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fandomfablesunleashed · 12 days ago

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Brewed Awakenings

Law x reader (she/her)

Modern AU, Coffeshop AU, pure fluff

Summary: When Lami dragged him out for coffee, he never expected to find himself returning so often — nor was he prepared for the teasing from his close ones or how his heart would behave whenever he was near the coffee shop’s owner.

Words: 6.4k

Notes: It was requested:

I was wondering if I could request a modern trafalgar law x coffee shop owner. She's also friends with lami and laws friends...

@chillerkiller it’s finally here! Thank you for the request. I had so much fun with it.

I knew from the very beginning it was going to be a longer one, but I didn’t expect it to be that long. I also have so many more ideas for it that I’ll definitely return to in the future — like the reader attending some kind of dinner at Law’s parents’ place, or Lami talking Law up to her (maybe even from Lami’s POV?).

English is not my first language

Masterlist

Lami was rambling again, her words tumbling out in an endless stream, fast and a little too loud for the quiet morning, as she walked ahead. Law followed a few steps behind, hands in his pockets, only catching every third word. He didn’t mind. He’d spent so many years dealing with her over-the-top enthusiasm, it barely registered anymore.

Suddenly, she stopped.

“Let’s go to this café! My friend owns it. It’s such a vibe,” she said, spinning around to face him. “Like, plants everywhere, cool furniture, and their lattes are unbelievable!”

Law gave her a look, one brow raised in practiced skepticism. “I'm not paying for overpriced coffee.”

Lami rolled her eyes with a dramatic groan. “Stop being such a grump! Just trust me for once, okay?” With her smile as vibrant as her spirit, she grabbed his arm with both hands and gave it a playful shake.

It was truly a wonder how they were so different.

He sighed resigned, already envisioning his wallet weeping.“Fine, fine.” he muttered, dragging his feet toward the café door. “But this better be good.”

She let out a delighted squeal, pulling him forward with boundless energy. The café was tucked between a bookstore and a florist. A string of warm fairy lights decorated the awning, and the scent of fresh pastries drifted out every time the door opened. It definitely seemed like a place Lami would like.

Law stepped inside, and despite himself, felt his defenses loosen. It was annoyingly nice. Plush chairs and fluffy cushions invited visitors to settle in and stay a while, and the scent of coffee beans provided a pleasant atmosphere. Everything felt thoughtfully put together, from the crocheted throws laid over the armrests to the potted plants on the windowsills.

Lami was already at the counter babbling away with the barista. Her hands moved as rapidly as her mouth, gesturing wildly, probably recounting some overblown version of how she ended up here.

Law sighed and made his way over.

“—yeah, so I dragged him here…” she was saying. Her whole face lit up like a switch had been flipped, and she turned slightly towards him. “ Oh, here he is. This is my brother Law.”

He gave a small nod, just enough to be polite, and shoved his hands deeper into his pockets.

“Hi!” You introduced yourself with a bright smile. Too bright for his liking, but it did have a pleasant warmth to it.

Warmth?

Maybe he did need a coffee.

“So,” you said, leaning casually against the counter as you tapped at the screen, “What can I get for you two?”

Lami answered smoothly. “I'll have the caramel latte. Oat milk. Extra foam. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” You grinned, matching her ease with a teasing wink as your fingers moved across the screen. Then you glanced up at Law. “And you?”

Law looked at the menu like it was written in ancient code. Seriously, who needs a dozen different names for coffee?

“Uh… just a regular coffee. Black.”

You gasped, clutching your chest dramatically. “Daring choice.”

Lami stifled a laugh, elbowing him. “Come on, be a little adventurous. They make this cold brew, you will like it.”

He opened his mouth, ready with a flat-out no, already picturing whatever overly complicated nonsense she wanted him to order. But before he could get the words out, you stepped in.

“Would you entertain the cardamom version of it?” you asked, tone light, but with a challenge tucked neatly behind your words.

Mischief played at the corners of your mouth, like you were enjoying this just a little more than you should. He should’ve been annoyed. Usually, he would’ve been. But instead, he found himself holding your gaze for a second too long.

What the hell was wrong with him? Since when did teasing from strangers feel anything but irritating? Why was he even entertaining this?

“Fine. Cardamom cold brew. Surprise me.”

“Dangerous words, but okay,” you said, turning to start on the drinks.

Law found his gaze lingering the effortless rhythm of your movements. He couldn't help but admire how quick and confident your hands were, how your smile stayed on even when you weren't facing them. How you—

He caught himself, snapping his eyes away, cheeks heating with a sudden, self-directed annoyance.

“You're staring,” Lami whispered under her breath, her tone smug enough to make him grit his teeth.

“No, I’m not,” he muttered.

She just smirked. “Oh, you so are.”

They found a table near the window—Lami instantly claiming the seat she wanted. Law sat across from her, arms crossed, trying to act like he wasn’t thinking too hard about the barista.

The moments passed in a comfortable blur of café noise and the occasional clink of ceramic. Law watched the steam twist from someone’s mug at the next table, doing his best to ignore Lami’s sly glances.

Then, footsteps.

“Fancy foam cloud for my lovely friend.” you announced, setting the glass down in front of Lami with a practiced flourish. “And cardamom cold brew for you.” The amber liquid caught the light, the ice clinking softly, and it looked surprisingly inviting.

“Thank you,” Lami said with an exaggerated curtsy from her chair. “We are but humble peasants before your amazing coffee skills.”

You grinned, but your eyes settled on Law. “Let me know what you think.”

Law lifted the glass, hesitating just a moment before taking a cautious sip. His eyes blinked in surprise, the unexpected flavor blooming on his tongue. “Huh. That's… actually good.”

“I told you!” Lami nearly shouted, her grin wide as usual. “He's usually allergic to anything vaguely enjoyable.”

“Well,” you said with a sly smile, “miracles happen. Maybe next time you’ll even try matcha.”

Law gave a dry chuckle. “Let��s not get ahead of ourselves.”

But his eyes met yours, just for a little while. That moment stretched just long enough for Lami to clear her throat—loud, drawn-out, and utterly impossible to ignore.

“Anyway,” she said, flashing a smirk that said she was both amused and smug,“I’m just gonna scroll my phone completely silently and not third-wheel whatever’s happening here.”

You straightened, breaking the eye contact. “Way to make things awkward,” you laughed it off quickly. “I’ll let you enjoy your drinks. But if you want a refill, I’ll be right over there.”

With that, you walked away, leaving Law watching your retreating figure until he caught himself and looked away, ears warming slightly.

Lami just sipped her latte like she’d won a bet.

He needed coffee—desperately. And he knew your café wasn’t overpriced, which made it the obvious choice. It made perfect sense, really, to stop by that little corner spot his sister had dragged him to not long ago.

But you weren’t behind the counter this time.

The realization hit him with a faint, inexplicable pang. Disappointment? That was stupid. He was just here for caffeine. Still, he couldn’t help scanning the place one more time, just to be certain you weren’t hiding in the back or stepping out from the kitchen.

He shook it off. It was better this way, anyway. If you’d seen him, you might’ve mentioned it to Lami, and she’d never let him hear the end of it.

And he was here just for a coffee. Nothing else.

As he stepped up to the counter, ready to place his order, the barista behind the register glanced over his shoulder as someone tapped it.

“I’ve got it. Go take the order to table five,” you said, casually slipping in behind the counter with ease, as you took the other barista’s place.

“Hi there.” You smiled, warm and a little amused. “Law, right?”

He blinked, suddenly all too aware of the way his heart had decided to pick up the pace. He was here for coffee. Just coffee. And yet, here you were, standing in front of him, smile soft, eyes bright, and suddenly the café felt a little warmer than it had a minute ago.

“… Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “That’s me.”

“What can I get you?”

“Coffee. Black.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Still adventurous, I see.”

“This time I won’t be talked into anything else.”

“I thought you said the cardamom cold brew was good,” you countered, folding your arms as if genuinely curious. Were you teasing him again? Or was that real disappointed?

“It was,” he said quickly, a little too quickly, the words rushing out in his effort to sound convincing. He coughed, adjusted his posture, and continued in a more composed voice, “It was good. I just need a normal coffee today.”

You tilted your head, eyes narrowing playfully. “Ah, and everything other than an espresso isn’t normal?”

He exhaled, lips twitching at the corners. “Something like that.”

“Anything else?” you asked, your fingers already hovering near the register keys.

“No,” he said, almost too firmly. Then, catching himself, he added more gently, “That’s it.”

“All right,” you said, already turning to grab a cup. “Here or to go?”

He hesitated.

To go. That had been the plan. Grab the coffee, nod politely, walk out.

“Here.”

Your smile widened. Were you pleased by that? “Sure. Go grab a seat. I’ll bring your coffee over in a minute.”

There was a perfect empty spot by the window—sunlit, quiet, with just enough distance from the others. Another was tucked into the back, half-hidden, ideal for solitude.

But he didn’t pick either of those.

Instead, he chose the table closest to the bar. From there, he’d have an unobstructed view of the counter. He told himself it was convenient. Close to order something else if needed. Easy to leave when he was done.

But convenience didn’t explain the way his eyes kept drifting to where you worked, moving with effortless proficiency between the coffee machine and register, chatting with customers like you knew every name and every order. He wouldn’t be surprised if you did.

A few minutes later, you approached with his drink.

“Here you go,” you said, setting the mug down. “One very normal, very unadventurous black coffee.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Perfect.”

“Enjoy.” You started to leave, already pivoting back toward the counter.

“Wait.”

The word left his mouth before he could think better of it. His hand half-raised, as if he might reach out but stopped himself.

You paused, turning to look at him again, brows lifting slightly.

Why had he stopped you?

You were working—busy. Moving through a dozen things at once, and he’d just added one more.

“Something wrong with the order?”

“No. No… umm…” He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly hyper-aware of how ridiculous he must sound. “I actually might want to eat something,” he managed. “I can go to the register to order that.”

You waved a hand, already slipping back into that calm, easy tone. “No, it’s cool. Want something sweet, or...?”

He hesitated, caught off guard by the question. What did he want?

“How about a croissant? Or maybe a muffin? I think you’d like that one.”

There was something so casual and certain in your voice. Like you’d already figured him out. It made him wonder—had Lami spoken to you about him? What did she say?

He nodded slowly. “Both. I’d like both.”

Your smile warmed even more. “Sure thing.”

When you returned a few minutes later with the plate, he mumbled a quiet thank you, eyes darting down like he hadn’t just been watching the counter the whole time. You placed the food in front of him with that same radiant smile, like you knew him better than you had any right to.

And damn it, you were right. The muffin was perfect.

He took another bite and stared straight ahead, pretending he didn’t glance back at you every time you passed by. Pretending he didn’t like the sound of your laugh when you talked to another customer. Pretending he didn’t already know he’d be back tomorrow.

And the day after that.

Just for the coffee. Of course.

Law had developed a very elaborate lie. One that he repeated to himself so often it almost sounded true: the café just happens to be on his way.

Never mind that it wasn’t. At all. In fact, it was at least a fifteen-minute detour from anywhere he usually went. But somehow, he found himself passing by more and more. Sometimes he went in for a coffee. Sometimes he didn’t. He’d walk by just to check if the lights were on. Just to see if you were there.

Not that he cared. Obviously.

That evening, the café was quiet. Just Law, clicking on his laptop, his coffee long finished. The soft playlist had long since turned to slower, moodier songs. You were behind the counter, wiping things down, the sleeves of your sweater pushed up in that careless way that was starting to feel too familiar.

You glanced up, then over at the wall clock.

“We’re closing soon.”

Law blinked, snapped out of whatever daze he was in. “Oh. Right. Sorry—I’ll get going.” He pushed his chair back, the legs scraping against the floor as he stood, a little too fast.

“No.”

He paused mid-rise. “No?”

You hesitated for half a second, then shrugged, as casually as possible. “I mean… you can stay. While I close up. I don’t usually offer that, but… you’re a friend. So.”

Friend.

That word landed in his chest a little heavier than it should’ve. Friend. Was that what this was?

He sat back down slowly, giving you a careful look, but you were already turning back to the espresso machine.

A moment later, he caught the sound of footsteps approaching. When he looked up, you were already there, a ceramic mug nestled between your hands. You set it in front of him without a word.

Law frowned, confused. “I didn’t order anything.”

You just gave him a half-smile, calm and a little playful. Like you’d been expecting the protest. “I know. It’s on the house.”

“What? No. I didn’t pay for that.”

“And I’m telling you it’s fine.” You nudged the mug an inch closer with your fingertips. “You’ve tipped enough times to fund half my rent.”

He stared at the drink again, then back up at you, unsure what to say. You weren't being pushy. Just kind. Maybe too kind. And he didn’t know what to do with that.

“…Thanks,” he murmured, picking up the mug.

You smiled and turned back toward the counter, humming quietly as you started closing up for the night. You didn’t see him watching. Or likely you did and just let him.

So Law sat there, sipping something he didn’t order, in a place he pretended didn’t mean anything—watching you move through the dim-lit café that felt so unmistakably yours.

“I'm telling you. He is so into her!” he heard Lami overexcited voice in the kitchen. Law froze just outside the doorway, one hand still resting on the wall. He could already feel the warmth rising in his face.

Great. Of course, she had to tell them.

He stepped into the room, jaw already tightening.

Lami was perched on a chair, mid-rant, waving a fork around like crazy. Across from her, Shachi nearly choked on his drink, trying to suppress a laugh. Bepo tilted his head, listening closely, while Penguin had his arms crossed and an I-knew-it smirk that made Law want to turn right back around.

Lami didn’t even slow down as Law walked in.

“I mean, come on,” she said, gesturing like the evidence was undeniable. “He watches her like she’s the only person in the room. And he is there like all the freaking time. It’s adorable. Painfully awkward, probably weird, but adorable. So into her.”

“I am not!” Law called out from across the kitchen, sharper than he meant it to be.

Lami didn’t even flinch. “You so are!” she sang back, grinning like she’d already won the argument.

“I’m not,” he repeated, more firmly this time

Shachi leaned casually against the counter, “The way you keep on disagreeing makes it less unbelievable.”

Penguin chuckled beside him. “It’s like textbook denial.”

He just scoffed. Great. Why is everyone suddenly an expert on his personal life?

Before he could shut it down, Bepo piped up from across the room. “I would like to meet her.”

Law turned slowly, fixing him with a flat stare. “Absolutely not.”

Penguin chimed in immediately, grinning like a cat who'd just cornered a canary. “You said you’re not into her, so why can’t we meet Lami’s friend?” His brows rose in mock innocence. “Unless, of course, you're lying.”

Law’s hand tightened around the edge of the counter. He was half a second from snapping—really snapping. To tell all of them off.

But then—

“Ohh who is our Law interested in?”

Perfect. Because if there was one thing he needed right now, it was more people getting involved. Especially his mother.

She stood in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes twinkling with way too much amusement. She was already smiling, like she’d heard enough to draw her own conclusions.

“No one.” He answered quickly. But it didn’t matter—because it was already too late. The spark had caught, and now the wildfire was spreading.

Lami, naturally, didn’t let it drop. Her grin was positively diabolical. “Remember my friend who owns a cafe? That's her.”

His expression stayed blank, but internally, he was already drafting several increasingly creative revenge plans. His little sister had to be some kind of devil reincarnated. There was no other explanation.

“Oh, she is really nice and pretty” his mum cooed. “You know, she’d make a wonderful daughter-in-law.”

His friends immediately erupted into whistles and applause, Lami was grinning like crazy.

And that conversation was moving way too far.

Then his dad walked into the room, eyeing the lively crowd with raised brows. “Did I hear right?” he asked. “Is Law finally really interested in someone?”

“Yes!” his mother said, her voice bright with excitement, as if she’d been waiting years for this exact question. “We met her once, remember? That sweet girl who owns the café Lami likes? Such a lovely girl—”

Law rubbed his temple. “Mum, please.”

“She gave me an extra cookie. Can you imagine? So thoughtful. And she laughed at your father’s awful pun, honestly—”

“I thought it was a good pun,” his dad muttered.

Lami looked like she might explode with delight. Shachi, Penguin and Bepo had stopped even pretending to be subtle, practically howling with laughter at the counter.

Law, meanwhile, was reevaluating every decision that had led him to this exact moment.

“It’s not like that,” he mumbled, more to the universe than anyone else.

“Oh, don’t be shy,” his mum said with a warm smile, stepping forward to smooth his hair like he was ten again. “We’re just happy for you. You’re always so serious. It’s nice to see a little light in your eyes.”

Law groaned. He really needed a way out of this conversation.

He opened his mouth to shut it down, to reclaim control, but—

“She could even help you relax a little,” his dad added thoughtfully, as if this were a perfectly rational thing to say. “You’ve always been so… tense.”

Law turned slowly, eyes narrowing. “I am relaxed.”

“You’re literally clenching your jaw right now,” Bepo said helpfully.

Law pinched the bridge of his nose.

This cannot be happening.

He tried—really tried—to tune it all out: the excited chatter, the exaggerated retellings of his imagined love life, the growing plans for weddings, grandchildren, and god-knows-what-else.

One voice still managed to cut through.

“Sure, I will bring you guys there,” Lami said brightly, and Law’s stomach dropped.

His head snapped up. “Absolutely not.”

And of course, they didn't listen to him.

Penguin let out a cheer. “Yes! I’ve been wanting to try that fancy cinnamon thing you keep raving about.”

Shachi was already pulling out his phone. “What time should we meet?”

Law stared at them, somewhere between horror and disbelief. “I said no.”

“Relax.” Lami grinned devilishly.

“It’s not a zoo exhibit. She’s not—this isn’t—just no.”

But again—no one was listening.

You befriended them way too quickly. So quickly, in fact, that Law couldn’t even pinpoint the exact moment it happened. One day, Lami casually introduced you and next he was sitting awkwardly in the corner while you blabbed about something with his friends.

It wasn't a busy day, so you were able to speak with them freely. You were leaned over Bepo, animatedly recounting some ridiculous story that had Penguin wheezing with laughter and Shachi nearly falling out of his seat.

He wished he would see you like this with just him.

Damn.

Where the hell had that thought come from?

“You have to show me it one day.” you said, turning his attention to him.

Wait, what?

He hadn’t heard the first part of the conversation—too busy drowning in the dangerous swirl of his own thoughts. You must’ve noticed the confusion on his face because instead of rolling your eyes or calling him out for zoning out, you just smiled.

“Your coins,” you clarified, tilting your head slightly, that curious sparkle still in your eyes. “Bepo mentioned you collect them.”

Shachi had the nerve to wiggle his eyebrows. Penguin threw him a thumbs-up. Bepo tried—and failed—to look innocent.

He ought to kill them. Slowly.

“It's not that interesting” he brushed it off.

But you didn’t let it go. You leaned in, your expression entirely sincere, completely unaffected by his gruff dismissal.

“I disagree,” you said, like it was fact. Like it mattered. “I mean, you let me talk your ear off about different tea brewing techniques for nearly an hour. The least I can do is learn about something you care about.”

You said like it was obvious. Completely normal thing to do.

Why then his heart react this way?

Damn it.

If it wasn’t already too much that you had somehow befriended his friends, and somehow met his parents already—then this was a line he hadn’t prepared for.

The familiar aroma of cinnamon and roasted coffee beans enveloped him as he entered the café, the bell above the door ringing softly behind him. Third time this week. Pathetic. But the place was quiet, your coffee was good, and you were—well, he hadn't worked that part out yet.

And then he saw them.

There, comfortably seated near the counter, sipping drinks were Lami and Corazon.

He could maybe turn around. The door was still swinging gently behind him. If he was fast—

“Law!” Lami—his demon of a sister—called, voice sugar-sweet, all faux-innocence. “Fancy seeing you here!”

She knew. Of course, she knew. She always knew his schedule, she must’ve orchestrated this whole thing like a smug little devil. Law gave her a stern glare. She beamed back, all sunshine and trouble. She had absolutely done this on purpose.

Corazon waved awkwardly, his sleeve knocking over the napkin dispenser.

His pulse jumped as he caught sight of you behind the counter, smiling warmly at him. “Hi. Nice to see you again.”

He nodded, and made his way toward the table. “I was in the area.” he muttered, avoiding direct eye contact with you more than anyone. As if he could play off the fact that this was the third time this week he’d conveniently been in the area.

“He planned his route to come here. Don’t let him lie to you.” Lami said to Corazon, but with how loud she was talking she must have wanted you to hear too.

He turned his head slowly, glaring daggers at her from across the table. “Lami.”

But the little gremlin only grinned.

You brought over the coffee before he even managed to order something. “House blend,” you said cheerfully. “Made it fresh. Thought you might like to try something different this time.”

“Thanks,” Law said, a little too quickly. He cleared his throat after, pretending to focus intensely on the mug you just placed in front of him.

“Oh! Are you the one who makes those little muffins he likes so much?” Corazon asked, perking up suddenly. “I tried to take one, and I nearly lost a hand.”

Law choked on his coffee. “I do not—” he began, voice sharp with protest, but Lami was already talking over him.

“Oh yes, he is really possessive of them. One time I reached for the last one, and he gave me this look like I’d committed treason.”

“They’re good,” he snapped, the tips of his ears visibly turning pink as he reached for his cup.

You were laughing now. That, delighted sound that always managed to do something strange to his insides—like his ribs forgot they were supposed to protect his heart. “I’ll have to remember that. Maybe sneak extra ones into your order next time.”

“You don’t have to do that,” he said, avoiding your gaze. “I mean, it’s not necessary.”

Corazon, oblivious or pretending to be, leaned toward you. “He gets all flustered when people do nice things for him. It’s adorable.”

Law looked up, horrified. “Cora—”

“Truly heartwarming,” Lami added, clasping her hands to her chest

He could feel the heat in his face now.

“Well, I think it’s endearing. Now, I should get back to the counter. Let me know if you need anything else.”

Law nodded stiffly, barely trusting himself to speak. Did he hear you right? Did you just call him endearing? He couldn’t stop the quiet, traitorous tug at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re smiling,” Lami said, eyes narrowing like she’d spotted a rare, endangered species. “I saw that.”

“I’m not,” Law lied, already glaring in her direction.

“Oh, it’s happening,” she whispered to Corazon, stage-muttering. “He’s softening.”

He barely registered the rest of their conversation. Even after they left the café. They were definitely teasing him. Of course they were. If it had been any other day, he would’ve scowled at them, told them to shut up, threatened Lami with extra chores or Corazon with silent treatment. But now?

He didn’t care.

All he could think about was the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled.

And how warm the muffins were when pressed the small paper bag into his hand, as you were saying goodbye to them.

Now, sitting alone in his apartment, he glanced down at the small paper bag now on his desk. It was neatly folded. Ordinary. Plain. Except it wasn’t. Because scrawled across the front in your handwriting was a simple word and a small drawing.

“Enjoy ♡”

That little drawn heart next to it, so innocent yet so lethal.

The café was busier than usual. Law sat in his chosen spot near the bar, trying to focus on something that resembled work while sipping another “on-the-house” drink he definitely tried to pay for and lost that battle again. He was going to have to tip again. To repay you for all those muffins you’d slipped him lately, one after another. He’d found out from Bepo, in an offhand comment, that you baked them yourself. That they weren’t even part of the regular menu—seasonal, you’d called them. A limited treat.

But you kept making them anyway. For him. He was almost sure of it now.

Lami slid into the seat across from him without warning, setting down her own aggressively extravagant drink with extra foam art.

“You’ve got it bad,” she said, before even saying hello.

Law didn’t look up. He kept typing on his laptop. His fingers moved steadily over the laptop keys. Maybe if he just stayed focused, Lami would take the hint and drop it.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He just kept typing, scrolling through a file he wasn’t actually reading, praying she’d get bored.

She didn’t.

Because she was his sister. And if there was one thing Lami never did, it was let something go.

“You’ve been here four times this week. You used to call cafés a scam, remember?”

“I like the quiet. Good place to work.”

“Liar.” She took a long sip of her drink, eyeing him over the rim. Then, casually—“Just ask her out already.”

“What? No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not interested.”

Lami raised both eyebrows slowly, full of mock offense. “Wow. That was the least convincing lie I’ve ever heard, and I once watched you fake being sick for two days to avoid a family gathering”

He scoffed. “I’m not doing this with you.”

“You’re totally doing this with me. Because clearly you’re too much of a disaster to do it yourself.” She leaned in, smiling way too gleefully. “Do you want me to ask her if she likes you?”

Law shot her a deadly look. “What are we, five?”

“Well, if the shoe fits.” Lami wiggled her eyebrows. “Seriously, I will. I’ll walk up there and be like, ‘Hey, my emotionally constipated brother wants to know if you think he’s cute—’”

“Lami.”

“—he’s got a weird thing for your muffins and pretends he doesn’t know your schedule, but he totally does—”

Law groaned and dropped his head into his hands, fingers digging into his hair as if he could physically shut out her voice. His sister had to have been created for the sole purpose of tormenting him. No other explanation made sense.

“You know what? I’ll do it.” For a terrifying moment, she looked completely capable of marching straight over to the counter and saying something she should not to you.

Law grabbed her wrist, looking up at her with barely restrained panic. “Lami. Sit down.”

She grinned, victorious. “So you are interested.” she cooed, smug as hell.

He let go of her with a sigh, leaning back in his chair, defeated. “You are the worst.”

Lami just sat down again, looking very pleased with herself. Law tried to return to his laptop, but the words on the screen blurred. He glanced toward the counter again, just briefly. And there you were. Looking his way with the ghost of a smile tugging at your lips, like maybe you’d caught a piece of that little scene.

H was so screwed.

So,” Shachi drawled, leaning his elbows on the table with a smirk that already spelled trouble, “have you asked your dream girl out finally?”

Law didn’t even get the chance to react.

“Nope,” Lami cut in instantly, grinning like she’d been waiting for that question. “He’s too chicken to do that.”

“I’m not,” Law snapped.

“Oh, Law, darling,” His mum appeared in a room carrying more trays filled with food. “How long are you planning to wait? Until she’s married with three kids?”

Shachi and Penguin burst out laughing, and Law scowled into his drink, silently weighing the pros and cons of walking out mid-dinner.

“Yes son” Then, to make things worse, his father decided to join in after he set his signature dinner meal in the middle of the table. “If you want a girl, you’ve got to make a move. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about.” he reached over to drop a casual kiss on his wife’s cheek.

“Ewwww,” Lami groaned, burying her face in her hands. “Are you gonna be this gross with your lady too?” she asked, tossing a pea his way.

It bounced off Law’s shoulder and landed on the table.

He shot her a flat look. “Don’t throw food.”

“Don’t dodge the question,” she sing-songed.

“I’m not going to be gross,” he muttered, stabbing his fork into a piece of meat. “I’m a normal person.”

“Oh, sure,” Shachi chimed in, nudging Penguin beside him. “Real normal. Especially the going to the café a few times a week to ogle the cute barista.”

Penguin snorted. “It’s a miracle she doesn’t call the cops on him.”

“Instead, he gets specially made muffins.” Even Bepo is against him.

Law froze for half a second, then resumed eating like nothing had happened. “He sells them anyway.”

“They’re not even on the menu anymore!” Lami shoutedn putting her fork down on a plate with more force than necessary. “She just keeps making them for you, and you’re still here acting like you’re not head over heels!”

“I’m not—” he started, but his father raised a brow.

“Son.”

Everyone turned to look at him.

“If your mother had made me custom muffins back in the day, I’d have proposed on the spot.”

Any minute now. Just stand up, walk out, go to your place, and pretend none of this ever happened.

But before he could move, Corazon clutched his chest with exaggerated drama. “Ah, love is such a beautiful feeling. Truly! You must do something about experiencing that, Law.”

“You definitely should,” Penguin piped in, grinning way too wide.

“Mmmmhmmm,” Shachi added, mouth full of food, giving a solemn, approving nod.

Law gritted his teeth. “Are any of you even in relationships?” he snapped, tone sharp.

That did the trick—for a second.

Shachi suddenly found his rice very fascinating. Penguin stared into his cup, Bepo stuffed his face. Even Corazon scratched the back of his head sheepishly and took a long sip of wine.

Finally, a moment of silence.

But, of course, it didn’t last.

His mother leaned forward, ever-gentle but entirely merciless. “Do you want us to help you out, sweetheart?”

“What?! No!” Law practically jumped in his seat, flushing with horror. “I’m a grown man. I can ask a girl I like out!”

The moment the words left his mouth, the table fell into the silence he had long wished for. But this quiet wasn’t a good one.

“OOOOOH!!” Corazon gasped, hands flying to his cheeks.

Law realized, with dawning horror, what he had just admitted aloud. “I didn’t mean— That’s not—” he began, but it was no use.

“Someone finally admitting he likes her!” Corazon declared, eyes shining.

More cheering. More clapping. Someone whistled. It might have been Lami.

Law buried his face in his hands. He was never going to hear the end of this.

And now he was officially screwed.

Because how the hell was he supposed to ever invite you to this circus? But most importantly—how the hell was he even going to ask you out?

That question lingered later, long after dinner, long after the teasing had finally died down, and he was alone again. He stared at the small paper bag sitting beside his laptop. The “Enjoy ♡” still visible on the front.

The café had just closed. Chairs were flipped onto tables, the lights dimmed, and everything was nearly prepared for closing. Law was leaning against the counter, fingers drumming against it as he watched you wipe down the espresso machine with diligent.

He'd stayed late again. Surprise.

You glanced up at him, raising an eyebrow with that half-smile that always made his brain short-circuit. “You gonna keep loitering or finally get a job here?”

Law cleared his throat, straightening like he was preparing to deliver a research paper. “I… actually wanted to ask you something.”

That got your attention. You turned toward him fully, curious. “Okay?”

His mouth opened. Nothing came out. He blinked, looked away for a second, then back.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

And yet, he didn't say anything again.

“Are you gonna ask that question, or should I learn how to mind read?”

And there it was. That smile. That smile that captured his attention every single time. And that smile was what prompted him to finally dare to ask.

“Would you—maybe—want to… go out sometime?”

“Out?”

“Not like… outside. I mean like a… a date.” He was already regretting every word. “With me. Obviously.” He paused, then added awkwardly, “…Unless there’s another guy hiding behind me who also drinks too much coffee and forgets how to be normal around you.”

There was a pause. Your smile spread and your eyes twinkle with warmth that somehow slipped into his very own bones. “You’re cute when you panic.”

He groaned, pressing his hand to his face. “I’m leaving. Forget I said anything.”

But before he could move, you moved from beside the counter and stepped close—close enough that he froze. Your hand brushed his wrist.

“Hey.”

He looked at you. You were still smiling. Not like that practiced smile you gave your clients, but the one just for him. A little nervous, maybe, but utterly breathtaking.

And before he could say anything. Before he could panic or overthink, you leaned in and kissed him.

His eyes fluttered shut without meaning to, lips parting slightly under the touch of yours. It wasn’t long. But soft and warm in a way that made his heart stutter.

When you pulled back, you grinned. How is it even possible for you to look even more beautiful? You were brightness and calm, mischief and magic, all at once, and he was undone by the way you simply existed, more breathtaking than a dream he hadn’t dared to have.

“You taste like coffee.”

Law blinked, stunned. He hadn't expected that. Of all the things you could have said, it was that.“Well… I drank way more than healthy.” A pause. His voice softened, almost against his will. “So I could see you.”

There. Said aloud, it felt foolish. He never felt so exposed before.

You laughed quietly, a disarming sound that curled into his chest and stayed there. “That’s either the sweetest or weirdest thing I’ve ever heard.”

A rare smile tugged at the corner of his lips. It surprised him, how natural it felt. “It’s both.”

And it was. He knew it. Sweet, because it was you. Weird, because it was him. Because he didn’t down cups of coffee he didn’t need, sip teas he barely recognized, or eat an absurd number of muffins under the flimsy excuse of hunger. He didn’t invent reasons to stay. But lately, he was doing all of that just to remain close to you.

You looped your fingers loosely through his. “Pick me up Friday. And try not to over-caffeinate too much. I do sell non-caffeinated options, you know.”

Law huffed, that might’ve been a laugh if he weren’t still so completely overwhelmed. Your hand was in his. Your lips had just been on his.

“Yeah,” he said, and then again, firmer. “Okay. Friday.”

He was going to have to thank Lami.

…Eventually.

#onepiece #one piece fic #trafalgar law #trafalgar law fic #trafalgar law x reader #law x reader #ellairequests

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total-dxmure · 1 year ago

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✦ INVISIBLE STRING THEORY →【ELLIE WILLIAMS】→ CHAPTER TWO

pairings: modern!marine ellie x reader

summary: the marines didn’t ruin ellie. ellie ruined ellie. after being medically discharged she feels lost. being sent to live with joel is more of a last ditch effort to save her and less of a fun reunion for the father-daughter duo. jackson is worlds different than chicago, but the fresh air and sprawling countrysides are a welcome reprieve. ellie finds herself finding comfort in more than just the change in scenery though. after losing your girlfriend due to an accident you feel as though you’ll never find love again- but that was before meeting ellie williams. the two of you figure out that you have more in common than just the fact that she and your girlfriend were both marines though. tethered by some invisible string, the two of you meeting has to be fate. who would have known that you were the golden ticket to ellie’s recovery?

warnings: eventual smut! lots of tension building and mutual pining. ellie falls first and hard. small town girl meets a frightening, strong ex marine. TW: talk of panic attacks, ptsd episodes and death. come for the ellie smut and stay for the plot and fluff. (A/N: this chapter is just plot/character building. next chapter we're getting to the good stuff)

⬶ previous chapter | next chapter ⤅

The old farm truck rocked back and forth as you made your way up the all-too familiar dirt path, heading in the direction of the greenhouses. You’d already let the hens out to graze and feed and the last thing you had to do before dropping today’s produce off was check on the nurseries.

Johnny Cash’s southern twang hummed gently over the speakers, your well worn-in cassette tape having been the first thing you reached for this morning. The sun had risen just a few hours ago, and after a few cups of much needed coffee you were ready to go.

The caffeine had done the lord's work, having cleared your brain of any anxious background noise. You could actually function when you had tasks at hand. The second you slowed down though… well, that was a different story. You were trying hard not to imagine Abby sitting beside you in the beat-to-hell red pickup, her blonde braid tossed over her shoulder as she stuck her arm out of the window. You used to joke about her being part dog, what with her loving the wind on her face so much. You missed being able to reach out and wrap a stray strand of blonde hair around your finger, only giving it a soft tug when those blue eyes of hers looked at you with a little too much heat behind them.

So instead of looking at the empty passenger seat you busied yourself with turning up the volume, country music crackling over the shot, old speakers. You all but jumped out of the car the second you put the car in park, ready to get your hands dirty and your mind preoccupied.

You couldn’t remember how many times the two of you had snuck off to the greenhouse when your mother had gotten a little too overbearing back when she still lived in the main house with you. There wasn’t a single surface in the old rickety building that abby hadn’t fucked you on or vice versa.

You walked along the rows and rows of seedlings, looking for any sign of water rot or bug infestations. Everything was perfect, every stem and leaf a vibrant green. Tomatoes, all different kinds of summer squash, and beans of every variety; you had the gift of a green thumb. Your father was more than happy to sign his company over to you right before he passed. All five acres of his property belonged to you now, and with that every bit of responsibility had been placed upon your shoulders. You used to resent the fact that you were so young and in charge of so much. Now you were thankful for the constant work. Distractions. You hated seeing your dad’s life work being summed up as a mere distraction, but it was the only thing that got you out of bed in the morning.

Everyone in the family knew that your dad had wanted a boy when your mother’s pregnancy was first announced. It was a family business, the job having been passed down to him by his own father. Still, he had been ecstatic to show you the ropes. Rather than taking up dance or art like most other little girls your age, you spent your free time elbow deep in mud. You wore the bows and fussed over getting new outfits, but overalls were your daily uniform.

You wore a pair even today, your work boots tightly fastened to ward away any unwanted pecks from overprotective mother hens. Today was bound to be monotonous, as it always was. All you had to do was repot a few strawberry plants. Maybe if you were lucky a goat would find a hole in the gate and escape. At least it would give you something to worry about that wasn’t Abby related.

You slunk over towards the sinks, pumping soap into your dirt covered palm to wash off the dirt. You rubbed your hands together to begin lathering but froze when you realized your right hand felt bare. You brushed your thumb against your middle finger only to realize that it was just as you had feared.

Your ring. It wasn’t there.

White hot dread locked your limbs as you turned your hand over, the dainty opal missing from your middle finger. You blinked, hoping that you were just seeing things. You didn’t even turn off the sinks before racing back over to the repotting table, as if the promise ring had grown legs and would escape you. Your eyes frantically searched the table, pain shooting through your knees as you dropped down on all fours, pushing dirt and leaves aside to get a better vantage point. Nothing. It wasn’t there.

“Oh god. No! No, no, no.” You all but screamed, eyes filling with tears as you pulled yourself off.

You broke out into a nervous sweat, the blood rushing from your head. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening right now.

You didn’t care if you killed the plants, you ripped the strawberries up by their stems, shaking their roots out as you searched their new pots.

Every. Single. One.

Empty.

Abby had given you that ring just before her last deployment, promising that she would be giving you the real thing once she got back. Of course, she never did. It was single handedly the most important piece of jewelry that you had ever owned, even above your grandmother’s pearls and engagement ring. How could you be so reckless? Why hadn’t you thought to leave it in the car?

“Stupid! I’m so fucking stupid!” You screamed, tossing a clay pot on the ground in a fit of anger. It shattered behind you, exploding into a thousand tiny pieces.

You spent an hour sifting through dirt and untangling roots before you finally realized that it was a lost cause. The ring was gone. You’d wrecked the entire greenhouse in your frantic search and the strawberries were just as you expected: dead.

You slammed the door shut behind you, the old window panes shaking with the force. You had barely thrown yourself into the pickup before your body was wracked with full body sobs. White knuckling the steering wheel you leaned your head forward, completely unbothered as the horn blared.

How could you lose something so precious to you? It had been the last gift that you had ever received from Abby. The last. There was no possible way to replace something that was that special to you. Her hands had touched that ring. She’d been nervous to give it to you in the first place, anxious that two years hadn’t been enough time to give you something that sentimental. It was the meaning behind it that had you clutching at your chest, your fingernails digging into your shirt as if you could rip your heart straight out from between your ribs.

She was going to replace that ring once she got back. Give you the “real deal” once she was back home and able to have a ceremony.

But there would never be a ceremony. Never another ring. Never another Abby.

Never. Never. Never.

It felt like you were losing a piece of her, and with that came the revelation- the same one that you’ve already had a thousand times- that she was really gone. There would be no do-overs; no alternate universes where the two of you could be together. The reality of your situation sat heavy in your throat, clogging your airway.

The loss of Abby had eclipsed your heart completely, and darkness was all that was left.

You stayed in the car until your eyes had practically swelled shut and there were no more tears to shed.

The car ride back to her childhood home was completely silent, the only sound being the engine of Joel’s shiny new truck. She did her best to compliment him on the new purchase, but Ellie was sure that she didn’t sound even half as enthusiastic as she had hoped she would. She didn’t feel like being an actress today. Not when he already knew how bad she was doing. Joel had taken one look at her as she got off of the plane and frowned, grabbing her bags only after giving her a bone shattering side hug.

“Well I missed ya,” He finally spoke, causing her to jump in surprise. The sound of his baritone voice soothed her nerves over though. “I’ve really missed you annoyin’ the hell outta me at all hours of the day.”

Ellie cracked a small smile at that, leaning her head into the plush leather seat. The last time she saw Joel was when she had first been transferred to the Kindred Hospital back in Chicago, which was where she had rotted away for a full week. Her eye and face healed up quickly but her back was a different story. She’d been burned badly and had all of the nasty scars to prove it. He had stayed by her bedside for the entire week and had helped her to readjust to being back home in her apartment. The nearly debilitating pain was the only thing that had distracted her from the gravity of her situation back then.

Her therapist said it was normal to disassociate for long periods of time when the body and mind are put under so much stress. Ellie still felt like Ellie back then, but it was only because she didn’t have any real grasp on reality. It was just a few days after Joel left that she finally snapped out of it. She was one of the only five that survived. She was told that landmines were the cause of so many deaths in Iraq.

“It happens all the time out there. You didn’t know. It’s not your fault.”

She didn’t want her unit to just be another statistic. They weren’t just numbers. They were people who had loved ones at home. Loved ones that they had to leave for months and months on end. She couldn’t help but shoulder all of the blame. Ellie was the one that had led them out there in the first place. It was her fault, so why hadn’t she died right along with them? She would have considered herself lucky if she had lost her life right along with them. These were the people that she saw daily. Ellie had developed deep friendships with every member of her unit. She knew the details of all of their lives- the names of their children and loved ones back at home, what they wanted to do with their lives once they were dismissed- how could she not feel like someone had ripped her soul to shreds? How could she not constantly remind herself, every second of every goddamn day, that she was the reason.

She was a ghost. A mere shell of the person that she once was and she had no one to blame but herself.

“I didn’t know you liked me being annoying so much,” Still, she turned to Joel and cracked him a small smile. It was more for his sake and less for hers though. “I’ll make sure to turn it up a notch while I’m here.”

The older man grumbled, shaking his head slightly as he kept his eyes on the country roads in front of him. “That sounds like a threat.”

Ellie could tell that he was playing with her. They were professionals when it came to teasing each other, often to the point that people thought that they were seriously bickering. The short haired female let herself settle into the normalcy of the moment. He hadn’t mentioned anything about the accident or her mental state yet, so it was easy to pretend that things were still…okay.

So that’s exactly what she did. She began to pretend. Ellie allowed herself to be transported back in time. This was just another Tuesday. She’d get back home and sweet talk Joel into cooking her an after school snack. Then she’d go up to her room and procrastinate doing her homework so that she could reread one of her comics.

“Got anything good in here?” Ellie asked before opening up the center console. “I’m not gonna find anything nasty, am I?”

Joel’s lips pursed as he tried to fight off a smile. “Don’t go rifflin’ through my shit, kiddo.”

Her eyes snagged on a familiar purple book, and for the first time in a while something yawned to life in her chest. Joy.

“What do we have here?” She pulled out the book of puns, using it to fan herself before she cracked the bad boy open.

“Ah, don’t start.” He groaned.

She didn’t take the time to wonder why he had put the well loved book in his brand new truck. Instead of allowing herself to be overcome with endearment she flipped to a random page, her lips turning up in the first genuine smile she’d had in months.

“Where can you find a tiny coke?” She asked him, turning in her seat so that she could face him, tucking one of her converse-clad feet underneath her.

“Hey! Get your dirty shoes off of my new upholstery!” Joel reached over and gave her knee a slap.

Ellie reared back, holding the book of puns tight to her chest.

“Come on, try and guess.”

He groaned, rolling his eyes as he leaned his arm against the door.

“I don’t know… tiny town.”

Her nose wrinkled, an eyebrow quirking up at his half assed answer.

“Shitty guess, but alright.” She mumbled under her breath. “Mini-soda.”

“Hilarious.” He said sarcastically, turning onto the familiar drive.

“I think I saw you smile though.”She leaned over to give his cheek a poke, but he swiftly batted her hand away.

The truck’s all-terrain tires crunched over the gravel driveway, revealing the only real home she’d ever lived in. The house and yard looked exactly the same as it had whenever she was a teenager. She sighed out a breath of relief, not knowing how much well she would have handled any sort of severe change. Ellie opened the passenger side door before Joel had a chance to put the car in park, eager to settle in after the flight. She wanted to shower, and that surprised her a bit. A welcome surprise.

Maybe things would be better for her here.

“You didn’t turn my old room into some perverted sex dungeon while I was gone, did you?” She teased as she grabbed her tan duffel bag, easily tossing it over her shoulder as she bounded up the stairs.

He laughed as a response, following close behind her so that he could unlock the front door. She didn’t know why he even bothered. He lived in the middle of nowhere, and they rarely got visitors.

“I’ve got some guitars in there that are worth a fortune.” He’d told her the last time she’d asked.

It had been one of the few times that Ellie had snuck out of the house after curfew. She’d been unable to haul herself back into her second story window once she’d gotten back home and had been forced to sleep in the beat up old hatchback that he had bought her for her sixteenth birthday. Breakfast that morning had been… tense, to say the least.

“I didn’t touch your room… but I did get a dog, so make sure not to let her out.”

She paused at that, turning to look at him with wide eyes. There had been a strict “no animals” rule back when she lived with him. She never thought she’d see the day where Joel Miller would adopt a pet, let alone a dog.

“You got a dog?” She was still in disbelief and half expected him to fucking with her.

“Buckley is a good boy. He shits on the floor sometimes and barks all hours of morning though. It’s almost like having you home.” He teased, bumping his shoulder against hers so that he could shove his key into the lock.

The deadbolt clicked open, and low and behold there was a dog. He looked like some sort of lab mix, his pink tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth as he anxiously waited for his owner’s return. Ellie was too excited to come up with a witty response to Joel’s joke. She tossed her duffle down on the couch, quickly getting down on her knees so that she could pet the dog.

“He’s not much of a guard dog, is he?” He asked, closing the door behind him.

The second that Ellie’s hand tangled into his thick black fur he flopped down, eager for love. Ellie smirked, looking at Joel over her shoulder.

“I don’t know. He looks pretty ferocious to me.”

The sudden knock on the door had Ellie’s lips downturning, eyebrows pinching in confusion. She didn’t like the idea of company right now, and the last thing she wanted was to socialize with anyone. For a second she feared that he had called a doctor or therapist to come out to the house to see her. She wasn’t sure if she could take another “come to Jesus” meeting this week, and she was barely holding it together as is. Ellie put her hands on her knees, pushing herself up to stand before she nodded at the door.

“Company?” She simply asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

Joel ignored her obvious distaste, wrenching the door open quickly before she could stop him. It sure as hell wasn’t Tommy. . . and Ellie doubted that most doctors wore overalls, even in Jackson. The sun was beginning to set on the horizon, the golden rays shone through the vast expanse of trees on the property, making it almost look like the world was on fire. The warm glow behind the beautiful stranger made her look ethereal almost, her eyes watery and cheeks flushed. At her feet was a cardboard box packed to the brim with fruits and vegetables. All at once Ellie became startlingly aware of the fact that she looked like absolute hammered shit. Her hair was a frizzy mess, her skin was paler than it had ever been before, and she was wearing an old NASA shirt and dingy sweatpants. If she noticed her disheveled appearance she didn’t show it.

The smile that she beamed in Joel’s direction didn’t quite reach her eyes, and a strange sense of understanding flickered in Ellie’s gaze as she took a few inquisitive steps forward. Ellie Williams knew what suffering was like; true suffering. Looking at her was like looking in a mirror, her well hidden misery plain as day to the auburn haired female.

“Sorry I’m so late, Mr Miller. My truck was giving me problems.” Her voice was beautiful. Melodic in a way that Ellie’s wasn’t.

Spring. . . this girl was spring incarnate.

And she was lying through her teeth.

She’d been crying. Ellie could tell. Still, Joel was already peeking his head out of the door, looking in the direction of where she had parked.

“I could take a look at it for you.” He was being dismissed with a small wave of your hand before he could even get the words fully out.

“That’s so nice of you, but I’ve got it cranking up again. It shouldn’t give me any more trouble today.” Her hair fell off of her shoulder as she leaned down to pick up the box.

Ellie moved forward without thinking, picking up the heavy box for the girl before her fingers could even grip the sides of the cardboard. “Here, let me get it.” She said, craning her neck up so that she could speak directly to the woman.

There wasn’t a single thing about you that Ellie found undesirable. In that moment she was completely certain that you were the most beautiful woman she had ever seen, even with the pain and memory that swirled behind your bright eyes. Their eyes locked, and much to Ellie’s embarrassment, she held her gaze. She watched her with the same sort of silent appreciation.

“-I think it would be good for her. What do you say?” Ellie hadn’t noticed that Joel had been talking the entire time.

The woman blinked a few times, tearing her eyes away from Ellie. “Huh? I’m sorry, do you mind repeating that?” She was nervously tucking a few strands of unruly hair behind her ear, shifting in place on the front porch.

“I was just saying that Ellie is going to be staying out here with me. I think working with you on the farm would be good for her. It would help her to get out of the house, and I know you’ve been pretty busy since it’s just you running things now.” Joel put a hand on Ellie’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. Supportive. Non-judgemental. He was reminding her what would be good for her mental state right now, and having something to do with her hands would certainly help to take her mind off of things.

“O-Oh!” The girl’s lips parted in shock, her eyes flickering between the two of them. “Yeah, I don’t see why not. I get a pretty early start though, so don’t feel obligated to wake up as early as I do.”

“I’ll wake up.” Ellie said quickly, nodding her head.

Her words held a tone of desperation and it had Joel’s head whipping around in her direction. He probably wasn’t expecting her to be so supportive of his last minute idea. She couldn’t be sure if it was because she genuinely wanted to get her mind off of things or if the farm girl’s looks had anything to do with her enthusiasm. Ellie couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt drawn to someone like this. Relationships were the last thing on her mind these days.

“Can you start tomorrow?” The other girl asked, shoving her hands into her front pockets.

Adorable. She was adorable. Ellie felt her breath hitch and all she could do was nod as an answer for your question.

“Alright. . . “She began to trail off, backing up a few steps on the porch. It seemed like you were in a bit of a hurry. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

“Tomorrow.” Ellie repeated back to her.

She leaned back, lifting the box higher up on her chest so that she could watch the woman get back into her mud stained pickup truck. She only took a step back when Joel started to close the door on her.

“So you’re actually fine with that? I didn’t think you would go for it, honestly.” Joel rubbed at his stubbled chin, flashing her a small smile of approval.

“There’s no way I want to be stuck in a house with your ass all hours of the day.” Ellie quipped, walking to the kitchen so that she could place the vegetables on the countertop.

“I think workin’ there would be good for the both of you. That poor girl has had an awful year. . . I think you’d be good for each other. She needs a friend.” Joel’s voice was somber as he followed her into the kitchen.

Ellie turned to face the older man, swallowing hard as he leaned against the doorway. He was being a bit cryptic. It seemed like he didn’t want to be the one to tell Ellie the girl’s business. Still, she was curious, and she didn’t want to be blind sided tomorrow just in case she wanted to talk about it. Ellie wasn’t usually nosey, but she had a strong urge to get to know her.

“What do you mean by that?” Ellie’s first guess was that she had to be going through some sort of divorce. Joel had mentioned the fact that she was on her own now, so coming to that conclusion was natural.

“No, nothin’ like that,” He cleared his throat before pushing off of the door frame, slowly beginning to unload the box's contents. “She lost her girlfriend and her father this year. She’s the kindest girl. . . you’d never know how much she’s sufferin’ based on how she acts.”

“Oh.” Ellie frowned, having realized that your mourning must be the reason for your sad, sad eyes. She understood how it felt to lose so many people so close together. Better than anyone, really.

“Oh.”

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p0orbaby · 9 months ago

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Mud, Sweat and Tears

summary: you like the outdoors, leah doesn’t, what could go wrong ?

warnings: none

a/n: based on this request ! thanks !

word count: 1.5k

It’s Saturday morning, early. Unforgivably early. The kind of early where the sun’s still hiding behind the trees, and any reasonable person would be asleep. But you’re not reasonable, and you’re not asleep. You’re packing the car with fishing rods, a tent, and Leah Williamson, who’s standing in the driveway, half-awake, holding a thermos of coffee like it’s the only thing tethering her to this planet.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Leah asks, squinting up at the sky like she’s expecting it to open up and swallow her whole.

“Yes,” you say, a little too cheerily for this hour. You’re from a camping family—one that considers sleeping bags and bug spray essential items. For you, weekends are made for hiking trails and catching fish with nothing but a stick and a string. Leah, on the other hand, is the type of person who thinks “roughing it” means staying in a hotel without room service.

Leah sighs, long and dramatic, and you can tell this is going to be a weekend of constant commentary. You love her, but she’s never been one to suffer in silence.

You get in the car and drive. Leah stares out the window, probably counting the number of coffee shops you pass that she’s being cruelly denied. You try to distract her with stories from your childhood, tales of catching frogs and sitting in a fishing chair eating beans out the tin, but Leah’s only response is, “Couldn’t you just do that in your garden?”

When you arrive at the campsite, Leah’s first question is, “Where’s the toilet?” You point to the woods, and she stares at you like you’ve just suggested she eat dirt.

“You’re kidding,” she says, though she knows you’re not.

You grin. “It’s called nature. People have been doing it for thousands of years”

“People also used to die at thirty,” she shoots back.

You set up the tent while Leah hovers nearby, looking like she’s trying to work out how to teleport back to London. She’s mumbling to herself, something about bears and serial killers, and you catch the phrase “the beginning of a horror film” as you hammer in the last tent peg.

“It’s not that bad,” you say, shaking out the sleeping bags. “Look, we’re surrounded by trees, fresh air, the sound of birds—”

“—and the nearest bathroom is in the next county,” she interrupts, arms crossed.

You laugh, but she’s still frowning, looking at the tent as if it’s a creature that might bite her.

“Is it too late to go back?” she asks, and she’s only half-joking.

“Yes,” you say firmly. “You’re going to love it. Just give it a chance”

Leah doesn’t answer, but you can see her mentally reviewing the terms of your relationship, wondering if it’s really worth it.

The first hike is a gentle one. You choose a path that’s scenic, with views of the lake, thinking it’ll win Leah over. She starts off strong, even enjoying herself for the first ten minutes. But then she hits a rock with her boot and lets out a string of words that would make a sailor blush.

“I don’t know how you do this,” she mutters, rubbing her toe through her boot. “I’m a footballer, and even I think this is excessive”

You offer her a hand to steady herself over a tricky bit of trail, but she swats it away. “I can do it,” she insists, right before she stumbles and nearly faceplants into a bush.

You help her up, biting back a laugh. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she grumbles. “But if I die out here, I’m haunting you”

“Noted,” you say, still smiling.

A little further down the trail, you stop to point out a bird—something you’ve seen a hundred times but you know will be new to her. Leah squints at it, trying to look impressed.

“Wow,” she says, without any real enthusiasm. “A bird”

“You’re not even trying,” you accuse, though you’re still grinning.

“I am,” she argues. “I’m trying to stay alive. This is a survival situation now”

Fishing is the next disaster. You’re by the lake, showing Leah how to cast a line, when she gets the hook tangled in a tree branch on her first try. She’s staring at it, hanging like a Christmas ornament, and you can see the moment she decides fishing is the worst thing ever invented.

“This is stupid,” she declares, as you untangle the line.

“No, it’s relaxing,” you correct. “It’s about patience”

“I have patience,” she retorts. “I put up with you”

You laugh, but Leah’s dead serious, looking at the water like it owes her something.

You manage to catch a fish—small, but it’s something. Leah just watches as you handle it with ease, her expression a mix of admiration and abject horror.

“Now what?” she asks, eyeing the fish like it might jump up and slap her.

“Now we let it go,” you say, holding it gently before releasing it back into the lake. “Catch and release”

“So we’re torturing fish for fun,” she sums up, crossing her arms.

You roll your eyes. “That’s not the point. It’s about being in nature, enjoying the peace and quiet”

She looks around, like she’s searching for this peace and quiet you’re talking about. “If by ‘peace and quiet’ you mean insects and dirt,’ then sure”

“Come on,” you say, leading her back to the shore. “You’re doing great”

She grumbles something about Stockholm Syndrome, but she follows you, brushing a mosquito off her arm with a look of pure betrayal.

The first night is the real test. You’re lying in the tent, cozy in your sleeping bag, while Leah fidgets next to you. You can hear her shifting around, trying to get comfortable, letting out exaggerated sighs every thirty seconds.

“I can hear you,” you finally say, eyes still closed.

“This ground is trying to kill me,” she replies, her voice muffled by her sleeping bag. “How is this comfortable?”

“It’s not supposed to be a hotel bed, Leah,” you say, still amused. “It’s camping”

“Right, camping,” she mutters. “Which is just paying money to pretend you’re homeless”

You laugh out loud at that, and Leah finally cracks a smile, even if she doesn’t want to admit it.

After a few more minutes of restless shifting, she huffs again. “I need to piss”

You point towards the trees, again. “Nature’s calling”

She doesn’t move. “You’re really not joking, are you”

“Nope”

Leah stares at you like you’ve just suggested she drink the lake water. “I’m not going out there alone. What if something eats me?”

“Like what?”

She thinks for a moment, then shrugs. “Bears. Wolves. A very aggressive squirrel”

You sit up, knowing you’re not going to win this one. “Fine, I’ll come with you”

You both get up and trudge out into the dark, Leah clinging to your arm like she’s convinced the woods are full of monsters. After she’s done, you’re walking back to the tent when she suddenly stops.

“What?” you ask, turning to look at her.

“Did you hear that?” she whispers, eyes wide.

“Hear what?”

She doesn’t answer, just pulls you along faster, practically dragging you into the tent. You both dive in and zip it up like you’re sealing yourselves in a bunker.

Leah’s heart is racing as she gets back into her sleeping bag, and you can’t help but smile at how seriously she’s taking this.

“Nothing’s out there,” you say, trying to reassure her.

“I’m not taking any chances,” she mutters, pulling the sleeping bag over her head like it’ll protect her from the unknown terrors of the forest.

You lie back down, still smiling to yourself. “Goodnight, Leah”

“Goodnight,” she mumbles, and you can tell she’s already planning how to survive the night.

By the end of the weekend, Leah’s still grumbling, still complaining, but there’s a softness to it now. You catch her smiling when she thinks you’re not looking, like maybe—just maybe—she’s starting to see why you love this so much.

You’re packing up the car, and Leah’s pretending to help, mostly by standing around and giving unhelpful advice.

“You know,” she says, as you load the last of the gear, “this wasn’t as awful as I thought it would be.”

“High praise,” you say, wiping your hands on your jeans.

“I mean, I’m never doing it again,” she clarifies, “but it wasn’t awful”

You grin, knowing that’s as close to a victory as you’re going to get. “I’ll take it”

Leah gives you a look, one that says, despite all the complaining, she had a good time in her own way. “You’re lucky I love you,” she says, and it’s the first time all weekend she’s said something without a hint of sarcasm.

“I am,” you agree, leaning in to kiss her.

And as you drive away from the campsite, back towards civilisation, Leah finally falls asleep in the passenger seat, the weekend’s adventures catching up to her. You glance over at her and smile, thinking maybe you’ll get her to go camping again one day. But for now, you’ll let her sleep, knowing you’ve survived the wilderness together.

Even if she still thinks it’s trying to kill her.

#leah williamson #leah williamson x reader #awfc #awfc x reader #engwnt #engwnt x reader #woso #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso community

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eowynstwin · 8 months ago

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blackbird, fly - iv.

Cowboy Gaz x mail order bride—only, not his. After exchanging letters for half a year with ranching man Hans König, you finally travel out west to marry him. . Gaz had been the only one to try and warn you. . ao3

When you wake the next morning, Hans’ side of the bed is empty, the linens already cold.

As sleep leaves you in fits and starts, the aches pull you inward—glowing dull and orange like banked embers. Your whole body feels like a twisted ankle. Nothing is broken, exactly, but every muscle feels as if it’s been pulled in a direction God never quite intended it to move.

Your shoulders. The meat of your thighs. Your hips.

The entrance to your womb.

It isn’t the knife-sharp pain from before. Only the muted, persistent throb of a wound left alone to heal. In the cottony space between sleep and waking, you think there should be more damage—for all of what happened last night. And yet, there isn’t.

Still, you don’t move when your eyes finally open. Stillness seems the only defense against the bare truth of the gray morning.

Your husband used you hard on your wedding night, and did not care for the pain he caused.

You are not fool enough to think your experience unique. Women talked as much as girls did. Your mother’s friends were wont to complain when they thought the children out of earshot: husbands who grunted and sweated over them in the night, often without uttering a word. Sometimes not even waiting for the pain of childbirth to subside before claiming their marital due.

You just had come to believe, with every letter that arrived, that your fate would be different.

But it turns out none of this is a dream after all.

Your throat closes, then. Tears prick hot in the corners of your eyes.

Stupid, stupid girl.

You swallow hard. Sit up away from the pillows, even as the aches flare in protest.

Beside you, where your husband slept, there’s a noticeable dip in the mattress. Worn in over years of slumber, and you, you suppose, on Anna’s side of the bed.

Was Hans kind to her too, before?

Abruptly you swing your legs out from the linens, and go to find one of the dresses you brought along from home.

The house is empty when you descend the stairs, as far as you can tell. You hear the steady tick, tock of a grandfather clock somewhere in the sitting room that you hadn’t noticed yesterday, in all of the commotion of the wedding preparations. The floorboards creak beneath your feet as your grumbling stomach leads you along to the kitchen.

The space is as modern and well-appointed as the rest of the house, and bigger than any kitchen you ever imagined needed to be. A cast-iron wood stove with four burners and a large oven, a sink with a pump right there by the basin, and—you nearly stop dead at the luxury—an ice box, right there beside one long counter.

You momentarily forget the troubles of the night, crouching beside the little box in fascination. A cloud of cool fog descends when you swing open the door; you brush the tips of your fingers across the huge block of ice on the top shelf, jerking them away when the cold unexpectedly burns. Not once in your life have you ever seen so much ice in one place.

On the lower shelf, you find cuts of pork and beef, wrapped in brown butcher’s paper and tied with string. Bacon for breakfast, then, and biscuits if you can find flour. Your mother always said that a difficult thing was easier after having a meal.

You find the larder stocked with further luxury. Nowhere are the home-jarred goods that would populate your family’s pantry, garden-grown vegetables pickled in vinegar or hand-pressed jams fresh from the blackberry bushes along the road. Instead you find rows and rows of cans, factory-sealed tins of manufactured uniformity, colorfully labeled and containing everything you might have ever thought to grow yourself and more.

Beans of every variety. Corn. Carrots. Peas. Beets. Tomatoes.

How much must all this have cost? So many, and lined up deep into the back of the larder. You and Hans couldn’t possible eat them all before some of them began to spoil. Of course, if he could afford to buy so much, maybe that didn’t matter.

You find the flour, and baking powder as well. Breakfast is a quick affair after that, and thankfully so, as your stomach really begins to complain as soon as the food is ready.

There’s a small table in the kitchen—yet more luxury, you think, remembering the long dining table you saw yesterday—and it’s there you sit down to solve your hunger.

The hard wooden chair is not kind to the ache between your legs.

You bite into the bacon, crunching it to pieces. There—it’s all right. You have your breakfast. Isn’t that something to be grateful for? Breakfast, and a nice stove, and an ice box, and a kitchen so stuffed with food that you can’t imagine ever running out.

Isn’t this what a loving husband provides? A good home, for his wife to live comfortably in? Pretty dresses, like the one he gave to you last night? A nice ring on your finger—the little gem glittering in the sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window?

Hans loves you. Of course. This is love.

You bite into one biscuit, hot and steaming from the pan and burning your tongue. Your mother can make them better, but you tried the best you could to follow the recipe she taught you.

The front door opens outside of the kitchen. Something quick and sharp travels up your spine. Heavy boots step inside—your husband, come looking for you—you freeze without realizing it, holding half-chewed food in your mouth—

“Mrs. König?” calls Kate Laswell, the foreman, and you relax.

“In here,” you call, after swallowing.

Laswell enters the kitchen, and turns to you, at the table. She’s dressed in mens’ clothes, dusty trousers and a heavy jacket over a button-up shirt, and a wide-brimmed hat still on her head. She looks like she’s dressed to travel.

“I’m afraid I can’t show you the accounts today, like I said I would,” she tells you, no preamble, no pleasantries.

You remember then your brief conversation with her the previous night—and Hans’ disapproval at the idea.

You set down your biscuit. “Good morning, Miss Laswell. Why not?”

“I’m going over to visit the Vargas place. We’ve been working on a leasing deal. I’ll explain when I get back.”

“Of course,” you say. “Would—” you clear your throat, embarrassed— “Would you know where my husband might be?”

The lines of Laswell’s face tighten. She has a severe look to her that you think is always present—ranch work must harden anyone, man or woman—but there is no wedding happening around you now to distract you from the unmistakable displeasure on her face.

“Last I saw he was out with the herd,” she says shortly. “Anyway, I’ll be gone for a few days. The ledger is in the cabinet by the desk. Take a look at it if you find the time.”

She tips her hat to you before you can figure out how to respond—some part of you bristles at being given orders by someone who is now, ostensibly, your employee—and leaves the kitchen. You scramble to follow her, and catch her when she’s nearly out the door.

“Miss Laswell,” you call, “is Hans—is my husband—”

You’re not very sure what you intended to ask her, before you began the question. Nor, you realize, do you think she could answer honestly, if you asked her what you really wanted to know. It wouldn’t be her place, and it would be inappropriate of you to ask.

If you could actually work up the courage to approach it.

So you settle for, “Is my husband angry with me?”

She stops, and blinks at you. You see her look you up and down, briefly, but when she meets your eyes her expression is impossible to read.

“I have no idea,” she says, and her tone betrays nothing. “Gaz wants to see you in the stables when you have a moment today. Ma’am.”

She nods farewell at you and leaves.

The steady ticking of the grandfather clock punctuates the end of the odd exchange. Disoriented, you return to the kitchen to clear away the remnants of your breakfast, flushing in confusion.

Do you really want this?

His question rings now in your ears. Along with it come memories of the previous night. The Madame’s odd interest in you. The store owner Miss Boucher’s sidelong glance at Hans. Myriad other quirks of the brow or mouth that you only now grasp the meaning of.

Everyone knew, somehow, what was coming. Everyone except you.

And Gaz had been the only one to try and warn you.

You tug on a shawl as you step out onto the front porch, breathing in the mountain air. The morning chill hasn’t yet burned off, and the sky has yet to gain its full color. Across the clearing, Kyle Garrick is at work in the stable’s corral.

He holds one end of a long lead, attached at the other to the bridle of a red-brown horse, which trots in a wide circle around him. Occasionally, with the lunge-whip he holds in his free hand, Gaz taps the horse’s hindquarters, redirecting it patiently whenever it tries to move inward or otherwise deviate from its orbit.

Horses are scared creatures, Miss, I don’t know if you know this, Hans had written. You must be gentle when you train them, or destine them to a lifetime of anxiety.

When you approach, the horse’s attention briefly turns toward you, but Gaz taps it again and it goes back into its pacing. You have a moment to admire the long line of the cowboy’s body, the focused angles of his shoulders and hips, before he addresses you, sensing your presence without having to turn and look at you.

“Good morning, miss,” he says. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, thank you,” you say. It feels dishonest, even if it isn’t a lie. “Good morning, Mr. Garrick.”

The horse makes its way past you, and then Gaz brings it to a stop. He winds up the lead in one hand and makes his way over to you, meeting you where you stand by the corral fence.

You can’t help but notice how handsome he looks in the light of late morning. The serious expression on his face is the same one he’d worn the day before; you suspect it’s his natural disposition.

You remember the brief smile he’d shown you last night, before Hans had taken you away, and your cheeks warm despite yourself.

“I thought I might introduce you to the horses today,” he says. “If you’ve got the time, that is.”

“Oh,” you gasp, suddenly eager, “Please! I’ve been looking forward to it ever since Hans proposed! I told him about the two old nags we had on our farm, to pull our wagon, and he said—”

We must get you on a proper horse, then, to show you the true pleasure riding may offer.

You stop mid-sentence. Something about what Hans had written rings in your memory now with a different note. It seems…mocking, almost. Imbued purposefully with a meaning intended to escape you, given you had not the experience enough to catch it.

Shame blooms painfully behind your breastbone.

“…He mentioned he’d bring me to meet them,” you say lamely.

The smile Gaz gives you doesn’t reach his eyes. “He’s very busy, or I suppose he would be today.”

“I suppose,” you echo.

Gaz inhales deeply, and then he gestures to the red-brown horse. “Well—this here is Newt. I’ve been getting him used to the bridle today.”

“Hello, Newt,” you say to the horse. You reach a hand out, briefly, but then pull it back; your instinct is to let the horse get your scent, like you might with a farm dog, but you don’t know if you should. Your father had always handled the nags.

Gaz notices, and brings one big hand to Newt’s long face, squeezing the arch of his muzzle. The horse’s eyes droop in obvious pleasure.

“He’s a big baby,” says Gaz, expression gentling. “I’m trying to see if he’ll make a good cutter, but it’s too early to tell.”

You reach out again. Newt’s velvety nostrils flare as he inhales, and then his hot breath bathes your hand and wrist. You suppose you have his approval, because Newt simply works his teeth a little and makes no indication of displeasure.

“A cutter?”

“Yeah. The kind of horse that can cut a steer out from the herd so you can drive it someplace else,” Gaz explains. “Horses either got cow-sense, or they don’t. Here, come around inside and I’ll show you the rest.”

Long Mask Ranch, Hans had written, built its reputation on the quality of its quarter horses. In the early days of its inception, his father had struck an extremely lucrative deal providing the US Army with its cavalry mounts, which had turned out to be a perfect way for the ranch’s reputation to spread. Even after the army mostly withdrew from the region, every state in the surrounding countryside knew: if you wanted good horses, you went to Long Mask.

“These are the yearlings,” Gaz explains as he leads you through the stable. “Just now we’re getting them trained to follow directions. Won’t be riding ‘em for a couple years yet.”

He puts Newt away and beckons you to follow. In the neighboring stall, one of the horses pokes its head out over the gate. It’s a light-colored colt, yellowish in the body and white-maned.

“This is Gus,” Gaz says, scratching its fuzzy chin. “He’s a big flirt, yeah, aren’t you, boy?”

You also reach out to give Gus a pat, and the colt chuffs and butts his nose into your hand, proving Gaz’s accusation. You can’t help giggling a little.

When another horse across the building snorts, Gaz chuckles, and leads you in the direction of the noise. “Ah, yeah, and that’s Woodrow. Him and Gus are always goin’ at it, but you won’t ever see better friends.”

Woodrow is dark gray horse with a distinctly unamused face. He accepts a pat on the forehead with what you can only describe as resigned patience. Gaz feeds him a sugar cube from one pocket for his trouble.

He takes you further along down the line of stalls. You meet a spirited filly named Elmira, and a colt beside her named July whose love for her is unrequited.

“We’ve already gelded him, so it wouldn’t matter much anyway,” Gaz relates.

He speaks fondly of every horse as you meet them, with the familiarity of long days working beside each of them. It relaxes him, you realize, to speak of them—the hard set of his expression has softened, the serious line of his brows eased from their iron setting.

It makes him look—not younger, you decide, but properly his age. A cowboy just beginning the best years of his career, still hale and fit enough to meet the rough demands of the job, but with enough experience under his belt to confront any challenge with confidence.

Such confidence is obvious in the way he moves. He walks loose and easy through the stable, his every step as assured as the sunrise the next morning. The line of his broad shoulders, the swooping curve of his back—they tell you at a mere glance that home is in this place, working with these creatures, and there could be nothing more Kyle Garrick might long for besides.

Envy twists your intestines around its fingers. There’s an empty space inside of you that you’d been expecting, as your wedding vows had finally taken flight, to fill with that same feeling.

At the end of the stable, in a stall in the back corner, a horse pokes its head out over the gate. It’s bigger than the yearlings, with a pale face and a dark, gray muzzle. It looks right at you, with such a clear focus that it startles you.

“Ah,” says Gaz, when he sees. “Was wondering if she’d notice us.”

“She?”

He nods. “A mare. She’s…difficult.”

The mare stares at you, with deep, night-black eyes.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

Gaz works his lips over his teeth. “Mr. König bought her last year off another rancher who was ‘bout fit to shoot her. She’s a thoroughbred, and she ain’t never met a white man she likes. As like to buck a man off as to let him ride.”

“Oh,” you say.

Gaz leans against the wall between two stalls. “Mr. König thought he might be able to break her. So far she hasn’t gotten him off her, but she won’t let him come near without putting up a fight. I’m the only one can saddle ‘er.”

You frown. “Why would he ride a horse that doesn’t want to be ridden?”

At that, Gaz’s eyes go cold. Shockingly cold, like an empty winter’s night. “Suppose he just likes taking what he wants, I guess.”

You should reprimand him. You know it immediately. It’s no way to talk about his employer, and certainly nothing he should ever say in front of you, his employer’s wife.

But you remember the blood, and still feel the ache. You have to look away from him, ashamed. Embarrassed.

You cannot defend your husband, and he must know it.

“I imagine he must know what he’s about,” you mumble.

Gaz gives a derisive snort. “I don’t know about that. He’s of a mind to start with thoroughbreds, but she will not let him breed her. Damn near killed every stallion he’s brought her to try.”

It hits you so sharply that you inhale with sudden pain, pressure knifing at your eyes. You turn away from Gaz entirely now, pressing your hands to your chest. Every ache from the night previous ricochets around inside you again, knocking all the way down into your bones.

You tip your head upward, as if it will prevent the gathering tears from falling. What’s worse, Gaz puts a hand on your shoulder behind you. You flinch at the touch, hips aching where Hans had bruised them in his grip.

“I’m sorry, Miss,” Gaz says softly. He sounds like he means it. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

He knows exactly what ails you. And why wouldn’t he? He’s known his employer for years. He’s worked this ranch for longer than you’ve even known of its existence.

He knew the previous Mrs. König, who first endured Hans’ attentions.

You are a terrible fool, and you are the last to know it.

He doesn’t remove his hand as you tremble. He squeezes you gently, the same caress he’d given to the young colt Newt. It is so kind that it nearly breaks you.

“Here,” Gaz murmurs, “let’s see something.”

You turn back to him; he takes your hand, and leads you to the back of the stable. The mare follows the two of you with her eyes, expression unchanging as you approach her.

Closer now, she is a stunning creature. You’ve never seen anything like her. Her coat is silvery-gray, with darker patterns all over her body, like ink absorbed into paper and then laid beneath a light rain. Her legs and mane are the same dark color as her muzzle, and there is a deep intelligence in her eyes as she beholds you.

“You might be the first woman she’s ever seen up close,” Gaz says.

He takes up a position behind you, and turns your hand over in his, opening your fingers. Then, slowly, so the horse can see it, he brings them to her face, pressing your fingertips to the soft whorl on her forehead.

The mare’s eyes do not leave you. She exhales a little through relaxed nostrils, chuffing, flicking her ears toward you. You play with the starburst of pale hair, following the direction it grows; her lids, heavy with thick, black lashes, drop a little.

“I’ll be,” Gaz murmurs behind you. “I think she might like you, miss.”

A loud BANG claps against the wall on the other end of the stable, and the mare jerks her head immediately, flinging your hand away. She grunts, snorts, and dances away from the gate, shaking her head, eyes flaring wide.

You and Gaz both look to the commotion—

Your husband stands in the open doorway, cast in a dark silhouette by the late morning light.

“Just what the hell are you doing?”

a/n: the horses' names are all references to characters in my favorite western, Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry.

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maharajabuilders · 1 year ago

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#String beans #Supplier #India #Fresh String beans #Exporter #Madhya Pradesh #Natural String beans #Premium String beans Manufacturers #Suppliers #Producers #traders #dealers #Maharaja Builders

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that-foul-legacy-lover · 11 months ago

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What if everything is the same but creator mc reincarnate as melusine, but as a new sub species like a lizard or something aquatic liked a ocolot

And they are still have domain of the water but more safer in a fresh water spring

i will assume you mean axolotl because i'm pretty sure ocelots aren't aquatic (they're so cute though,,,, spotted string bean cats)

you're a little like the Melusine, a little like the Vishaps- a combination of lizard, dragon-ish traits and bloopy squishiness, and most comfortable deep underwater, fresh, not salt. it's safe and quiet down at the bottom of your little lake, the first place you took refuge in after you woke up again. no one comes to bother you- they're all too frightened of the monsters that prowl the area, the hilichurls and odd, alien breacher primuses. occasionally you'll see the Melusine skipping around and poke your head out to say hello. they give you flowers and shells, and you give them strange, glowing coral that only seems to flourish in freshwater under your care. the only one apart from the Melusine who dares to find you is Foul Legacy, entirely following the instincts that draw him towards an unassuming spring nestled in the middle of Elynas

Legacy delicate sniffs the surface of the water, leaping back in surprise when you stick the tip of your nose out, a pair of feelers waving on your head. carefully he leans in, crystalline eye tracing over the faint, shimmering scars on your body, and suddenly his glittering wings begin to flutter in awe

you rarely discuss the fact that you're the Creator- you know, he knows, and you've been hurt and killed because of it. both of you have been mere things, to be hunted or used as a weapon, so together you reconcile simply existing as yourselves. Foul Legacy can hold his breath for hours at a time, and he loves curling around you at the very bottom of the pond for a short nap. you gather the pearls and shells from the Melusine and a few pieces of your favorite coral, decorating Legacy's hair and fluff with the little treasures as he sits still as a statue, aside from the slight hum of his purr. in exchange he uses his Vision to push and pull at the water, forming shapes and little waves for you to happily swim around in

you and Foul Legacy, alone, quiet, and happy

#genshin impact #childe #tartaglia #foul legacy #foul legacy childe #genshin tartagalia #genshin childe #genshin tartaglia #sagau #genshin sagau #oh imagine swimming through the water with him while it's sunny #and the sun comes through the water all warbly like glass #and it speckles Legacy's armor and the sand and it's lovely #you're isolated and after everything you like it that way #short scenario #other's stuff #good evening #chit chat

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southernflamesbbq · 4 months ago

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uzumaki-rebellion · 7 months ago

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"Ice Cold Jax" Geechee!Erik Killmonger

Pairing: Geechee!Erik Killmonger x Black Female OC

Warning(s): 18+, Smut, Supernatural Horror, Period Piece, Erik Stevens AU, Black American Folktale.

Summary: Erik "Killmonger" Stevens is a Geechee wanderer and lover of big-legged women and good moonshine. On a trip to visit his favorite juke joint in 1940s Mississippi, he entertains a lover of sorts, Lulabelle, the juke joint owner and Madame of the nearby whorehouse. Erik battles two mythical creatures from Black American folklore, the Plat Eye and the Crossroads Man in order to save Lulabelle and her establishment. The tale is told from the perspective of a ghost who was once Lulabelle's best friend.

Word count: 5.5K

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"The winter time is coming

And it's going to be slow

You can't make the weather baby

it's dry long so

You betta come on in my kitchen

because it's going to be Raining outdoors..."

Cassandra Wilson – "Come on in my Kitchen" (Written by Robert Johnson)

There were two things Lulabelle Humphreys knew how to sell in Itta Bena Mississippi and that was moonshine and other people's pussy.

She did that very well until one night of the Harvest moon when cotton would soon be harvested by the local sharecroppers and itinerant Mexican men who traveled through the delta region looking for work like every other Negro or poor white trash far and wide. On that night under a sweltering heat full of drunk patrons and her smooth-talking whores inside her juke joint with the "special ladies" house attached by a rickety bridge that crossed over a tiny creek full of frogs and singing crickets, Lulabelle witnessed the showdown of all showdowns between the Plat Eye and the Crossroads Man, shonuff, right inside her little rambling hot music-havin' and ice-cold beer havin' establishment.

And if it hadn't been for that slow walking city-to-city wandering Geechee man with the gold teeth, slick smile, and flashy suit standing by her with the smarts of his low country kin back in South Carolina, why Lulabelle might've lost everything that night like she lost me so many years ago when that Plat Eye stole me away when we was teenaged girls in these backwoods. But thank the Lord up above for Erik Stevens ramblin' through with that shiny switchblade, and his Gullah ways, cuz shonuff, that was a night to remember and I'm gonna tell it exactly how it happened from top to bottom and all the sides in between. I ain't been dead long enough or forgotten long enough to not tell it all...

"Mavis, how much lavender water is left in there?"

Lulabelle shouted into the open door that led to one of the "loving" rooms inside her special house.

"There's one bottle left," Ruth called out.

The young woman was nothing but string bean arms and toothpick legs, however, she was a favorite among the darker-skinned Black sharecroppers who admired her fair skin and limp shiny black hair. Even the high yella gals envied what Ruth could pull in because the men were willing to part with more money to fuck what was as close to a white woman as they would get.

Lulabelle knew clearly what a fetish was, so she used Ruth for the high income, but she also had Mavis, a crystal Black pearl with a dark hue so deep that negro soldiers from the military base lined up for hours waiting to part her dusky thighs to taste the sticky sweets within. There was someone for everybody at the house. Big women. Little scrawny women. Big Bodacious titties and itty-bitty mosquito bites. For the richly endowed there was Starla with a pussy so fat and deep that blues ballads were written for her. For the poorly imbued, there was Tweety Pie, a tiny woman with a small tight snatch that rivaled Starla in particular-sized fans.

For the men who didn't fawn over the womenfolk, there was Honey Boy, a twenty-something pretty little thing with bow lips, high cheekbones, and a fat ass that posed as a houseboy who brought fresh after-sex towels, water for the whore baths, and rubbers for the men who forgot to prepare for penetration. Honey Boy could dress like a pretty woman and serve clients fat wood if that was to a patron's liking. Lulabelle was surprised at how popular he was becoming on the low low, especially from the men in the military. Men with men had always been a reality, but Honey Boy was multidimensional. He could turn into a Butch boy from a chain gang, to a bullying Army sergeant to dominate and spread male ass cheeks that needed fat balls against balls. Or he could be a dainty femme movie star in a bra and heels with his hard dick swinging. Lulabelle kept a ready supply of costumes for him, more than the women. All the ladies needed were pretty underwear, strong garter belts, and lipstick. She kept quiet that she paid Honey Boy more than anyone else.

The second world war was putting money in her pockets. 1942 was a profitable war year for Lulabelle. Her pocketbook was fat with cash, and she could now afford real jewelry instead of the cheap costume fare she sported the last three years. She could even maintain a steady hot comb appointment at Mamie's Wash and Curl uptown. Her latest favorite style was imitating Joan Crawford's immaculate curls that she saw in the talkies at the Bijou theater. When she really wanted to look glamorous, she would have Mamie swoop up her thick hair on top of her head with a pinned curl on the front and an under curl in the back. The rich white women she saw in the new color catalogues wore their hair like that.

She wore her hair like that for that evening. It was a special night. The Harvest Moon was going up, and the men would be arriving in droves to drink, dance, and fuck.

He was coming too.

The Gullah man. That sly Geechie with the gold teeth.

Erik Stevens.

His arrival always coincided with some new moon every few months. She'd dress up extra special when she thought he was coming through. Her pussy was already twitching thinking about him.

"I'll have Honey Boy get you a fresh bottle," Lulabelle said patting the back of her hair.

It was hot already, and she worried that her hair wouldn't maintain until Erik saw it. Ruth stepped out of the room. The yellow silk camisole Lulabelle bought for her came to her thighs and had enough lace in the front to cover the baby bulge that was threatening to peek out. The girl got knocked up and none of the home remedies the cook Eva concocted worked in knocking the unwanted pregnancy out. Ruth could probably hide the truth for another month or so, but eventually she would have to go on convalescence and Lulabelle would have to rely on the other women to please the Ruth fans until the woman returned or left for a new life in the North. Until then, Ruth was about making her money and camouflaging the bump.

"Can you tell?" she asked.

Lulabelle squinted.

"These men will be too drunk to notice. Keep the garment on and don't worry about it."

Lulabelle checked in on the other ladies and all was well. Seven rooms, seven whores, seven sources of revenue on top of the juke joint next door. She peeked in on one of the mirrors inside a room and felt satisfied. Her beige dress hugged the curves of her big wide hips and large backside. Her heels made her short body have a little height. She needed a little more powder for her round nose, and the grease pencil she used for her eyes held the dark wings she gave herself.

"Eat your heart out, Joan," she muttered to herself.

She crossed the little wooden bridge that led to the juke joint making sure her crème bow top summer pumps didn't get dirty. Her name was painted in fading blue letters above the entrance. By Christmas she hoped to get a fancy electric sign that sparkled "Lula's". Honey Boy swept the porch entry and she could smell the grease being heated on the kitchen stove inside by Eva. There'd be fried chicken, black-eyed peas, collards with ham hocks, and plenty of buttermilk cornbread to sell with the ice cold Jax beer and corn liquor.

Her eyes scanned the lowering sun over the canopy of Tupelo trees. A loud shriek startled her and made Honey Boy stop sweeping.

"What was that?" Honey Boy asked.

His pressed hair was slicked back, and his copper brown skin was moist with sweat from the oppressive heat.

Lulabelle clutched at her chest. The sound came from deep in the woods. The darkness there shrouded any mysteries that lived within it.

"Sounded like something caught," she said.

The hairs on the back of her neck rose.

A memory.

Being a young teen girl with...

No. Don't think of her. That was the past.

Lulabelle pushed down on the terror in her throat and hid her shaking fingers in front of her dress.

"Probably some unlucky racoon ran across Old Man Rickers trap," she said.

"Yeah, you prolly right, Lulabelle. The man been hunting out there this week."

She heard the doubt in his tremulous voice. The lie hung in the air like dark sap on a dying tree between them.

"That sounded like death is on his way," Eva said.

The older plump woman opened the screen door of the juke joint while wiping down a plate.

"Don't say that, Eva. It's just an old coon, or a slow wild pig—"

The shriek pierced the air again.

"Lord have mercy," Eva said.

The older woman cradled the cheap gold-plated crucifix around her neck.

Rifle shots sounded in the distance and Lulabelle jumped, then smiled.

"See? Just some hunters putting some fresh meat down. Let's get ready for tonight, y'all."

Not one of them moved from the porch until Archie started tinkling on the piano keys inside the juke.

Pussy poppin' in the whorehouse, music jumping, bodies swaying, lips sucking down moonshine and dark beer, Lula's juke shook on its foundations. Dollar bills came in hand over fist as Lulabelle strolled around the property checking in with customers and hustling Eva to fry up more chicken plates. She rounded the corner of the makeshift stage shaking her hips to the hot sounds when her eyes slid to the entrance and saw Geechie Erik swagger in. Double-breasted gray suit with shiny silver buttons and matching cufflinks. Steel-blue silk tie, and black and gray woven Oxford shoes had the Geechie man draped. Lulabelle already knew he smelled like a million bucks even though she was standing nowhere near him. Erik took off his black fedora hat. He had kicked up the waves on his close-cropped hair, and his lightly bearded cheeks gave him a pronounced sophistication compared to all the clean-shaven military men taking up most of the space in the joint.

His eyes scanned the wide room and when they fell on her, her heart sang a minuet in his honor just to see those dimples in his cheeks. He strode toward her with long confident strides and when he circled his arm around her waist, she shivered at his touch.

"Lulabelle, Lulabelle. You get prettier every time I see you."

He gave her a wet sloppy kiss on her cheek, and she swooned. His scent was expensive leather, imported cologne, and Murray's hair pomade.

"Lemme get you a drink, Daddy," she purred.

"No, let me get you a drink. Stay right here."

He sauntered over to the big counter and within minutes he brought her back a small glass of whiskey to match his own. They toasted, tossed the liquor back, and he led her to an open table in the low-lit corner as bodies pressed together dancing around them. His thick lips were on her neck before she could gaze into his eyes, and his thicker fingers were already under her dress creeping over a seamed stocking, her garter belt, and the bottom of her girdlette. He inched closer to her core.

"Goodness gracious, you already hot down here," he whispered in her ear.

His finger swiped across Lulabelle's panties bringing her clit to life.

"Oh... there it is... my jewel," he crooned before he slid the garment aside and fingered her slit.

Erik had her sopping wet by the time the band switched tunes. Two of his warm fingers pumped in and out of her pussy, making her pant and writhe on her seat next to him.

"You gon' sweat my hair out already!" she yelped reaching for the back of her neck.

Erik flipped his digits over palm-side up and finger fucked her until a puddle of creamy juices flowed out onto her chair. Once her legs shook and she squirmed uncontrollably, he bolted up from his seat and grabbed her hand. His dick jutted out from his pants and he dragged through the side door that led to the wooden bridge and the loving house.

"Get the fuck out," he told a patron having his dick sucked in the first room they came to.

Tweety Pie was on her knees, her bright red lips puckered around a small light brown penis. Her eyes grew wide when she saw Erik and the rigid length straining against his zipper.

Erik whipped out his switchblade and flicked it open.

"Out!" he barked.

Tweety Pie scrambled from her knees and pulled her customer by his hand with his trousers dragging around his ankles to another room. Erik slammed the door shut on the gawking eyes of the other whores and pushed Lulabelle against a mahogany cabinet that held lingerie.

"Turn around."

The snarl in his voice made her spin and toot her big ass out toward him. He dragged the cool blade up against the bottom of her stockings until it dipped just under the hem of her dress. He yanked her dress up around her chest and the sharp blade skimmed across her black satin-covered ass cheek. With just a little more pressure he could break the skin on her fat rump through the material and make her bleed. Erik jerked the blade and sliced her panties off. She gasped and clutched at the smooth wood of the cabinet for balance. She heard his zipper peel down slowly and felt his hands fumble for a rubber.

"You miss Daddy?"

"Yes!"

He parted her folds before she could catch her breath. The fullness stretching her out made her shout his name and grit her teeth. Pumping into her slowly at first, he teased the hell out of her by pushing in deep, then pulling all the way out so that her pussy lips throbbed needing his dick back inside of her.

"I missed this pussy... so much... taking me so deep!"

His switchblade rested on the middle of her naked spine and tickled her skin purposely.

"Take this dress off!"

He helped her wiggle her arms out of it before unfastening her bra with his hands. Cradling her heavy breasts, he made her cheeks clap as his weapon clattered to the floor. His full concentration was on pleasing her body. Rough wide palms spread her ass cheeks wide as he grunted and pushed down on his thighs to hunch over her.

"Lula, shit... Lula..."

Erik gripped her hips and slammed into her before pulling out and lifting her up. He tossed Lula on the soft lumpy bed, undressed, and plunged back into her. The gold in his mouth glinted above her as he thrust harder and faster knocking the breath out of her body.

Her garter belts bunched up then stretched with her girdlette when he pushed her thighs back.

"Big legged girl... mmmm," he groaned.

He shoved his head down to her folds and sucked on her lower lips before spitting on them and sinking his girth back inside her walls.

"Daddy hittin' that bottom yet?"

"You in there... real deep, Daddy."

"Lemme get deeper..."

Her ankles met her earlobes and the heavy pressure from his dick made her cock-eyed a spilling gibberish from her mouth.

"Oh, Jesus!" she yelped when his fists rested on her sides and he bucked into her, slapping his balls against her ass.

Before he could press his mouth into her swollen pussy again to glisten his face, she clenched up around his dick and squeezed it with rhythmic pulses she had no control over.

"That's a good girl... let that pussy talk to Daddy's dick, Lula."

His eyes watched her contractions yank on his length, and when he finished talking her through her release with high praises and slow wet kisses, he pulled off the rubber and stroked himself against her clit. The silky curls of her pubic hairs were wet with her creamy orgasm and became even wetter when Erik splashed hot cum all over her vulva. His shouts of pleasure filled her with quiet confidence.

"That's it Daddy, cum all over your fat pussy."

He hissed when she said that, and his heated glare encouraged more of his release. A thick rope of semen painted her stomach, and he collapsed on top of her with hard ragged gasps.

"God, I wish I could be in this pussy every day, Lula."

"You could," she said stroking the waves on his hair.

He rolled over onto his back and stared at the ceiling with her.

"Not with the work I do. I try my best to get here when I can. But shit, baby. If I didn't get this pussy for free, I would pay a fortune for it."

She rolled on her side to look at him, happy that he thought of her like that. His eyes were still on the ceiling, but there was a frown on his face.

"She's in the room, y'know. Up there hiding in the corner."

"Don't say that, Erik. You know it scares me."

"If you did what I told you to do, she'd go away."

"As long as she don't start no foolishness around here, I can live with a ghost."

"Can you? Then how come you're scared?"

"She was my friend. I know she blames me for getting away and not her."

"A good coating of haint blue all around the doors would keep her out..."

"I can't. I can't do that to her. If she's just lingering as a ghost, it makes me feel like she can live a little."

"If you say so."

"Let's not talk about her."

His eyes were still focused on the ceiling, looking at Elizabeth, her childhood friend from so long ago. She couldn't see the dead teenager at all.

"She mad?" Lulabelle asked.

"She loves you. It's why she stays around... floating from room to room... following you."

Lulabelle pulled his chin toward her.

"Don't look. Please."

Erik slipped his tongue in her mouth. A knock at the door interrupted them.

"Lulabelle, sorry to disturb you and your Mister, but I need this room," Tweety Pie squeaked out.

"Give me a minute."

Lulabelle peeled the rubber from Erik's dick and tossed it inside some tissue and chucked it out of the window into a well-placed bucket outside.

"You ruined my panties," she scolded as she jumped up to rinse her privates and stomach in lavender water at a large basin sitting on a maple console table.

She dried her folds and fixed her bra back around her breasts.

"Don't need 'em, I'll be back inside of you soon enough," he said.

Pulling her dress back on, Lulabelle tried to fix her hair and make-up in a mirror.

"You look fine," he said zipping his pants.

Erik picked up his switchblade and opened the door.

Tweety Pie had a new man with her, a handsome young soldier with lust in his eyes.

"Pardon us," Erik said as he guided Lulabelle back to the juke joint.

Lulabelle sat on Erik's lap as he joked with some patrons and slammed back shots of moonshine. She fed him cornbread and pieces of chicken bites with her fingers, and occasionally she would bounce on his hardness that rested against her backside. He tortured her clit with occasional strokes under her dress, but he wouldn't let her cum. That would happen later when he was ready to plunder her pussy once more. Tradition held that he would fuck her at least four more times before he disappeared until the next new moon in the future. She sat on that hard meat all hot and bothered knowing he was going to be cruel by plucking at her bud and sticking his tongue in her ear all night. She watched him dance with a few women and flirt while she checked on her women out back and collected her money, stuffing it in her bra.

Erik was a little too handsy with a couple of fancy ladies and she had to check him. He'd become contentious then, argued with her until she argued him down threatening to cut his balls off if he cheated on her. If she pushed him, just a little too hard, his neck would move in a hostile way that put her in her place and made her drip down her thighs. He liked her mouthy and jealous, but not too jealous if he caught her rubbing her ass against some other patron to provoke him. He'd spank her hard and tell her about herself until she stopped being bratty and soothed his ego. That was his way every time he came to the juke. Arrogant. Loud. Threatening other men who got too close to her, then all seductive when he needed her loving once more.

When no one was looking, Erik unzipped his pants, pulled out his dick and slid her on top of it raw at their private table. Her dress covered the action, and he lifted her up and down.

"You bet not cum," he ordered with harsh breath.

"I won't, I promise," she insisted with clenched teeth.

She was snug on his dick, and the friction was too much to bear. She clutched onto his knees and leaned forward, dropping her weight on his thighs. The rhythm was perfect until a slender man as tall as a Tupelo crept over to their table and sat down. He didn't seem concerned that he was witnessing a woman getting fucked within an inch of her life in the midst of her own rowdy and lascivious establishment.

The man's face was long, and he had long teeth... and long fingers... and long legs... and a long tongue that lolled around in his mouth. He had skin the color of a soft sunset and one big eye in the center of his face. The music and dancing slowed all around her, and all she could see and hear was the long man with his long deep breaths.

"Lulabelle... Lulabelle..." the slender man said, and the voice that spoke her namesake was not pleasant and inviting like Erik's. It was sinister. Conniving. Filthy to her ears.

Erik thrust up into her walls, and she gasped. The slender man smiled with his long teeth, and his one big black eye blinked and Lulabelle fell forward and down into a vortex of hideous darkness until she landed on soft grass in front of the crossroads that led into the dark woods near her juke joint.

"Lulabelle, hurry up! If we don't go now, we'll chicken out!"

Elizabeth ran ahead of her. Dear sweet Elizabeth, eighteen and glowing with a gorgeous figure and good hair, and the good sense to know that Itta Bena was to be left behind. They were going to New York to become showgirls in Harlem, leaving all that country backwoods shit living behind. No sharecropping or cleaning after white folks for them. They were young. Beautiful. Full of life and ready to see the world. That meant crossing through the woods at the old dusty crossroad just as the sun was setting. The last train outta town was due in an hour. Going through the woods was the fastest route to a new life.

But then the slender man came. The Plat Eye. The Haint that haunted the trees and lingered in the darkness deep inside the woods.

Lulabelle, full of eighteen-year-old spunk, dropped her heavy suitcase and pulled Elizabeth back with a hard tug on her arm.

"Dontcha see him, girl?" Lulabelle shouted.

"Oh, he's just another traveler headed outta here too, pick up your suitcase-"

"It's the Plat Eye. You don't see its face. The one eye? The long teeth?"

"You so silly girl! Look at him... just a man tryna run like us."

"No!"

Elizabeth dropped her suitcase and stood with arms all akimbo.

"If you don't wanna go, then say that, Lulabelle."

"You don't see that monster right there?!" she shrieked, and it startled Elizabeth.

The Plat Eye smirked.

"Fine, stay here then you big baby. Hey, Mister, wait up!"

"Elizabeth!"

An arm grabbed Lulabelle's elbow stopping her from running after her friend.

"Don't move, gal."

The voice didn't have Mississippi in it. It was low country and slower than cold molasses. South Carolina lived in it.

"She done made her choice and if you move one inch, I can't protect you."

Lulabelle didn't turn to look at the stranger. His words were wise, and she did as she was told.

"Elizabeth! Come back!"

"It's too late, Lulabelle."

"How you know my name?"

"I've seen you 'round here before with your friend."

She tried to turn around, but firm hands held her shoulders in place.

"Don't hurt me, Mister."

"Nah, I wouldn't do nothin' like that."

The Plat Eye grew taller almost reaching the height of the nearest tree.

"She can't see what it is?"

"She see what she wanna see."

The thing that was as tall as a Tupelo bent down and opened its tall mouth and Elizabeth stepped into the dark maw...

Lulabelle gasped and her thighs sensed the strong muscles of Erik's legs holding her up once more. He fucked her still, hitting her walls harder. His hands gripped her breasts as he grunted and rolled her nipples with agile fingers. The slender man of her past smiled, his greasy lips splitting wide as he was long. That single eye a tainted monstrosity to behold on its face.

The juke joint partied on, and men filed out through the side door to pay their money for an extra good time with her girls. The Plat Eye reached out for Lulabelle's arm and Erik slammed his switchblade down on the table.

"Nah, haint. This one here belongs to me."

The Plat Eye blinked that Cyclops eye in shock and its mouth fell open.

"Should've known you'd be around here," The Plat Eye grumbled sitting back in his chair.

A clammy wetness dampened Lulabelle's neck. Memory boomeranged back into her chest. The low country voice. The strong hands that held her waist so that he could rut into her pussy.

Lulabelle turned her head and the glint from Erik's gold teeth became a glowing source of ethereal light. The full lips and bright white teeth still looked human but the reverb of hidden power sat under the guttural rasp of his voice.

The man from the Crossroads.

The one who stopped her from entering the throat of the Plat Eye and turning into a floating haint that lived in the ceiling like Elizabeth.

The Geechee Man.

"Ya don't play fair," The Plat Eye grumbled again.

"And?" Erik said.

Erik's firm hands skated up her sides and rested on her shoulders. Lulabelle's pussy squelched on his dick all rude and loud. Plat Eye licked his fleshy lips.

"This here the one I wanted. Not that other one—"

Lulabelle snatched up Erik's switchblade and jumped up from his lap. Her pussy throbbed from being removed from his erection. She held the open switchblade against his throat. Why couldn't anyone else in her juke joint see or hear what was happening?

She knew the stories. All kinds of frightening things could be met at a crossroads. And if the Crossroads Man himself showed up—

"Put that down, Lula. It's not a toy to be played with," Erik said zipping up his pants.

The Plat Eye leaned forward and shot his arm out to grab her, but Erik was quicker. He snatched the switchblade back faster from her grip than she could blink, and he slashed the creature's arm. Black festering ooze seeped from the wound and sizzled as it splashed on the table burning holes through the wood.

"Give her to me," the Plat Eye demanded.

Erik stood up and straightened his tie.

"Nigga you ain't getting shit but an ass kicking if you keep playing with me. I told you already. This one is mine. Get on about yourself before I send you on your way to a very bad place."

"There are rules!"

The Plat Eye leapt to his feet and towered over Erik. Not by much though.

"I make the rules," Erik said.

An arrogant chuckle tumbled out of the Plat Eye's mouth. He gripped the lapels of his suit and blinked that one beastly eye. His open wound continued to drip ruining her good table.

"My man," The Plat Eye said and held up his long fingers to placate Erik.

The creature slid out from the juke joint with no one the wiser. Erik turned to face her and Lulabelle jumped away from him.

"Stay back!"

"Lula... c'mon, baby. I've been coming to you ever since you opened this place. Have I ever harmed you once?"

"No."

"I just give you good lovin' when I can."

"That's why you can't be with me all the time?"

He nodded.

"I guard the way, and I open it up. Everywhere."

Lulabelle ran to the bar and made Eva pour her the biggest glass of moonshine possible. She gulped it down. Erik sauntered over to her.

"Don't be scared of me, Lula."

"What are you... really?"

"Your man."

"You ain't no man."

"I'm no demon if that's what you're worried about."

"God forbid if I'd been fucking the devil."

"I'm no devil, girl. Far from it."

He stroked her face.

"Let's go to the back. I need you... right now."

His voice made her insides tingle. This was their time. But how could she go back and make love to... to a what? Spirit? Guardian angel? Supernatural being?

He never did hurt her. And never once did she suspect that he wasn't anything other than a switchblade carrying Geechie that made her backbone slip.

"Are there others?" she asked, "Others like you around here?"

"Always. But you don't have to worry about nothin'. You got me. No one fucks with me.'

"How come you didn't save Elizabeth?"

"She didn't want to be saved."

"But I loved her. She was my best friend. Why would she leave me?"

"She's still here. She'll never leave until you chase her on."

"Is she happy?"

"Like I told you, she loves you. If you're happy, she's happy."

"God won't punish me for being with you, will he?"

"She won't. I promise."

"What about me selling pussy and a little dick?"

"Not even on her mind."

Lulabelle smiled.

Erik slinked over to her and rubbed his big body against hers and nudged his bearded face against her soft cheek.

"How many women have you seduced over the years?"

"You my favorite."

"That didn't answer my question.," she said putting a hand on her hip.

"You wanna argue or get some more dick, gal?"

Lulabelle checked the room. Her patrons were happy and not having a care in the world. Eva cooked more food, Honey Boy kept the girls refreshed in their loving rooms, and the Harvest moon spilled in through the window behind the juke band.

Moonlight bathed Erik's face and he slid his hand under her dress again.

"Daddy needs to take care of you... oh see now, my sweet jewel is all plump again."

He removed his hand and licked his fingers sticky with her essence. She rubbed on his crotch and he gifted her with a hard bulge. His eyes drifted up to the ceiling.

"Elizabeth wants you to get all this," he said grinding against her.

"Can you tell her that I miss her? That I love her?"

"She already knows."

Erik lifted her up and carried her across the rickety bridge and back to the soft lumpy bed.

That's their story, and I ain't tellin' it twice. Lula and her Geechee Man played nice for a long, long time. I keep watch and makes sure that stays true. Until we meet again on the next new moon...

Part 2 "There's Some Whores in This House" HERE.

A.N:

This was a birthday story I wrote for @soufcakmistress back in 2021.

#Ice Cold Jax #killmonger fanfiction #Killmonger AU Fanfiction #Killmonger Smut #Black Panther AU #Erik Stevens AU #Black Supernatural #Uzumaki Rebellion #Black American Folktale

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mothandpidgeon · 8 months ago

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Nine Lives (witch's familiar!Ezra x witch!f!reader) - Part 2

Moth's Masterlist // follow @mothandpidgeon-updates and turn on notifications to stay updated with my fics!

SERIES MASTERLIST

pairing: witch's familiar!Ezra x witch!f!reader

rating: T (evenual E) MDNI

summary: As you came into your powers and your curves filled in, Ezra realized he feelings for you were more than just affection. The only problem? He's a 300 year old cursed witch. Oh, and he's a cat.

contents: age gap (like 300 years), alcohol, jealousy, angst, slow burn, yearning, probably anachronistic witchy stuff, love triangle (quadrangle?), Ezra is a cat, he won't be forever, this isnt a beastiality thing, moth never uses y/n.

wc: 3.4k

a/n: Thank you to everyone that read part 1!! I'm so pleased that you're enjoying it so far! I really would've liked to let this part simmer a little longer but I'm holding myself to this publishing schedule. It's time to yeet this into the world. I'd love to know what you think. Your comments and reblogs give me so much joy!

Thank you @lowlights for the beta and help with witchy stuff. Thank you @moonlitbirdie @schnarfer and @whocaresstillthelouvre for listening to me bitch about this and supporting me always.

“Don’t you look nice,” Aunt Margot says.

You’re putting the finishing touches on your make up in the Page’s office. Usually you’d go back upstairs but you don’t feel like hearing it from Ezra.

“Thanks. I have a date,” you say, packing your mascara in your purse.

“Oh,” she replies, not hiding her disappointment in the slightest.

You hadn’t intended to see Connor again but when he texted you, you couldn’t think of a good reason not to. He invited you to his place to check out his vinyl collection which sounds like an insufferable version of Netflix and Chill but you have no plans to listen to a single record. You just want to fuck in his bed and avoid any drama with Ezra.

“Well I hope you’ll put as much effort in for the equinox,” she says. She flips the sign in the door from open to closed then snaps her fingers to turn off the overhead lights.

You and Margot host the coven for the equinox each year which already means extra preparations in addition to work at the bookshop.

“Why would I do that?” you ask. You don’t wear make up for moon rituals, don’t wear much of anything at all.

“Esme is bringing River,” she says with a casual shrug.

“No” you groan.

“He’s visiting from Ireland,” she tells you.

The last time you saw Esme’s grandson you were both in high school. River was built like a string bean, his upper lip dusted with the saddest mustache— if you could even call it that. He reeked of some badly brewed potion that was supposed to attract lovers. You still gagged when you smelled licorice root.

“Good for him,” you say. “Please do not set me up with River.”

“I’m not a matchmaker, dear. I’m just trying to expand your sexual horizons,” Margot replies.

Suddenly, Connor’s vinyls don’t sound so bad after all.

—

Ezra pads through crystals and altar bells. Everything’s been laid out on Aunt Margot’s paisley scarves— scrying bowls and athame blades and jars of rain water all waiting to be charged by the moon of the autumn equinox.

It’s just after midnight and the witches of your coven are gathered in a small clearing far enough into the woods that stray mortals won’t stumble upon them. The air smells fresh and cold like mountain spring water. A bonfire crackles, layered with herbs and pine needles.

The waning moon feels heavy and close like it might just fall out of the sky and nick Ezra’s ear. It makes him feel uneasy. Then again, it’s hard to enjoy these rituals when he can’t participate the way he once did.

Ezra watches you offer mulled wine to Esme and River, steaming cups scented with cinnamon balanced on an antique silver tray. You look beautiful in your simple white dress. It glows in the moonlight and he can see your body silhouetted beneath the fabric of its long skirt by the fire.

He’s never cared much for Esme but, then again, he doesn’t have many kind words for any of the Elders even if the ones that cursed him are long dead. Even if he deserved that curse. She wears her long hair coiled on top of her head, a jade hair pin perched in its nest the same way her familiar, a tired old owl, watches from the branch of one of the trees.

Ezra’s attention isn’t with Esme tonight. He’s keeping a close eye on her grandson.

“He totally sucks. Please don’t leave me alone with him,” you’d implored.

Ezra would be wary of him whether or not you’d asked. River is nothing like how you’ve remembered him to Ezra. He must’ve done a lot of growing up since your last encounter. Tall and lean with thick waves of auburn hair. He’s the kind of witch that even Ezra would have taken to bed when he was human.

He sees the way River looks at you, watches him turn the charm on as he smiles. River’s eyes travel down your body and Ezra knows exactly what he sees. Waves of hot jealousy consume Ezra from nose to tail. For a moment, he worries he’ll get another thousand years added on to his sentence.

After some small talk, Esme wanders away and that's Ezra’s cue. He slinks up between you and River, rubbing up against your legs to let you know he’s ready to bail you out.

River swallows his drink with a chuckle.

“That tastes just how I remember it. Me and Moss used to sneak glasses of Ariadne’s mulled wine when we were thirteen,” he explains.

“Me too. Although I’m pretty sure Margot knew,” you say with a laugh.

“Little mage, you asked me to fetch you when the oils were ready,” Ezra says.

“Oh,” you say, throwing a self conscious smile at River. “I’ll go in a minute, Ez.”

“Margot could use your assistance,” Ezra adds.

“Why don’t you go help her and I’ll be there soon,” you suggest.

Ezra can’t help but glare up at River.

“Would that I had opposable thumbs,” he responds.

You laugh. River doesn’t. You crouch down and glide your hand down Ezra’s spine.

“It’s okay, Ez. I’m good,” you tell him and you wink at him.

His blood turns molten as you turn back to River and continue your conversation. He wants to hiss and claw at him, draw blood. It feels like you’re slipping through his fingers not that he ever held a claim. Not that he even has fingers anymore. He’s completely powerless, standing at your feet like the dumb animal he is.

Rather than watch you moony over River, Ezra turns away and slinks off to the edge of the gathering to sulk. The fire’s warmth doesn’t quite reach and he presses back his ears to stave off autumn’s chill. He can’t run off into the woods the way he’d like to, not without raising questions from the other witches, make you look like you can’t control your familiar.

He can’t stop his eyes from wandering back to you. Your head thrown back in laughter, your hand on River’s forearm. Each moment of your joy is like a knife in his heart.

Ezra’s eventually relegated to the circle where the familiars commiserate. River’s is a jet black bird named Rhea who turns her beak up at him. He’s not one of them, not really. He was human himself with a familiar of his own but that’s not the only reason why they scorn him. They all know that he’s the worst kind of witch.

There are many reasons why a witch might be turned into a cat but there’s only one crime that was punished with 1000 years— murder. And not just any murder. Ezra desecrated the life of another witch and, no matter how loyally he serves you, he’ll always have that stain.

The rituals are done, the chanting. The embers from the fire float up through the trees towards the fat moon. Then the dancing begins. It’s erratic and joyful, Ezra can remember the ecstasy of it in his bones. Esme lets down her white hair and one by one the witches disrobe.

He hears your laughter as you spin, shoulders shrugging with the pulse of the magic that swirls around the bonfire.

He knows he shouldn’t look at you like that. Not you. Not here. You’re not putting on a show, you’re doing your magic. But the way your body moves against the glow of the fire is its own enchantment. He could worship you like the moon.

The spell is broken just as quickly. River’s right beside you, bare skin radiant, muscles rippling with his own rhythm. His fingers tangle with yours and Ezra feels acid in his throat.

The whole night becomes an assault on his senses. The sound of chanting rises, the old words frantic and savage. Amber and patchouli mix with the woodsmoke to choke him. Grotesque shadows fall over the faces of the witches like a carnival of horrors. And then there’s you— incandescent and naked and whispering something in River’s ear that has him grinning. Ezra’s hair stands on end.

“Come dance with me!” you giggle as you leave the circle of merriment. Your teeth are stained purple, drunk on wine and magic.

“I’m quite content here,” Ezra lies.

“Are you having fun?” You ask but you don’t wait for his answer. “River is…wow. He did not look like that when we were kids.”

You pick Ezra up and whirl around in a circle. He smells the incense of your skin, the alcohol on your breath.

“You’re going to get your wish. I’m finally going to fuck a proper witch!” you say.

You toss Ezra in the air and catch him. The bile has come so far up his throat it’s an absolutely nauseating sensation.

“Enough!” Ezra hisses. He swats at you with his claws bared.

You yelp and drop him. Before he even hits the ground, he feels it— a searing hot pain that makes his back arch. You’re defending yourself with your powers like a reflex. He lets out a yowl and just as quickly it passes.

Ezra staggers and looks up to find you with tears in your eyes. He’s never seen you looking so hurt, betrayed. Your jaw quivers. Ezra landed on his feet but he feels upside down. He’s realizing what he’s just done, that he tried to hurt you because he’s pathetic. Jealous.

“Ez,” you say, your voice strangled.

Like a coward, he takes off, ignoring you as you call after him.

—

It’s the sound of the cat flap that wakes you sometime after sunrise. You’re sprawled out on your bed, head aching, eyes swollen. You’re still wearing your white dress, you threw it on before going after Ezra but it was no use. He was as black as the shadows in the forest and had slipped away under some bushes.

You abandoned the equinox celebration and went home in hopes he’d be there. You waited. Alone with your guilt and anxiety.

I’m sorry. Please come home. You were never very good at telepathy but you tried to reach out to him with your thoughts.

The sound that he made echoed through your mind as you paced the floor. Strangled, terrified. You tried to stop yourself from picturing him out there in the dark shaking with pain.

You hadn’t meant to hurt him. It was involuntary. As soon as his claw grazed your skin, your powers flared. Maybe if you hadn’t been drunk you could’ve controlled it. It happened so quickly you still can’t be sure of how strong it hit him.

Even if it was just a momentary shock, you saw just how much damage that moment did. His hair standing on end, his tail rod straight. But what really crushed you was the look in his eye.

Suddenly you were just as horrible as every other witch that he’d served. You’d used your powers to punish him, to harm him. Every promise you’d ever made to him had broken in that instant.

You see Ezra’s slim form dart to your doorway. In a flash, he slips under the bed and your heart sinks into your ankles.

“Ez,” you say, your voice ragged from the night’s festivities.

He doesn’t answer. You press your eyes shut and swallow hard then crawl to the edge of your mattress. Your stomach lurches as you look over the edge. On top of everything else there’s a hangover churning in your gut. You guess you deserve that, too.

“Ezra, are you ok?” you ask. Whatever words of atonement you pieced together before you cried yourself to sleep have dissolved.

He’s in the furthest corner beneath the bed, tucked against the wall with his tail wrapped tight around his body. You think you might burst into tears again seeing him cowering away from you.

“I hope I didn’t make you fret,” he says.

You want to scoop him into your arms and hold him as tight as you can but it feels like you’ve lost that privilege.

“I’m so sorry, Ez,” you say, climbing down to the floor. “I shouldn’t have done that. I'm sick over it.”

“You were well within your rights. You’re my master and I struck you,” he says. “I’m the one that should beg forgiveness.”

To hear him call you his master makes you feel even worse than before. There’s no amount of tuna belly that will make this right.

“No. It was my fault. And I promise I’ll never use my powers on you again. Ever,” you say.

His gold eyes shift away.

“Keep your apologies,” he says. “And I see I’ve kept you from your new paramour. Another act to add to my contrition.”

“I don’t care about that.” If you hadn’t been so caught up in the prospect of taking River to bed, none of this would’ve happened.

“Nonsense, little mage. You’re a witch. Be with other witches,” Ezra says.

–

River’s in the bookshop when you arrive, standing opposite Aunt Margot. When you couldn’t convince Ezra to come out from under the bed, you decided to give him space. Maybe you could distract yourself re-alphabetizing the cookbooks. You were hoping for some quiet but you’re confronted by the very attractive witch you’d been flirting shamelessly with the night before.

You know you look a mess, your face still feels puffy. River, on the other hand, looks like the definition of a sight for sore eyes. Freshly showered and dressed in a well pressed shirt that’s rolled up to the elbows, the sun is streaming in the front window outlining his still-damp hair like he’s Prince Charming himself.

“There you are!” Margot calls.

You smooth your hand across your top nervously as she appraises you. You threw on a more than slightly wrinkled shirt that was languishing on the floor of your bedroom, too preoccupied to put together a real outfit.

“Looks like we had too much of Ariadne’s little potion,” she says.

“I have a tonic that’s great for that,” River says with a smile. “But coffee’s faster.”

He hands you a steaming paper cup from the cafe down the street. He and Margot have their own perched on the counter. You take a sip and are surprised to find that it’s your regular order.

”Are you clairvoyant, too?” You ask.

River blushes. “Nah. Margot told me how you take your coffee,” he chuckles.

It's so thoughtful and you’re not feeling very deserving. You swallow down a lump in your throat.

“I wanted to go foraging around here but I really need a local,” he says.

“That sounds fun,” you say half heartedly in an attempt to demure. You’re not really up for a good time but it feels like a real asshole move to turn River down considering he brought you coffee after you ditched him at the bonfire. Margot is beaming at the register.

“Doesn’t it?” she asks. “Why don’t I get you a basket?”

—

River carries the basket now overflowing with mushrooms and wild herbs. You’re deep in the woods, branches crunching beneath your shoes. Nature’s sounds echo around you, starlings and chipmunks, the constant whoosh of the breeze through the turning leaves.

This path is overgrown but you know it well. You spent your childhood getting lost in these woods. They have their own magic.

Your guilt overshadows the date. If it is a date. River seems to think it is if the way the back of his hand keeps brushing against yours is any sign. It’s hard to enjoy it especially when your mind keeps drifting off. He doesn’t seem to notice that you’re only half-listening as he tells you just how mystical the vibes are at Stonehenge.

You stop at a stream, sitting on a fallen tree that’s overgrown with moss. It’s one of your favorite spots. The water sparkles where the sunlight spills though the branches, peacefully trickling over rocks. You pick up one of the smooth stones and trace its wet surface with your thumb.

You’ve sat in this very spot before feeling just as shitty. Heartbroken then, too, trying to figure out if you could call it a break up when you hadn’t actually been anything official. She hadn’t wanted anything complicated and you swore your feelings wouldn’t get involved. Unfortunately they had their own plans.

Ezra found you there, sulking by the stream, wondering if anyone would think you were worth breaking their own rules for.

It struck you how quiet he was. There were no anecdotes about what the witch scene was like in 1924 or tips for mouse hunting, indoor versus outdoor. He just padded into the water and nudged a little stone towards your feet. It was just big enough to fit in your palm and it was cool against your skin as you held it there.

“A thing of beauty,” he said and he head butted your shins affectionately.

It was. Round from years, maybe decades under the water’s friction. A dull gray cut through the middle by a wedge of some crystalline mineral like shards of broken glass. You recall exactly what it looks like because it still sits on your night stand. Each time you see it you’re reminded of how Ezra slumped down beside you, his warm body weight like a cozy blanket, a faint purr reverberating through him.

“You’ve got a big heart, little mage,” he said.

You choke up at the memory, unsure if Ezra would ever think that again. You certainly wouldn’t say it about yourself today.

“Either you’re really hungover or something’s bothering you,” River says gently.

You laugh tearfully and he rubs a circle on your back. You try to shake your head but River doesn’t give it up, looking at you with a soft concern.

“I really fucked things up with Ezra last night,” you admit. Telling him what a cruel witch you are might be a huge turn off but the feeling of his palm through your shirt makes you feel at ease.

“Ezra?” he asks.

“My familiar,” you remind him.

“Oh.”

“He scratched me and —”

“He hurt you?” he asks, face painted with righteous indignation.

“No. He barely got me. I totally overreacted,” you say. “I used my powers on him. It was just a reflex, you know? But…I just feel awful.”

“Don’t beat yourself up,” he tells you with a relieved chuckle. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

If that’s true then why do you hate yourself?

“If Rhea was out of line I’d do the same,” he goes on.

You wince at the thought.

“You’d hurt her?” you ask.

He shrugs. “I’ve never had to. She knows who’s boss.”

You’ve always considered Ezra a partner. Of course, there are plenty of witches that think of their familiars as nothing more than servants. It’s an old school way of seeing it. You hadn’t expected River to use words that remind you of the way your grandmother used to talk.

“Maybe it’s different,” you say, trying to give him the opportunity to walk it back. Ezra’s not like Rhea. Maybe you’d feel the same way River does if your familiar hadn’t once been as human as you are. Still, it doesn’t feel right.

“You’re a funny little witch,” he says with a grin.

“What does that mean?” you ask.

“Crying over your familiar. It’s sweet.” He says it as if it’s a compliment but the condescension makes you frown in disgust.

“If you want to make it up to him, why don’t you find him a lady cat that can make him feel good,” he adds with a laugh.

“Is that what you’re into?” you ask with venom.

“What? That was a joke,” River says.

“I don’t think it’s funny. You know, just because Ezra’s a familiar, it doesn’t mean he should be treated like shit. And he’s not a cat. He’s a human,” you tell him.

“He’s a witch killer,” River spits back. “So I’m sorry if I don’t have a lot of sympathy for him.”

Your stomach turns. It’s the truth. Ezra’s served as a familiar in your family for centuries, his history has never been hidden from you and he’s never shied away from it.

But his punishment has never made sense to you. A thousand years, so many lifetimes, watching his friends and family die as he toiled in servitude for witches as backwards as River. It’s cruel, that’s why the Elders changed the laws years ago. And yet Ezra’s remained a cat, a familiar, disdained.

Suddenly, the anger you’ve been tormenting yourself with turns outwards and you think your powers could set fire to the dry leaves at your feet. It’s all so unfair. The Elders turned him and witches like River scorn him and none of them feel a lick of shame. The back of your neck heats with a protective rage.

“He’s my friend,” you choke. “And you’re a fucking asshole.”

And you leave River speechless in the middle of the woods.

🐈‍⬛

Part 3

Thanks for reading! Comments and reblogs appreciated! My inbox is always open.

#ezra prospect #ezra x f!reader #witchy #ezra prospect x f!reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fic #ezra x witch!reader #halloween

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wrongbodies · 3 months ago

Text

The Mindweft

Intro: The Mindweft is a bit of a darling creation of mine. If you look at Choose Your Own Change's website, you can find my original stories there. It's an idea I have been cooking for a while, and I'd like to try making a fresh new story here. Weft refers to, when using a loom, the criss-crossing of threads. I am hopeful that you will see why I call it "The Mindweft."

Friday nights among Martin's friends were often spent playing Super Smash Bro's or Mario Kart. Despite the range of personalities among the four, they all preferred to hang out and geek out rather than get stupid drunk at some sweaty frat party.

Occasionally, Leo would join his soccer team friends for some late night hijinks, but he was more reserved than most of those boys. He was content to hang out and then hook up with a random girl after 1am. Martin recognized that Leo was a beautiful man, so he fully understood how he could pull such attention.

Martin's other friends, Kevin and Billy were also unique enough that it might seem strange of a friend group to be so eclectic. Kevin, his stocky but strong friend, had become a gymrat back in high school and was ripped. He was short, sure, but his muscles attested to the devotion he gave to working out.

Billy on the other hand was a string bean, tall and gangly. He was also a brilliant musician, always willing to bust out an instrument to play something or other. He was chill though, in that he didn't try to steal all the attention with his music skills.

And then there is Martin, the fairly average guy who was openly gay - but very unlucky with dates or hookups. He tried, he just doesn't have much charisma. His friends tried to "gas him up" but it wasn't effective. He had made a fool of himself a few too many times now at the school.

So, things were typical for the friend group around 11pm that night in Martin's room. They sat around playing the video game, and generally cracking jokes amongst themselves, eating junk food, and drinking the cheapest beer they could get their hands on. All seemed fine until a knocking came on the door of the cramped dorm room.

Martin got up and answered the door, puzzled who could be knocking. It wasn't too loud, so it couldn't be the RA, he thought. Well, sure enough just outside the room stood Gray. Martin froze his face, not wanting to give away his general disdain for Gray.

Gray stood before him, his acne-crusted face, dorky glasses, and bizarre mish-mash of clothing screaming "ultra dork." His hair was short, but somehow still discernibly greasy. Even his glasses were smudged with grease.

"Hi Martin! What are you guys up to?" He asked, nasally voice grating on Martin's ears.

"Oh, um - we are just having a little friend kickback in here." Martin said.

"Cool! I love Smash!" Gray said, somehow slipping under and past Martin's arms as he tried to keep Gray out. When Martin turned, he saw his friends giving him a distinctive look. Yeah... he was sure they were annoyed Gray was here. They were polite to him, because clearly he had a lack of social skills. He also clearly lacked much self-awareness.

The group begrudgingly let him join their game. He was terrible, but he nonetheless was loud and boisterous. Even if they got into it a little bit, enjoying the games, he had a natural ability to make it weird for them.

After an hour, the vibe was shifting and Martin could tell his friends were interested in leaving. Gray on the other hand stopped the game and looked around. He seemed to be working himself up to something.

"Have you guys ever heard of the Mindweft?" He asked. Voice taking on a somewhat mysterious tone.

"The mind-what?" Kevin asked.

"The Mindweft." Gray restated.

"No, I can't say I've ever heard of it." Martin added.

The rest of the friends nodded in agreement, mumbling their negative answers.

"Well, it's the coolest thing ever. I can show you if you want?" Gray asked.

"Wait, what even is it?" Leo inquired.

"Ok, you know how like dreaming is sometimes so real, like lucid dreaming?" Gray explained, looking around. "The Mindweft is like a lucid dream, but we all are together and conscious in the same dream."

"Is this metaphorical? Or can you actually gather us into a dream? How do we even get there?" Billy asked.

"We have to meditate together. I can lead us into the Mindweft." Gray gestured, laying down.

"What are you doing?" Martin asked.

"We have to lay so our heads are near each others. Then I will help us into the Mindweft." Gray explained.

The guys rolled their eyes and grumbled, but they decided to humor Gray. Soon, all of them were laying in a strange circle with their heads nearly pressed against one another. As soon as the last person was in place, Gray started saying some strange things. Words that Martin or the others didn't recognize.

After a while of the chanting, everyone felt their eyelids getting heavy. They were each drifting off into sleep, and the sensation was soothing. And then, their eyes fully closed, and Gray slipped into the Mindweft a moment after them.

When the group came to, they saw before and all around them the strangest sight of ever. They stood in a void, with glowing strands all around. They saw each other, looking much the same as they did in the waking world. Gray appeared next to them, already grinning like he won something.

"Wow, I thought you were just fucking with us..." Leo said, softly.

"I wouldn't! Welcome to the Mindweft." Gray stated, grandly sweeping his arm towards the void.

"So, what do we do?" Martin asked.

"Well, we can view other peoples dreams, mostly. But... there was something more interesting that I learned about." Gray said, an unpleasant smile spreading across his face.

"Ok... what is that?" Martin asked, skeeved out.

"Well, when you want to leave the Mindweft, you conjure up a door. That door leads to your mind. Try it with me." He concentrated, and behind Gray appeared a door. It was unique, splattered with paint and a little crusty around the face of the door.

The rest of the guys focused, and sure enough, doors materialized behind each of them. Each door was unique to the individual. They even featured their names on them.

"Ok, now that we see the doors, here is the interesting thing." Gray said, clearly antsy to get to the next part.

"When we walk through our own door, we just wake up in our body. However, if you walk through someone elses door... you become them!"

Kevin looked skeptical. "So you mean if I step through Billy's door, I will wake up in his body? What happens to mind?"

"Well, someone else would slip into yours, of course!" Gray said, excitedly.

"Do we even want to do that?" Kevin asked.

"I mean, it does sound kinda interesting." Billy admitted.

"I wouldn't mind a change." Leo said, looking at Billy and Kevin a little too closely.

"I guess..." Kevin huffed.

"So it's decided!" Gray announced. "Each of us will step through another's door."

Martin grimaced, but nodded. "Who is swapping with who?"

"I want to swap with Billy." Leo said. The two exchanged a weird look.

"Well, I want to be Leo." Kevin said. He looked at the other two.

"I guess I could be Kevin." Billy said.

"Ooooh, a 3 way swap. I like it." Gray said. "That leaves me and Martin."

Martin died inside, he was sure. He barely tolerated Grays presence, let alone being inside his body. He was just going along with it, but he didn't have to like it.

"Ok, go ahead and go through the doors." Gray commanded. He strode right over to Martin's, and opened it. He didn't even look back as he vanished into a darkness behind the threshold, and then the door dematerialized.

"I guess I'm doing this." Martin said to himself. He walked up and threw open Grays door. He took a few steps in and then was waking up, still lying on the floor of his dorm room.

The room was aflutter, as each guy sat up and immediately realized their body was completely different. Martin confirmed his own swap when he patted down his torso, feeling the scrawny chest of Grays weak body. He started to feel his face, the grease undeniable across his cheeks.

"Wow!" Gray shouted, looking down his pants, or rather - down Martin's pants. "Nice cock, Martin!"

"What the fuck dude, don't do that!" Martin snapped.

"Hey, I'm just getting acquainted with my new machinery." Gray said too awkwardly. He smiled, but his smile didn't look like Martin's did, it was crooked somehow and insincere.

The other boys were all laughing amongst themselves as they felt their bodies up. Martin, on the other hand, stood awkwardly by the door. He was rapidly getting a bad feeling about this.

To be continued...

#bodyswap #malebodyswap #maletransformation #body switch #male body swap #body swap #gay

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