safe sandbox to play in when you engage in the fandom and negatively asserting your own interpretation. you don’t need to announce your vehement disagreement every time you don’t like something to the whole fandom, the truth is you need to learn to be uncomfortable and not make it everyone else’s problem. block and filter, curate your own space.
“if you love this character then you must make him happy in your fics, right?” wrong. the horror. suffering. internal hemorrhage. hospital. immediately
i get so emotional every time i think about fanfic culture. it's just so beautiful that people are writing and anonymously posting these thousand-word stories about characters we all love and not even getting any money or public fame from it. it's literally just for the love of the game.
shout out to everyone who participates in fanfic culture, be it reading or writing fanfics. you are contributing to such a lovely thing <3
Summary: You are a rebel spy working as an escort at Canto Bight's cliffside casino. When Luthen cannot meet you for an intel exchange on New Year's Eve, he sends his best asset. Never in your wildest dreams did you think that meant you'd reunite with your former childhood best friend, Cassian Andor.
Warnings: New Year's Eve, Spy Thriller, Escort Service, Romantic Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Childhood Friends, Reunions, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Mentions of Sex Work, Wall Pinning, New Year's Eve Kiss
A/N: Happy New Year, everyone! I had a fun holiday one shot idea and wanted to try my hand at writing Cassian Andor. I am wishing you all a happy & healthy new year, and I can't wait to continue writing in 2023.
( Read on AO3 )
Canto Bight is always bustling at New Year’s Eve.
It’s why Luthen Rael has shown up on your doorstep for the first time in months. In his not-so subtle way, the man requests (see: demands) that you float back to your old haunt, the one within the glittering halls of their monument cliffside casino, and do what you do you best: entertain as a partner experience escort for the rich and powerful.
The partner experience operation has been your designation from the very beginning of this rebellious calling. Your contribution to the rebellion, as he claims, is valuable — because the whispers in the night by decorated Imperials that feel safe in your company are priceless.
Whispers bring intel, and not even gold is as priceless as Imperial intel.
Luthen claims he knew of your potential the moment he laid eyes on you in a seedy dive bar on an Outer Rim moon. The little lamb far from her home planet Ferrix, looking fearful yet enraged all the same; starved, but most importantly willing to do anything to take down the Empire one domino at a time.
It was the type of spunk the older man needed in a claustrophobic world.
So you struck a deal: under trained supervision, you would run the casino circuits and red districts — never quite getting close enough to sleeping with the enemy (who knew the Empire thrived on humiliation and edging?) but enough to drug them, learn from them, then report back to him for the next move.
Rinse and repeat for six successful years.
And right now, you were supposed to be done. Find a small shack in the middle of nowhere knowing you did your part in the small but mighty agenda. Perhaps, eventually, you would find a way to make peace with your past and your present.
Then Luthen fucking Rael shows up at the stoop of said shack only six months later with a new opportunity.
A new strategy on the chess board.
(The rebellion, as he so candidly puts it, is never final.)
“Did you hear about what’s going on with Life Day this year on Canto Bight?” Luthen grunts, opting to stand by the doorway rather than a seat at your makeshift kitchen table.
You drop down unceremoniously with your arms at your sides. You know — and you know he knows — there is a blaster taped on the belly of the steel table should this be an unpleasant visit.
“You mean the Wookie holiday?”
“Hmm,” Luthen sounds, caught between a yes and a no. “Supposed to be the Wookie holiday, but it seems the Empire has allowed the casino a profitable chance to participate until the new year.”
“I’d expect nothing less,” you muse in return, surveying him. “When you say profitable, you mean—”
“Everyone who is anyone will be visiting.” Luthen never makes any sudden movements; always trapped sounding bored with this life he leads. It’s also a tactic not to play his cards too far from his chest. “They’ll be running the gambit for paid time off.”
Smile bland, you nod once. “Which is code for… you need someone on the inside.”
“For the season,” he agrees, shifting his weight. “A gift to the faces who may have missed you.”
“Missed me?”
“I hear about the Diamond quite a lot.”
Their precious Diamond.
Maker, that nickname always made your skin crawl.
You huff, rubbing your nose with the back of your thumb. “Flattery gets you nowhere with me, Luthen, you know that.”
He takes a pause, small eyes observing everything that you do. Updating a mental database logging your quirks and your discomfort to cipher for a later date — that’s all he’s ever done, study and download people, and he’s done so without error yet.
(It’s why he’s never been caught.)
“It isn’t flattery,” he finally says. “It’s an opportunity.”
To do everything we couldn’t the first time, is what he really implies.
It’s feeding an addiction no amount of dead fascists will be able to quench.
“And how do I tell them why I want the job back after I quit?”
“Your mother was very ill. You needed to help with her expenses,” Luthen fabricates from thin air. “It was easiest to part ways without the low note on your record. But the credits have dried up, and their clientele will be thankful of the casino’s decision to allow you back on the floor.”
It’s your turn to pause — to study. He gives away nothing. You lean forward to rest your elbows on the tops of your thighs.
“You think that’ll work?”
“You’ll sell it,” is all he gives back like you’ve already said yes.
You’re supposed to be out.
(Do you want to be out?)
.
.
.
.
.
No.
No, you don’t.
.
.
.
.
.
Getting the job back at the casino as a specialized escort is easy. The difficulty lies in remembering how to fall into old, subtle habits when all you want to do is cause chaos. Staying engaged while chatting up Imperial scum as they spittle in their expensive liquors and moan about the woes of their occupations and agenda can only go on for so long.
Yet you laugh with the rest of them once they’re kissing your feet and your hands, because everyone in this rebellion has a part to play.
(Our loveliest of diamonds, back to see us once again.)
Luthen, of course, never leaves you to your own devices for long. Gifting a hefty sum of credits and a bag of dissolvable sedatives every time he passes through Canto Bight as his alter ego is about as noble as the illusive man gets.
You fill small briefcases with voice memos and holovideos of nightly conversations, drunken manifestos and slippery plans.
It works.
By some miracle, you have never been caught.
New Year’s Eve is filled to the brim with Imperial guards enjoying time off from their grueling schedules. Some of the higher commanding officers already have their arms draped over people inviting them to a great time. Others chase after the debauchery promised by scantily clad creatures inviting them into the halls and out of their money.
You? Have a booking in advance: a high-ranking officer, but not within the Inner Circle.
According to Luther, he’s a valuable asset double-crossing their superiors.
A plant.
You are to deliver the intel to him under Luthen’s command and trust.
(Ironic. You always believed Luthen trusted no one.)
At the final half hour of the year’s end, you round the corner from the main entertainment room and down the hallway towards the private event spaces. A multitude of sounds are muffled by the doors — some good, some not so. Your focus is set on the twelfth door where your officer awaits, and suddenly you feel nervous all over again.
Meeting one of Luthen’s other operatives feels all too daunting.
After a moment, you place your code into the code box by the door and wait for the durasteel to slide, revealing the plush crimson meeting space. It's staged with a convenient king-sized bed and a vanity for refreshment, inviting comfort and suggesting the obvious.
What greets you as the door opens — a silhouette at the edge of the bed, dressed in Imperial formals — is not what you envisioned.
The man’s hair is what you notice first: disheveled brown locks are combed back neatly, smoothed by gel to keep the unruliness at bay. The jacket’s shoulders are a little too pointed, as if he’s not grown into his uniform quite yet — or like he’d stolen it on his way into the venue. The lines on his faces aren’t new, but aren’t old. He’s tired — so fucking tired, but he sits taller the second the door opens.
The blank expression on his face is purposeful, almost doe-eyed, with a feigned, smug-like innocence only an Imperial officer would wear.
Then his gaze travels from your open-toed shoes, up your bodysuit dress of sequins, and locks onto your face.
Just like that, the façade is broken.
What once was blank now hardens, wholly confused, before the lines on his prominent brow smooth with recognition.
Cassian.
Of all the idiots in all the galaxy, Cassian Andor is dressed as an Imp in your meeting space on the eve of the new year.
And you thought, with this rebellion, that you’d seen everything.
While the officer in disguise is much older than what your memory recalls, you could never forget that face even if the Empire tried. The feeling of dirt under your fingernails, the scent of rubber burning, the spark of an electric charge from a stolen piece of property — it all floods back in a tidal wave, almost knocking you a step back into the hallway.
On Ferrix, Cassian Andor always ran around with different people — sometimes it was Bix when she wasn’t punished for entertaining teen scoundrels; sometimes it was other boys in scrappy brawls and mended machinery; most of the time, however, it was you.
Hand and hand, causing mayhem in the bright suns and the full moons. He'd shown you what it meant to stand up for yourself. To want what you want and not apologize for it. To be bold, even at the expense of disruption.
And then he’d pummel whatever wayward eye looked at you the wrong way.
Trouble.
Cassian Andor was so much trouble, and you were mad for it.
Your last memory of him is as vivid as the neon lights lining the ceiling: you're both sixteen years old and shoulder-to-shoulder on an inclined metal slab, staring up at the stars. He's wearing that jacket from his father and hasn't combed his hair in days. You're lost in telling him about your dreams of a better tomorrow, of one day leaving Ferrix for good and making a difference in the vastness of the galaxy despite how small you feel. He laughs, a hum more than anything else, and takes your hand in his.
You're too afraid to squeeze back.
Having Cassian poke fun of the idea of doing much of anything in the galaxy never felt like he mocked you for wanting to try. More than anything, his laugh was one of envy: he couldn’t afford dreams, so you dreamt for the both of you. He couldn’t handle intimacy, so you were satisfied with resting your hand in his the entire night.
Nothing was said. Nothing had changed.
He gave what he could, and you understood.
Childhood friendship has a funny way of feeling that simple.
Cassian, however, never truly chose to change with you. He never truly chose anyone, not really, not when he had so much to give — to his mother, to his scrapyard confidantes, to Bix.
You fit somewhere in the chapters of his life, but Cassian Andor could never tell you which ones. He could not, and would not, promise someone tomorrow.
An unfinished book.
You never did tell him where you were going after hitching a ride on that stock transport to get the hell out of Ferrix for good. Not a single holocard or a note.
Just… gone, into the galaxy, to dream.
Now he sits in front of you at the edge of your meeting space bed, threatening to ruin your calculated cover in one-fell swoop.
Before Cassian can implode your operation, you turn on the mask: with a bright smile and squared shoulders, you gesture to the plush furniture of the room. “Is it to your liking, Mr. —?”
You trail off on your question to give him a chance to speak.
Cassian blinks a few times, only to remember himself.
“Raoul,” he blurts without dismissing his accent, eyes widening with an unspoken question: what are you doing here? “Sargeant Murl Raoul.”
Maker, you haven’t heard that voice in so long.
It’s deeper now. Rusty. Scratched.
“Sargeant,” you correct pleasantly, taking a step into the bedroom to toe the perimeter. Cassian pulls the geometric gray hat clear from his head, balling it in his fist, but you raise a palm at the hip when his mouth opens: don’t.
He listens, pressing his lips together with purpose.
“I asked if this room was to your liking," you repeat.
Cassian struggles with an answer, studying you with concern. You hate it. You hated it back on Ferrix when he tried to play protector, and a decade and a half apart doesn’t dilute the emotion.
Your brows rise, and he clears his throat. “I— yes, I am quite comfortable.”
“Good,” you conclude with a small nod. “Now before I join you and get more comfortable, do you have any questions for me?”
“More comfortable?” he asks a little too fast, so you recover with a glide of your hand along your sparkling thigh.
“Can’t do much when I’m in this old thing,” you coo, that stage performer voice now sounding so phony to your ears with a known audience. “Shouldn’t take long.”
Cassian runs the tip of his tongue along the seam off his lips, shifting his seat on the mattress. “I suppose I could ask how… uh, how long have you been doing… this?”
You don’t know if he’s asking about the escort arrangement or the Informant position, which further complicates the game. The odds of Cassian showing up on Canto Bight should be slim. Cassian wearing an Imperial outfit on his own ought to be slim to none.
But appearing in your private meeting space, fake alias and all?
Your blood runs cold with truth between the lines.
(Luthen never does anything by accident.)
This meeting — reuniting Cassian and yourself — is his test, a judgment call, but you refuse to let Luthen win the game with this surprise hand.
“Years,” you answer honestly, to both.
You continue to face him as you skirt around the left side of the sparkling vanity, not taking any chances with your former friend. Your manicured fingers glide along the mirror’s back, searching for the planted Imperial wire.
(Not only are they cruel, but perverted in their efforts to catch spies.)
“So then you are... experienced?” The question comes out rougher than you believe he intends. Gruff, like he’s embarrassed to even ask.
(The question almost — almost — makes your face burn.)
“If you’re worried that you won’t have a good time, Sergeant, then I promise they sent you to me for a reason. I’m going to take great care of you.”
Cassian’s expression darkens at this as he rises to his feet with purpose.
You rip the microphone from the back of the mirror, holding the device between your index and middle finger for show.
This stops him from moving ahead, eyes locked on the microphone before flickering back to you. You shake your head.
I said don’t.
He nods once, and you take the microphone between your hands. With two clicks, the wire cover pops open, displaying a multitude of tiny wires. You fidget between two, pulling, until the red eye at the center of the device dissolves into black.
The room is blanketed with silence.
Now it’s just you and a ghost here.
“We’re clear,” you tell him after another beat, dropping the seductive aloofness in your tone.
Cassian’s shoulders drop a fraction of an inch. “That was fast.”
Your brow picks up that fraction, raising high. “You have to dismantle them fast."
“Let me take a look at it,” Cassian replies, tossing the hat twisted in his hands to the mattress. "Are you certain it's off?"
“Positive,” you say, sheltering the item closer to your chest. “You don't need to look at it. Easy to disable and reassemble at a moment’s notice, so I’ll turn it back on when you depart.”
“What about lost footage?”
“Chalk it up as faulty equipment they’re too stubborn to replace in a shithole like this.”
Cassian mulls over your answer, taking a cautious few steps forward to observe the small device in your hand. “Imperial-grade wires are tough to work with. A five-second warning doesn’t give many people time to disable the alarm,” he informs in a whispered afterthought. “Where did you learn to do that?”
In your bones, you know it’s a trick question.
Fifteen-something years of reuniting in a moment like this comes with immense drawbacks. When he asks, it is not out of curiosity — it is out of the desire to see if you are truly you.
(Because he remembers your face, too.)
“On Ferrix,” you reply.
He gives no reaction, continuing to deadpan. “Where on Ferrix?”
“You want me to remember from that long ago?” you laugh, placing the microphone on the vanity’s surface and following up with a thick blue cloth to drape over top of it.
“Humor me,” he reasons, flexing his leather-clad fingers at his sides. Now that he doesn’t have a distraction, Cassian doesn’t stop looking at your face.
(The same intensity as the boy without dreams.)
“The old Slavyard. There was that one incredibly rainy month when those prim and proper freaks—”
“—installed the spyware on the back door in the middle of the night,” he interrupts, finishing the story with a misplaced awe under his breath. “You played lookout while I disabled the devices.”
You don’t answer, not really, as you offer a half-hearted smile. “Say what you want about that place, but you learn a lot of things when you watch restless boys who never know when to stop getting in trouble.”
The return smile is small and fleeting, but the corner of Cassian’s lip upticks. His brows knit together, contemplating before a huff of a laugh exits. “Not a very good lookout, then, if you were so busy watching me.”
“You never got caught, though, did you?” you joke.
You swear he almost laughs.
The silence settles at your ankles and rises with each passing second, encompassing you both in a shroud of possibilities: pleasantries are nice, but the popping of bottles and shouts of celebration passing by your room brings you both back to a reality where you’re playing pretend.
Cassian huffs once more, running a hand down his face and around his neck before dropping it in a gesture towards you. “He cannot be serious.”
He.
You catch that pronoun with intrigue and tilt your chin.
“Serious about what? Who’s ‘he’?”
His voice softens, shrinking in size, as he nears half a step closer and into your bubble. “Don’t tell me it’s you.” You maintain eye contact — maintain dominance of this situation — and stay in place. “When he said to wait…”
“...for the Informer, you didn’t think you’d run into a ghost?” you finish, and he’s polite enough not to nod. “He only told me the person he was sending in his stead was one of his best assets. This reunion isn’t my doing.”
“No,” Cassian agrees, low and certain. “It isn’t.”
Because Luthen knows.
Luthen knows, and that’s dangerous in and of itself: his little lamb on Ferrix knew his most trusted asset long before the mastermind was in the picture, and this sabotage is meant to figure you out.
(To figure you both out for his own gain: to make sure you were both up for the task, history aside.)
Your jaw clenches as you nod with assertion, mindful of the train of your body-tight dress when you shift around Cassian to create some space. He turns his torso, following.
“Did he force you to do this?” When you pause in your steps to quirk a brow, he struggles with verbalizing what this means. “Entertaining these low lives while they piss their credits away.”
“Very strong words for someone dressed as an Imp.”
He completely ignores you, hyper in his budding rage. “Because if anyone has touched you—”
“No one’s forcing me to do anything, Cass,” you reply, hateful that the former nickname leaves your lips so fluidly; as if no time has passed. “We’re all cogs working for the same machine.”
“That doesn’t mean he should be having you do this on your own,” the man argues. “He’s not even on the planet, for fuck’s sake. This is dangerous work.”
“You keep saying this or that, but you’re not really asking the real question.” Your nose scrunches, maliciously playful. “I don’t fuck them. It’s pretend, Cassian. My honor is intact.”
Cassian squints with a scoff. “That isn’t what I meant—”
“It isn’t?” you challenge.
“No,” he responds just as fast and just as intense. A smirk plays on your lips, slow and growing. “Fuck whoever you’d like to fuck. One or a dozen, I don’t care, but not them. They don’t deserve you.”
“And who does?”
“I don’t know, but not Luthen or the pieces of shit out there or anyone on this planet.”
“Not even you, right?”
He stares down at you, hard. You snort in disbelief.
“I never thought I’d see the day where Cassian Andor is jealous of a body count, but I guess stranger things have happened for both of us.”
Cassian’s jaw sets, nostrils flaring with an anger he refuses to bury completely. He searches your face, lost on a response, before sharply inhaling through his nose.
“I need information on your regulars.”
Ah.
No more games.
You roll your eyes, absently waving him off as you turn to walk towards the crate-like nightstand. “I have the files on a drive.”
No more games, or so you thought — Cassian follows close behind. “Drives are easily corruptible or lost or stolen. You could just tell me.”
Your hand hovers on the drawer when you turn your chin to look at him. “Yeah, sure, let me just… tell you about a mission I’ve spent years finessing so you can get the details wrong when you relay with Luthen.”
“Do you think so little of my memory skills?” he says and it’s a joke, but it teeters on the edge of an argument.
Just like old times.
You don’t need this type of deja vu before the new year.
“Whisper down the lane only goes so far,” you answer, turning back to the drawer in front of you. Your hand lifts the edge of the bottom plate, removing a small box from the center of the hidden compartment.
You only pause when you feel his presence right behind you as soft puffs of air tickle the back of your exposed neck.
He says nothing, not at first, in this proximity. Then a syllable sounds:
“Why?”
The question is a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it whisper. His voice flutters along your skin, causing a shiver down your spine. Deep down you know he’s not asking about the drive or your distaste for his preferred method of relay. Why — the one word you hoped to never face.
If you concentrate hard enough, you can smell the scent of his cologne.
It smells nothing like Cassian.
You stay focused on a miniscule dot on the wall, too afraid to turn around.
“We can’t do this here,” you murmur, barely audible in return.
“I paid for the hour,” he replies. “If I were to leave ten minutes into your company, then there would be questions.”
(He’s right. As much as you hate it, your former friend is right.)
You raise your chin to the ceiling, closing your eyes. Contemplating. Seeking anything, everything, to say to avoid what’s to come.
You open your mouth to speak, but Cassian gets there first.
“I looked for you.” A vulnerable statement from an impenetrable man. His chin leans forward, the warmth of him spreading to your aura. “In dozens of quadrants—”
“Cassian.”
“—and about a hundred planets—”
“Stop.”
“—but you left nothing.” The final word emphasizes with raw emotion, causing your throat to swell. His gloved hand rests on your tricep, but you turn to finally face him. The closeness of him is a surprise — piercing brown eyes meet yours with mere centimeters between noses. “No note, no goodbye, no telling where you might have headed. Nothing.”
Frowning, you don’t realize that you’re shaking your head. The lines on his face are too distracting. He is distracting.
“You were never supposed to see me again.”
“And I never understood why.” He steps forward. You step back. When you think he won’t advance, he continues to step once, twice, until the third lands your back to the corner of the room. “So I am asking — now — while I can still have you: why?”
While I can still have you. You know the implication isn’t there, not truly, but your heart aches for it. The tension makes you feel so small, as if you’re eighteen and flying all over again.
You’re supposed to be over this; over him.
“I had to start new,” you answer after a considerable pause, forcing yourself to look him in the eye in what little space is held between you. “I was always going to leave Ferrix.”
“I knew that,” he argues softly. “I was never going to deter you from—”
“No. No, you were never going to,” you agree, nodding. “But you were always off and on the planet, doing what you had to for everyone else. If I didn’t cut Ferrix out of my life, then I wonder if I would have had the same fate as my parents or my friends: getting stuck there. And not just getting stuck, but waiting.”
“Waiting?” Cassian asks with confusion, brows knit.
You relax against the wall with a humorless laugh. “How did you not see it? The way I always waited for you.” Anxious, you turn your cheek to check the main door as you mull over your next few words. “I would have waited my whole life for you.”
The air in the room shifts.
Although he remains in your peripheral vision, the man stays staring at you without a discernible expression. The gravity of what you’re admitting drags lower, lower, until he says something that forces you to look at him head-on:
“I thought you were indifferent to me.”
Your eyes widen. “Indifferent?”
Cassian nods, short and quick. “You had all these big plans. I listened for hours. Not one of them involved me.”
“Because I didn’t think you’d want to be a part of those plans.”
“Maybe I didn’t think I couldn’t make a difference, not in a… rebellion, though the irony is not lost on me now,” he admits with a huff of a laugh, “but I wanted to be a part of you. I didn’t care what it was, so long as I still had you.”
You stare at him as he stares back at you, totally dumbfounded with this brand new information. Cassian swallows thickly, shifting his weight yet again from one leg to another. The loud party continues outside of your room, drowning these confessions in the excitement for a nearing midnight.
You had all these big plans.
Memories warp at a second’s notice as your brain tries to understand what he’s laid at your altar.
Not one of them involved me.
He shouldn’t be saying this.
He shouldn’t be saying any of this.
Closing your eyes to find a pause in your racing thoughts, you try — try to find where perhaps this is fabricated, designed to see if you’re easily swayed by the past that you so desperately let die in this rebellion.
Slowly, your eyelids flutter open. Cassian is watching with something close to concern.
(Something, maybe, closer to fear.)
You gently shake your head. “This is a test.”
“I know.”
“Luthen did this—”
“Fuck Luthen,” he breathes out, eyes dropping to stare at your lips, and your heartbeat quickens.
His brows meet in the middle, concentrated yet lost — as if he’s back on Ferrix, scrawny and scrappy and calculating the gravity of the risk should he decide to steal or trespass —
Or do something he wasn’t supposed to.
“Cassian.”
Your voice is gentle with a warning. His eyes do not raise, but he does answer.
He snorts, amused. “You remember what that looks like after fifteen years?”
“It's very hard to forget it.”
He mulls the moment over, flickering his attention back up to your eyes and nodding.
“You’re right. I am thinking of doing something stupid.”
“How stupid?”
“Incredibly.”
A beat passes.
Finally he blinks up to your eyes, searching for an answer to a question he hasn’t asked yet. You wait, just as you’ve always waited, to hear his voice.
“It’s almost midnight,” he says, flexing the leather gloved hand at his side. “I should go.”
Everything sinks.
The crowd outside grows louder as people depart from their private rooms to celebrate in the middle of the casino. Everyone begins the unison countdown of the final minute until the new year rings out.
The device in your hand grows heavy — a reminder of why he’s here in the first place, what Luthen will be looking for, yet your arm cannot rise to give it over.
(A few more minutes and he’ll be gone.)
To find a reason to keep him here with you would be selfish.
Instead of protesting, you nod.
“Yeah. You should go.”
He nods, too, and his throat bobs with a swallow.
Outside your door, their laughter and shouts reach a collective ten, nine, eight, seven…
Yet he doesn’t move.
Neither do you.
Six, five, four, three…
“Cass?”
Two.
Cassian speaks with broken finality, rushed and wanting. “I can't go without—”
You beat him to it.
Canto Bight’s cliffside casino roars with excitement of the new year while you grab the lapel of his Imperial uniform, dragging him in as he simultaneously launches his lips to yours.
The force of him smacks your head into the wall, but the stars behind your eyes aren’t from impact. It’s from the way he presses his mouth to yours, desperate to pour years of frustration and wonder into a long-awaited kiss. You whimper into it, eager to dissolve any space between you.
Cassian Andor cages your head into the palms of his gloved hands, holding you with a tenderness and strength only he can have. He groans into your mouth when he tastes you, tongue dragging along your lower lip — the neediness of it is enough to make your knees give out.
Except he drops his hands to your shoulders and spins you, pressing your chest into the wall. Using your hands to balance yourself, Cassian wastes not a second more to place his hands over yours, pinning you in place.
“We should have — opened with a fight,” he murmurs breathlessly into your ear, kissing your earlobe before bringing it into his mouth.
You bite back a moan, dropping your forehead to the wall. “If I'd known you wanted to kiss me after all this time, Cass, then I would have — gone straight past a fight and went for it.”
He chuckles behind you, letting go of your earlobe to travel kisses down the side of your neck.
“There is a lot I wanted to do back then, but I was too chickenshit to try it.”
The imagery of a lot burns into the back of your skull.
“And now?” you ask, but it’s wavered.
Cassian slows down, but his lips remain against the crook of your neck. You mourn the loss of speed, pushing your hips back to connect with his.
A hand shoots down to still your waist as his thumb runs soothing strokes into the skintight dress.
“Not here,” he decides, but it isn’t regretful. It’s determined. “When I see you again—”
“When?” you interrupt.
“When,” he enforces, squeezing your waist, “I see you again, I’ll do what I’ve been too chickenshit to do and it won’t be under a watchful eye.”
When I see you again.
You smile small, delirious in the haze of him.
“Is that a promise?”
“As good as I can make one,” he responds in earnest, turning to leave a small kiss on your cheek. “You’re not losing me so easily this time.”
And you believe him.
Misunderstandings, miscommunications — all of that hardship to end up here, of all places.
You have so much to learn.
(He has so much to hear.)
Even if this was Luthen’s doing, even if this was a test of faith, you cannot find a reason to care. Not when your lips still tingle with the kiss you’d only dreamt about your entire life.
Reaching for his arm, you gently bring his free hand to yours and place the small drive in the middle of his palm. Cassian’s chin drops to observe the tiny metal, jaw setting to its unreadable clench.
Because at the end of the night, you both still have jobs to do.
A new year.
(A new horizon.)
“Until next time,” you say, removing your hand from his.
Cassian curls his fingers over the drive, shoving the small device in his coat pocket. He flexes and raises his hand to bring it up to your cheek, cradling your face once more as he leans in for one final kiss. This time it’s softer. Timid.
The closest Cassian Andor can ever get to a promise.
He pulls away, nose to nose, and mirrors in reply.
it had started innocently enough—or as innocent as anything ever was with him. one lazy sunday morning, when you were still half-asleep and riding him slow, he had grabbed his phone from the nightstand with that mischievous grin and whispered, “just one video, baby. for my eyes only. i wanna watch how pretty you look when you come on my cock.”
you had said yes.
now it had become a ritual.
every time he fucked you, the phone came out. sometimes he set it up on the tripod in the corner of the bedroom so it captured everything in a wide angle. sometimes he held it himself, filming close-ups of his thick cock stretching you open, the way your body moved with every thrust, the slick mess coating his shaft when he pulled out just to push back in deeper.
he loved the sounds most of all.
“listen to that,” he would groan, angling the camera down between your bodies so the microphone caught the wet, filthy squelch every time he bottomed out. “hear how sloppy your pussy gets for me? fuck, baby, you’re dripping down my balls.”
he always made sure to get your face too—the way your eyes rolled back, the way your mouth fell open when he hit that spot inside you, the broken moans and whimpers of his name that spilled out when you were close.
“say it louder,” he would demand, voice rough as he fucked you harder, his free hand gripping your thigh to spread you wider for the camera. “tell the camera who’s making you feel this good. who owns this tight little cunt.”
you always gave in. “you do, satoru—fuck—only you—”
he saved every single video.
they were stored in a heavily encrypted folder on his phone titled “private collection ❤︎,” with a little heart emoji he thought was subtle. there were dozens now. some were short clips of you sucking him off in the back of the car after a mission. some were long, hour-long tapes where he edged you for ages before finally letting you come. there was even one from the time he fucked you against the floor-to-ceiling window in his penthouse while the city lights glittered behind you.
he watched them when you were away.
when you were on a solo mission, or visiting family, or just busy with work that kept you late, he would lock himself in his bedroom, pull up the folder, and pick one at random. sometimes it was the one where you were riding him reverse cowgirl, your body moving as you took every inch. sometimes it was the one where he had you folded in half, legs over his shoulders, pounding you so deep the camera caught the bulge in your lower belly.
he stroked himself slow at first, matching the rhythm on the screen, groaning your name under his breath. “fuck, look at you… taking me so well even when i’m not there.”
his hand sped up as the video got filthier. he loved the parts where you begged—when you were crying and whimpering “please, satoru, fill me up, i need your cum.” he always came hard to those, thick ropes spilling over his fist while he watched himself on the screen.
after he finished, he didn’t delete anything. he just wiped his hand off and sent you a quick text:
toru: miss you. watched our video from last thursday. you looked so pretty crying on my cock. can’t wait to make a new one when you get home.
you always replied with something flustered and needy, and he grinned like an idiot, already planning the next tape.
sometimes he got bold.
he would send you short clips while you were at work—a ten-second snippet of him thrusting into you from behind, his hand fisting your hair, the sound of skin slapping skin loud and clear. the message always came with the same caption:
toru: thinking about you. hurry home so we can film the sequel.
he never pressured you to let him post them or share them. those videos were strictly for him—his private collection, his dirty little secret. he watched them when he was stressed after a long day, when he was horny and you weren’t around, when he just wanted to relive how perfect you felt wrapped around him.
and every time he filmed a new one, he made sure to whisper against your lips right before he started recording:
“smile for the camera, baby. gonna watch this one later when i’m all alone and missing this tight pussy.”
then he fucked you like he was trying to make sure the next video was even better than the last.
because gojo satoru didn’t just love fucking you.
he loved keeping every single moment of it forever.
so he could watch you fall apart for him again and again.
‧ ₊❝ satoru just needs one final push (nsfw)
he physically can’t cum until he hears your voice
satoru's been at this for at least half an hour by now.
hand gliding up and down his cock, thumb pressing hard against the bulging vein. he imagines it’s your soft, pliant hands instead of his own that are coaxing him towards an orgasm. his mind is hazy, the vision of you blurry as his hips buck lazily into his grasp. the movement of his wrists speed up when he feels himself teetering on the edge, only for him to be pulled back onto solid ground immediately.
he's been at this for at least half an hour and yet, he still can't reach the sweet, sweet relief he was aching for. you're to blame, he thinks. the tight squeeze of your pussy around his cock, enveloping him in a special kind of warmth, has ruined everything else for him. especially the now-slick palms of his own.
even the polaroid he keeps in his wallet isn't enough. not even his favourite — the one where you're on your knees in front of him, mouth stretched around his cock. your eyes are locked onto the camera in his hands, and the faux eye contact makes him stifle a groan. but he still needs more.
he dials your number.
you pick up at the second ring.
"hey, babe, what's up?" your voice is amplified by satoru's phone, pressed up against his ear. he feels his balls tighten.
“please…,” he whimpers through gritted teeth. it’s followed by shallow breaths. then the wet shlicks of his precum being smeared all over his length. it glistens with obscenity, and the shame of getting off to the mere sound of his name uttered in your voice.
“satoru? are you okay? you sound…out of breath.”
though your words were innocent, to him, your voice was no different from porn.
“haah, yes, i-i’m, fffuck, i’m fine—please, say my name again,” his voice cracks, and so does his poorly-maintained facade of composure.
“what—satoru, what’s going on?” your lack of awareness of his dirty actions made him grow heavier in his palms. the strands of his hair were slick with sweat, sticking onto his forehead, head tilted back against the headrest.
“shit, again,” he gasps out, deft fingers tugging at his cock. how you haven't caught on, he's not sure. or maybe you have, and you're just playing dumb. whatever it is, every word makes his breath quicken, his face feel hotter, and his legs tremble more.
“is this a prank?”
“no! please, just keep going. talk to me, anything you want. tell me about your day? pretend as if it’s a—hngh—a life or death situation.” it might as well have been the way he was desperately clawing at any shreds of you.
“umm, okay…? well, i was at the grocery store just now, and there was this lady who was a complete bitch. she cut the queue, and y’know what she said to me? she said she didn’t see me! i mean, hellooo?? she could’ve just—”
“fuck!” a loud groan interrupts your little rant.
spurts of cum spill onto satoru’s hand and lap, all of which, of course, you do not see. his chest heaves with relief, head tipped against the headboard. he lays still for a moment, nothing but shaky breaths leaving his lips. the other end of the line is silent too.
for a moment, he thinks you hung up. left him to ride out the aftershocks of his long-awaited orgasm, fingers still twitching against his cock from the muscle memory.
I want to talk about the harm caused by trying to police AI in creative communities, because things are getting really toxic. For the record, I dislike generative AI too. I think it’s built on theft and goes against the point of human expression. But turning online spaces into places where everyone is watched just to catch 'AI users' is hurting marginalized creators. Before you accuse someone based on a gut feeling or an unreliable detector, remember this: What people call AI 'tells' often look a lot like standard ESL writing. Non-native English speakers usually use structured, precise grammar or stick to common transitions because that’s how they learn the language. Accusing someone of using AI just because their writing sounds 'too clean' or 'formulaic' is often just xenophobia. This also hurts neurodivergent or hyper-focused writers. Many writers on the spectrum have their own structured styles, or they can write a lot in a short time. Calling high productivity or a different writing style 'robotic' pushes away the very people who make fan spaces interesting.
The 'witch hunt' mindset does real damage. A community can handle a few cases of bad, AI-generated text getting through. What it can’t handle is a place where creators are too scared to post because a few loud voices are ready to attack them over a simple sentence.
AI models are trained on very structured, perfect grammar. So when a real person uses precise words, common transitions like 'Furthermore' or 'It is important to note,' or textbook grammar, detectors often say it’s AI. There’s a real ESL bias: studies show non-native English speakers get falsely accused much more often. Because ESL writers use standard words and sentence structures, detectors often flag their real work as robotic. One Stanford study found that 61% of essays written by international students were wrongly flagged as AI by at least one detector.
I want to end with one last message: stop trying to act like a digital cop. If you don’t like something, just move on. Unless someone openly says they used Gen AI, forcing people to defend themselves in public is ruining the spaces we’re trying to protect.
Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader Word Count: 4.8k
Summary: Matt had been working hard on a case for over a month now, meaning the two of you had barely seen each other in weeks. After he, Foggy, and Karen finally have their win in court, he invites you out to Josie's to celebrate with them. Though it soon becomes apparent to you that he has something in particular on his mind tonight.
Warnings/tags: 18+; smut, public fingering, and Matt being a little shit along with his filthy mouth also deserves a warning
a/n: Just a last minute smut fic I threw together as a little spicy treat for Valentine's Day for y'all. Hopefully you enjoy! Feedback is always appreciated!
Thumbnail caught between your teeth, you chewed it fiercely as you sat in the booth at the bar. Because ever since you'd come to Josie’s to meet up with Matt and your friends over an hour ago, he'd been doing nothing but intentionally working you up.
And he had been anything but subtle about it.
Earlier today Matt, Foggy, and Karen had finally won their case in court, a case that you knew they'd been endlessly toiling away on for over a month. You'd barely just gotten back to your apartment after work when Matt had called and told you the good news, urging you to meet them down at Josie’s. Having been excited to celebrate with everyone–especially since you'd barely seen Matt in weeks–you'd hurried straight there. You hadn't even bothered to change out of your work clothes before you’d left because you’d been so eager to finally have a chance to see Matt again, which left you still wearing one of the dresses you occasionally wore to work on incredibly hot summer days like today.
You knew Matt loved your dresses, he'd told you that plenty of times by now. And while you were very aware of the fact that the pair of you had barely spent time together since their firm had initially taken this case many weeks ago, you hadn't anticipated the reaction he'd be having to you tonight.
At first you hadn't noticed much out of the ordinary when you’d arrived at the bar. Matt had wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you in close to the side of him as he ordered your drink. Though you had noticed how he held onto you tighter tonight than he usually did whenever the pair of you were out together, as if he needed to have part of you constantly touching him this evening. Not long after you'd gotten your beer, Matt's hand had begun to dip lower and lower on your waist, the tips of his fingers teasingly grazing the top of your ass. You had almost choked on the sip of your drink you'd just taken when his fingers began toying with the waistband of your panties through the thin fabric of your dress. Struggling to remain focused on the conversation at the time, all you could think about was Matt's damn hands peeling them off of you later. Every slight snap of the material from his teasing fingers had your breath catching in your throat and your cheeks beginning to flush.
But if his wandering hands hadn't already been enough, he'd also been taking moments to lean over and whisper things into your ear whenever Karen and Foggy were talking. You'd slowly lost the ability to pay attention at all to what those two were saying as the things Matt's deep voice kept purring into your ear gradually became filthier and filthier.
At first the comments had been sweet; mainly Matt telling you that he'd missed you and how he was looking forward to finally having time to spend with you now that he wouldn't be working on that case anymore. But then he'd begun to tell you how good you smelled this evening. Which eventually led to him telling you how much he had missed you in his bed over the past few weeks and what he was looking forward to doing once the pair of you left Josie’s tonight–in explicit detail.
That's when he began to tell you that he knew how aroused you were becoming; that he couldn't just smell the dampness forming between your legs, but that he could hear the slickness with every shift of your body beside him. It wasn't as if you could help it though because his voice alone always had an undeniable effect on you–which he damn well knew. And him catching the scent of your growing arousal only seemed to amplify the obscene things he kept whispering into your ear while he still wore that innocent smile on his face for Karen and Foggy. But there was one comment in particular that had been rolling around in your head over and over for the past hour now. You couldn't stop hearing it repeat in your mind in that same sultry growl in which he'd first said it in.
Before we even leave this bar tonight, sweetheart, I’m going to soak that dress and those panties more than they already are. I can promise you that.
You remembered the fresh bit of wet heat that formed between your thighs the moment those words had left his mouth, his hot breath dancing along your neck. You'd shuddered, becoming incredibly aware of every inch of your side he had pressed up against his. With the way he kept whispering in your ear all night, you figured that was his plan for the evening. To turn you on solely with his voice and the dirty things he was saying before leaving the bar tonight. But the moment everyone had sat down at the booth Karen had pointed out, you'd realized he might've had something else in mind.
Which is when you knew that you were in far more trouble tonight than you could have ever realized.
For the past twenty minutes Matt's left hand kept touching you underneath the table, oscillating between one exhilarating touch after another. A firm squeeze to your knee, his palm just beneath the hem of your dress. His hand resting on your thigh, the warmth of it seeping through your dress and growing the heat already building inside of you. And, a few times, he'd actually slipped his hand up beneath the fabric itself, languidly sliding it deliciously slow until you felt a gentle graze of fingertips along the inside of your thigh, just below your already wet underwear.
You were without a doubt already a flustered mess in the booth. Yet Matt didn't seem remotely satisfied, his hand still relentlessly teasing you under the table while he continued on conversering with his friends like nothing more was occurring. He was drinking back his beer and actively participating in the conversation while occasionally flashing you knowing, devilish smiles. Meanwhile, you could still barely focus on the conversation long enough to add much to it.
It was the sound of Foggy’s phone a little later alerting him to a text that finally caught your attention, tearing it away from the way Matt's index finger was currently drawing circles over your right knee. Both of your hands were fidgeting with your beer bottle above the table, your face feeling hot as you watched him pull the phone out of his pocket.
“It's Marci,” Foggy announced, still reading the text. “She's back from work and wondering when I'll be home.” He glanced up from his phone screen, a slight frown on his lips. “I should probably get going, I don't want to make her wait up for me.”
Beside him, Karen glanced down at her own phone on the table, unlocking the screen and checking the time. “Maybe I should head out too,” she said. “It is starting to get kind of late.”
A flood of relief instantly washed over you as you perked up across the table. If both of them were calling it a night, that meant you and Matt could leave, too. Which also meant you could head back to either of your apartments and do something about all the growing sexual tension and Matt's incessant teasing, because by now you were becoming desperate for some sort of relief. But just as you shifted in your seat, about to open your mouth and eagerly agree with the idea of leaving, Matt's hand tightened around your knee. Your brief hesitation gave him a chance to respond first.
“You both head on out,” he began, tone far too casual as he spoke. “I think we might actually stay a bit. It's been awhile since we've really gotten to spend time together with everything going on these past few weeks.”
“Just don't stay up too late tonight, kids,” Foggy joked, already sliding out of the seat across from you and Matt. “We've got a meeting bright and early tomorrow morning!”
Matt chuckled good-naturedly, his hand inching up under the hem of your dress as he did. You straightened in your seat at the touch, spine pressing against the back of the booth as you wondered why in the hell he wanted to stay.
“You don't have to worry about me, buddy,” he assured him. “I'll be ready for tomorrow morning.”
Karen slid out of the booth behind Foggy, one hand brushing some loose blonde hair out of her face as she sent you and Matt a warm smile. You returned the smile as best as you could, hoping neither of them had noticed how unusually quiet you'd been tonight.
“I know how much we've been hogging Matt the past few weeks,” Karen told you, readjusting her purse strap as she rose to her feet beside the booth. “So I hope you two enjoy the rest of your night.”
“Thanks, I'm–I'm sure we will,” you replied, trying to fight back the quiver in your voice as Matt's thumb slid across the inside of your thigh.
“Oh, we most certainly will,” he told her with a smile, his hand giving your thigh a slight squeeze.
Hips shifting along the booth's bench, you tried to ignore the growing ache between your legs, finding it hard to remain casual with how Matt was making you feel. You weren't sure what his reasoning was for not getting up and leaving right now with them, but you sure hoped you could convince him to get out of here fast once they'd left.
“It was good seeing you both again tonight,” you told the pair of them. “And congratulations again on winning that case.”
“We'll see you at the next big celebratory win!” Foggy said, shooting you a wave.
You sent them both a wave in return before they turned and headed towards the exit to Josie’s, the pair of them walking side by side. Matt's hand remained on your thigh as you watched them go, his other hand picking up his half-finished beer from the table. Your attention shifted to him beside you, watching as he drew the bottle up to his lips, taking a deep pull before he set the beer back down. Your gaze remained on his mouth, watching as the tip of his tongue slipped out and ran along his lips. The thought of that skilled tongue being put to use had your cunt pathetically clenching around nothing.
“You're so damn wet I can barely taste my own beer,” Matt said, voice just loud enough for you to hear. “All I have been able to taste for the past hour is you and your dripping cunt.”
Fighting a shudder threatening to roll down your spine, your own hands tightened around the neck of your beer bottle on the table. “That's your own doing, Matt,” you pointed out, sounding more breathless than you'd have liked. “You're the one who won't stop teasing me tonight.”
“And you're the one showing up in a dress,” he countered, his covered gaze finally landing on you. “You know I can't resist when you wear them.”
“I didn't feel like changing before I left,” you replied, heart pounding a little faster as you felt his hand begin to glide further up beneath your dress. “I was excited to see you and I hadn't thought–” you paused, eyelids fluttering momentarily when one of his fingers finally swiped ever so gently just over your soaked underwear.
“Hadn't thought what, sweetheart?” he asked cheekily.
You could feel your pulse pounding in your own aching cunt by now, your body tense as it desperately begged for more stimulation than that light touch. Breath coming in a bit sharper, you tried to focus your thoughts to answer him.
“Hadn't thought you'd react like this,” you whispered.
“Mmm,” Matt hummed out, turning more towards you in the booth, his hand still lingering on the inside of your thigh, fingers dangerously close to where you wanted them. “Well it has been awhile since I've had the opportunity to properly take care of my girl because of that damn case. I suppose I just couldn't resist you tonight.”
“So then let's get out of here,” you urged. “My place or yours tonight, I don't care, Matt. Just stop teasing me because I can't take it any longer. I miss you.”
You heard the sharp intake of breath that came from him at the sound of your plea. Behind his dark lenses you saw the way his eyes had closed, his jaw tightening.
“Please, Matt,” you begged, hoping the distress in your voice would help convince him. “Let's just go.”
He exhaled slowly through his nose, his nostrils flaring sharply as his eyes opened once more behind the red lenses. “I do love how you sound when you get like this,” he murmured. “But if you're that needy for a release already, why wait, sweetheart?”
Brows drawing together on your forehead, you eyed him in confusion. “What?” you asked.
The corner of his lip tugged up into a sinful smirk. “Why not let me get you off right here, right now? Right in this booth,” he suggested, tone darkening.
Your eyes darted around the bar, the thought of Matt’s fingers on you right here raising goosebumps along your arms. While there were a handful of patrons scattered around Josie’s tonight, some were playing pool while others were at the bar, drinking down their drinks. There was no one even remotely near your booth. A nervous laugh slipped out of you as you focused back on Matt.
“You're not actually serious, are you?” you asked. “We're in the middle of a bar , Matt. And we aren't exactly here alone.”
He shrugged a single shoulder in response. “So?” he asked. “I can be discreet if you can be quiet.”
Lips parting in surprise, you sat there in stunned silence. The devilish smirk only grew on his lips as his right hand once again lifted his beer bottle from the table, bringing it slowly up to his mouth for another drink that he took so irritatingly calm and casual.
“Though it's entirely up to you, of course,” he continued after he'd swallowed, lowering the bottle back to the table. “You know I'd certainly never want to make you uncomfortable. So if you'd rather us wait until we've walked all the way back to my place–the closest option–then we most certainly can. Or,” he purred, his finger once again lightly gliding along your cunt over your wet underwear, your eyes nearly rolling back at the touch, “I can take care of you here. With my fingers. And then fuck you far more thoroughly back at my place after.”
He shot you a charming smile that had you feeling weak already. He damn well knew what he had been doing to you all night, especially with those senses of his. Had this been his goal all along? To work you up so much that you'd actually want to do this? Because truthfully, it had worked. You were considering it.
“The choice is yours, sweetheart,” he told you.
Once again your eyes darted around the bar, unable to believe that you were actually contemplating his offer. But this was Matt and you'd often found he had a way of making you comfortable and willing to try new things–like letting him get you off in the middle of a dive bar that the pair of you often frequented. But no one here was even remotely paying the pair of you any attention where you were sitting in the corner of the bar. If you kept quiet, no one would be able to see anything that was happening beneath the table. And did you really want to wait the ten minute walk back to Matt's apartment building? And then another few minutes on top of that while you both made it up to his apartment before getting any sort of release?
No, no you really didn't.
“Okay, you win,” you whispered.
Matt rested his right elbow up on the tabletop, his stubbled chin coming to land in his palm as he focused on you. That damn smile was still on his mouth.
“You're going to have to tell me what you want,” he replied. “I'm not a mind reader.”
You rolled your eyes at him and the way he was purposely drawing this out. He could be such a goddamn tease when he wanted to be.
“I want you to touch me,” you said. “Get me off here and then take me home after, Matthew. I can’t wait any longer.”
His head tilted to the side in his palm, his dark brows rising playfully up above his glasses. “You sure you can manage to keep quiet enough?” he asked.
With an irritated huff, you rolled your eyes at him again. “Yes, now can you stop toying with me and– fuck .”
A satisfied smile spread across his mouth as one of his fingers landed directly on your swollen clit over the fabric of your damp underwear. He'd only applied a faint bit of pressure with the pad of his finger, but already it had felt so damn good in comparison to the burning ache you'd been dealing with most of the night.
“I told you we'd have to save that for when we got back to my place,” he teased, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Don't think we'd quite manage to get away unnoticed in the booth doing that .”
“You're such an asshole, Matthew,” you breathed out.
He chuckled in response, his finger making a circle along the sensitive bud beneath it. “You sure now is the time for insults, sweetheart?” he asked. “Because I can stop.”
Your eyelids closed as you weakly shook your head, every part of you focused on the delicious pressure of his finger. “No,” you nearly whimpered. “Please don't stop, Matt.”
He hummed out a pleased noise in response, his finger continuing to circle your clit over the top of your underwear. Your breath was coming in sharp, short gasps as you fought to reopen your eyes and keep them open, remembering that you were both still in public and that you needed to keep your composure. Though keeping your expression neutral was difficult with Matt's smirking face directly in your line of sight. He looked so smug as his finger continued to gently rub against you.
But he wasn’t doing nearly enough to ease the growing desire between your legs and get you off. And it was becoming obvious that it was purposeful.
“Come on, Matt,” you whined. “Haven't you teased me enough tonight? Can you please stop already?”
“Alright, sweetheart,” he replied. “If you insist.”
His fingers hooked around your underwear, pulling it to the side and out of his way. Two of his thick digits soon slid between your soaked folds, running back and forth along the length of them as he gathered your slick. A rumbling growl vibrated in Matt's chest as the expression on his face abruptly darkened, that teasing smirk quickly vanishing.
“You’re so fucking wet,” he snarled between gritted teeth.
Your mouth went dry instantly at the sound of the Devil’s voice. You hadn’t expected that.
“Need me that bad, do you?” he growled low. “Already soaked your panties because you're so eager? And all it took was my voice?”
The tip of one of his fingers lightly brushed over your clit in a series of quick, gentle strokes. Your body gave a jolt in the booth, your breath hitching in your throat at the feather-light assault.
“Maybe I should make you soak my fingers along with that dress, hmm?” he purred. “Right here in this bar. You'd like that, wouldn't you, sweetheart?”
Hands releasing the bottle of your beer, they immediately clamped down onto the edge of the table. You had a feeling you were going to need to hold on to something if the Devil was about to play with you in the middle of Josie’s.
“Mhmm,” you hummed out, spreading your legs a little wider beneath the table in open invitation. “Please.”
The corner of Matt’s lip pulled up into something feral as you felt his finger leave the little swollen nub, instead lining it up with your dripping entrance. You’d barely had a chance to mentally prepare yourself for what was to come before he plunged that lone digit straight inside of you. Teeth clamping down on your bottom lip, you fought back the noise that nearly flew out of your mouth, managing to trap it in the back of your throat instead as your hands gripped the table.
“That's right, keep quiet, sweetheart,” the Devil rumbled out. “Don't want anyone here to know that I'm touching you, do we?”
“No,” you breathed out, shaking your head.
His finger began to pump into your cunt painfully slow as he slid even closer next to you in the booth. His thigh pressed up right against yours and a whine managed to faintly slip out of your lips. The moment you felt his lips brush along the shell of your ear though, a lightheadedness washed over you.
“You're doing so good being quiet for me, sweetheart,” he whispered, lips grazing your ear with each word as his finger continued its unhurried rhythm. “Should we see just how quiet you can be?”
Your eyes clamped shut, your body feeling like it was burning up beside Matt's. A shuddering exhale left you as your hands clung tighter to the table as if that would somehow help you keep from making a single sound.
Before you knew what was happening, Matt plunged a second finger inside of you. A surprised gasp flew out of your mouth, your eyes flying back open. His fingers increased their pace, the soft, obscene squelch of your wet cunt meeting your ears over the faint chatter of the bar and the quiet classic rock that was playing. Matt moaned quietly beside your ear, his hot breath cascading down the side of your neck only making you feel even more dizzy.
“Good girl,” the Devil praised beside your ear. “Keeping so quiet for me while I fuck you with my fingers.”
A moan once again started in the back of your throat at his words, one you were desperately trying to hold back. But it was becoming difficult to stay aware of your surroundings and the need to not make a noise when his fingers started to curl inside of you, hitting that sweet spot that had white beginning to dance at the corner of your eyes. Matt's own ragged breaths in your ear wasn't helping your situation. You could tell he was becoming increasingly worked up beside you, too, at the sound of each of his own sharp growls.
“Should I let you cum already?” he whispered into your ear. “Would you like that?”
You nodded frantically in response, eager for the promise of a release from all the tension that had been building up inside of you tonight.
“Yes,” you begged. “Please, Matt, please.”
Another rumbling growl from him met your ears and your cunt clenched around Matt's fingers. He groaned low beside you in response, the sound deep within his throat.
“I love it when you beg, sweetheart,” he whispered. “And you have been so good for me tonight. So I want you to cum. I want you to drench my fingers here in the middle of Josie’s. But,” he continued, the Devil’s tone turning to that of a warning as you felt the pad of his thumb land on your clit, “you better not make a fucking sound when you do.”
Swallowing hard, you nodded obediently as you attempted to mutter out an affirmative response. Though it was hard to form much of a thought with the way his two fingers kept diligently fucking you now combined with the tantalizing movements of his thumb on your throbbing clit. His voice in your ear and the feel of his hard body against the side of yours was already pushing you over the edge now.
Your climax was within reach, you could feel that familiar pressure building to its peak deep inside of you, begging to be let loose with each thrust of his fingers and brush of his thumb pad. Your hands had grown clammy as you fought to hold onto the table, your back arching in the booth as you struggled to keep your eyes from rolling back in ecstasy.
But the closer and closer you inched to your release, the harder and harder it was becoming to keep silent. Whimpers and whines were falling out between your quivering lips, the sounds mingling with each wet thrust of his fingers inside of you and his own labored breaths in your ear.
“I know, I know,” he cooed. “You're so close, sweetheart. I can feel it. Just let go for me.”
Your body was beginning to shake under the strain of remaining composed in the booth. The pleased, encouraging noises coming from Matt weren't helping your efforts either, especially as that moan inside of you began to build just as your climax unexpectedly slammed into you like a brick wall.
You'd barely opened your mouth before Matt lunged at you, his own lips practically crashing onto you and smothering yours. The moan you'd been about to loose throughout the bar was quickly muffled by his own mouth as he swallowed the sound of it down his throat. With his mouth feverishly attacking yours in a mix of tongue and teeth, his hand continued to work you through your climax beneath the table, dragging it out and drawing you through it. One of your hands released the death grip you had on the table, landing on Matt's thick thigh just beside yours. You dug your nails into his muscle through his dress pants as your body trembled along the bench, a low moan once more barreling out of you and straight into his mouth one last time as you came hard on his fingers.
Gradually Matt's fingers slowed to a stop, your body sinking back into the booth as if it suddenly weighed far too much. His mouth broke away from yours, his own chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. You looked up at him through half-lidded eyes, still trying to recover from the body-shaking orgasm he’d just given you in public. His face was flushed, his cheeks slightly reddened. It almost looked like there was even the slightest sheen of sweat above his brow.
“That was not exactly quiet, sweetheart,” he lightly chastised, carefully withdrawing his fingers from inside of you. “You’re lucky I noticed before everyone else here did.”
You shot him a blissful, tired smile, your head resting against the back of the booth as you gazed back at him. “Thank God for your senses, then,” you joked, still a little breathless.
The corner of Matt’s mouth quirked up into a smirk as he continued to focus on you, the lenses of his glasses glinting under the red neon sign on the wall beside your booth. His left hand appeared from underneath the table moments later, coated and obviously glistening with your slick under the red light. He raised both fingers up to his lips before slipping them inside his mouth, sucking your arousal off of them with a satisfied moan that sounded low in the back of his throat. A shiver ran up your spine as you watched him slowly slide his two fingers back out from between his plush lips, his focus never leaving you.
“I don’t think it’s God that you should be thanking right now,” he murmured, the Devil once more grinning back at you.
Your cunt immediately twitched back awake at that voice, bottom lip rolling between your teeth. Matt's tongue slid out between his lips, sensually running along the length of them before an impatient growl rumbled out of him.
“Now what’s going to happen next,” the Devil began, his voice raising the hair on the back of your neck, “is you’re going to get out of this booth like nothing happened,” he told you. “And then I’m going to take you and that deliciously drenched pussy back to my place where I’m going to have my fill of you. And this time, sweetheart?” he continued, the red of the neon light washing over his face as he leaned in towards you. “I want to hear every goddamn sound you make. You got that?”
Swallowing hard, you immediately sobered up in the booth beside him. You nodded in response, already eagerly beginning to slide out of the booth after him, incredibly aware of how pathetically wet you still were beneath your dress. But you weren’t about to deny the Devil what he wanted when you loved playing with him as much as you did.
I can’t believe I’ve never read this! Hooo boy, what a treat 🥵 I never complain when the devil comes out to play, that cockiness really gets me haha. Thank you for this wonderful fic!!
Ugh, his filthy mouth and that bit of arrogance are dangerous 🫠He's honestly far too cocky for his own good. And thank you, I'm so glad you found this one and liked it!! 🤍🫶🏻
Attending parties is not your thing. Ever. You've tried telling your parents this but, of course, your feelings don't matter.
The ballroom is so crowded you quickly become overwhelmed from the noise and the heat. While Mother is distracted, you find a door you can sneak away through. You tell yourself you're just going to go to the bathroom but, in truth, you wouldn't mind if you got lost on your way back to the party.
So you do. Wandering the halls of the giant manor, you let yourself admire the art on the walls, simply enjoying the quiet. You'll keep an eye on the time so Mother and Father don't realize your missing.
But then you find the library. Walking in you feel like Belle from Beauty and the Beast. There are so many books! And it's so delightfully quiet and peaceful.
As you wander you don't notice the man sitting on the floor. He's watching you with curiosity and suspicion. He worries you're here specifically to disturb his reading, that Mother and Father sent you to drag him back to the party he despises.
When you spot him, you're startled and he becomes less suspicious.
"I'm so sorry, M'Lord," you curtsy. "I was simply hoping to enjoy some quiet for a minute."
"Then by all means, be quiet," he answers. "And yes, you may read so long as you do not disturb my own again."
You beam and curtsy your thanks, being mindful to keep from talking.
Though you keep yourself quiet, Loki finds himself unable to return to his own reading. Perhaps he should get your name before the night is done.
“If this is true then what happened to all of your Y/n’s?” Loki questioned.
Kid Loki let out a sigh. “Mine is busy training with Sif and the three fools.”
Loki turned to his next variant who happened to be the alligator. Unsure of how to pose the question, he squinted at the creature while thinking. The alligator noticed and sent a low growl.
Kid Loki waved in the four-legged beasts direction. “He doesn’t want to talk about his Y/n. Hurts too much after the breakup.”
Loki found himself with more questions than answers but before he could ask them, Classic Loki leaned forward to warm his hands over the flame.
“I married mine.”
All thoughts in Loki’s head now turned to dust. He looked at the older variant and wondered if he had heard correctly. Sure enough, he noticed the glimmer of a wedding band before the old man put his gloves on once more.
Classic Loki turned to the variant escapee from the TVA and sighed. “It’s what you should do.”
“Y/n said yes?” Loki asked completely bewildered that there was a chance to be with you.
“That’s the thing about Y/n. No matter what we’ve done, they always say forgive us.” Classic Loki explained. “Always.”
It was a small glimmer of hope that Loki never expected to receive at the end of time - least of all from himself.
little mortal is the first name that loki gives you that isn't your own. you bristle at it in the beginning, because you think that it's a cruel way that loki wants to remind you about the differences between you.
as time goes on, you start to believe the fondness in his tone. you notice when he says it—when you're being stubborn, when you're feeling bad, when you're on the cusp of doing something just because you can.
dear heart is when he's being patient—either with you, or with himself. when you're ranting, and he wants to pull you back to the point of the matter—"dear heart, come back."
chaos bringer appears the day that you brought home a duck.
"it's hurt," you tell him.
"it's messy," he says.
"so are you. so am i. just until it's healed!"
he sighs, knowing the battle was lost. "very well, chaos bringer."
lovely one is for first thing in the morning. or last at night. when his guard is down and he thinks that he's gotten lucky in a way that has tricked the universe.
when you roll over in the morning, face still crumpled from sleep, and he reaches out—"good morning, lovely one."
cleverness sounds like immense pride, even when he's not thinking about it. especially when he's not thinking about it.
or when he notices your restlessness in the evening, and you've paced a hole in the living room floor as he reads—"come, cleverness," he says, shifting in his chair, "tell me what troubles you so that i may concentrate."
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