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strang3lov3 · 6 months

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Chevelle

Summary- (joel miller x virgin!reader) Joel figures out that you’re the one who hit his baby, his precious 1964 Chevrolet Chevelle. He needs you to make it right, but he doesn’t want your money ❤️‍🔥🍆 (5k words)

Tags- MDNI hot girls can’t drive, implied age gap, virgin!reader, we're calling him tender dark!joel, soft!dom joel, tender dubcon (power imbalance, joel solicits sex from reader, no explicit consent but reader is into it) reader has a luscious bush, Joel walks you through handjobs, blowjobs, fingering, oral, unprotected piv, creampie, come eating, loss of virginity. Joel is clothed and reader is not.

A/N- Writing this is how I spent my spring break. Hope you love it 🩵 Thank you @noxturnalpascal for all of your help editing and your encouragement.

Based on mine and @beefrobeefcal shared prompt where we asked, "What would happen if reader damaged Joel’s vehicle?” Her fic is here and it’s one of my favorite things I’ve read!! Kiki has such a beautiful voice in her writing and I love all the details she adds to her fics.

Pawn shop by @toxicanonymity came to mind when I wrote this story and was a source of inspiration. Also worth a read, I have nothing but love for Tox’s writing 🩷

It’s late when you get off your shift at Tony’s, the shitty Italian restaurant you’ve been working at for far too long. It doesn’t pay much and you’ve considered working a new job to save up and move out of your brother’s house, but you’ve been putting that idea off for a variety of reasons. One of them being Joel.

Joel’s your neighbor, a sexy, older man you’ve got a certain fondness for. His hair used to be more brown but it’s grayer now, same with the scruff on his face. He’s got sparkling, chocolatey eyes and a sharp nose set above a thick, downturned mustache. He always looks a little dirty when you see him, with dirt caked into his forehead wrinkles and grease smeared along his temple or his jaw. He’s always either fresh off a contracting job or working on his car. He’s got this cute little Chevy he spends his nights and weekends with, a 1964 Chevrolet Chevelle, baby blue.

Joel was one of the first people to welcome you to the neighborhood and even helped you move your stuff into your brother’s house, though helping you implies he let you do any work. Joel offered you a pop from his fridge and then took over entirely, putting both himself and your brother to work moving all of your stuff in. You didn’t lift a finger that day.

You can’t seem to pull your eyes from the little green glowing letters on your dash, watching letters and numbers on the screen roll on by. 12:37 A.M. 101.9. Paper Bag - Fiona Apple. You’re so out of it. You yawn and blink a couple of times, focusing back on the narrow roads of your neighborhood. It’s so poorly lit over here, and it doesn’t help that one of your headlights is out. Joel’s been bugging you to let him fix that, he says it’ll only take five minutes.

You turn onto your street and bam. You’re wide awake now. You just hit something.

You hit Joel’s car. Joel’s fucking car. What the fuck is it doing on the street? He always has it safely kept in his garage. Oh dear god, the panic is setting in. This is Joel’s baby. You just hit his baby, his pride and joy.

You can’t even bring yourself to assess the damage you’ve inflicted upon his dear Chevy. Probably dented to shit, but you don’t really wanna know. Instead, you just pull your foot off the brake, press your remote control garage door opener, then pull into your garage as you press your lips together tightly. You’re surprised and relieved to find that there’s hardly a scratch on your own car. Joel won’t know. He won’t.

The next morning, you’re sipping on your coffee as you check your mailbox. Joel’s outside his house, loading up his work truck with some tools and supplies. He waves to you and you wave back, a small stack of mail in your hand.

“Whose mail you got today, sweetheart?” he calls to you.

You check the names on some of the letters. “Davidsons’ and Pierces’,” you answer through a chuckle. Joel rolls his eyes and laughs. The incompetent mailman is a running joke amongst yourself, Joel, and your other neighbors. He never seems to deliver anything to the right address, so you and your neighbors are often hand delivering each other your misplaced mail.

You laugh with Joel until you notice his smile disappear. He’s narrowing his eyes on his Chevy. Your heart drops as he steps closer to the vehicle, then pinches his nose in frustration. Fuck. Joel stomps back to his work truck, haphazardly tosses something in the bed and then slams the tailgate. Yeah, he’s fucking pissed. Your neck and your face heat in shame as you quickly run back inside.

In the two weeks since Joel’s car was hit, he’s been working to repair it tirelessly. He’s ordered a new tail light, since whoever hit his car shattered it and he’s spent a pretty penny ordering the exact shade of baby blue paint to touch up all of the scratches. Joel only trusts himself to touch his car, but the situation necessitates that he’ll have to take it in to a local repair shop to get the dents out. Fucking fantastic.

When Joel gets off work tonight, he notices he’s got some packages on his doorstep, hoping it’s the shit he ordered for his car. He’ll open them shortly, but he first notices that one of the packages is addressed to you. Go figure, he thinks, chuckling to himself. He walks the package over to your house, noticing your car is parked outside of the driveway. And it’s backed in too, which is odd. Joel assumes your car must’ve been blocking your brother’s, so he probably played musical chairs with your cars to get his out and then backed yours up onto the driveway. You never back your own car in the driveway, and Joel’s pretty sure it’s because you don’t know how. You probably can’t parallel park, either. He’ll have to show you how to do that sometime.

What’s also new is a bit of baby blue paint on your red Honda Civic’s exterior, right by your headlight, the same headlight he’s been nagging you to let him fix. Joel bites the inside of his cheek. Interesting. He knocks on your door, package in hand, but he’s met with no answer. No biggie. He leaves the package on your porch and goes back to your car, inspecting the paint once more. He scoffs in astonishment and walks home. Unbelievable.

The next evening, you check your mailbox after forgetting to do so earlier. As always, you never have just your own mail. This time you’ve got Joel’s. You walk it over to Joel’s house with the intention of dropping it off on his porch and going back home, not wanting to bother him as he works on his Chevy but his whistle startles you. “Hey you,” he says. “C’mere.”

“O-oh,” you stutter. “I’m just dropping off your–”

“Yeah, I know. Just c’mere a minute,” Joel says. “Got a fuckin’ bone t’pick with you.”

Your palms are beginning to sweat. He doesn’t know anything. Maybe he just wants some company while he works on his car, it wouldn’t be the first time. But still, there’s something about his tone. You step off of his porch and cut through his lawn to get to his garage. Once inside, you help yourself to a root beer from his refrigerator. Something cold and fizzy and sweet to help you calm your nerves.“Oh, sure, help yourself,” Joel mumbles. He notices your fingers slipping off the tab of the pop can and pulls it from your hands, then opens it for you. He’s wearing a stained Prince and the Revolution t-shirt and a slightly too tight pair of jeans that squeeze his ass just so. His garage is decorated with old license plates, posters, other odds and ends.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

Joel says nothing as he walks to his work bench. He pulls a lightbulb out of a cardboard box and waves it in your direction, he’s only a couple of feet from you. “Ordered the wrong bulb,” he tells you.

You can only nod. You think about maybe making a joke about the mailman screwing it up somehow, but you bite your tongue. You don’t trust yourself not to stutter right now.

“M’sure you saw, my baby here’s all banged up,” Joel puts the bulb back in the box and leans against his work bench, facing you. “Happened a couple weeks ago.”

“Mm,” you hum.

“Hit and run, can you believe that?”

“No, I can’t. That-that’s terrible.”

“I know it is. And here I thought we had a nice neighborhood…” he trails off before speaking again, “You think you know someone, huh.”

Someone. So he has someone in mind? “Yeah, it’s terrible…what happened to your car. Can’t believe someone would uh…would do that, knowing how you, your car…yeah. Terrible.”

Joel stares at you for a minute before speaking again, taking note of how you can’t seem to hold eye contact with him. He steps closer to you.

“You wouldn’t know a thing about it, right?”

“Yes,” you answer, quickly realizing your word mishap when Joel raises his eyebrows. “No, yeah. I don’t know–yeah, nothing,” you sip your root beer before fidgeting with the pop tab and shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

Joel notices. “Squirmin’ an awful lot over there, sweetheart. You got something you wanna tell me?” You shake your head, still playing with the tab on the pop can. Joel removes it from your hand, his fingers gracing over yours before placing it on the workbench. He’s moving closer to you now, matching your pace as you walk backward until the back of your legs hit his car. You gasp, he stands so tall and imposing in front of you. “Easy,” he warns. “You be careful with her.”

“Yeah, I know. Always,” you reply. Your voice is beginning to shake.

Joel hums at your response. “Not always, though, sweetheart. Think you were pretty careless with my baby a couple weeks ago.”

The familiar pressure behind your eyes is beginning to build as tears are pricking your waterline, “I don’t know what–”

“Awh, don’t do that. Don’t lie t’me.”

The tears spill over. You’re caught. You don’t know how Joel figured out what you did, but he did. “You’ve got a guilty conscience, dontcha?”

You nod before you can speak. “I’m so sorry,” you cry. Sobs begin to wrack your body, your tears now flowing freely. You’re so guilty. You should’ve told Joel what happened that night. It was an accident, and he might’ve been mad, but you’ve probably made it worse for yourself with your dishonesty. “I’m so sorry, Joel, it was late and I was so tired–”

Joel pulls you in a tight embrace, stroking your back with his fingertips. “Shhh, I know. I know,” he whispers in your ear, “S’okay, sweet girl.”

“It was so…” you try to explain, choking on your sobs and your sniffles. “So late and d-dark and I wasn’t paying attention.”

“I know. Quit your cryin’, s’gonna be fine,” Joel whispers. He pulls away from you, looking at you with those deep brown eyes of his as he wipes the tears from your face with his thumbs. Know you’ll make it up to me.”

“I will,” you agree quickly. “I’ll pick up some more shifts, Joel, and I’ll save and–”

“Oh, no. Not that. Save your money,” he tells you earnestly. “Somethin’ else,” Your eyes follow Joel when he leaves you for a moment to flip a switch on the wall of his garage. Something in the air changes then, a thick, heavy feeling between you both when he makes his way back to you. “Use your head, sweetheart. How are we gonna make it right?”

Your mouth is dry, your tongue swollen as you pick up what Joel’s putting down. “Let me give ya a hint,” Joel grunts, sucking in his gut slightly as he unbuttons his jeans. He wears no underwear, a thatch of coarse hair littering his skin is what you see when he pulls down his zipper. He grips your wrist and shoves your hand beneath the denim where you feel his package, already half hard. It’s warmer, thicker than you would expect. He feels heavy in your palm, his pubic hair wiry and scratchy against your knuckles.

He doesn’t tilt his head in confusion at your hesitancy. “Don’t know what to do with all this, do ya?”

You shake your head no. “I’ve never…with anyone, before.”

“S’alright. I’ll walk ya through it all,” Joel says, seemingly unsurprised at the revelation. With your hand still on his cock, Joel pulls himself out of his jeans entirely. He’s harder now. “Like this,” he instructs, bringing your hand to his mouth and spitting in it. A pang of arousal fills your gut at the action. He pushes your hand lower and guides you to wrap your hand around his cock. It feels heavy, warm to the touch, sticky with his sweat and his saliva. Rock hard, but smooth like satin. You admire him, his blushed tip, the prominent veins on his shaft.

Your breath hitches as Joel takes control, using his strong, weathered hand to guide your own to massage his cock. “You got it,” he encourages, sensing your rigidity. “Tighter,” he instructs, squeezing his hand around yours. You’re slow to gain confidence but he’s patient, doing the work himself for now. “You move your hand all the way up, all the way down my cock,” he tells you.

You nod in understanding. Joel drops his hand but yours stays stroking his member. He sighs and tilts his head backward as you focus on the task at hand. Without the pressure of intense eye contact, you take the opportunity to admire him, the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, the small drops of sweat rolling down his throat. You’re shy when he smiles at you, quickly averting your attention from him and to his cock, watching the way it twitches beneath your hand, where a little bead of precum forms. Experimentally, you swipe your thumb over the tip. “That’s it,” he whispers, stroking your cheek with the back of his hand. He ruts his hips into your hips, “Doin’ just fine.”

You stroke his cock like this for a while, gaining confidence in yourself until he stops you suddenly.

“Is that it?”

“Is that it,” Joel mocks with a feigned pout. “No, hon. You banged up my baby pretty good. We ain’t quite square yet.”

His leaking cock bounces against his tummy as he approaches his work bench. Your heart pounds as you can’t quite see what he’s reaching for. “Know it’s new to ya,” he says. “Just listen to me, s’all you gotta do.”

Joel returns to you with a dirty rag in his hand and lays it on the concrete ground, then reaches for your face. He pulls your bottom lip down and lets it go to watch it bounce back up. “Knees,” he whispers, gently pushing you by your shoulders to the ground. The rag he laid on the concrete for your knees is a sweet touch, all things considered. His cock is inches away from your face as he holds it between his thumb, middle, and forefingers. He presses himself to your lips, encouraging you to open your mouth. “Give it a taste,” he instructs you. “An’ you can kiss it too, if you’re feelin’ amorous.”

You part your lips and tentatively lick the weeping slit of his thick head just once. After a moment, taking in the saltiness of his precome, you lick him a couple more times, gaining confidence quicker than you did using just your spit soaked hand on him. Bigger stripes now, using more pressure. Like Joel advised, you kiss his cock a couple times, each kiss sloppier than the last before swirling your tongue around the tip. You’re learning it all, the softness of his skin, his musky, heady taste.

“Give me your hand,” Joel says. “Goes right here,” He wraps your hand around the base of his cock, same as before. He places one of his hands on your head, guiding you closer to him, encouraging you to take him deeper now. You do as such, sputtering and choking when you get overzealous and take him too quickly.

Joel chuckles, “Not all at once, sweetheart. Go slow. Try it again.” This time, Joel controls the pace at which you take him. He pushes himself into your mouth and senses when it becomes too much, pauses for you. He pulls his hips back, then rocks back into your mouth, building a slow, shallow pace for you to get used to.

He’s pushing his cock deeper into your mouth. His tip teases the back of your throat as he whispers, “Little more. Be brave,” You gaze up at him, searching his eyes for some sort of approval. He nods with his brows furrowed. “Do it for me, hon.”

You allow him to fuck himself deeper in your mouth now, your eyes pricking with tears as you gag and sputter on his cock. This time, Joel doesn’t stop himself. He’s grunting, groaning, savoring the warmth of your wet, soft mouth. “So good,” he tells you before tapping your hand, reminding you to put it to use.

What you can’t reach with your mouth, you massage with your hand as you cup his balls with your other. You and Joel work in tandem, him drawing in and out of your mouth as you bob your head and flick your tongue against his shaft. Your jaw is sore with the newness of it all, and just as you’re becoming used to the thickness of his cock between your lips and on your tongue, he pauses. “M’gonna stop you now,” Joel mumbles as he pulls out of your mouth, his eyes focused on your swollen lips and how the string of saliva connected from them to his cock breaks. “S’your turn.”

“My turn?”

“Mhm. It’s etiquette, hon,” Joel says with a grunt, lifting you to your feet. He reaches between your bodies and unbuttons your pants, pushing both them and your underwear down your legs. “Always return the favor.” Joel lifts you slightly, sitting your bare ass on the hood of his car, then pulls your pants off your legs the rest of the way. “Arms up,” he tells you. He lifts your shirt off of your body, unhooks your bra and lets it fall to your lap. You’ve never been so vulnerable, so exposed in front of someone before. Instinctively, you cover your chest with your arms and cross your legs.

“You’re shy,” he whispers. Joel drapes your clothing over his shoulder before reaching for your arms, removing them from your chest and placing them on either side of your body. “Stay like this,” He holds your knees next, uncrossing your legs and spreading them wide for his view.

Joel takes in your body and admires your wet cunt, how your thick curls frame it beautifully. A shiver goes down your spine as his eyes scan the rest of your body before he holds intense eye contact with you as he folds your clothes, placing them in a neat pile next to you on his car. You watch his chest rise and fall with steady breaths as he drops to his knees, situating himself between your thighs.

He presses a sloppy kiss against your inner knee, then another on your other leg. He kisses his way up your inner thigh, nipping at your flesh and soothing the marks with his tongue. He holds your legs firmly apart, knowing your instinct is to shut them when he reaches your cunt, his hot breath fanning over your center. “Wider,” he whispers, “I gotcha.”

The once cool metal of Joel’s car is now hot and slick under your sweaty, trembling palms. Your pulse beats as you look up at the garage ceiling, lacking the courage to look at Joel between your thighs. “Relax for me,” he tells you. You try.

You gasp when he finally begins exploring you, first his thumb parting open your folds. Adding a couple more digits, he hums in satisfaction as he finds you’re already wet, your slick glistening on his fingers. He dips one of those fingers inside of you slowly, watching how you react to his touch. You twitch and fight to keep yourself still and silent as he adds a second finger, curling it rhythmically and stroking that sweet spot inside you.

“Oh, god,” you moan as he dives into your cunt, the soft and warm, private place between your thighs, his mouth now joining where his fingers touch. His tongue is hot and wet as he drags it through your sex, circling your clit with it. “Joel, please.”

Joel’s satisfied as he hears sounds of pleasure fall from your lips, feeling your hips bucking and grinding gently against his mouth. He sucks one fold, nips at the other as he curls his fingers inside you rhythmically. With the hand that’s not teasing your pussy, he digs his fingers into the soft flesh of your thigh. “Quit squirmin’ on my car,” he warns with a firm squeeze to your thigh, hard enough to bruise you. “Ya tryin’ to scratch her again?”

His wiry stubble drags across your skin, scratching gently against the inside of your thighs. You can feel it building up quickly, that hot, sparkling feeling deep in your core as he works you, sucks your clit between his lips.

“Please,” you cry, the only word you can form at the moment.

“I know, hon,” he murmurs, escalating his efforts on your pussy. Sucking, licking, curling his fingers harder. He works you through your orgasm, feeling you gush against his mouth, your arousal dripping down his fingers and pooling into the palm of his hand. Your hands fly to his scalp, twitching and jerking from the sensitivity with your fingers tugging on his curls when he licks a stripe up the seam of your cunt.

Joel pulls away from your center with a satisfied grin, lips shiny, his facial hair damp. He rises, standing above you, and sloppily kisses your lips. You’ve never tasted your own arousal before. His strong hands find your ass cheeks, pulling you closer to where he wants you.

From there, you gasp when he slides his cock through your slick folds, rubbing thick head against your sensitive clit and watches how you react to his touch. “What do you think I’m doin’ to ya next?”

“Joel,” you whimper, your hips chasing his movements, following where his cock teases your cunt.

“Yeah, you know what I’m doin,” he purrs. “Crossin’ it all off your list tonight.”

You tense when he notches just the head of his cock in your pussy, reaching for his arm, his shoulder, any part of him you can hold.

“Know you’re nervous,” he says softly, rubbing circles into your thighs. “But s’just me an’ you here. Wider, hon. Spread your legs for me.”

You nod quickly, following suit and spreading your legs to accommodate him. “Like this?”

“Yeah, like that. S’perfect, hon, that’s all I need from you. C’mere,” Joel adjusts his hold on you before inching his cock into you a bit more. You’re so tight, squeezing him hard and whining through the stretch as he pushes into you further, the gradual slide inside your body causing him to grunt quietly. “Relax for me,” he groans through a strained breath, parting your insides as he’s sheathed himself inside you fully now. “Bite me f’ya need to, sweetheart. It’ll be okay. You’ll get used to it.”

It aches, but the pain dulls as Joel lets you get used to the feeling, the newness of his cock inside you. He holds you close and you take advantage of his suggestion, biting softly into the flesh of his neck, tasting the saltiness of his skin as you whimper quietly. Joel groans, his eyebrows furrowing together. “Shh,” he hushes, “You’re okay, hon. You’re doin’ alright.”

Joel slowly pulls out of you and fills you up again. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he praises as you tilt your hips, opening yourself to accept more of him. You’re humming into his neck as his cock recedes and then pushes in once more. “Eyes on me now. There it is, easy. Easy.”

You do as instructed, pulling your face away from him to meet his gaze. His sparkling brown eyes stay on yours as he pulls out of you, pushing into you slowly, deliberately. You hold onto his neck, his broad shoulders, clutching the fabric of his sweat dampened shirt as he builds a steady pace now. He holds you close to his body, one of his hands traveling up your body and groping your bouncing breasts, teasing your sensitive nipples.

“You just follow my lead,” Joel says, fucking you faster now. His fingers are pressed firmly into your waist now as he rolls his hips against yours. The pain is gone now, dissipated with his continued languid thrusts into you. You feel so full, so satisfied with his thick cock inside you, massaging your insides.

He fucks you steadily but gently, maintaining a quick rhythm. You didn’t know sex could make you feel this way, so much pleasure. You’re moaning freely, overwhelmed with emotion, tears flowing freely down your cheeks. God, you love it, and it’s nothing but pure pleasure.

Joel’s not oblivious to your enjoyment. He’s watching you, your face contorting, he’s listening to your moans and your cries, feeling you shiver and twitch beneath his touch and how it’s all because of him, all of your pleasure at the hands of Joel and only ever Joel. He feels a sort of carnal sense of power over this, the effect his touch has on you. You’re soft, so soft and all for him, your flesh for his hands and his teeth alone to squeeze, dig into, to bite on.

You reach for his arm and guide his hand to your center, pressing his fingers against your clit as that familiar tightness in your gut begins to build once more. “Please,” you beg.

“Thought this was supposed to be a deal for me. Didn’t need to hit my car f’ya needed me like this,” he taunts, laughing breathlessly. But Joel obliges, of course he obliges you. He moves his calloused fingertips in circles over your clit, coaxing out your release. “Takin’ me so good, sweetheart. Look at you, m’gonna make you come again. Makin’ out like a fuckin’ bandit, aren’t you?”

Indeed you are. It’s not long before you’re coming for him. With his ministrations on your clit, his thrusts now faster, harder, deeper, you’re coming undone for him as his name pours from your lips, long and slow like honey. With your lips parted open, you’re twitching and shuddering against him as you watch his face, letting yourself go. You whimper and moan, and your release is volcanic in the way it washes over your body so fiercely. Heavy, vivid waves of pleasure washing over you the way lava rolls down the earth. Slow, fiery, intense.

Your pulsing cunt milks Joel’s own climax, his orgasm crashing through him in such a way that he loses focus on you. His eyes screwed shut, the noises he’s making louder than he intended–what starts as a grunt turns into a moan, long and libertine as he fucks you harder than he probably should as you whimper in overstimulation. His thrusts turn harder and frenzied as he milks himself with your cunt, spurting hot ropes of his come inside you. You take everything he gives you, feeling so warm and full of his spend.

His movements then begin to ease, slowing down some more until he eventually stills inside of you. He takes the quiet moment to check on you, holding your face in his hands as he makes sure you’re okay. Your chest heaves as he wipes your tears, but you silently nod, reassuring him that you’re alright.

With a soft grunt, he pulls out of you. He watches how your combined arousal spills on the baby blue paint of his Chevelle, then uses his thumb to push a bit of his escaped come back inside you. Such a lewd action from the man.

Joel helps you to your feet, steadying you as you stand on shaky legs. He reaches for your clothes from the hood of his car, helping you dress yourself. “Didn’t want ‘em to get dirty,” he explains. “Everything’s covered in fuckin’ dirt and grease in here.”

“Thank you,” you smile shyly. Joel opens the garage door, the once peachy and blue sky now inky black. You didn’t realize how much time had passed. You take off back to your house, but Joel grips your bicep before you can step any further.

“Nuh uh,” he tuts. “Ya already hit my car, hon, you don’t wanna leave your mess on the hood now too, do ya?” Joel gestures to your combined arousal on the hood of his Chevelle, swipes his pointer finger through the mess and pushes it between your lips. Your brows furrow at the taste, that salty, heady flavor you’ve never tasted before now. “Use your tongue, sweetheart.”

“You want me…”

“Lick it up,” he instructs in a quiet voice. Joel figured he might’ve let you off too easy, seeing as how you came twice–once on his tongue and once on his cock when this was all supposed to be for him. He bends you over the hood of his car, groping your ass as he leans over your shoulder to inspect your work, making sure it’s a job well done. “Good girl,” he praises, watching you lick his car clean. When you’re done, he kisses you softly.

He walks you home, dropping you off on your doorstep. You’re not quite sure what to say, whether you should apologize again, thank him, say goodnight. Joel fills the silence for you. “Gonna teach you how to drive right one of these days. Keep you out of another mess like this one, hm?” he smirks as he kisses your cheek. “Goodnight, hon.”

If you enjoyed, please reblog, leave me a comment, and/or send an ask 🩷 your words mean the world to me and your interaction keeps me motivated to write. Love you all <3

From now on I’ll be sharing cat pics at the end of my fics. Hope you don’t mind 🐈‍⬛😻

#strang3lov3 #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #pedro pascal #joel miller #the last of us #the last of us hbo #joel miller fic #joel tlou #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal characters #joel miller x virgin reader

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kazekagevi · 1 month

Text

Bonds Beyond Words: If Eywa Wills It

PART ONE -- PART TWO -- PART THREE

Pairing: Aged-Up!Neteyam x Fem!Human!Reader

Word Count: 5k

Tags: dark themes, but this chapter is actually very fluffy and silly, Lo'ak and Kiri and Spider becoming reader's besties, many attempts at comedy, eventual NSFW, aged-up! Neteyam (and Lo'ak, Spider, and Kiri), reader has PTSD, Neteyam dislikes humans (except for you), eventual jealous/possessive Neteyam, future Olo'eyktan! Neteyam, enemies-to-lovers, interspecies slow burn, angst, fluff, probably OOC, POV’s all over the place, forgive the inconsistencies.

Summary: You're not allowed to join the community until Jake Sully decides you're ready. Spider, Lo'ak, and Kiri teach you Na'vi.

A/N and Disclaimer: I tried my best to use some Navi language translators and the LearnNavi website to write this chapter, but there are bound to be language errors. I also know time works differently there. Sorry for all the inconsistencies!

This story contains explicit content and is only appropriate for audiences 18+. MDNI. Please do not repost my work.

The science shack isn’t so bad.

Your initiation begins after your first sleep that night. The next morning, Max and Norm put their research projects on hold to give you an actual, legitimate tour of the facility. The place is full of bells and whistles. Tiny buttons, translucent screens, and telecommunications. Technology is abundant; but your knowledge of how to use it is not.

“Here is the airlock control panel,” Max explains. He hovers his palm over a sensor—when it flashes sage green, the user interface appears. “Once you’re ready to interact with the community, we’ll scan your handprints and give you full clearance,” he futhers.

You’re helplessly eager. “Do you know when that will be?” you inquire.

Max presses the controller in the center of the panel. The glass door to the inner chamber slides open. You peek your head inside the airlock space—there are respirator masks for both humans and Na’vi, as well as a broom in the corner.

“I put that there,” Max says, referring to the broom. He’s stealthily ignoring your previous question. “Told Spider he needs to sweep after himself. He refuses to use the doormat outside. I think the only person who’s touched that broom has been me.”

You look at the ground. The floor of the airlock space isn’t as bad as you’d expect it to be. Admittedly, it’s filthy. There are mud stains of both human and Na’vi footprints on the vinyl floor. The size difference is jarring.

You have an idea. You smirk to yourself. “What if I cleaned this mess for him?” you offer. “I’ll sweep, then mop. I need to start pulling my weight, too.”

Max sighs. “What? So you can put on one of those masks and sneak out before the Olo'eyktan says you’re ready?”

Your expression sours. “You didn’t have to say it like that,” you reply. “I wasn’t going to sneak out,” you admit aloud. “I was going to accidentally open the front door or something with a mask conveniently in place. It’s not as deceitful that way.”

Max sighs again. “Well, I have no say in when you’re ready,” he confesses. “That decision is only Jake’s to make.”

You have no choice but to yield. Max taps the censor again. The airlock door falls shut into place.

---

It takes an entire day to simply show you how everything works. It takes two more for you to demonstrate you were paying attention and know how to use everything. The only intuitive mechanisms are the knobs to the showers and the dials on the washer and dryer.

Like in any society, the science shack has its own set of rules, regulations, and norms—quite literally, since Norm transfers between his human body and Avatar frequently. The showers are closed once every twenty-five days for necessary maintenance. Humans aren’t to leave when the Na��vi are sleeping or on significant Omatikaya holidays. Don’t talk to Max before he’s had his first coffee. Spider is supposed to sweep after himself in the airlock room. You can’t use Mia’s handleless mug, but you’re allowed to wash it if you’re extra careful.

By the end of the week, your head hurts.

You know the only way to become proficient in something, like speaking a new language or utilizing advanced technology, is to thrust yourself into it. Take the plunge—don’t fear it. Embrace the nosedive. Freefall.

So, after dinner on your seventh day, you get as close to doing that as possible. You sit on a small perch by a tiny window, nestled in a corner of the science shack. You’re hungry; for one, Norm’s cooking tastes much worse when you’re not famished, so you couldn’t force yourself to go back for seconds, let alone finish everything on your plate.

But also, you’re hungry for something else. Now that you’re safe from the RDA, you can actually consider doing what you came to Pandora to do all along. You can practically taste it.

You know Jake Sully is right. Life in the science shack is complicated enough, and you need adequate time to acclimate. But you’re starting to feel like you’re trapped.

The window allows you to see a slice of life at High Camp. You come here around the same time after a meal, just like clockwork. You haven’t seen Jake Sully since your conversation, but you’ve seen many others.

Just right now, you see a group of young women shuffle past, laughing and gossiping about who knows what. You see two kids, presumably siblings, one chasing after the other, before they’re stopped by one of the village’s elders. You see injured warriors limp towards the tsahìk’s tent. You see a woman in her homestead, weaving a basket. You feel nothing but sonder; the profound sensibility that these people are all living complex lives of their own, and you’re simply witnessing these complexities unfold right before your eyes.

You begin to recognize a few faces, like that of the shaman healer, otherwise known as the tsahìk. You also take note of which warriors visit her tent most frequently.

You routinely see a Na’vi female with short, straight jet-black hair. She tends to pass by the science shack every evening of every day, stare at the door, frown, then leave. On two occasions, your eyes met before she wandered off.

You’ve learned a few more common phrases, which Norm, Max, Spider and Mia teach you at meal times. Kaltxì is a standard greeting. Rutxe means please, and irayo means thank you. Ngafkeyk pefya? means ‘how are you?’

You also learned that the lines you recited to the Na’vi in the forest, Neteyam, were of a standard dialect. They weren’t incorrect, just slightly different from that of the Omatikaya’s. And, allegedly, your pronunciation was off.

In your extensive travels on Earth, you learned quickest when you immersed yourself in a new, unfamiliar environment. It was the rush—the thrill, the trepidation—that drove you to adapt. It was as just as you told Jake Sully: so I will.

Immersion is the only way. Norm knows this too; as an exceptional xenolinguist, he learned more from interacting with the Na’vi for a few weeks than he did from reading any book. He really understands. He wishes he had more time to help with your studies, but he must return to his work. His newest botany project is time sensitive.

As you sit by the window, you use an electronic tablet programmed with a basic flashcard feature to get yourself acquainted with the Na’vi language. It’s not particularly helpful, since spoken practice is more beneficial than anything written. You’ve been skimming some of Jake’s old journals, too. But at the time of their conception, he wrote only in English, and misspelled many Na’vi words and phrases.

The flashcards do nothing besides test your aptitude for memorization. It doesn’t help that your attention span is elsewhere, like you left it on a far, distant planet.

Everytime someone passes by the window in your peripheral vision, you have no choice but to look up and see who’s there. It’s usually another Na’vi face you’ve never seen before. You don’t realize it initially, but the more you turn your head, you’re helplessly aware that you’re looking for someone. It never is, but you’re hopeful it might be Neteyam—you still owe him for saving your life. You have an inkling however, that he’s probably avoiding this place for one reason or another. That very reason might just be yourself.

It’s obvious that this method of study is inefficient. You power off the tablet and continue people-watching with your knees tucked against your chest.

Any moment now, you know you’ll see that girl with shoulder-length hair. You want to know why she frowns, but you don’t know how to ask ‘what’s upsetting you?’ in Na’vi.

Now that you think about it, though, you’re unsure if that’s a wise idea. Even when you are allowed into the community, you know that you will have to keep a distance. Know your place. Although the humans and Na’vi residing here coexist in apparent harmony, you don’t want your presence to disrupt the peace.

There’s a quiet knock on the other side of the airlock door across the main room—it’s so faint you almost miss it.

When you sit up, you hear footsteps thudding against the vinyl flooring. You see Spider look around then over his shoulder as he approaches the door.

He begrudgingly places his hand over the scanner. He presses a button and the front of the airlock opens.

He quietly shouts something in Na’vi—skxawng. You’re not sure what this word means yet.

From your window perch, you can’t see what’s going on, but Kiri and Lo’ak enter the space through the main door. They each grab a respirator.

Spider continues to say things you don’t understand. From his tone of voice, he seems slightly agitated.

“You can’t be here,” Spider says to both of them in Na’vi. “Not until the new girl gets introduced to the community.”

Lo’ak takes a deep breath—the respirator in his hand looks so small. He’s almost as tall as his father now. As the years pass, Lo’ak just gets bigger and bigger. It makes him feel like Spider is shrinking.

“C’mon man,” Lo’ak says. “Let us in. We’ll only take a minute,” he adds, wearing a devious smirk on his face. “I uh, forgot something when I was here last?” he tries.

“Yeah, right,” Spider replies.

“Lo’ak, you’re not helping my case,” Kiri says, glaring at her older brother.

Lo’ak’s jaw drops. He scoffs at her. “You told me to come with you!”

“Yes, and it turns out you’re not helping!” Kiri hisses.

Spider groans. “Can you two just leave? I don’t want to get any flak for this.”

Kiri grits her teeth. She places both of her hands on the glass separating them. “Please, Spider. I haven’t seen Mom in forever,” she says. Her eyes water. “It hasn’t been this long since the time we lived in Awa'atlu… I miss her.”

The crease between Spider’s brows disappears. From what you can see, he looks apologetic. “Oeru txoa livu,” he says to Kiri. “But I’m not supposed to let anyone in besides your dad.”

Lo’ak’s expression falters. He looks at his feet. His ears fall flat. “You know, I haven’t seen Tsireya since we left Awa'atlu,” he says just loud enough for Spider and Kiri to hear.

Spider rubs his nose bridge. Kiri sighs and flicks his temple with her fingers. Once Lo’ak starts talking about Tsireya, he can’t stop.

While this interaction continues to transpire, you stand from your perch and tiptoe over. Your footsteps are padded by thick, cotton socks. You advance slowly, like you’re approaching a crime scene covered with caution tape.

“Lo’ak, go home and go to bed,” Kiri says, poking his chest. She then spins back around. “Spider, let me in, please.”

“I’m sorry, Kiri,” Spider replies. “You know I would if I could.”

Kiri places her hands on her hips. “You can, very easily, actually. Just press the button,” Kiri says. She points to the spot where she knows it is on the other side of the door. “It’s right there.”

Spider sighs. The crease in his brow returns when he realizes Lo’ak is suddenly smiling. “Why are you doing that?”

Lo’ak waves to you from the other side of the airlock. “Hi!” He greets you in English. “What’s your name?”

Spider jolts when he realizes you’re standing there right behind him.

Kiri gasps. Her eyes go wide—they practically sparkle when she’s excited. “I told you, I saw her!” she says to Lo’ak in Na’vi.

You smile at the male and female Na’vi before you. They seem so friendly, and the male Na’vi’s English sounds great. “Hello there,” you reply. You formally introduce yourself.

Spider presses a palm to his temple. He knows he’s going to get in trouble.

“It’s nice to meet you!” the female Na’vi says, also in English. “I’m called Kiri. And this is my older brother, Lo’ak.”

That’s his cue—Lo’ak waves again, flashing his vibrant smile.

Spider scoffs.

“My good brother here, Spider,” says Lo’ak, “this skxawng,” he adds, more quietly, “was about to let us inside.”

“I was not,” Spider protests.

“C’mon,” you say. Spider rolls his eyes—you’ve just met Lo’ak but he’s already infected you with whatever ailment he has that makes him the way that he is. At the same time, however, Spider knows it’s one of the best things about him.

“Why can’t we let them in?” you ask. This is the most exciting thing that’s happened to you in five days.

“Exactly,” says Lo’ak. “Let us in,” he chants quietly.

“The door isn’t broken, is it?” you further, keeping a serious demeanor. “I’ll just check to make sure it works,” you tell Spider.

“Wait–”

The airlock’s inner chamber door opens, allowing Lo’ak and Kiri entry.

“Would you look at that,” you profess. “I know how the door works.”

Lo’ak chuckles as he strolls inside like he owns the place. Kiri rushes past the three of you, making a beeline for the large container in the middle of the main room. She presses her palms against the glass and whispers to the Avatar stuck inside. Your brows furrow in confusion.

“You were right,” Lo’ak mutters to Spider in English. “She is short, even for a human.”

Your jaw goes slack. A surprised chuckle falls from your lips. “If you call Spider skxawng, then what are you?” you can’t help but retort.

He grins. “If there was a clan of a hundred skxawng’s,” Lo’ak says, “they would have no choice but to make me their leader.”

You laugh again—harder than you were expecting to. This Na’vi might be an ass, but at least he’s got a sense of humor.

Spider groans again. “If you two knuckleheads stay, you have to keep it down,” he says.

Lo’ak puts his hands up, defensively.

“Can I ask what she’s doing over there?” you say aloud.

Kiri now has her face pressed against the glass. It fogs from her breath.

Spider and Lo’ak look at each other. Lo’ak rubs the back of his neck before speaking: “it’s a long story, but that’s the Avatar of Kiri’s biological mother. Kiri is my adoptive sister.” Lo’ak then hums to himself. “Maybe it’s not such a long story, after all.”

That’s why she looked so sad. She simply missed her Mom.

You blink once. “Oh, alright.” You nod, looking at Spider. “All of that information about Mia’s coffee mug was really important, but this,” you say, gesturing to the tube in the center of the room. “Not so much.”

Spider shrugs. “It’s important,” he says. “But, this is just commonplace for all of us.”

“She’s been doing this since we were kids,” Lo’ak reaffirms.

“Maybe we’re blind to it,” Spider offers. “It’s always there, so we can’t even see it if it’s right in front of us.”

Lo’ak simpers. “Well said.”

“Thank you,” says Spider. He grins.

They nod together and rub their chins like idiots. You assume this must be a regular thing for them.

“Skxawngs,” you say.

Of course, they both look your way, as though you’ve called them by their birth name.

“Did I use that properly?” you ask in English.

They nod. You sigh woefully.

Lo’ak practically snatches such low-hanging fruit: “What’s got you all blue?”

You can’t help but glare at him. “They say you don’t know a language unless you know how to properly insult someone,” you say. “But I don’t actually know any useful Na’vi, and I haven’t had a conversation with anyone. Half of the words I know are just insults!”

“Simmer down,” says Spider. “You learned plenty today,” he says.

“And, last I heard, you did have a conversation with someone,” Lo’ak mutters.

Spider crosses his arms over his bare chest and looks you in the eye. “We’ll do our best to teach you.”

“Then teach me,” you reply, glaring daggers his way.

Spider��s eyes narrow. He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. A couple of hours ago, you were enthusiastic. Now, you’re starting to get on his nerves.

Spider then looks over at Kiri, and makes an almost silent whistling noise. In response, Kiri’s ears twitch and she peeks over her shoulder.

“What the hell did you just say to her?” you demand.

“Oh, that?” Spider chuckles dryly. “I didn’t say anything, yet.”

“What is it?” Kiri calls back to him.

When Spider responds, he speaks entirely in Na’vi. When Kiri replies to him, she does the same. Spider then turns to you, speaks only in Na’vi again, then laughs. He says something else. Laughter erupts. Kiri and Lo’ak follow suit.

You have no choice to presume they’re talking shit about you in their native language.

In reality, they’re saying things that make no sense just to get you riled up. The first thing Spider told Kiri was “let’s pretend like we’re making fun of her. Keep going along with it until I say stop.”

Needless to say, they play their roles with great conviction, like actors on a stage. They fool you.

“You guys are dickheads! That’s enough.”

They finally stop when you fold your arms over your chest and start pouting; but they don’t stop laughing until Norm yells from down the hall to, in his words, ‘tone that shit down.’ When they’re caught, Spider purses his lips, and Kiri and Lo’ak takes deep breaths from their respirator masks in unison.

“You’re incredibly impatient,” Spider admits, lowering his voice. Lo’ak nods in agreement. You’re all sitting around the tube that holds Grace’s Avatar. Kiri traces small shapes on its surface with her lithe fingertips.

“And you three,” you say, pointing at each of them, “are a bunch of jesters.”

“No, you’re a jester,” says Lo’ak. He doesn’t even know what that word means, not in English anyway.

“That’s exactly what a jester would say.” You groan in frustration. “I am impatient, but you don’t have to say it so directly,” you reply. Your expression is downcast and dejected.

You want to learn the language. You want to be able to talk to people. You want to carry out conversations, and learn, and laugh, and cry. You want to become a phoenix, rising from the ashes of an otherwise hopeless situation. You’re here, you’re alive, yet you don’t feel that way. Not at all.

You don’t want to feel like an outsider. You don’t want to live life from a bird’s eye view, on your little perch by the tiny window. You don’t want to feel like a canary in a cage. You don’t want to feel like a fish in a large, technologically-advanced bowl. Or like a beetle in a glass jar with holes poked in the top. You don’t want to be alone. You don’t want to be locked away in the science shack, just like how you were in the RDA’s basement.

Your eyes water. How could it be? Have you simply gone from one prison to another?

“You may be impatient, but I think you’ll fit in with us just fine,” Lo’ak interjects. He smiles genuinely. After a few moments, so do Spider and Kiri.

You wipe your eyes. Your face feels hot.

Kiri calls you by your first name, grasping hold of your attention. “Don’t worry. We’ll teach you to speak Na’vi, and you’ll be just like the rest of us,” she says affectionately.

“I don’t know about that,” Lo’ak mutters.

There’s a pregnant pause. You, Spider, and Kiri expect him to say that you’ll never be a true Na’vi, or something of the sort. You weren’t raised as such, like the three of them.

“She won’t grow another foot overnight,” Lo’ak says finally. He looks right at you with a shit-eating grin. “You’ll never be as tall as we are.”

“Well said,” Spider remarks.

---

Kiri and Lo’ak can’t stay for much longer—they have to sneak back to their tent before Jake Sully finds out what they’ve been up to.

“They won’t get in trouble if he finds out, right?”

You and Spider are the last two awake. You’re sitting at the kitchen table.

Spider waves his hand around nonchalantly. “They never do,” he says. There’s a brief pause. “Okay, sometimes Lo’ak does,” Spider adds. “But never Kiri or Tuk. You’ll meet her eventually. She’s the youngest sibling.”

“Alright, so there’s the three of them. Lo’ak, Kiri, and Tuk. And Neytiri is their mother, right?”

“Four of them,” Spider corrects you. “Neteyam is the oldest. One year older than Lo’ak.”

You blink. “Neteyam is the Olo'eyktan’s eldest son? The one who found me?”

“That’s what I said, didn’t I?” Spider retorts.

You glare at him. “Yes, that’s what you said, only a whole week late!” You whisper-shout at him. “Just like with Kiri’s biological mother.”

Spider throws his hands up. “I guess I thought someone already told you,” he says defensively. “You talked to Jake, right?”

“Right,” you reply. “But he didn’t mention anything about Neteyam being his son. Didn’t mention anything about his children actually.”

“With all that you went through with those fuckers, he may have thought it could be taken as insensitive,” Spider suggests.

You hum. Maybe, just maybe, Spider’s right.

“Kiri works in the tsahìk’s tent during the day. Lo’ak puts in the least amount of effort necessary to be considered one of the warriors,” Spider says. “He’s usually around, but oftentimes not. Either way, we will find time to help you learn Na’vi.”

“Is Neteyam one of the warriors?” you ask.

Spider nods. “These days, he’s become one of the best.”

Your thoughts drift back to when Neteyam found you. You were practically ambushed—he was so controlled, so swift with his movements. Spider’s words don’t surprise you.

“So, he’s busy all the time?”

Spider addresses you by name. “What are you getting at?”

“I still need to thank him,” you confide. “He can’t avoid me forever.”

Spider sighs. “He can try,” he mutters.

“So, he is avoiding me?” you ask. Your cheeks are turning red again.

“He’s…” Spider begins. He looks distraught. “He wasn’t always like this,” Spider says. “Neteyam and I are cool, but he never sets foot inside this place if he doesn’t have to. Ever since the Sully family returned from living with the Metkayina, the Reef People, he doesn’t get along with Norm and the others like Kiri and Lo’ak… He merely tolerates the scientists here.”

“You’re saying he hates humans,” you say bluntly.

“Hate is a strong word,” Spider replies. “But he has many reasons to dislike them…” Spider swallows. “To dislike our kind.”

The words fall from your lips: “you’re right.”

You begin to question whether or not you should follow through with thanking him for saving you. The interaction with Kiri and Lo’ak went so well—perhaps it gave you an ounce of hope, things might go smoothly with Neteyam too. He’s been on your mind constantly, replaying in your thoughts like a broken record. You’re certain there are other Na’vi who share similar sentiments. You have to be careful.

“Don’t think about it too hard,” says Spider. He stands from the table. “I’m going to sleep,” he says plainly. His footsteps fade as he walks to the barracks.

Spider’s sympathies do very little to ease your mind.

---

Spider kept his word. Kar is teach. Karyu is teacher, and Karyunay is apprentice teacher. Ayfo kar nga—they teach you.

In the days—and eventually, weeks—to come, you fall into a new routine.

You study Na’vi during the day-time hours. The science shack isn’t so bad. Sometimes, if he’s available, Norm works with you on your phonetics and grammar. But typically, it’s just you, your electronic tablet, and your perch by the windowsill.

When you learned other Earth languages in the past, it was easier to learn other languages in proximity to their language group with which you were familiar. Romance languages, such as Spanish, French, and Italian, bore many similarities. The same went for Germanic languages, and even some Sino-Tibetan languages.

Na’vi, however, is completely different from any language you’ve spoken, or even attempted to learn. But your dedication is unwavering.

Lo’ak and Kiri return to the science shack two days after your first encounter with them.

“Okay, Spider was right. At first, he was angry,” Kiri says. She takes a deep breath through her respirator. “But then, I suppose he thought about it more and decided it was a good idea after all.”

Jake Sully has given Lo’ak and Kiri his word of approval to help with your studies at nightfall, as long as they don’t slack off their usual duties.

“He thinks it’s a good ‘method of assimilation’ or some shit like that,” adds Lo’ak.

You nod. “He’s right,” you say.

“Yeah, whatever,” Lo’ak admits nonchalantly. “Sometimes.”

You all sit on the floor around Grace’s tube again.

“Well,” you clear your throat. “Today, I studied grammatical structure and simple, common vocabulary. Maybe we could start with-”

“Nga za‘u ftu peseng?” Spider asks. He’s asking ‘where do you come from?’

You blink. It takes a moment for the cogs in your brain to rotate. But in due time, you register his question.

“I come from Earth,” you reply in English.

“If you really want to learn,” Spider says, “you should reply in Na’vi.”

You should. The only issue is, you’re not sure how. But you have no choice but to give it a try.

You fail the first time. The second time, you almost get it right—close enough to where Kiri pries her eyes away from her mother to give you a look of encouragement and a thumbs up.

“You’re almost there,” says Lo’ak. He straightens his posture, no longer slouching against the glass tube. “But if you don’t want to sound like a baby learning their first words, you need to change up the word order. For myself, I would reply with ‘za‘u oe ftu Eywa’eveng.’ Which means in English, ‘I come from Pandora.’ Your reply, obviously, is going to be a little different.”

Lo’ak pauses, takes a breath from his respirator, then mimics your higher-pitched voice, speaking as you would reply in Na’vi.

His impression of you is already spot on. “I don’t sound like that!” you protest.

They all laugh, and you can’t help but join them.

For the rest of the evening, the three of them ask you simple questions in Na’vi. All you have to do is reply, also in Na’vi. The longer you go, the easier it gets. You build upon the scaffolding of your day-time studies, as well as every question and response before the next.

---

This continues for many nights.

During the days when you’re sitting by the window and Lo’ak and Kiri pop into frame, you instinctively smile and wave to them. They always reciprocate.

They don’t say it outwardly, but the two of them look forward to these evenings with you. They get to spend more time with Spider. And, although they’re both fluent in English, the practice benefits them, too. Plus, they’ve taken a liking to you as well.

“Who the hell are you waving at, skxawng?” Neteyam asks Lo’ak one day. They’re about to head off on their ikrans to train. Lo’ak needs to learn a new hand-to-hand technique. Neteyam is conveniently out of your line of sight.

“I’m waving to the new girl!” Lo’ak exclaims. He continues waving. He’s practically beaming.

Neteyam huffs.

“Her pronunciation is getting much better,” Lo’ak says. His arm falls to his side again. “But it honestly wasn’t bad to begin with,” he adds. “Do you think you were, perhaps, exaggerating?”

“No,” Neteyam answers curtly. He looks agitated—his ears twitch and his tail swishes wildly. “She’s a distraction." You're proving Neteyam's point. Lo'ak won't stop waving. Neteyam groans. "Hurry up, Lo'ak. We have things to do,” he says. When they were younger, Neteyam would’ve slapped Lo’ak’s bicep or grabbed him by the ends of his hair, but he’s a man now. He can’t show his impatience or impulsivity.

Lo'ak disappears from your vantage point.

---

It’s already been a month. Your diligent practice is starting to pay off.

You can hold very basic conversations in Na’vi. You’re learning more about the language and culture every day.

They don't want to feed your ego, but your teachers have discovered you're a fast, proficient learner.

“Syep means 'to trap.' It’s a verb,” Lo’ak explains to you in English. He’s lying on the floor with his legs propped up on a chair from the dining table. Suddenly, he swings his feet from the chair, and stands to his feet.

You don't want to feed any of their egos either, but they're all smarter than they think. Especially Lo'ak.

“Spider, peseng lu syeprel?” Lo’ak asks.

You’re unsure what a syeprel is, but you know he’s asking where it’s located.

“I think it’s in the supply closet, over there,” Spider replies in Na’vi.

“What’s a syeprel?” you ask, also in Na’vi.

“Take a guess!” Lo’ak calls from down the hall.

You hum. You switch back to English: “Well, it must be a particular type of trap? Like a mouse trap or something?”

Kiri hums too. “It does technically trap something,” she says after a few moments. “But you’re thinking too literally,” she adds with a smirk.

You scratch your head. You’re dumbfounded.

“A-ha!’ Lo’ak says triumphantly. “I’ve found it.”

“Found what?” you call.

“Ask nicely,” says Kiri. “In Na’vi.”

You try again. “Rutxe,” you say, slightly embarrassed. You do as you’re told, and ask in Na’vi.

Lo’ak returns. He’s holding an ancient piece of technology—an extremely old hand-held digital camera with a slightly scratched lens. “Say cheese!”

He snaps a photo of you, Spider, and Kiri lounging around on the floor. None of you were prepared.

Kiri sighs and glowers at him. “Lo’ak!”

Lo’ak chuckles. “Alright, alright. We’ll take another one.”

The four of you stand around Lo’ak, the camera operator. “Kiri, crouch down a little bit,” he says, directing your places. “Spider, lean closer to Kiri.” You hear Spider sigh.

Lo’ak then glances at you over his shoulder. “Stand on your toes, tawtute. Or else you won’t be in frame,” he chides you with a sly smile.

You do just that and smile for the syeprel. “You’re an ass, Lo’ak,” you say through your teeth.

“Smile, everyone!” he sings in Na’vi. Lo’ak spins the camera around to take a photo of everyone while operating it at the same time. He smiles and snaps another photo. The flash is momentarily blinding.

You break free from your pose. “So, a camera is called syeprel?”

“Yes, it is.” replies Lo’ak in Na’vi. “It traps a moment in time, doesn’t it? Rel means like an image, or a picture,” he adds in English.

It’s clicking. Your jaw goes slack. Spider can’t help but chuckle at your expression.

“Language learning is so cool,” you gawk.

“You sound just like Norm,” says Kiri.

“Whatever,” you say in Na’vi. You switch back to English again. “There are lots of animal names in English like that. Anteaters eat ants. Junebugs come out in the month of June to find mates. Grasshoppers hop around in the grass. Centipedes are named after their one hundred legs.”

“Now you really sound like Norm,” Kiri teases you. “Don’t start talking about plants too, or I’ll have to go home.”

“What about bed bugs?” asks Spider. “I've only heard of them from the others. Never seen them here. I’m assuming they would be found in your bed?”

You nod.

Kiri hums, thinking. “What about butterflies then?” she asks. “I know that butter comes from milk and milk comes from Earth cows, but could they make butter too?”

You scrunch your nose at the mere thought of butterfly butter. “I don’t think so.”

Lo’ak can hardly contain his laughter. “What about cockroaches?”

Kiri smacks his chest. Lo’ak half-groans, half-cackles. Kiri scolds him in Na'vi, but it's not long before she starts laughing too.

You and Spider follow suit. From down the hall, Norm calls for you four to keep it down again.

But you can’t stop. In fact, Norm’s complaints make it worse. Joyous laughter fills the room. You’re having the time of your life. For the second time since your escape, you think this must be heaven. You’re briefly reminded of your imprisonment—you remember the few times you laughed with your cellmates. You remember those slivers of euphoria.

You also remember that you’re safe now. The science shack isn’t so bad. Not with Spider, and Kiri, and Lo’ak, and even Norm, and Max, and Mia, and all the others.

You laugh until your ribs hurt. You laugh until tears well in your eyes.

---

A/N: This chapter was so fun to write! I hope you guys had as much fun reading it as I did writing it. Again, please forgive any language inconsistencies.

Don't worry my darlings! Neteyam is going to be all over the next chapter. Believe in the slow burn!

And thanks again for all the kind comments, reblogs, and notes. You guys are awesome!

Taglist: @m1tsu-ki @promnightbinbaby

#avatar the way of water #avatar 2009 #neteyam x human reader #neteyam x reader #neteyam x y/n #neteyam x you #self insert #self insert fanfiction #x reader #neteyam sully x reader #atwow

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all-alone-he-turns-to-stone · 2 years

Text

The Time of A Coffee

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Summary: It’s only you and Dean for the hunt. Sharing a motel room is not the best, but it’s a must, so you sleep in the same room as Dean for the first time. But Dean is a man of routine, and he cannot function without his coffee. Fed up with how long it takes him, you act like a brat to piss him off, only… Dean has no patience in the morning. Especially when you walk naked in front of him.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x F!Reader

Word Count: 5k

Rating: Explicit

Warning: Smut, p in v, unprotected sex, bondage, overstimulation, masturbation, shower masturbation, use of sex toys, teasing, grumpy Dean

Square: Coffee for @mfbingo

A/n: I got this idea while looking at the gif below... Enjoy! Feedbacks are appreciated!!

It wasn't the first time you went hunting. The world of monsters invaded your life a few years ago, but it was only recently that you moved into the bunker with the Winchesters. It was more convenient to live in the lair where hundreds of pages of information on all the kinds of monsters that existed were located. Besides, it was the most secure place in the world.

It was your first time hunting alone with Dean, though.

The eldest Winchester didn't seem to appreciate your presence in what he called his home, and you never quite understood why. Except for the few times you passed by him in the hallways on your way to a room, the bunker was so big you hardly ever saw him.

Sam was still injured from the last hunt, so Dean flatly refused to take him with him. However, Sam refused to allow Dean to hunt alone. And if his brother couldn't go with him, there was only you left.

“Don’t think I’ll protect you kiddo,” Dean told you the moment you got into the impala. “We’re going together but I work solo.”

Of course, his attitude had frustrated you badly. You just wanted to get it over with. By the time you arrived in the city where the supernatural event was happening and rented a seedy motel room for the two of you, it was already late. It was impossible to begin the investigations until the next morning.

The night passed without incident. Each of you had their own bed and you turned your back on the green-eyed hunter, hoping to find sleep, but the frustration rising inside you throughout the night made sure you wouldn’t get any rest. The incomprehension of his attitude towards you haunted you, why did he have to act like this? Hunting alone was dangerous, that was why Sam always preferred to go in teams of two or three, and if necessary, the person left at the bunker could do research or answer the phone pretending to be an FBI boss. Dean should be grateful you were there and put up with his attitude.

The sun seeping through the half-open curtains was what woke you up the next day. Yawning, you stretched your arms above your head and kicked the blanket out of the way, forgetting for a few seconds where you were and with whom. A growl echoed next to you and it was enough to completely wake you up, bringing with the hoarse sound chills to your lower stomach that you wish you hadn't had. Especially for the man who seemed to hate your presence so much.

Turning your head to the side, you encountered a sight you never thought you'd get the chance to see.

His hair was disheveled on his head. Half-open eyes stared at the ceiling, the light probably strong to his retinas. His large hands rubbed his eyelids, like it could help him see better, and his tongue moistened his dry lips. A new growl echoed the first as he rotated his previously half-sided body so he was fully sprawled on his back. And in this position, the blankets shifted and a tent was formed.

The heat rose to your face so quickly, you thought for a moment the blankets of the bed were still on your body. A hundred degrees crashed down on you and headed directly between your legs, the space growing hotter and hotter as you watched the man lay in bed next to you. Still half asleep, Dean hadn't noticed you waking up. He groaned again, and you hated the effect his hoarse voice had on your body, in addition to the sight of his morning wood unraveling the structure of the blanket.

Dean then moved. Sitting up, he put his legs on the side of the mattress so he was now back to you. Before he got up, you half-closed your eyes to pretend to be asleep but you could still see what was going on. After a few seconds of sitting on the edge of the bed, Dean finally got up.

His walk was very slow, like he was purposely giving you plenty of time to watch the tent in his loose pajama pants rise and fall slightly with each step. You swallowed dryly as you watched him walk to the bathroom, the door closing behind him the last thing you saw. Then the sound of the water being turned on in the shower hit your ears, and you could safely open your eyes.

“God.”

It was your turn to sit up in bed and rub your eyes. A hand in your hair, you stared at your thighs trying to understand what had just happened and why it had had such an effect on you.

"I so need to get laid," you mumbled to yourself as you stood up. You had to go out for some fresh air, it was a pressing need. With the shower occupied, you couldn't wash away those lewd thoughts running through your mind and refresh your feverish body with the help of freezing cold water. But maybe the fresh morning air would help you in this case. Picking up the first clothes you found, you grabbed your wallet and hurried out of the room.

Once outside, you walked to the nearest cafe. A good, strong coffee would be perfect to put your ideas back in place. And a coffee for Dean might make him a little friendlier, who knows? Once you had both drinks, you were about to return to the motel when a sign caught your eye. It was still early, but if you believed the person who had just entered, the store was open.

The feeling of warmth spread once again between your legs. There was no way you would make it without some relief. And it wasn't your fingers that would satisfy you, certainly not with the next few days you had to spend with the source of this discomfort.

Gathering up your courage, you crossed the street and went to the store.

About twenty minutes was all it took you to get two coffees and your little personal present. And yet, when you returned, you were greeted by a gun pointed at your head.

“Where the hell have you been!” Dean exclaimed the moment he recognized you, his gun now pointed to the ground. The hunter growled and walked back into the bedroom, leaving the door open for you to follow.

Fuck, if he could stop growling, maybe the heat would stop soaking your inner thighs!

"I went for coffee," you rolled your eyes as you set the cup holder down on the table. Noticing Dean's back to you, you rush to your bag to put your other purchase in, hoping he wouldn’t notice. But obviously, the hunter had to put his nose everywhere.

“Oh and what’s this you’re hiding?”

"Pads," you jerked your head around, answering his question very quickly. “What, do you prefer I bleed all over your car?” Of course you were lying. Since you took the pill, you no longer had your periods. But menstruation had always put men off and you hoped that was enough for Dean not to go through your things to verify your statements.

“Ew.” Obviously. Dean walked over to the table, totally disinterested in your bag, to grab one of the two coffees.

"That's mine," you rushed to pick up your cup. After a “whatever” perfectly gestured with only his eyebrows, Dean took his drink and went to sit on the edge of his bed to sip it slowly. A sigh of appreciation broke the silence after his first sip, and you didn't think anything could be worse than his growls.

But that sound in any other context sounded dirty. You were lucky to hold your coffee firmly in your hands.

“Alright, so, for the case,” you began as you sat down at the table. The computer Sam had lent you for the hunt was there, so you slid it towards you and opened it. But before you could add anything, out of the corner of your eye you could see Dean raise a hand. Putting your full attention on him, you watched as he pointed to his coffee and then raised his hand again, palm facing you, signaling you to slow down.

Coffee above all.

It was your turn to growl. All you wanted was to finish the hunt as soon as you could, or at least make the day go by as quickly as possible. Chances were Dean would hit the nearest bar in the evening for a beer and a girl or two. And so, you would finally have some alone time with your purchase.

You fucking brought him a coffee. And that was how he thanked you? Besides, now that you thought about it, the hunter never thanked you.

Your frustration grew.

In the end, and much to your dismay, Dean didn't go to the bar that night. No, he decided it was more interesting to spend the evening in the motel room in front of the television with two or three open beers around him. Not only could you not use the object you had bought in the morning, but you also had to endure Dean's presence that only made you feel more warm. The frustration was so intense, it felt like you were about to explode. So, although you had already taken a shower that morning, you went to the bathroom to freshen up a bit.

Once in the safety of the bathroom, you removed your clothes and entered the bathtub. You smiled as you took the detachable shower head in your hands and sat down on the cold ceramic tile. Once the temperature was perfect, you directed the shower head between your thighs.

Your hand pressed against your mouth immediately as pleasure slammed into you from all sides. The frustration of the day was so accumulated in your lower body that you felt yourself twitch around nothing, your pussy begging to be filled as quickly as possible. But both of your hands were busy, one holding the shower head and the other making sure you didn't make any noise, and you didn't trust yourself enough to be quiet.

The thin jet was like hundreds of tiny needles attacking your clit. And if you moved the shower head from left to right, it felt even better. So much pressure built up, you were on the edge of your orgasm continuously. It was burning, building up, over and over, your back arching in the tub as your hips chased the jet like a hungry animal.

It felt so good, so hot, like your pussy was on fire. Everything was on fire, and yet, something was still missing, it wasn't enough to reach your climax. Desperate, and needing it badly, you took the risk. Your hand clasped over your mouth left its post and you hurried, knowing full well that biting your lip wouldn't be enough for long.

Only two fingers were enough. As simple as that. Feeling full was enough for your orgasm to shatter you into little chunks of pleasure and an all too loud moan left your mouth, but as the pleasure lasted, as your body shook and as you saw stars, you didn't care about the sounds you made.

Once your high was over, you had to quickly divert the spray from your now far too sensitive intimacy. It was immediately after that knocking was heard against the door.

“Y/n, you’re okay? I heard you scream!”

Hearing his voice after cumming only brought back that desire and the uncomfortable feeling of being too horny. Your pussy clenched around nothing and you swallowed hard, the thought of getting caught way too exciting for you.

“Yeah! I just slipped and almost fell, that's all!”

You hoped your voice didn't shake while speaking. Because your body was still trembling with the aftermath of your release.

"Clumsy," you heard from the other side of the door, and then footsteps moving away.

Fuck, that was close.

The next day was almost exactly like the day before. You woke up before Dean after a far too realistic dream that left you with an unpleasant aftertaste.

Dream that consisted of Dean ordering you to get off on his thigh. Fuck, you could still feel the material of his pants rubbing your thighs to the point of burning. Needless to say, you woke up with overpowering sexual frustration. And Dean waking up next to you, a new tent in the covers and lots of grunts…

This time, you got up before the hunter. Going past him to get to the bathroom was harder than you thought, the temptation to look in his direction was spellbinding… only a quick glance at this tent, just to see and imagine how big he was… And how perfectly his length would stretch your core, filling you up so much you would cum with only him entering you…

You failed. Near the bathroom door, you glanced at Dean.

The tent was the first thing you looked at. Then, your gaze went up on the body under the blanket until it met green eyes firmly staring back. A half-smile tugged the hunter's lips as you quickly entered the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind you.

Heat exploded in your face.

There was always the possibility of using the shower to relieve yourself a little, like the previous day. But all it took was one sound for Dean to know. And slipping in the shower two days in a row was unlikely to happen to give that as an excuse again.

You just stepped into the shower, your wet hair sticking to your body when you realized you hadn't brought your shampoo with you.

"Damn it," you wrapped a towel around your body and opened the door without thinking. “Forgot my shampoo-”

You never stopped so suddenly. So much that you almost lost your balance.

A new magnificent view was offered to you.

Still lying on his bed and under the covers, Dean was in the middle of… taking care of his morning problem. And even though his gestures were hidden under the blanket, your brain was filling in the holes. The tent was in motion, animated by a hand rising and falling rapidly on the very hard tower. Small moans were in motion all around the room, and surprisingly, despite his irreplaceable hunting instincts, it took several seconds for Dean to notice your presence.

But unlike you, if your presence bothered him, he didn't show it.

“Well, go ahead, take your shampoo,” Dean pointed to your bag with his chin. The tent had stopped moving, but now it was his burning gaze on you that was the problem.

His eyes traveled up and down your body a couple of times, his head tilting to the side as he put himself into a sitting position. Dean didn't speak more, he just watched. That was enough to turn you on so much, if you hadn't been soaked by the shower, drops of water falling around you from your hair, you would have felt your inner thighs completely drenched with your arousal.

He wanted to play this kind of game? Perfect. You were fed up with his attitude and the feelings his presence gave you. You were tired of feeling constantly turned on and ruining your underwear with your arousal. He was about to get a taste of his own medicine.

Walking in front of him, you bore his gaze into yours until you were near your bed. There, you leaned over to access your bag, purposely not bending your knees. The towel was very short and you knew you were flashing Dean enough for him to have a very nice view of your naked intimacy and your asscheeks. Excitement shook your hands as you grabbed what you needed. His gaze burned your skin, so you straightened up and stalked back to the bathroom. Once near the door, you turned back to Dean and with a simple movement of your arm, untied your towel that fell to the floor. But before he could get an eyeful of your naked body, you backed into the bathroom and closed the door.

Your breathing was rapid at what you had just done. You only hoped your little show would leave him in a similar state to yours… Frustrated. Excited.

You were about to celebrate your small victory when a sound echoed from the other side of the door. A sound you knew all too well, that vibration you desperately craved for the past few days

Opening the door abruptly, you immediately froze at seeing Dean right in front of you. He was so close his body heat engulfed your person. Also… There was something pressing against your lower stomach, something you didn't have to look at to know what it was.

“You left your bag open," Dean mumbled in that hoarse voice you loved so much. He raised his hand and in it, you recognized your purchase from the night before. His thumb pushed the button up, then down, the dildo shaking in all directions as it turned on and off.

“Yeah, so? You take so much time drinking your coffee. I have time to cum 3 times before you’re even ready.”

Talking back to Dean while you were completely naked, with him holding your sex toy, clearly as excited as you and with the way he was looking at you like an animal in front of its prey… It probably wasn't the best idea. Dean raised an eyebrow and stepped closer to you again. Now his torso was pressed against your chest, your wet skin leaving dark stains on the gray fabric of his t-shirt. His cock still trapped in his pants pressed against your stomach, a wave of heat attacking you as you felt how hard he was. Raising your head to maintain eye contact, even your breath was lost in the remnants of desire as you gazed into his green eyes.

Feverish was a weak word to describe the way he looked at you.

"Three times, you're sure?" Dean cocked his head to the side.

"Yeah," you replied haughtily, your head tilting the other way. His face was so close your noses brushed and your breaths became one. The excitement was now in full play.

It was heavy. It was hot.

“Let’s see that, shall we?”

You were sure he was about to kiss you, so you closed your eyes. Big mistake. The next moment, you were handcuffed against the headboard of Dean's bed, your arms above your head, his personal smell invading your senses.

But the scent was nothing compared to the sight.

The hunter had captured his prey and was pacing in front of the bed, your dildo in his hands, carefully detailing it as if it were a weapon he intended to use against you.

“Three times. Okay. I'll get the coffee first, just to be fair.” Only his eyes moved as Dean detailed you with a smirk to see your reaction. Then, he knelt on the bed and invited you to open your legs. Hypnotized by his actions, you let him, watching his every move as if he was going to jump on you any moment. “Relax for me please…” Taking a deep breath, you tried to relax as Dean thrusted the toy inside you. As he handled it well with his warm hands, the silicone was no longer cold and entered easily into you. A moan immediately escaped your mouth as the toy burned your entrance, filling you to perfection. Dean pushed the toy into you until the space that meant to be against your clit was in its position.

It was fully inside of you.

You had taken this toy for this reason, precisely. Not only did the dildo vibrate, but the space that rested on your clitoris… had a suction mechanism.

Dean turned the toy on to its lowest setting and immediately, your body tensed up all over. Your head lolled back and moans after moans escaped your mouth, your legs shaking and your arms tugging at the handcuffs. You clenched your thighs, trying to position the toy in the spot that would make you cum immediately, not giving a damn about how desperate you looked.

Opening your eyes, you met Dean's gaze. He was watching again, not saying anything, observing your body's reactions to the toy that was stimulating you, and seeing him looking at you that way… It had the same effect as if you had turned the toy on to its strongest setting. It didn't even have to be positioned at the spot that could make you cum easily.

The orgasm exploded between your thighs in a high pitched, surprised moan.

Your body started shaking and your legs tightened around the toy to be sure it stayed in place. It was so good, you ended completely exhausted and out of breath. Now very sensitive, your clitoris still trembling, you were about to cum again when suddenly, strong hands spread your thighs apart and the buzzing stopped completely.

"That's one and I don't even have my coffee yet," Dean grinned, his eyes fixed on your chest moving up and down quickly, your breasts jiggling with your every breath. "You're already so wet..." Even your inner thighs were sensitive, you noticed when Dean ran one of his hands against that part of your body to see how wet you were.

"Please," you tugged on your handcuffs, wiggling your hips for him to put the toy back on. You had never experienced such a good and powerful orgasm and you wanted more.

“So greedy. That was one. Now, I'm gonna get my coffee. See how many times you can cum again while I drink it.”

And that bastard left you like that. Tied to the bed, naked, still soaking wet from your shower with a toy deep inside you, on the verge of a second orgasm and the promise of more. “Don't leave me here! Winchester!” You yelled at him, but Dean was already gone.

Once alone, you sighed and took the time to understand the situation. Fuck, he was going to watch you get consumed by that toy that had the ability to make you cum in just seconds… And the thought of him watching you turned you on so much, only thinking about it made you throb around the dildo. And if you shifted just a little, you could feel it moving inside you and it felt so good, not enough to make you cum, but enough to satisfy your needs while waiting for Dean to return.

Your eyes were closed when Dean came back, your hips moving in circles to feel something, small moans escaping your lips every time the toy brushed your g spot. You didn't hear the hunter enter, you only knew he was there when the vibrations attacked you again.

A high-pitched scream broke your throat as the sensation washed over you. Your eyes snapped open and you looked at Dean. He had his coffee in his hand, the other between your thighs holding the toy in place inside you.

“Oh fuck, oh God!” Your back arched under the sudden onslaught. And if that wasn't enough, Dean turned up the intensity of the toy. If you hadn't been tied down, you would have reached out to grab something, anything, but all you could do was pull on your cuffs and move around. To try to escape the suction, or to put it in the place that was going to make you explode? You didn’t know. But it was so hot, so good, it was burning, and when you opened your eyes to see what Dean was doing, you could see him sitting on your bed, his cup of coffee in his hands. He was slowly sipping his drink as he watched you writhe with pleasure in his bed, and again...

The fact that he is looking at you made you cum.

“That’s two, and I’m not even halfway through my coffee.”

His hoarse voice made you cum again. Then it was his laugh.

You lost count of how many times you came. Every time you thought it was over, that Dean had finally finished his coffee and was going to take the toy away from you, a new orgasm attacked you. And Dean wasn’t helping by increasing the intensity. Everytime. Until the toy was maxed out.

"Please, please, oh god stop, stop, I can't, I can't!" You were crying now. You were so overstimulated that your orgasms were now torn out from you almost painfully, your body so exhausted you were coming quietly. Each orgasm lasted longer and sent thorns of pleasure for long seconds. Like you were cumming continuously.

"I'm done with my coffee," Dean said, finally turning off the dildo. Your body immediately softened, only small spasms running through your limbs made you moved. Your muscles were so tense it took you a moment to remember how to use them. Dean pulled the dildo out of your entrance and you moaned sadly at the feeling of emptiness. "You're sure you wanted me to stop it? Look at that, the toy is soaked, oh…” you glanced tiredly at Dean to see him place the toy down on the bed and put his attention between your thighs. “Son of a bitch, you soaked my bed, it’s so wet…”

His growl, the one that had gotten you in this situation, rang in your ears again. You came so much you were exhausted, and yet, your hole throbbed at the thought of Dean filling you up. You wanted him to growl against your ear as his cock moved in and out of your abused cunt.

“Please, Dean, please,” you spread your thighs, now too far gone to care what you looked like.

Dean didn't care either, because it only took him a few moments to take off his clothes and be on top of you. You hadn't noticed until now, but the warmth of his body informed you how cold you were. “I got you sweetheart…”

He must have been in as much of a hurry as you, because Dean didn't even wait to enter you. Since he had undressed quickly and you had trouble keeping your eyes open, you could barely get an eyeful of his length. You knew he was big, but yet, it was a surprised moan that escaped your lips as he entered you until he was comfortably settled in your channel. To say he was big was almost too sweet to describe his girth. “God, you’re so wet… Fuck… Oh fuck…”

As you wished, his growls tickled your ear and you clenched around him. It only made him groan louder.

You were both impatient. So immediately after entering you, Dean started moving. It was fast, it was rough, and as soon as Dean untied the handcuffs, your hands went to his back, that you scratched and marked with your nails.

“Oh fuck, do that again,” Dean begged, thrusting slower but deeper. Exhausted from all your orgasms, you moaned lazily and dug your nails into his back. The accumulation of your wetness created obscene and embarrassing sounds, but made his movements so easy that Dean could go any way he liked. As rough, hard or fast as he wanted. And you were taking it all in, constantly feeling yourself on the verge of another orgasm.

But that orgasm was different.

As it was about to hit you head-on, Dean pulled his face back enough to look at you. You gazed into his eyes and time seemed to stop.

It was like after all the stimulation, you finally saw who made you feel this good. It wasn’t only the toy that made you cum. It was seeing him there, seeing him in control.

It was Dean.

You moved your hands to cup his cheek and finally put your lips against his.

It was a rising orgasm. Higher and higher, burning your insides, exploding in small sparks of pleasure and spasms. Moans and grunts mixed together and when you entered your tongue in his mouth to deepen the kiss, you could feel him twitch inside you. Dean buried himself as much as possible, so deep, you could feel his cock brush against your cervix. And despite how wet you were, you felt his seed fill you up.

Once Dean came inside you, you stayed like that for a while, just kissing. The passion in his movements, how he kissed you and touched you after fucking surprised you, you would have thought that was all he wanted, sex, but you weren't complaining and kissed him until you ran out of breath.

“Fuck,” Dean gasped. “You have no idea how bad I wanted this.”

"What?" You stroked his shoulders, not really understanding where he was going with this. You put your confusion on the little high cloud of pleasure you were still floating on. “I… I thought you hated me.”

"I didn't hate you," Dean brushed a lock out of your forehead softly. It had to be the sweetest gesture he had for you since you knew him. “I hated how bad I wanted you all for myself. You seemed so close to Sam, I thought you two were a thing.”

“But Sam is with Eileen,” you frowned with a smile, understanding now why he was always so grumpy whenever you were near him or his brother. “You’re a dumbass, Winchester.”

“I know.” His gaze softened. It was also the first time you saw that side of him. The caring, sweet Dean. “So, how about I help you clean up in the shower? I think you need to cool down… Or warm up… And get clean, even if you’re still wet…”

At the thought of the shower, you clenched around him. Dean didn’t know why, but he was smart, he would figure it out soon enough. “Please.”

Supernatural Tag List: @cryptichobbit @sexyvixen7 @stixnstripesworld @charred-angelwings @treat-winchesterswith-kindness @lyarr24 @fiftyshadesgrl

Dean Winchester Tag List: @akshi8278 @siospins2 @kazsrm67 @wtrpxrks @deanwanddamons @thoughts-and-funnies @charred-angelwings @jensendreamland @deanswaywardgirl @happyt0exist @waynes-multiverse @djs8891

2K notes · View notes

gloomwitchwrites · 7 months

Text

Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): canon-typical cursing, suggestive themes, brief mention of childbirth, kissing, domestic!Simon, brief military-based discussion

Word Count: 5k

A/N: Part Thirteen of Ink & Needle

Archie's solicitor comes for a visit. Evie goes into labor. You and Simon talk over breakfast.

Chapter Twelve // Chapter Fourteen

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

“Please give me some good news, Mister Grant.”

Leaning against the edge of the kitchen counter, you cross your arms over your chest as Ewan Grant, Archie’s personal solicitor, comes to a stop just inside the entryway. Jennifer Hopkins, the estate agent for Evie and Archie’s house, sits on the couch with her assistant Mollie. The two of them talk in hushed voices, their gazes focused on the stack of paperwork and open laptop computer resting on the coffee table.

Ewan Grant sighs, more from exhaustion than annoyance, as he sets his dark brown briefcase on the counter and removes his tweed coat. The whole situation with Archie’s family has been a hassle for everyone, but Grant speaks with the family directly, and that is an entirely different beast.

“Will Lady Evelyn be joining us?” asks Mr. Grant, adjusting his rain-spattered spectacles.

Evie is upstairs resting. The two of you have been in Cambridge dealing with more house business over the last few days. She’s so close to her due date, and any burst of energy is starting to wear her down. While you’ve taken much of the mental and physical load onto yourself, it doesn’t seem nearly enough to do anything substantial. You’re floating in stasis. Directionless. Unsure of where you’ll float off to.

“Don’t let her hear you call her that,” you chastise, a smile spreading across your face.

Evie might have gained a title when she married Archie, but she rarely enjoys hearing it used. To her, she’s simply Evelyn Green from Southern Missouri, and Archie is—was—Archie. Just Archie. That is how you see them, and it how they’ve always wanted to be seen.

Those are—were—their wishes, and you’ve always respected that.

“Old habits,” he chuckles, removing his glasses and inspecting the lenses.

“You’re forgiven,” you smile. “But really, how are things?”

Mr. Grant reaches into the front pocket of his suit jacket and extracts a small cleaning cloth. “You want to know if the Williams plan on seizing everything?”

You shrug. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

This has been an ongoing issue since Archie’s death. He wasn’t even dead a week before Evie started receiving communications from the family about “cutting off family money,” as if Archie and Evie only lived off what the family was kind enough to give them. It’s a farce. Everything given was promptly donated, and everything Archie and Evie earned on their own belongs to them.

At the end of the day, that is what needs protecting.

Mr. Grant rubs the cloth against one the lenses. “The Williams wish to contest everything. Unfortunately for them, they have little ground to stand on.”

“That’s a good thing then?” you ask hopefully, pushing off from the counter.

“Oh, yes,” nods Mr. Grant, moving the cloth to the other lens. “The family money is the only footing they have, but even that isn’t guaranteed.” He holds out his spectacles for examination. Nodding, he returns them to his face.

“Now,” he continues, opening the briefcase and removing two leather-bound folders. The topmost one he holds up in front of him. It’s thin. “This is everything they could easily lay claim to. In actual court, these assets could be transferred to the family.”

Mr. Grant sets it down on the counter. Reaching for it, you open it up, scanning through the few documents inside.

“There isn’t much here,” you muse, finding the last page blank.

“No, and it’s not anything significant. The family allowance is there but anything gifted cannot be returned. They can only shut the tap off.”

“They’ve already done that,” you mutter, closing the portfolio.

Mr. Grant presents the other portfolio. This one is larger. Thicker. “Everything in here will be much more difficult for them to seize.” He sets this one on top of the other folder. “These are all of Lord and Lady Williams’ assets. Personal investments. Property. Private income.” Mr. Grant adjusts his glasses. “Since there is also a legitimate child and heir, that will also curb much in Lady Evelyn’s favor.”

Your head snaps up. “Are they saying the baby isn’t Archie’s?”

“Goodness, no,” says Mr. Grant quickly, waving his hand in the air. “Not that I have heard. Even if they try, paternity tests are easy to acquire, and contesting the fact without proof will only put them in a bad light.”

You shut the portfolio. “But will they actually do it?”

Mr. Grant frowns. “Challenge the paternity?”

“Try to seize all of Archie’s assets,” you correct.

He nods, lips pursing slightly as he considers his next words. “You want my personal or professional opinion?”

“Both?” you ask with hesitation, wanting to know but also not.

Mr. Grant taps the edge of the counter a few times before speaking. “Professionally, they might. However, it will be an uphill battle. The Williams might be aristocracy, and their titles, land, and money seem infinite at times, but Lady Evelyn is the widow, and she is about to give birth to Lord Archibald’s child. That is far more important in the court’s eyes.”

“How so?” you ask, genuinely curious. As an American, these rules and regulations are entirely foreign to you. Yes, there is vast wealth in the States, but there are no Lords or Dukes or Baronesses.

“No child means most of his assets would revert to the family and Lady Evelyn would likely receive a comfortable settlement. But a child means the assets can move forward so to speak. That’s important to the courts. It shows a continuation. If the family tries to seize everything, it’ll place a shadow over the proceedings. The judge will want to know why when there is an heir for the inheritance.”

“And personally?”

Mr. Grant laughs. “They’re peacocking.”

You grin, covering your mouth as you stifle a snort. “So, I can start moving some of this?” You gesture behind you, indicating the house.

“The Williams Estate hasn’t officially filed anything. However, they are also immediate family, so they can contest the will. Have it picked apart for inconsistencies to make the process unbearable.” He shrugs. “Might tie up some of his assets. Make it more difficult for Lady Evelyn to use them. Assets directly tied to her should be fine.”

“Evie wants to sell the house. Can we do that?”

“The house is under Lord Archibald’s name, not the family’s estate. When I helped draw up the paperwork, I don’t recall a cosigner, but I will go through the records again to make sure.” Mr. Grant glances into the living room before his gaze returns to you. “Everything inside the home is…fair game, as you Americans put it.”

It’s a relief to hear. Evie doesn’t want to look at this place anymore. She wants it gone. If the solicitor is giving the go ahead, you can start selling, donating, or trashing items in the home before the estate agent prepares for showings.

“Thank you, Mister Grant. I’ll make sure Evie sees these and that the information is passed on.” Lifting the portfolios, you tuck them against your chest.

“How is she?” he asks, genuine concern in his tone.

Happy with a fake smile. Crying when she thinks no one is looking.

“Tired,” you answer, because it’s the truth. “She’s tired.”

Mr. Grant nods, sighing softly, his shoulders heaving. “I came here directly from the Williams estate. Usually, I don’t wait long before someone greets me but…”

“But what?” you probe.

He shifts on his feet, clearly agitated. “I don’t know if it’s even my place, but I think it should be said.” Mr. Grant glances over your shoulder at Mollie and Jennifer, the middle of his brow creasing with concern.

“Speak quietly,” you instruct, leaning in a bit.

His gaze lingers on the two women before returning to you. “When I arrived at the Williams estate this morning, I spent almost an hour waiting in the drawing room before anyone came to speak with me. That is highly unusual. Many would consider that not only improper but horrible manners. While I object to their treatment of Lady Evelyn, the family has always been traditional when it comes to hospitality.” He shakes his head. “Tis most strange.”

“Did something happen?”

“Well,” he begins. “Someone came but it was one of the household staff. Brought me tea and some finger sandwiches. Said it would be a bit longer. So, I waited. Waited a bit more. Eventually, I decided to wonder off.” Mr. Grant’s smile is like that of a child who just pulled off a deliciously perfect prank. “The estate itself is one of those old manors. The whole ‘upstairs downstairs’ business. Found a few new hires that don’t know it’s not good to talk.” He waves his hand dismissively. “Apparently, I was kept waiting because someone from British Intelligence was there asking questions about Lord Archibald’s death.”

“He was killed in the States,” you say, even though Mr. Grant already knows this information.

“‘Looking into his death’ is what they said. Sent his body back home without a proper investigation. Lord Archibald is from an important family. Covering all possibilities, I suppose.”

“Should we expect someone?”

Mr. Grant inclines his head. “That would be my guess. Unless Lady Evelyn has already spoken to someone previously.”

You weren’t here for the week of Archie’s death. Evie was completely alone. Someone might have talked to her then.

“I’ll check with her,” you nod. “Thank you for saying something.”

“We certainly don’t need any more unpleasant surprises. Given everything that’s happened.”

You rub at your temples, a headache starting to form there. “You’re talking about Adam.”

Mr. Grant snorts. “Nasty business and a deeply unpleasant man. I’m not surprised by his behavior toward you in the slightest.”

“It’s fine,” you mutter. “It’s over.”

Adam is the last person you want to think about. That entire conversation in the restaurant is just another thing you want to forget. Simon’s fury toward the man sent Adam into a spiral. All the chest-beating silliness between the two men only made things worse. At least, potentially. But you don’t blame Simon for any of it. He was only trying to protect you.

Mr. Grant picks up his coat and begins putting it on. “If the family contacts you directly, refuse. Make sure I’m present for any future interactions.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem. I can’t see them wanting to visit us.”

Mr. Grant retrieves his briefcase and the two of you head for the front door. “Though their behavior says otherwise, I suspect they’ll want to see the child.”

“Absolutely not,” you say immediately. “After everything they’ve done?”

He shrugs as he turns the handle. “Like I said. If they make an appearance, call me.”

You watch until his car disappears down the drive. When you reenter the kitchen, Jennifer and Mollie are up and alert, their faces eager.

“Good news?” asks Jennifer, her hands clasped in front of her.

“We can start selling things.” You place one hand on your hip and gesture at the large living room. “But I’m concerned about sticking to a schedule once the baby arrives. If most of this stuff needs to go, I’m not sure how often Evie or I can be here.”

Jennifer nods. “I can bring someone in to do appraisals and estimate the value of everything in the home. Perhaps even host an estate sale to help push it out quickly? You won’t have to lift a finger.”

“Great,” you reply, throwing up your hands. “Do it.”

Jennifer and Mollie say their goodbyes, exiting quietly, but leaving a mountain of paperwork behind. It’s just more shit piled on top of more shit. It’s a never-ending river of garbage that you’re floating on. One thing can shift, and you’ll slip right down into the swamp.

Outside the patio doors, the sky is gray, and rain falls gently from the low clouds. Autumn is in full swing, nearing Halloween if you have the date right. Once the baby arrives, everything will be different. Evie will need a different kind of support, one you’re absolutely willing to give, but aren’t entirely sure how yet.

And then there is Simon. Your wraith. The man you think about nearly every waking moment.

Stress is eating away at you like termites embedded in wood. It’s dissolving the good memories you’ve recently formed with him. It’s hard to forget what he did in the dark and how he made you feel. Difficult to ignore the sensation of his mouth and tongue between your thighs, or how his fingers slipped inside and curled so sweetly.

It is odd to you that he hasn’t tried for more. Men are pushy creatures. They’re prone to acting in selfishness. At Riot Room, you and Simon were like colliding atoms, exploding and meeting in frenzied repetition. Simon is moving slowly this time. He’s being careful. Maybe he thinks you don’t see it, but that isn’t true.

Your wraith is learning your habits and curiosities. He listens, but he also talks, sometimes pushing to the point that you want to slam your fists against his chest. Simon is gentle. Rough. Sometimes all at once. There is so much comfort in the way he treats you, the way he turns to you when you’re in the same room. It is haunting. Clinging. Occupying your mind and emotions where there is already little to spare.

Every touch and kiss are laced with possession. Every glance and gesture are a mark. A statement of ownership. Yet there is nothing about Simon that feels like a cage. He’s saying mine without barricading you from the world.

And you miss him. All the time.

The moment you’re no longer with Simon, his absence is like an open wound. It cuts deep, leaving hollow spaces behind.

“Did they all leave already?”

You turn at the sound of Evie’s voice. She rubs the sleep from her eyes, dark hair a mess from the pillow.

“Jennifer and Mollie left a bit ago. They’re going to bring in someone to appraise everything. Maybe do an estate sale. If that works for you.”

Evie wraps her cardigan around her tightly, approaching the patio door, coming to a stop beside you. “That seems like a lot of work.”

“You want do it while you’re taking care of a newborn?”

Evie smiles softly. “Not really.”

“Ewan Grant stopped by as well.”

“Archie’s solicitor?” You nod. “And you didn’t wake me?”

“You need the sleep,” you counter. “Plus, if I woke you up, it would take nearly half the day for you to roll out of bed.”

Evie snorts and rubs the top of her belly.

“He left some information about Archie’s assets. We talked about—well…” you trail off, unsure of how to broach such a sensitive topic.

“It’s fine.” Evie lightly squeezes your upper arm. “I can take a look.”

Sucking on your bottom lip, you recall Ewan Grant’s mentioning of the British Intelligence officer coming for a visit. Is this the right time to ask? Should you say anything?

But when will it actually be a good time?

“Evie?”

“Hm?”

“After Archie died, did anyone come visit you?”

Evie frowns. “Many people did. Even his family though I could tell they hated it. Why?”

“I don’t mean family or close friends. People outside of that sphere. Anyone you didn’t expect?”

You’re trying to say it without saying it. The whole thing was a mess. Evie was told that Archie was in the wrong place at the wrong time, but that came from the American mouth, not the British one.

Her frown only deepens. “Well, yes. I received plenty of visitors that Archie worked with or went to school with. Mostly people I didn’t know but wanted to give their condolences.”

She’s not picking up on your line of questioning which means you’ll need to be more direct.

“What about police?”

She shrugs. “When his…body came home.” Evie glances out into the rain as her eyes begin to water.

You fear pushing too much, but a surprise visit from British Intelligence sounds mighty inconvenient at the moment.

“Mister Grant brought up a few things during our conversation that I just need some clarity on.”

Evie simply nods, still staring out into the rain.

You’ll ask later. You’ll ask another time. It’s clear that this isn’t the place to do it.

Glancing down at your watch, you groan. “Oh hell. We’re running behind. We need to go, Evie.”

Bags are packed quickly, the two of you returning to London by train.

It’s late, the sun just below the horizon by the time you walk into Amelia’s house. Dinner is reheated, wine is had (only by you and Amelia), and a romantic comedy is watched with a massive bowl of buttery popcorn.

Evie is asleep twenty minutes in, and Amelia follows after thirty. You remain up, watching the rest before waking Evie and sending her off to bed. Amelia eventually finds her way as well. With the quiet, you catch up on a few work emails and finalize several things before sending them off for approval.

When your head hits your pillow, sleep hits you like a fist to the face. There are no dreams to be had, just a dark endlessness you’ll forget upon waking.

But it’s not the alarm or the morning light that wakes you.

It’s a small, warm hand on your shoulder that startles you into consciousness.

“What?” you mutter, turning over onto your back, one hand reaching out in the dark for Evie. You don’t find her, but your palm crosses over dampness. It’s not a cold wet. It’s warm like room temperature bathwater.

You blink a few times, the dark of the room still sitting heavy on your eyelids.

“Evie?” you call out, the dredges of sleep clawing at your vocal cords.

The reply is a whimper, and then a sharp inhalation.

There is fear in that breath, one that startles your senses into action. Reaching for the bedside lamp, you tug on the small chain. The lightbulb illuminates, and with it comes a brightness that makes you flinch.

“Evie?” You twist toward the rest of the room, searching for her.

She’s standing next to the bed, one hand cradling the bottom of her belly, the other resting against the edge of the mattress. Her eyes are wide and there is a dark stain down the insides of her pajama pants.

“Oh God,” you whisper. “It’s happening.”

Evie nods frantically. “It’s happening.”

The air kicks in, blowing gentle heat into the room.

Machines beep. Voices chat beyond the open door. Evie quietly rests in her hospital bed. Her eyes are closed but you’re not entirely sure if she’s sleeping or not. Using your elbow as a support, you rest your chin in your palm, staring down at the adorable little bundle in the hospital-provided bassinet.

The tiny newborn is all pink cheeks and soft coos. Lillian is a precious thing, and named after Archie’s little sister who died young. She’s wrapped up like a human burrito in a white blanket embroidered with yellow ducks. On her head is a pale pink cap.

Lillian wiggles in her wrap, her cooing becoming a disgruntled gurgle like she’s angry at the world but is too tired to voice her frustration.

A soft knock draws your attention away from Lillian and to the open door.

Amelia stands there in a yellow rain coat and black rain boots, both speckled with raindrops. In her arms is a large, flat takeout container. From this distance, you can’t see what’s inside, but you can hazard a few guesses. She’s grinning, her smile stretching toward her ears.

“Hello, Amelia,” sighs Evie, her eyes blinking slowly as she sits up to greet the woman.

“Brought you something,” giggles Amelia like she’s entirely too pleased with herself. She nearly skips over to the bed, presenting the container to Evie.

Pushing off from the ledge you’re leaning on, you go to the side of Evie’s hospital bed, extending the small tray that emerges from the side. Swinging it over Evie’s lap, you secure the safety lock to make sure it doesn’t slip away and spill whatever Amelia has brought.

Amelia sets the massive container down. It nearly dwarfs the tray it sits on. She removes the lid and sets it aside.

“You brought me sushi,” gushes Evie, immediately opening the chopsticks and lining up the packets of soy sauce.

Of everything Evie’s been craving, it’s sushi.

“Oh, yes,” replies Amelia. She glances over at you with a knowing smile, one that immediately puts you on alert. “Brought that, and a few other things.” She nods toward the door.

You immediately turn the moment a large shadow steps into view.

It’s Simon.

He looms like a dark beast in the doorway, not coming in but not leaving either. His gaze is darting everywhere like he’s checking the place out. Simon carries two backpacks. One is draped over his right shoulder and the other over his left. In his right hand, Simon grips a large, black duffle bag. In his other hand, he holds Amelia’s pink purse with white flowers on the strap.

Behind him are two nurses, their faces stricken by his sudden appearance.

Bravo is not with him.

Amelia shrugs. “Needed an escort.”

“In a hospital?” asks Evie, amused.

“It’s like having a scary dog with you,” jokes Amelia, gesturing over her shoulder at Simon. “No one stopped us.”

“Oh my god,” you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose.

Evie cackles as she tears open a soy sauce packet with her teeth.

Simon enters the room slowly, placing all the bags on the ledge under the window. He pauses there like a phantom, surveying the three of you before heading in your direction. Lillian coos and Simon freezes.

His balaclava-covered head turns to the bassinet. Simon shifts, leaning to the side, staring down at the small bundle. You can’t read his expression. The only thing you can gauge is his gaze. It’s intense, focused, but impassive.

“You should go home and rest, dear.” Amelia’s gentle voice tugs you away from your wraith. You turn back to them just as Evie shoves a piece of sushi into her mouth.

“I’m fine,” you reply, but even you hear the exhaustion. You’ve been at the hospital for nearly a full day, and the time between going to bed and the time that Evie woke you up was only a couple of hours.

You haven’t slept at all.

Amelia tuts. “I knew you’d say that,” she says. “It’s why I brought Simon.” She nods in his direction, but you don’t have to seek him out.

Simon is already beside you, one large hand resting on your lower back. Instinct triggers, and you lean into his touch like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Warmth floods in from where his hand makes contact, invading your system like a virus.

“That’s thoughtful, Amelia.” You lift your hand to gesture toward Evie. “But—”

“Shut up and go,” interrupts Evie as she talks around the sushi in her mouth. “We can manage.”

You open your mouth, another protest forming on your tongue, but Evie is having none of it.

“Go,” she repeats, shaking her head, eyebrows rising toward her hairline as she picks up more food.

You’re not about to argue with a woman who just gave birth.

“Okay,” you agree. “Fine. But call me if anything happens.”

Simon’s hand remains at your back while you retrieve your coat and purse. The two of you take public transit back to Clapton. It is then that the exhaustion truly sets in. The gentle lull of public transit causes you to drift off a few times, but Simon wakes you when it’s time to depart.

He does not take you to his flat. Instead, he takes you to Amelia’s. On the stairs, your feet are lead. They drag, and it’s a wonder how you even make it into the bedroom. Simon does not disturb you, giving you privacy as you shower and change into comfortable clothing.

You never make it back downstairs.

Collapsing face first into the bed, sleep comes suddenly. It is the dipping of the bed beneath you that rouses you briefly from sleep. Reaching out, you find Simon. Your arms wrap around something large and hard. It’s not his arm. Likely his thigh.

It doesn’t matter.

What matters is that he’s warm and perfect and so goddamn close. You snuggle up to him and return to that blissfully dreamless state.

When you wake again, it is with the sun’s rays on your face.

Simon is not in the bed.

Pushing up, you glance around the room. There is no sign of Evie or that anyone has stopped by to grab anything. Stretching your arms over your head, you ease out of bed, surrendering the warm covers for the chilled air in the room.

Downstairs, you find Simon.

He’s in Amelia’s kitchen. There is breakfast on the table and the morning news is on. It plays from the little, boxy television on the counter. It’s muted but closed captioning is on.

“Morning.”

Simon glances over his shoulder. The balaclava is pushed up to his nose, the rim of a tea mug hanging before his mouth.

“Morning,” replies Simon, setting the tea on the counter and striding toward you.

He always does this. The moment he can be near you, Simon takes it, seizing it like he would a prize.

There isn’t a chance to ask a question or reply to Simon’s greeting. His arm snakes around your waist, hauling you against his muscled chest, mouth meeting yours for a kiss that sucks the air from your lungs.

It is fire. It is light. It is a beating heart. Lifeblood.

Simon’s hand cups your cheek, and the possessive, nearly primal way he kisses you softens to a delicateness that sends a tingling sensation down to your toes. His thumb traces over your chin, and then presses against your bottom lip when Simon pulls away.

“Hungry?” he asks, and your stomach answers for you.

There are waffles, scrambled eggs, fresh fruit, several types of juice, buttered toast with two kinds of jam, and fried sausage.

“We feeding an army?” you ask, unsure of where to begin.

Simon shrugs. “Idleness makes me nervous.”

“So you made everything in Amelia’s kitchen?” The soft song of the dryer decides to go off immediately following your question. “Are you doing laundry?”

“That a problem?”

You pause. “No.”

Simon smirks behind his mug and takes a sip of tea. Placing the cup back on the table, Simon piles his plate high with extra sausage and eggs.

Leaning forward in your chair, you decide to poke.

“Did you take the trash out?” Simon glances up, the same smirk still plastered on his face. “Vacuum?”

He remains silent.

“Clean the bathrooms?”

“Mop the floors?”

“Remove the weeds from Amelia’s garden?”

“Are you done?” replies Simon blandly, his gaze unwavering.

You shove some toast in your mouth as answer.

Simon leans back in his chair, all casual sensualness. “You’re much better like this,” he says, voice dropping slightly.

“Much better how?” you ask, taking another bite of your toast.

“With your mouth full,” he purrs.

You nearly choke on the bread, cheeks flaming. Simon’s chuckle is soft but victorious. He got you back, and he’s enjoying it.

You cough, dislodging a bit of toast. “Has anyone called?”

Simon nods. “Amelia did. Said she’s being released today.”

“When was this?”

“An hour ago.”

You sigh. “I’m not sure how it is here, but it might be a while yet before they come home.” Simon makes a sound in his throat but says nothing.

The window above the sink is cracked, and from it comes the sounds of traffic and songbirds. Resting an elbow on the table, the last two days come flooding back, infiltrating your head. Ewan Grant’s conversation whispers in your ear, insisting.

British Intelligence.

That’s what he said, and you have no idea if they’ll come to Amelia’s door. But Simon is former military, and he might know something.

“Can I ask you something?”

Simon glances up from his plate. “If it’s to ask about what else I’ve cleaned I don’t want to hear it.”

“No,” you laugh. “No. I—” You pause. “I want to ask about your military service.”

The gentle playfulness melts away replaced by a neutral expression. It’s not unnerving but it does make you cautious about how you’ll approach the subject.

“Is it something specific?” asks Simon.

You shake your head. “Not exactly.”

Simon sets his fork down on his plate. Leaning back in his chair, Simon’s gaze becomes pointed. “You’re worried about something.”

“Is it that obvious?” you mutter.

“What’s wrong? Is it that prick from the pub?”

“No, Simon,” you say quickly, the stress of the last few days coming back like a hammer to the finger.

“Talk to me.” Simon’s voice is so soft, so full of concern that you blurt out the question without second guessing the decision.

“Did you ever work with British Intelligence?”

You glance up and find a blank expression on Simon’s face. He’s no longer leaning in his chair but sitting up, completely stiff and alert.

“I worked with a lot of different agencies. Why?”

You look away, staring at the clock on the wall. “So, you weren’t part of it?”

“No,” replies Simon automatically. “I was part of Special Air Service. Some of my missions happened because of intelligence information but I never directly worked with them.”

It’s helpful, but not. If they come knocking, you don’t know what to expect.

“Why are you asking me this, love? What’s on your mind?”

Sighing, you decide to spit out. You have no reason to hide anything from Simon.

“Archie’s solicitor came by. He mentioned that someone from British Intelligence was at the Williams’ estate. Following up about Archie’s death.”

“Did they come here? To Amelia’s?”

You shake your head. “No, but they might.”

Simon is tense. Not only can you sense it, but you see the tightness in the way he holds himself.

Your voice cracks. “Should I be worried?”

Simon’s shoulders heave as he inhales.

“No,” he says after a long moment. “It’s probably nothing.

“Probably,” you repeat softly, pushing the cold eggs around on your plate.

Probably, as if saying so will somehow make it true.

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baronessvonglitter · 2 months

Text

Cherry, Cherry 🍒 Chapter 11 🍒 "I Was Made for Lovin' You"

pre-outbreak! AU!Joel Miller x f!Reader

Word count: 5,067

Summary: you and Joel head to a quiet lakeside cabin for a romantic weekend.

WARNINGS: 18+ Only! Mature and Explicit, age gap (reader is 18, Joel is 35), fluff, oral (m&f receiving), masturbation, somnophilia, exhibitionism, pet names ('daddy' for Joel, 'babygirl' for reader), protected piv sex (super important guys, always wrap it), first time, romance, idiots in love

Author’s notes: This is it! What we've been waiting for! (🎵Tonight is the night/when 2 become 1🎶) Also: Joel is a KISS fan and you cannot change my mind. He's got such a Dad list of music he'd like to listen to during the Main Event. This was originally one LOOONNNGGG chapter that I chopped in two because 5K, wow, my attention span could never.

Series Masterlist

Joel showed you pictures of the cabin in the lake a couple days before you were to leave. It looked rustic yet romantic - just the kind of place he would take you for your first getaway together.

"You really booked it for us?" you'd asked, touched by the gesture. Though you trusted Joel, part of you expected to be let down, simply because you were used to it.

"Didn't I say you could trust me?" he'd said, a little twinkle in his eye as he lifted your chin to give you a soft kiss.

Now it's Friday morning. By the end of the day you will be a new person, or so you hype yourself for what will happen with Joel. He's been insistent that nothing needs to happen this weekend if you aren't quite ready. But when you look at him in the most commonplace of moments and you see the way his eyes scrunch up so adorably when he laughs, or the way he licks his lips right after kissing you, as if to savor your taste; the feel of his beard gently scratching your inner thighs, and you can't imagine sharing yourself with anyone else.

The sun is barely rising in the sky, casting a pale blue light on all it touches. You remember as a kid, waking up early to get ready to leave on a long car trip. That same sense of expectation, of adventure, is heavy in the air.

Joel picks you up in his truck out front. Sofia is home and you risk the chance that she'll spot you from her window, but all is still. The world is quiet. Even the Adlers next door to Joel are likely still asleep. Everything about this morning is giving you the green light. Go. The world is yours.

You put your travel bag in the back, next to Joel's, and you spot a guitar case as well. When you get in the passenger seat you greet him with a kiss and he hands you a Dunkin' Donuts coffee. "The competition?" you narrow your eyes at him. "Rude. But I'll take it."

"This weekend is all about tryin' new things," he says with a barely-contained grin. "With respect to your boundaries, of course."

"I hold all the cards, Joel." You smirk, putting on your seat belt.

"That you do, sweetheart, that you do."

A little more awake after the first sip of coffee you motion to the backseat. "Is that your guitar?"

"Yeah, I play now and then."

"I've literally never seen you with it. You could have serenaded me at any time these past few weeks."

"I regret that I haven't done so, and I promise to do just that. I'll sing below your bedroom window at midnight and hope and pray that you'll give me some of your attention, maybe even let me in if your cousin's not home," he teases.

You drive west, away from the rising sun, towards skies that just barely lighten as you pass. The radio's on but the music doesn't register. You're just soaking up this time with him, his hand on your lap while his eyes focus on the road.

"About that.. So, Tommy and Sofia.." you start.

Joel chuckles. "Yeah, that really came outta left field."

"He never let on to you about it?"

"Nope. But I guess it's been kinda obvious in hindsight."

"Do you think we've been obvious?"

Joel frowns a little in thought. It's one of the expressions you love about him. "Nah, I don't think so. People probably think you're at my house for Sarah, which isn't far from the truth."

Sarah, who's become the link between you and Joel. There are times you feel really bad about using her as an excuse, and you have to wonder how much she knows, if she's caught on to what exactly is going on between her friend and her father. She's at Tommy's this weekend, while you and Joel have made your separate alibis. With so many secrets you speculate the possibility of all of them spilling out one day. Then you look at Joel, the way the morning light casts its rays on his handsome profile, and you know that if there's ever a fallout it will be worth it for him.

"I brought some music for us," he says, producing a CD in a clear case. "I thought you might like a little playlist for tonight, something to set the mood."

"That's so sweet," you give him a peck on the cheek and check out the label, handwritten in Joel's small, all-caps scribble.

You blush as you read the titles, knowing most of them already, and skimming through the rest, love songs from even before Joel's time. "A pretty comprehensive list," you compliment. "You put all this together for me?"

He blushes too. "Sarah helped me find the songs and burn 'em onto the CD."

You giggle. "She had to be weirded out. What does she think you're up to?"

"She probably thinks I'm seein' someone, and she'd definitely be right." His hand squeezes your thigh.

You smile. "Let's have a preview. I've only heard of a few of these." Some of these are your dad's favorites, so of course Joel would like them too. You put thoughts of your father out of your mind and put in the CD, setting it to play at random.

You lace your fingers with his on your lap as KISS starts to play, a bass-heavy rock with passionate lyrics about lovers who are made for each other, and the euphemisms are not lost on you. "You would pick out a bunch of rock anthems," you tease him, moving your hand to his thighs.

He smiles and is quiet for a moment, half-listening to the music with you. "Y'know, I've been thinkin'.."

"About what?"

He sips the dregs of his coffee and clears his throat. "It's a long stretch of road until we get to another town."

"You want me to drive this next half? I don't mind."

Joel chuckles, admiring your naivete. "I was thinkin' you might make this drive more interesting for us." He boldly places your hand on his cock, already hard inside his jeans.

"Joel.." you're partly shocked, though admittedly you're already wet at the thought of going down on him as he's driving.

"That's the only thing I'll ask of you all weekend, I swear," he says, and god damn it, he uses those puppy dog eyes on you.

"Do you think I need that much persuasion?" You massage his erection through his jeans and he hisses in expectation. He shifts his hips and after some careful maneuvering his fly bis open, and your head is in his lap, mouth wrapped around his substantial cock. With one hand Joel pushes your hair back, allowing himself a view of his length going in and out of your mouth. Hearing his grunts and groans turns you on and you desperately thrust your fingers inside you to alleviate your need. This sends Joel over the edge and you feel the twitch of his cock before his warm cum shoots at the back of your throat. You stroke him until he's released every drop, and he strokes your hair lovingly. "That's my girl, sucking up every god damn drop. Now finish what you started," he says, glancing at your shorts as you pull away. "Make yourself cum for me."

"Right now?" you ask in disbelief, licking his saltiness from your lips.

"Right now, babygirl," he says in that deep, husky voice that kindles a fire deep inside you. You scoot back to the passenger side so he can view you better and even though his eyes only flit to you every few seconds, your hand slips under your shorts and into your panties. You tease yourself into a frenzy, wishing it was Joel's fingers instead of your own, but getting the job done nonetheless.

"Does that feel good?" he asks, licking his lips as his eyes go from the road to you.

"Not as good as when you do it," you moan.

"Oh, babygirl," he whispers.

Your fingers rub over your clit in a flurry of movements. The sheer danger of what you're both doing is intoxicating. The breeze blows through the open window, lifting your strands of hair as you skillfully bring yourself to climax. Joel thinks he's never seen a prettier sight, this image of you is burned into his brain, etched onto his heart. When you're done he grabs your hand and licks your fingers. "You're always makin' a mess ford Daddy to clean up, aren't ya?"

"How else am I gonna get your attention?" you tease him.

"You're impossible," he shakes his head and you take the wheel a moment as he starts to carefully put himself away and zip up. You've elicited the dopiest grin from him.

"I won't be impossible after tonight," you counter with a sly smile.

The cabin on the lake is just as picturesque as in the brochure, like something out of a movie, quaint and rustic, with a wooden pier leading out to the lake. "I love it," you tell him excitedly.

"I hoped you would." He smiles at you and puts your belongings inside, insisting you don't need to lift a finger. Inside it's cozy, bucolic. The only room that stays in your memory is the bedroom - boasting a king size bed with a quilted coverlet and the furniture made of cherry, or so Joel tells you. The craftsman in him is impressed with the workmanship, but when you stretch out on the bed to test its comfort and sturdiness, his thoughts turn carnal. "You don't know how fuckin' hot you are, do ya? Or maybe you do and you're just gettin' my blood boilin' on purpose.."

"Whatever do you mean?" you playfully lounge on the bed, posing provocatively.

He growls and practically pounces on you. "You're lucky I have patience, babygirl. Besides, I gotta make a little trip out to get groceries and some other things we might need."

"But we just got here.." you do your best to give what you think is a sexy pout.

"I know," he rumbles. "But I have a surprise in store and I'd rather you didn't see it."

You're thrilled to see what kind of surprise Joel has in mind for tonight. You give him one more kiss. "I guess I'll just lay here waiting for you to return.. building up a fantasy about you in my head."

He chuckles and gives you another quick kiss. "I'll try not to be gone too long. Be good."

After he leaves you change into your swimsuit and grab a towel. It's in the high 90s today. The sun is brilliant in the cloudless sky. It's essentially a perfect day, as if the universe knows it's your last day as a virgin.

You spray yourself with sunscreen, vowing to get Joel to help you with this chore the next time, and lay out on the deck upon the towel. The lake is quiet but for the faraway sounds of a boat. The neighbors are scarce and it's highly unlikely you'll run into anyone during your stay. A gentle breeze blows across the lake, cooling you off a bit. Smiling, you put on your sunglasses and drift off to a nice nap.

You dream of Joel, of his head between your legs, his tongue tickling your clit. You sigh and pull him closer.

"You taste so good, babygirl," he murmurs. "But I thought you were gonna wait on that bed for me."

Giggling, you open your eyes to see that Joel really is there, eating you out while you're laying out on the deck. You're too turned on to protest, sitting upon your elbows to watch as he delicately moves the bottom of your swimsuit to rasp his tongue along your slit.

"Joel.. here?" you find the breath to say.

His eyes flicker up to yours, smiling before he licks another stripe up your crease, ending at your clit which he suctions between his lips, making you arch up, fingers tangled in his hair. "You taste like sunshine and coconut," he says, avidly tasting you.

Your veins are liquid fire, your entire being pulsing with sensualism. In fact you barely register the sounds of a boat passing by, and when you turn your head to the side it's too late to hide. A small group of people on board start whooping and hollering, shouting lewd encouragement as they pass. You glance between your thighs to see Joel's face quite red, and he flips them the middle finger, nonetheless persisting in his pleasurable task. "They can't see us from that far, babygirl," he assures you. "They don't know who we are."

It's hard for you to explain that you like it, that people's eyes on you in such a private moment is quite a turn on. You press yourself against his mouth and he readily accepts, filling you with his tongue, caressing it over your pussy, the tip of his nose nudging your clit before he fully takes you into his mouth and holds down your thighs as you quiver and shake, your sweet sounds filling his ears as your sweet juices fill his mouth.

After, he carefully cleans you up with the towel and rearranges your swimsuit bottom. He does all this with a care that seems to melt your heart. The boat with its passengers is long gone, as if you'd dreamt it.

At the cabin you both rinse off and freshen up for dinner. Joel treats you to to a meal of grilled steak, baked potato and salad. After laying in the sun so long you've grown hungry and as you see the feast laid before you, you're impressed.

"This all looks amazing, Joel," your mouth waters. "You really did all this for me?"

He pulls out a chair for you. "This weekend is all about you," he says, voice full of love. You can't keep a smile off your face throughout the entire meal. No one's ever made you feel this special before. Everything is delicious, and when you compliment Joel on his culinary prowess he just blushes and says it's no big deal, but it's evident he's pleased by your reaction.

The moment is surreal as you hold hands over the table, both of you thinking of the next move. You gaze at him, head resting on your hand. "We've been very honest and open with each other and I think that bodes really well for our relationship.. so can I ask.." you turn bright red. "Obviously tonight will be my first time, but.. when was the last time you.. you know?"

He smiles a little, looking thoughtful. "Probably a few months ago. March or April. She wasn't anyone special," he feels compelled to tell you.

You nod. "Okay. What about your first time? What was that like?"

This time his smile is genuine and you can tell he's remembering something meaningful. "Well, I was fifteen. She was the same age. We sort of dated in high school. You know how it is." You smile as he strokes your hand with his fingers. "What matters is now. I'm gonna make tonight so special for you."

"It already is." You squeeze his hand. He pats his lap and you go to him, your heart warm and glowing as you take your seat and his arms wrap around you.

"We're gonna take our time with everything," he says. "There's no rush. It's all about you."

His words alone cause a rush of sensation to your core. "Will you still want me after I'm no longer a virgin?"

He smiles and kisses your cheek. "Are you serious? Of course I'm still gonna want you. I'll probably want you even more after I've made you mine. And if I could, I'd make you mine every day."

There's a fluttering in your chest, as if your heart has grown wings. "I'm only ever going to be yours, Joel.. no one else will have me the way you will. No one else will know me that way."

His deep brown eyes are filled with lust and longing. "Babygirl, that's a big promise to make. And you're so young.."

"I mean it," you stroke his hair and nuzzle his neck, taking in his scent. "I can't wait to feel all of you."

Joel's response is a guttural growl as his arms possessively encircle you.

"Joel.. I want you to own me, to claim me from everyone else."

"You belong with me, you have since day one. Nobody is ever gonna take you away from me. Christ, I've never been so addicted to a woman before." And he claims your mouth, tongue invading and tasting as he lifts you up and places you on the table, hooking your legs around his waist. He presses his hips to you, letting you feel how much he needs you. Your body molds to his naturally, and he continues to press against you, teasing you with his hardness.

"You gonna take me right here?" you ask, only half-joking.

"You deserve better than to be fucked on top of a table your very first time," he smirks and leans in, his lips hovering over yours. "But don't worry: one of these days we'll do exactly that."

You whimper his name and it nearly undoes him. He's tempted to clear the table with just a swipe of his arm and lay you down, fucking you until you scream his name. "Wait," he groans. "I wanted to surprise ya. I said I'd make tonight special." He pulls himself away from you. "Can I trust you to be a good girl and stay here while I get everything ready?"

"What kind of surprise? Tell me," you insist with innocent glee.

"Girl, if I tell ya it won't be a surprise," he laughs.

You promise to be on your best behavior as he goes to set up the bedroom. You want desperately to sneak a peek, to see Joel Miller planning a romantic night, but you keep true to your word and wait, albeit impatiently.

Finally Joel returns and, smiling, takes your hands in his to lead you to the bedroom. The lighting is dimmed, the only source of illumination comes from the two bedside lamps and a dozen LED candles glimmering around the room. The bedspread is adorned with a spill of red, pink, and white rose petals; their fragrance is sweet in the air. Music is already playing over the sound system, but later you won't even remember what it is, just that everything is perfect, and you tell Joel so.

"You mean it?" He puts his arms around you from behind. "You deserve all the attention and all the romance. I didn't want to half-ass this." He studies your face, memorizing every emotion that shows on your uniquely beautiful features. "You make me feel good about myself. I've never really had this before.. you're my angel, my everything. I love you."

It's as if everything has clicked into place. Every moment has led to this. "And I love you, Joel.. I love you and I want you." You press a soft kiss to his lips, cupping the back of his head with your hand. As he returns the kiss you press your body to his, eager to feel all of him. His tongue slips past your lips, tangling with yours as the anticipation grows between you. Stepping back from him you begin to undress. You've done this a dozen times in front of him, but tonight is distinct in its significance.

Joel helps you, his hands gentle in their aid as your top comes off, then your shorts. Your new bra and panties, purchased just for this occasion, leave little to the imagination, and you feel sexy and powerful beneath Joel's gaze. Kissing you again he deftly unclasps your bra, freeing your breasts and cupping them in his large palms. He trails his kisses down your neck, across your breasts, down your belly, until he's on his knees before you. There's a mischief and a hunger in his eyes as he gently pulls down your panties. Your breath hitches as he comes close, inhales your scent, nudges the tip of his nose against you as his warm breath caresses your skin and you gasp when at last his tongue delicately rasps against your folds. He gently parts your thighs, making slow and deliberate licks, then opening you up with his fingers. Biting your lip you give a shuddering sigh as your head leans back, fingers sliding through Joel's hair as his tongue fucks you and he gently sucks on your swollen pussy lips before spoiling your clit. His hands firmly cup your ass, pulling you to him, needfully.

You cum quickly, excited at what the night will bring, and you feel Joel place you on the bed. "Daddy I'm going crazy over here," you moan, your body aflame with desire, with the need to be his. You sit on your knees on the bed, watching him undress and stop him when his erection springs free. "I want to kiss it," you whisper, and lean forward to place a gentle kiss on the tip, tasting a drop of his salty precum. Joel is so hard it hurts and he does everything in his power not to cum when you tease him with your mouth. Sucking his broad tip, licking the underside, hollowing out your cheeks as you fit the first few inches of him in your mouth. "God, babygirl.. I want you so much," he whispers.

You get under the covers, pushing the blankets down so your body exposed to him. "Come here and take what's yours." Joel takes a deep breath and gets on the bed with you, hungry eyes taking in the sight of you and his hands follow suit, tracing the curve of your hips, watching goosebumps rise on your skin.

"Do you have any condoms?" you remember to ask.

"Of course," he smiles and reaches into the bedside drawer. You watch as he removes a foil packet, the label boasting the biggest size, and watch as he carefully rolls it on. You're transfixed by the movements, the way he sheathes his cock in the latex barrier. He touches you gently between your thighs, spreading your wetness around. "You don't have to worry. I'm gonna take care of you.." He kisses you long, slowly, deeply, making you melt. He's pressed hot and hard against your thigh, and you recognize a longing so deep and powerful. You keep your eyes on him as you make room for him between your legs.

He's hovered over you, pressed eagerly at your entrance. His heart beats against yours, so intimate and right. "Joel.. tell me you love me."

He gives you another kiss and gazes into your eyes as he breathes your name. "I love you, so god damn much."

"I love you too, Joel." Sighing, you lift your hips against his. He glides his length over your cunt, teasing your clit. Then he slides two fingers in, pumping gently, in awe of your tightness and your heat. His breath quickens as your hips move against his hand. "Joel, please.." you whimper, and remove his hand, overeager for him to really take you.

Joel takes a deep breath and utters another "I love you" as he gently starts to press into you. You take in the first few inches and he stops when you show discomfort. "Tell me if you want me to stop," he whispers.

You shake your head, heart racing at top speed as your desire to truly be his is the strongest feeling within you. "Don't stop," you tell him.

Joel exhales sharply and tries his best to be gentle as he nudges further. "Look at me," he says, gently cupping your face as he buries himself within you in one smooth thrust. There's a tightness, a pinch of pain that reminds you how inexperienced you are. Joel is warm and solid inside you, and he's not even all the way in yet. He registers the look of discomfort on your face and he pauses. "Babygirl did I hurt you? I'm sorry if I did, I just.." he kisses your neck over and over again. "I'm sorry," he murmurs.

"Joel, it's okay." Your breath hitches in the relevance of this moment. "Can you go a little gentle?"

Joel nods. "Yeah, of course, anything," he says, and slows down, gently kissing your neck. "I'll be as gentle and soft as you want me to be." He presses gently on your clit as he moves against you slowly, carefully, lovingly. As the pleasure of this overrides the twinge of pain, you open for him naturally, and begin gently moving with him as he carves out a space deep inside you that's just for him, that no one else will be able to fill.

So this is what it's like.. you smile and kiss him. "You feel good."

He's holding back, overwhelmed by how fucking perfect this moment is. "You feel amazing, babygirl. Like nothing I've ever felt before." He moves his hips just a little faster, holding you a little tighter. You gasp, but the friction feels so good and the discomfort eases away. Joel listens to your sounds, gauges your reactions as he moves in a little bit deeper, a little bit faster. You tell him when it's too much and he slows down until you're used to it and he continues. "I love you so much.. so god damn much," he whispers.

Soon you're matching him movement for movement. "I love you," you say, wrapping your limbs around him. His hands travel the length of your legs and he moves up, hands on your hips as he watches himself move in and out of you, disappearing into your cunt inch by inch and reappearing, glistening with your slick arousal. You pay attention to how he moves, how he breathes, the warmth of his kisses on your skin, the strength of his arms and power of his hips. "I want it all, Joel," you tremble with need. "Daddy, please," Your body is flushed, excited, on edge. Joel picks up speed, a sense of urgency to him now. He's so deep inside, finally fully connected with you, giving you every single inch with each powerful thrust. "Oh my god.." your eyes pop open as a large and looming feeling begins to take over. "Joel.. I think.. I'm gonna cum!"

His smile is warm and there's pure desire in his eyes, "Yeah, babygirl, keep going. Let it take over." You nod and close your eyes, feeling Joel's movements and your own until your body tenses up, experiencing a great wave of pleasure engulf you, over and over again. You moan his name. It takes every ounce of willpower not to cum when you squeeze and clamp around him, your inner walls fluttering. He watches your face, so beautiful in ecstasy that it near stills his heart. He'd promised you something you'd never forget and he was fully intent on making this the best night of your life. He slows his movements. Your body is so pliant beneath his, moving as he wishes.

You've just come down from your high, smiling, sated, a little sweaty. He's made you cum before but never with his cock inside you. It's a different experience, more intimate. "Joel.. you're so good," is all you can say.

He smiles down at you. "It's that good, huh? You just feel so perfect right now." He starts up again, gliding more easily inside you now that you've cum, now that he's opened you to him. Despite all the women he'd been with before, this time with you feels like he's just discovering the pleasures of sex for the very first time.

You've never felt more powerful, full of joy. Joel grasps your hips and maneuvers you on top. You feel him even deeper, if that's even possible. And now you have control. You move at your own pace, moaning at how he's still stretching you. You roll your hips slowly, savoring the feel of him, and watching him beneath you give you a sense of power.

"My god," Joel moans, his large hands on your hips, fingers digging into your skin, "I'm gonna die, you feel so fuckin' good. Fuck me, babygirl." He's so weak for everything you're doing.

Head thrown back you ride him, chasing your pleasure. Joel bites his tongue, trying his best not to cum right away, wanting this moment to last as long as possible. You brace yourself on his chest, eyes closed, breath panting. "Joel! Joel!"

He groans. "I fuckin' love when you moan my name." He rises up as the heat builds up inside him. "I want to cum with you, baby. Keep going.. almost there," he whispers passionately. His hands grab your ass, guiding you smoothly up and down his cock. He loves that you're a sweaty, writhing mess, and all because of him. Arms wrapped around him, the pleasure overtakes you and you let it, surge after powerful surge radiating between you, and Joel buries his face in your neck as he whimpers, twitching inside you as he comes.

You're left light-headed for a moment, still trying to catch your breath. The pleasure resonates through you, not letting you out of its grasp yet. "Oh.. my god," you mumble.

Joel presses a kiss to your neck and gently parts from you. Your brows furrow from the loss of him as he settles you on the pillows. After discarding of the condom he lays with you, studying your features in the mood lighting. "Are you okay?" he asks, kissing your forehead.

"Yes.. I'm wonderful." Your smile is one of idiotic bliss, despite the slight throbbing, the dull ache of giving yourself to him. "It was so much better than I imagined," you sigh.

He wraps you in his arms, treating you as if you're the most precious object in the world.

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divider by @saradika-graphics & @plum98

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ataraxiaspainting · 9 months

Text

Sweet Hibiscus Tea.

Yan Shalnark x F Reader.

Synopsis: After a day of finally trying to face your social anxiety, you walk home alone. The roads are empty, quiet, and eerie. But you are almost home now, aren’t you? You are not going to cry anymore. Just when you think life is starting to turn around for you, it goes in the exact opposite direction.

Warnings: Yandere themes, violence, kidnapping, misogyny, not SFW implications, psychological horror elements, manipulation, panic attacks, Shalnark being an asshole, unhealthy relationships, and stalking.

Word Count: 5k.

Can be considered to be within the Hier Encore universe.

Ten Songs Like This Piece:

Look Who’s Inside Again by Bo Burnham

Things She Said by Chris Garneau

Baby Bride Rag by Roar

Butch 4 Butch by Rio Romeo

Appetite of a People-Pleaser by Ghost and Pals

Valentine, Texas by Mitski

I’m Yer Dad by GRLwood

Cry Baby by Melanie Martinez

Freaks by Surf Curse

Neighbour by Mother Mother

“You stay soft, you get beaten; only natural to harden up.” — Mitski, Stay Soft

*~*~*~*

Regardless of how much time has passed, this convenience store always remains the same.

There is always the familiar, tired face of the clerk behind the cash register, her gaze never on you or any other customer who walks in and out of the doors, a simple, muted hello being the only proof that she noticed you.

The lights dim and blink without fail, fading from white to a shade of daffodil to dark flaxen before disappearing and resurfacing yet again as alabaster. No matter how black the night sky is, the less-than-bright illumination never changes.

Neither does the rest of the scenery.

Next to the payment area are two vending machines, with one not functioning. It is dead, with the glass broken by a punch that left a large gaping hole in the dead center. Once when you accidentally touched the front wall while bending down to get your can of lemonade from the working one, it left a sticky residue that had you rubbing your palm on your sweater for what felt like an eternity. It somewhat helped, you guessed, but it also stained your clothes. The vending machine to its right was always out of most sweet drinks, often leaving you with the choice of coffee, lemonade, green tea, or water.

You don’t buy any snacks aside from strawberry Pocky and, if you are lucky, a chocolate bar.

But you do buy meals here because it is cheap. Usually fish with miso or a salad, but there have been times when you can find a premade sandwich.

The total cost comes to between 500 to 1000 Jenny. There is always a poster that claims the cashier is the employee of the month, though you are certain that she is the only one who works there.

The only thing that ever changes is the calendar behind her. The past dates are crossed out in red ink that is in the form of thick, scraggly lines. They remind you of the drawings you used to make as a child when your father was too busy screaming outside your door and your mother was too powerless to do anything but cry and yelp as he hit her. One time you drew them fighting, and when one of your maids saw it, it inevitably found its way to his desk.

Needless to say, he was not happy by any means.

*~*~*~*

The calendar behind the worker reads the 17th of April, 1998. On this day in 1985, your first and only ever friend, the head gardener’s apprentice, went missing. When you eventually gathered up the courage after waiting for hours outside, you went to your father’s room to ask where she was.

“She has been removed from the premises for distracting you instead of doing her job.” The answer you got was to the point, because when has he ever been warm to you? “I made sure that she had learned her lesson before she died. She was in pain the whole time. It was a shame to put a bullet between her pretty eyes. But at least she had a bit more use to me beforehand.”

You cried and cried until you threw up.

That is when your mother, the usual bandage over her left cheek this time, came in and sat on your bed gently, sadly.

She patted the area next to her and slowly you stood up from the floor where you kneeled as you sobbed and went over. She asked you if you wanted a hug and you said no. She responded with a simple nod, respecting your answer. But then what she said next turned your tear-stricken face into a glare.

“She’s alive.” She muttered, along with thanks to God and a hold of the cross on her neck.

“...What?”

Your mother shushed you when she heard footsteps coming to the door. When the sound eventually leaves further into the hallway, she leans into your ear while pointing to your vanity. Your gaze leads you to the dusty cat statue made of garnet.

It got shattered a little while ago when a maid cleaning your room accidentally made it fall to the floor. You felt bad for her as she was a new hire, so you never told anyone aside from your mother. You knew that if your father, the head of this household, ever found out he would punish her severely, even when he did not care for the statue at all. You got to choose, if you were lucky, which part gets whipped or cut off.

“Yes.”

Her short answer leaves you almost jumping up out of your seat. “...Huh?”

“At last week’s banquet, she caught the attention of your father’s wealthiest business partner.” She turns to the curtains covering the lone window in your room, her back now facing you. “She was tricked into boarding a car when the driver claimed you were inside waiting for her. To the partner in question, she is nothing but another pretty face to add to his collection.”

At the slight turn of the doorknob next door, you two go as still as wax people in a museum. “Why did he lie to me?”

“Why? Well, he certainly did not want you rebelling against his decision.”

“But I have never rebelled against him before.”

“I know.” Your mother lets out a sharp laugh, salty and sour. “I know you are always trying to be good, trying to stay under the radar. I know, I know because you are a lot like me. but now I am going to teach you a lesson about your father and the world at large. Remember that a man’s resentful attitude will always result in a woman’s agony, physical or otherwise, always. However, when things go right for a man, a woman is either praised like a dog or ignored until something goes wrong because it is never enough.”

You can’t breathe. “But why? Why, why, why? What did I do wrong? What could I have done right?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing. There is nothing you can do or could have done. No matter what, your faults will always be found. That is how most men are raised, to find, and how most women are raised, to hide.”

“...”

“Men’s hearts are such cruel, small things. Oftentimes they can only fit themselves in them, but there have been times where even they cannot fit.” She is still holding onto the cross charm on her gold necklace, firmer than she has ever held you. “They are cold, are or are almost dead. There is no room for people like you and me. No room at all. All they see us as is something to own, something with no feelings whatsoever, and whose only purpose is to please no matter the cost. Such pigs, all of them.” She murmurs some prayers that you cannot hear. “I want you to be better. I want what is best for you, what I never have been able to accomplish; run and live.”

She opens the drawer beside your bed, and you don’t do anything to stop her. It is not like you can hide anything, from her or anyone else in this house. Whatever is buried eventually resurfaces. She pulls out your rarely used bible, a thick layer of dust on the leather cover. It smells and makes you cough. She doesn’t though.

“At least your father does not force you to read this day and night.”

“Mmhmm.”

“It is one of the few things I appreciate him not doing, I do not want you to grow up hating the church.”

“I know.”

“He has made you hate a lot of things already.”

She turns the pages, dust flying around the cold air.

“He made me hate a lot of things too. Blankets, steaks, cameras. The color white, the color black, the color red. The sounds of belts unbuckling, the sound of laughter, the sounds of doors opening and closing and locking.”

You don’t say anything, only looking at her hands. Only in the dark can you not see her scars, her blooming wrinkles, and the bruises that are always fresh.

You don’t say anything, because you have learned from a very young age that you are her only listening ear. You are the only one who keeps her head on her shoulders. You don’t say anything, because she is right. He has made you hate plenty of things. But, but, but. But you can’t hate him, and you can’t hate your mother.

You can’t hate her, because who knows what she would do when she finds out that no one cares about her pain in this hell?

“Mother.” You mutter, putting your head on her shoulder as you scan the text on the page that she selected. She does not stop you.

“Yes, [First]?”

“Do you hate me?” You ask, trying so very hard to not let her see the tears that threaten to come out of your eyes. “Because… because… if I wasn’t conceived, you wouldn’t be here hurting, would you?”

You could swear that you heard her heart skip a beat.

“...I would not be here, yes.”

She is honest, for once. You know at least some of this situation is all your fault.

“Do you hate me?”

“...”

“Mother, please answer me.”

You hear a sniffle as she starts mumbling the words written. “‘A gracious woman gets honor, and violent men get riches.’”

You choose not to press on the subject. You don’t want her to suffer anymore.

*~*~*~*

You buy an orange-flavored Ramune soda, a pack of pork ginger instant ramen, and strawberry Pocky.

The total would come to about 600 Jenny if your quick calculations are right. You could get something extra, like a topping for your ramen or some chips. But would it be wise? You have never been someone who finishes their plate after you had ran away, so what if you just waste your money?

So, you decide not to get anything else.

You walk to the cash register.

You hear an explosion from the back of the building. Small sparks of white and orange. The lights go off before you can place your chosen items down, and you can hear the employee cursing under her breath. The breaker. What happened?

“Damn it, I don’t get paid enough for this shit.” She grumbles, putting her thumb and pointer finger on the bridge of her nose, rubbing. “No raises whatsoever. Only one here. Without me, this place wouldn’t be working, ungrateful pricks.”

Fighting the way your heart rate shoots up, you decide that talking to her would be best. It wouldn’t hurt to talk to someone aside from your boss, right?

Maybe your anxieties would quell, and you can eventually graduate to talking to your co-workers, that would be a dream come true for you.

You haven’t had a friend, a real friend, ever since Rose was taken from you all those years ago. You still cry whenever you think about her. You miss her. Is she dead, is she alive?

You still blame yourself. If only you hadn’t talked to her, maybe she would still be with you. What kind of adult would she have been? A kind one, a responsible one? You would still be friends at least, wouldn’t you? Or would she grow to hate you, if she didn’t already?

You keep telling yourself that she wouldn’t and didn’t, but that is not what your mind tells you.

Is she dead?

You could picture a rotting corpse six feet under. An unmarked grave. Glassy, dead, amber eyes looking upward to anyone who looks down, helpless, pleading. You always liked them, always complimenting them much to Rose’s shy chuckles. She was so pretty, that much was true. You could only imagine how beautiful she would have been as an adult.

Her looks were a personal gift from God, the heavens, and the angels.

But if she didn’t have them, would she not have been treated like she was in the estate?

“Erm, excuse me,” You mutter, taking a few steps forward. “If you want I can go check it out.”

It is what Rose would do. She always liked helping others. You just wish that people would have appreciated it more and seen past her appearance. It was a double-edged sword. It helped her become the head gardener’s apprentice but also caught the attention of both your father and his business partners. You felt bad for her, and still do.

The employee turns around, her confusion prominent despite the dark.

“Erm,” You mutter, looking down at your hands and entangling your fingers in one another. You could feel the heat rushing to your cheeks in embarrassment. “Is that okay?”

It takes a few moments to respond. Her surprise was unexpected, as you never spoke to her outside of asking her if she had change or telling her you hoped that she had a good night. Rose would be better at this kind of thing. You once had a dream that at a fast food joint, an adult her would order for you and correct the staff when they put pickles on your burger. It’s what could have been, funny moments like that. She had always been the one to take charge, you following her like a lost puppy.

You miss her so much.

So much.

The worker slowly nods. “...Okay.”

“...It’s in the back, right? The breaker.”

This is so awkward. Rose would be better. You wish she was here. Or your mother. Anyone.

“...Uh. Um… I like your eyeliner.” As soon as you say that, you curse at yourself, not wanting to sound like a creep. The woman’s confusion becomes even more prominent.

“...Thanks, and yeah, it’s in the back.”

“...Okay.” Jesus Christ. You turn away from her, the heat on your cheeks hot enough to be mistaken for a fever. This is not what Rose would have done.

“...You can leave your stuff here.” She says, and you quickly spin your heel and put your items on the counter. “It’s not like they are going to grow legs and run off, so relax.”

“...” You both chuckle, and you feel slightly better. “...Thanks. I’ll go now.”

“...” You start walking. “Wrong way.”

You stop.

It takes you a few seconds for you to move back to first base and go off in the opposite direction. As soon as you open the creaky steel door, strong rain and cold wind greet you, along with a loud clap of thunder and lightning.

Perhaps you could go back and get your umbrella from the stand by the door. But that would be even more awkward.

“Stupid. Stupid.”

“If we are lucky, the wind simply detached it or something. Not the best at this sort of thing, though.”

“I don’t think breakers detach.” You could picture her shrugging and scoffing at your murmur. “Sorry. Sorry. Just… sorry. I’m the best at this sort of thing either.”

You close the door behind you and start looking amongst the pitter-patter of the raindrops and gusts that nearly make you fall over.

Stupid. Why do you make everything so weird? Rose would have been so much more charismatic. It was one of her strongest traits after all.

Stupid.

It’s hard to see. Trying not to trip over stones and cracked cement, you grip onto the wall and walk forward. Soon, you feel something.

“Ew, ew, ew!” You cry out, quickly moving your hand away from the slimy slug. “Ew!”

“You okay?”

“Uh, nothing. Just a bug. Yeah, just a bug.”

You hear a chuckle. Stupid.

“Sorry!” You exclaim, almost bowing your head. “Sorry! Really!”

Making sure you don’t touch the slug again, you keep moving.

Eventually, you find the breaker. But it wasn’t what you were expecting by any means. The damage almost looks like it was done on purpose, the way it was open and covered in soot. Did something get to it?

The breaker that exploded was a mass of melted metal that had been blown apart from the intense amount of heat and pressure. It was now barely recognizable as a single unit–parts of it scattered across the cement path and others having been fused and becoming something else entirely. The metal had been melted and blown upwards in the sheer force of the explosion, coating parts of the wall, wet grass, and roof with small, solidified droplets of metal. The ground around the remains of the breaker is burnt and scarred with traces of the immense fire that had consumed it.

It seems the rain put it out.

“No hope for this, huh?”

“Hey,” The employee calls out. “How bad is it? If there is nothing you can do, come back inside.”

So, you do.

The way she turns at you is robotic almost. A smile is on her face that was not there before. She nods when she sees you. Something tells you to not approach.

“It exploded into molten metal.”

“Oh well.”

Under the stormy skies, her gaze turns pale. Her eyes, seemingly captivating, lack any hint of vitality, while her lips curve in a disarming and saccharine manner. A shiver runs down your spine as you meet her gaze, every fiber of your being urging you to flee. Deep within your primal instincts, an innate awareness stirs, recognizing the smile as a charade, a mask of humanity that ventures into the realm of unease: akin to an artificial being adorned with synthetic flesh or a wax figure encased in glass. Those lifeless, white eyes, coupled with a forked tongue and an unsettlingly beautiful countenance, leave you with an undeniable sense of mistrust.

“You’re not mad? Really? Um…”

Something is off. What happened? She looks more like an imposter than anything else. But if she is, where did the real cashier go?

“Don’t worry.” She says, her voice oddly chipper and no longer confused by your awkwardness. “It’s fine. I’m quitting anyway, so it’ll be my boss’ problem.”

You turn your head. “Really?”

She nods. Something is off.

“Like really?”

You blink multiple times and you don’t think she does. She just stands there. Slowly, she nods. Something tells you to run yet again.

“Um… um… okay. Okay. I’ll just pay and leave. How much does it come up to?”

She shakes her head.

“Um. I have to pay. It’s thievery if I don’t.” You get closer. “It’s the law.”

“It’s fine.”

“I can’t just not pay.” You say, taking out your wallet from your sweater pocket. “That’s stealing. It’s wrong.”

Every action she takes is measured and precise, and she seems to move like a machine rather than a person. It’s as if she’s been programmed to act and talk in a certain way, and she doesn’t seem to have the ability to break out of that. She simply stares at you, not speaking.

Run.

You undo the metallic button, hearing the shuffling of paper Jenny within your wallet. “Um. Let me pay. Please.”

She simply shakes her head again.

“It’s fine.” The employee says, the smile still plastered on her face. There is quite more than a hint of blankness and detachment in her expression. She speaks in a mechanical and emotionless manner, her words delivered as though repeated from a script of carefully chosen sentences. Her movements are quick and precise, putting your chosen items in a plastic bag. There is no life or energy in her actions, instead, she moves like a mindless machine, performing her tasks before her without showing any personality of her own. Is it better to just accept it?

What should you do? What shouldn’t you do? Is she joking? Should you leave?

What would Rose do?

One of her hands grasps onto the plastic handles and she holds it out before you. There is no authenticity or warmth. Her eyes are blank. What happened? Should you ask? Should you just take the bag without saying anything further?

“Okay,” You murmur, obeying her silent command. “I hope you don’t get into any trouble though.”

*~*~*~*

Boss (9th May 1996 17:45)

Did you find anything?

Boss (9th May 1996 17:45)

Feitan found her heels nearby along with some blood, so she couldn’t have gotten very far.

You (9th May 1996 17:45)

Nothing yet

Boss (9th May 1996 17:47)

Try checking the stores nearby.

Boss (9th May 1996 17:47)

From the blood trail, she is most likely injured from running and trying to fix herself up in some sort of shelter.

Boss (9th May 1996 17:48)

She may have also discarded the rest of her clothes, not just the heels, and is currently wearing something else.

You (9th May 1996 18:15)

I found a dress and jewelry at the bottom of a lake

You (9th May 1996 18:18)

(image sent)

Boss (9th May 1996 18:20)

That’s it.

Boss (9th May 1996 18:20)

Disappointing. I’ll send over Pakunoda to ask people nearby.

You (9th May 1996 18:20)

You (9th May 1996 18:21)

Don’t cry, I’m sure we’ll find her soon :)

Boss (9th May 1996 18:22)

I wasn’t crying.

Boss (9th May 1996 18:22)

I just thought she came around already.

Boss (9th May 1996 18:23)

This will set our heists back weeks.

Boss (9th May 1996 18:24)

She has planned this out for more than a year, it seems.

*~*~*~*

Bum, bum, bum. Dun, dun, dun. Whunnnnnn, wooooooo, ummmmmmm. You can’t hear anything else. The sounds sting your ears like an aggravated hornet.

The darkness around you is solid, more so than the cracked, aged concrete path beneath your shoes. There is a tiny light in the distance; a streetlamp.

Silence.

“...”

“Have a good day!”

“...Thank you.”

Let there be light.

“Um…” You can’t see anything. The sounds… stopped. “...Time to go home.”

But the pain stays.

It feels like a drill.

It hurts.

“...” You feel deaf and blind. No, maybe something even worse. “...”

You turn around, to the dark convenience store, and you see the cashier still staring at you. “Have a good day!”

“...”

“[First]?”

…How does she know your name? Did you say it to her in the past?

When you look into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you.

“[First], dear.” She starts waving as you look at her. “[First]. [First]. [First]. [First]. [First]!”

There is nothing but emptiness. Is your name all she can say? What happened to her? It is like she has regressed. Like a storm cloud in summer, you do not wish for this pain. Now you feel deaf and blind and mute now.

You almost wish that you were dead. All there is is pain. Bum, bum, bum. Dun, dun, dun. Whunnnnnn, wooooooo, ummmmmmm.

Interruption. The sounds returned. Is this good? Is this bad? Does it matter at all?

You walk. You don’t speak. Only walk. You can’t breathe. You can only move. Bum, bum, bum. Dun, dun, dun.

Whunnnnnn, wooooooo, ummmmmmm.

A hand clamps over your mouth.

You drop the plastic bag from shock, and then you finally hear something other than those sounds; glass shattering.

“Sh…” A voice, calm, along with the smell of oranges. “It’s okay.”

“...!”

“Don’t scream.”

The touch of lips, a man’s lips, on your ear, thin and hard.

“Breathe. Just breathe for me, okay?”

But you can’t. The wind goes down your throat. It is suffocating. You can’t breathe. You smell oranges and something rotting, blood.

It stinks. It fucking stinks.

Christ. Get away. That stink. That fucking stink. Your body rejects it by continuing to not breathe.

“Sh… Breathe. Just breathe, for me, for you, for us.”

“...St… Sto-”

“Sh…” The voice is sweet, not at all sour, like candy. “Calm down. Nothing bad is going to happen. Just breathe. You’re going to pass out.” The lips and the scent of his breath are like salted leather in a butcher’s shop, stinky and rotting. “Calm down. Don’t worry.”

“...Sto… Si-”

“Breathe. Sh… It’s okay. Breathe.”

“...Ge… Sti…”

“Sh… Breathe. Breathe, [First]. Breathe. [First]. Breathe. Breathe. It’s okay. Don’t worry about all this. Breathe.”

When you finally do, you gasp, desperate. “...Huff… Huff… Huff…”

Get off of me, I can smell you.

“There we go!”

Your vision clears up a bit. “...Huff… Huff… Huff…”

“Just keep breathing.”

“...Huff…”

You can smell him. You can practically taste him, with his mouth so close to you.

“Whew! That was a close one!” The man exclaimed, wrapping his other arm around your waist.

Pain. Get off of me. I can smell you, I can hear you, I can taste you. Get off of me. Please.

The pain still stays, in your chest and your ears, and your head. Oranges. Blood.

Get off of me.

Please–

A pain in the back of your neck and you go limp.

Darkness. Then pain again. You can’t move. You can only breathe. Bum, bum, bum. Dun, dun, dun. Whunnnnnn, wooooooo, ummmmmmm.

*~*~*~*

SAINTSHORE SPACE THEATRE

UNDER THE DIRECTION OF RANDOLF URASLEF, GRETEL JAMES, AND QUINCEY J. ORATICE

PAUL DONSHEL CELESTE BAKER ANNE CROAKS

AND

THE GREAT COMET THEATRE COMPANY

SWAN LAKE

ADAPTED BY MUSIC WRITTEN BY PYOTR ILLYICH TCHAIKOVSKY

INSPIRED BY THE CHOREOGRAPHY OF JULIUS REISINGER

WITH THE WONDERFUL CAST OF

(IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE)

Odette, the White Swan………………………………………………………….JEAN YVETTE

Odile, the Black Swan……………………………………………………………...JUNO LILOU

Prince Siegfried……………………………………………………………(the name is illegible.)

The rest of the list’s names cannot be read just like Prince Siegfried.

“She is simply beautiful. Just so beautiful. Simply wonderful, perfect.”

As the spotlights ignite, their scorching beams engulf you, causing you to shield your eyes with futile resistance. The sheer force of the light overwhelms your feeble defense. An ethereal audience erupts with exuberant cheers, applause, and whistles, resonating from vacant seats. Champagne flutes collide, men erupt with hearty laughter from their very core, and women unleash piercing screams akin to banshees.

The temperature rises and the noise intensifies, repeatedly, enveloping you in a symphony of overwhelming sensations.

Onlookers casually share their thoughts.

“Get off the stage, we want to see the play, not some stagehand!”

“Boo!”

“Fuck off!”

You run off crying.

“Where is that Odile girl?”

You run into a dressing room. One used by a woman wearing a black dress. She is so pretty. Her long strawberry blonde hair falls off her bare shoulders, clearly just done with a flat iron. There is a burning smell in the air. Smoke. When her gold eyes meet yours, she marches towards you and slams the door shut.

You can almost hear sobbing coming from the other side. Cries.

“So lonely…” The woman mutters. “When will it ever be enough?”

The voice sounds familiar. Her eyes. Her hair.

Nostalgia. Memories you would much rather forget. The basement. The imaginary ripping of clothes and tears and men’s laughter.

“I can’t do this much longer…”

Someone else knocks on her door. You want to scream.

“Come out, dearest.”

The devil. Tall with curved horns and a forked tongue. You want to warn her.

You want to save her. “I’m not going to harm you, I am going to make you happy.”

You are so focused on whether the woman opens the door or not that you do not notice what happens next until it is too late. A clawed hand on your mouth. A tongue licking your ear. Tasting your sweat. Your tears. Laughter. The rest of the world disappears, and the only one there aside from you is the one behind you.

Sh… Sh… Sh… Sh… Bum, bum, bum. Dun, dun, dun. Whunnnnnn, wooooooo, ummmmmmm.

Get off of me. Please.

“Breathe. It makes things more fun for me.” The voice echoed like you two are in a cave.

You gasp for air, and the smell of blood and oranges fills your nostrils.

“...Huff…”

“That’s better.”

You turn around. There is a body of a man.

But the scaled, furred, horrifying face of a demon.

“Good.” He says, smiling his sharp teeth. “Deep breaths, in and out, come on.”

You do what he says. He praises you again, you think. But you can’t hear it. Either that or you simply do not pay attention to it. What happened to the woman?

“...”

“We should go.”

The woman. The devil, this other… thing.

“...Rose…”

The demon laughs.

“Wake up.”

*~*~*~*

The first things you hear come from a happy man’s voice. “My boss’ girlfriend ran away more than a year ago you see, and he’s been heartbroken ever since. I want to prevent that kind of loss from happening to me. Real pretty one, too! He didn’t expect it, but I don’t blame her. After all, she’s been held captive for more than a year, she had to try to escape eventually.”

…The first thing you feel is lace on your neck. A collar.

It does not tickle or hurt. It itches.

A cold hand plays with it, and it almost chokes you. At your discomfort, the man laughs.

“You are so cute.”

Something metal is on the collar, and it blinks a small red light.

#author aya #yandere #yandere x reader #hxh #phantom troupe #yandere hunter x hunter #yandere hxh #shalnark #hunter x hunter #hxh phantom troupe #hxh x reader #hxh shalnark #shalnark ryusei #shalnark x reader #yandere shalnark #ultraviolet.

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cuffmeinblack · 8 months

Text

Between the Lines

Andrew Larson x reader

Tags: Ravenclaw reader | fluff | tension | slice of life | very mild spice

5.1k words

Summary: Something on the noticeboard catches your eye; a book club run by your fellow Ravenclaw. Joining might be the best decision you ever make.

A/n: Yes, I wrote 5k words of pure fluff, sue me. Credit to @ellivenollivander for book club nerd Andrew inspo. Credit to myself for giving him glasses because I'm a self-indulgent pos.

⤍ Andrew Larson masterlist ⤎

By the time you’d found your way back to the Ravenclaw common room, your eyes—now permanently imprinted with light from distant stars—no longer bore the tiredness the late hour invited. In fact, you were wide awake, mind buzzing with maps of constellations and mentally writing your homework assignment not due for another week. It appeared your classmates felt the same annoying spark of energy that would delay sleep until the wee hours. Amit appeared to already be working on his essay, parchment and quill pulled out of his bag and lain across one of the coffee tables. With a sigh, you stalked through the room, bathing in the soft glow of ever burning candles and starlight, coming to a stop near a bookcase filled with mostly educational textbooks. The lone book of Muggle literature seemed to have been borrowed, only a gaping hole left behind.

Another late night atop the Astronomy tower concluded with an assignment that promised yet more of the same. The howling wind almost blew you down the stairs in the rush below, students clamouring into the relative warmth of the castle. The deeper you descended, the more your muscles relaxed—despite the warming charm you'd cocooned yourself in at the beginning of your lesson, it was clearly no match for the harsh Scottish Winters. In front of you, you spotted others shivering still, rubbing their arms, teeth chattering, including the ash blond hair you recognised as Andrew Larson's. He was perhaps the only other student who enjoyed the subject as much as Amit, who's enthusiastic smile appeared frozen in place.

Instead of grumbling your annoyance, you let your eyes drift over the adjacent noticeboard, chuckling softly at the personal notes that littered the display. Love letters sat side by side with passive aggressive scrawls, replies inked haphazardly in the margins of the papers. Your gaze finally fell onto the more serious announcements, ignoring the notice from Headmaster Black that was sure to be a load of old tosh. A new piece of parchment caught your eye, pinned to the very top, the stiff paper curling upwards. With a delicate finger, you peeled it down to reveal the neat and somewhat familiar penmanship detailing a new club—a book club. Well, if that wasn't right up your street…

“Interested?”

The softly melodic voice interrupted your reading, and you turned to face Andrew, a hopeful glint in his eyes—or perhaps that was the lingering starlight still etched into your own retinas.

“Is this your book club?” you asked, surprised that the quiet boy would be interested in running such a thing.

“Yes, though I only put the notice up yesterday. Are you interested, then? I've seen you reading in the common room a lot…”

He flushed slightly, perhaps realising he'd said too much. The thought of Andrew Larson noticing you doing anything made the corners of your lips quirk upward.

“What kind of books are we talking? Not schoolwork I presume.”

“No, nothing of the sort. A little bit of everything I suppose,” he mumbled, suddenly unsure as your scrutinising gaze bore into him. Only then did you notice him clutching a book under his arm, which now appeared in front of your face—a fine green leather bound edition with gold text.

“Dickens?” you asked, tilting your head to read the cover.

He nodded. “For starters. Conan Doyle, Stevenson, Warbeck…”

You snorted a little at the last, the famous witch being an author you’d not expected him to enjoy. “Warbeck? Read a lot of romance novels, Andrew?”

“Well…maybe…,” he blushed, then took a deep breath to rally his confidence. “There's nothing wrong with branching out into other genres.”

“No, you're right,” you replied, quietly watching him. There were clearly things you didn't know about your classmate. Though you'd not admitted to it, you'd noticed him reading in the common room, too, head dipped and perfectly coiffed hair falling over his eyes as it loosened after a long day. He tended to idly bite his nails as he did so—a terrible habit, yet oddly endearing to see him so engrossed in the pages, nibbling away. At no point had you caught him with a romance novel in hand, though, and given the content of some of Warbeck’s novels you had the sneaking suspicion he kept them for bedtime.

Your mind was made up. Plunging a hand into the bag still slung over one shoulder, you pulled out a self-inking quill and returned to the parchment notice. A quick scribble and your name was the first to join the sign-up sheet.

“Welcome to the Hogwarts book club,” Andrew said, beaming. The amber flecks in his eyes glittered as he turned to face you, tucking the book back under his arm. No doubt the club would be fun, the avid reader that you were, but it might have been worth signing up just to see his smile.

Days passed with giddy anticipation, until Andrew had passed you a note during Arithmancy the following week. It had surprised you, jolting you out of a near-slumber as the neatly folded parchment fluttered onto your desk. All it contained was a date, a location, and a little doodle of a book that coaxed forth a sleepy smile, earning you a public admonishment from your professor. You'd tucked it into your robes where it stayed for the remainder of the day, fingers fumbling the edges as you walked the halls. You'd never before been so excited about an extracurricular activity that didn't involve flying spherical deathtraps, and you suspected that part of it was due to the quiet and devastatingly handsome boy running it. The first meeting of the so-far-unnamed book club would take place that evening in the Charms classroom, no doubt with Professor Ronen’s blessing yet you hoped that the man himself wouldn't be attending—it was ever so hard to relax when teachers were around.

After dinner, you took the opportunity to shower and dress more comfortably, styling your hair and paying far too much attention to your appearance. You supposed the first meeting would be a way to meet your fellow club members and vote on the first book, but you tucked a couple of your favourites in a satchel anyway, eager for any opportunity to gush about the intricately crafted worlds you'd come to love just as much as Hogwarts. You had a skip in your step as you travelled the quiet corridors towards the classroom, stopping briefly along the way to stroke a few cats, eager for attention. The landing was clear, door ajar with nothing but silence within. The eeriness had you checking the time and rereading the note that now had hundreds of creases along its length. One minute early. You pushed the door open to reveal an empty room, bathed in gold from the setting sun.

“Welcome.”

The voice made you startle, and you turned to see Andrew perched on Professor Ronen's desk, once again clutching a book under his arm.

“Hi,” you said with a smile, glancing around the room to avoid staring at him. He'd dressed in cotton breeches and a smart navy jumper, and you hadn't failed to notice the gold rimmed spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose. “I'm the first to arrive?”

Andrew shuffled his boots on the floor, eyes cast downwards. “You're actually the only one who signed up.”

Now you looked at him, almost falling sideways from the weight of your bag and the way he peered over his glasses at you. “I'm surprised our fellow Ravenclaws didn't want to be involved,” you said with a quiet chuckle.

“Me too. Since it's just us, you don't have to stay.” He shrugged, though you could tell that it bothered him, the disappointment in his tight smile.

“I'd still like to carry on, if it's okay with you. Maybe more will join over the next few weeks…”

You stepped a little closer to him, debating whether to squeeze his arm in a show of solidarity and sympathy. Instead, you faltered, awkwardly swinging your arms by your sides. He didn't notice, tucking his book back into his bag as if to leave—the rejection of your company stung painfully.

“Shall we go back to the common room, then? It's more comfortable there, and…”

“Yes, good idea,” you interrupted with an audible sigh of relief.

The walk back was filled with friendly chatter, never delving too deep—questions about your classes, his plans for the weekend, the weather—and never straying to the reason you'd ventured out here in the first place. Official book talk would only commence once settled into the common room, it seemed. Andrew, taking his position as club leader, picked out two armchairs by one of the towering arched windows, the backdrop now one of inky black as night well and truly settled. Tucking your feet underneath you, you tried to get comfortable as he called the meeting to order.

“I thought we could start by discussing some books we've read recently, then agree on a title to finish before the next meeting,” he said, suddenly adopting an air of confident formality.

You tried to suppress a smile, though you weren't entirely successful. “If that's what you'd like to do. Maybe you can tell me about the last Warbeck novel you read. Please tell me it was ‘Call of the Harpy’.”

Andrew huffed, a slight blush creeping up his neck. “Actually it was ‘Dragon Fire’,” he muttered. “I'm not going to discuss that.”

Teasing out of the way, you talked about recent reads and went back and forth with suggestions. It somewhat surprised you how easy it was, falling into conversation with him until the room emptied and candles dimmed. You'd found yourself subconsciously edging closer towards him, caught up in his radiating passion. His shyness seemed to melt the longer he spoke, and you along with it. It was almost midnight by the time you agreed to delve into ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’ for next time.

“Shall we meet again in a fortnight?” he asked.

You wanted to say no, demand something sooner, but instead you nodded. “Sounds good. Let's hope some more people join us,” you replied, not meaning a word of it. These few hours had been far too enjoyable in just his company, the last thing you wanted was another voice to pull his attention, as selfish as the thought was.

You finished the book in four days. The fifth was spent making notes, annotating every margin with points you thought worth discussing. The sixth had you climbing the walls, biting back the urge to storm up to the blond whenever you saw him, eager to know when your next meeting would be. You noticed him still reading almost every evening, nibbling his nails and deep in thought, and during the day you exchanged pleasantries, or passed each other like ships in the night as you mingled with your separate friendship groups. You swore you felt his eyes on you during Arithmancy. On the eighth day, you were walking back to the common room with Samantha when you noticed a fresh slip of parchment pinned to the noticeboard—how could you not, when your eyes diverted there every morning and every evening? The original notice for the Hogwarts Book Club remained in place, still bare and devoid of any signature but your own, yet on top there lay a curling piece that you knew was written by Andrew the closer you approached.

“What is it?” Samantha asked, following beside you. “I forgot you joined the book club. Maybe I should, too, but I'm so busy with chess and summoner's court…”

“You don't want to take on too much,” you replied with just the slightest pang of guilt. Your attention diverted to read the paper, happily noting that the next meeting would be only three days away. Samantha was mumbling something beside you, trying to talk herself into signing up. Part of you felt annoyance towards your classmates, and bafflement; yet another, larger part was pleased that the club was just you and Andrew. Still, the thought of his downcast eyes and obvious disappointment when he realised nobody else would be attending flared in your mind, prompting an uncomfortable twist of your stomach.

“I’m sure Andrew would be happy for another member.”

“I’ll think about it,” she hummed.

Once she'd departed for bed, you settled on a sofa facing the fire with a new book, having now exhausted everything ‘Dorian Gray’ had to offer. That night, you had company.

“Not reading your assigned text?”

You looked up to the familiar, soft voice to find big brown eyes creased from a smile. You smiled back, rolling your eyes. “I finished days ago. You're slacking."

Andrew motioned at the space next to you, a silent question you responded to with a nod. He didn't say anything else, just looked a little bashful as he turned to his book, now on the final few chapters by your estimations. Lapsing into silence, you fell back into your own story whilst the common room melted away around you, the chatter dulling to an unnoticeable hum. Only occasionally did you reach a natural pause, peering over at Andrew to check his progress, admire his profile, his slender form draped over the arm of the sofa.

“I'm finished,” he said sometime later, stretching his arms above his head to reveal a slight tuft of ash blond hair that smattered his taught abdomen. There was absolutely no way you could concentrate on your book now.

“At long last. What did you think?”

“That's a question for our next meeting.”

So instead, you talked about everything else.

A month passed and meetings came once a week or so, the time between them growing shorter and shorter. Reading together in the dimly lit common room seemed to have become routine, neither of you feeling the need to make awkward small talk to while away the hours, simply happy to sit comfortably in each other’s presence whilst immersed in other worlds. You'd not expected the friendship—grown so late in your time at Hogwarts—and somewhat missed the years that could have been. Laying in bed at night, you'd wondered if it wasn't too late for something more. His earthen eyes behind the gold frames haunted your dreams, whilst conscious hours dwelled on how soft his hair might be, or how pliant his lips against yours. He must have caught you staring, as you'd done him.

“We need a club name.”

Perched in the usual spot on your sofa, now several inches closer to the middle, you voiced the idea you'd thought of whilst Andrew had been busy updating a list of prospective books for the following week. You were so close your legs touched, bodies drawn together like magnets that seemed to ignite your skin upon contact. Neither of you flinched away, nor commented on it.

“Do we? I'm not even sure we count as a club.”

“Maybe if it was more official, people would come?”

Andrew looked at you with a curious expression, perhaps wondering why now you'd suggested recruiting more members when it had been just you two for so many weeks. His knee withdrew just an inch, and you regretted suggesting it, craving the slight pressure, the warmth. The truth was, you were nervous of where this was headed. The tension between you rippled and sparked every time you were alone, and it was just a matter of time before you cracked and did something disastrous, or potentially embarrassing.

“Hm, it can't help to try,” he chuckled. “What did you have in mind?”

“I hadn't thought that far. Erm, ‘Book Buddies’? ‘Rabid Readers’?”

He hummed and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “‘Page Turners?’ ‘Once Upon a Tome?’”

Your face cracked into a smile as you grabbed the parchment and quill from Andrew's hands, fingers brushing. Your heart pounded at just the smallest touch of skin, so distracting you almost forgot what you were doing. With a quick and messy scrawl, you inked ‘Once Upon a Tome’ across the top of the paper and held it up.

“You couldn't have written that a bit neater?” Andrew said.

“I’ll let you continue to do the official notices, don't worry.”

“That's probably for the best.” He held out his hand and for one moment of insanity, you thought he was asking for yours. Of course, he was simply waiting for you to return the parchment. Embarrassingly, you couldn't help the disappointment as you rolled it up and slid it into his palm, your body reacting to the gentle brush of fingertips with a swell of warmth and affection. The exchange lasted for agonising moments, yet was over altogether too soon. Andrew tucked it into his bag on the floor but remained planted on the sofa.

“Well, that's all for this week,” he said hesitantly. “Have anything planned this evening?”

“No, nothing. Do you?”

He shook his head and bit his lip before looking at you with hope in his eyes. “Do you want to…I don't know, take a walk?” He almost flinched as if the suggestion were a terrible one.

“That sounds nice,” you replied with a warm smile. An excuse to spend even more time together wasn't to be passed up. “If we're going outside, I'll need a cloak.”

“I'll meet you here in a few minutes then?”

Donning your heaviest Winter cloak, a navy blue woolen affair, you jogged down to the common room to find him already waiting, holding a pair of black gloves. Whilst the hour was late and light was all but gone, it was still before curfew. You followed him down the tower, turning to the nearest exit that brought you into the refreshing night air. You hadn't noticed just how stuffy the common room had been with the roaring fire and mingling scents—the gentle breeze was most welcome. You talked and talked until you came to a stop on the parapet, leaning against the low wall that surrounded Hogwarts and looked out over the lake. The ripples on the surface looked too tumultuous to be caused by the wind, and you glared down at the glittering surface.

“Do you think a storm's brewing?” you asked, pointing below.

“I don't think so. Perhaps it's the mer down below.”

“You really think there's mermaids in the Black Lake?”

“I like to think so, even if it's nonsense. It can't all be grindylows and vicious fish with too many teeth down there.”

“Not a fan of the fish, Andrew?”

“I prefer my feet on dry land and fish on my dinner plate, thank you.”

You chuckled and turned your head back towards the lake, the ripples now stilling, yet you noticed something more alarming further out. The water had only stilled as the waters receeded in preparation for a wave. As if sucked into a giant plug hole, it rushed inward, bubbled, then burst outward. Andrew jolted and shouted in surprise beside you, your own mouth agape as you watched tentacles flailing and a huge, slimey head rear from the lake. You'd never seen the giant squid in all your years at Hogwarts, only heard of its size and the rumours of disappearing students who lingered too close to the water's edge. From the wall high above, you knew he couldn't reach you, but something had gotten it in a tizzy and you instinctively took a miniscule step backwards. You weren't high enough to completely avoid its spray, though, as a fine, salty mist now coated your face.

“It's amazing,” Andrew gasped.

“One word for it…monstrous is another.”

“Come on, look at it! I've never seen it before…or anything like it.” His excitement was palpable, and you almost clutched a fistful of his cloak to stop him from leaning too far over the edge.

The squid flailed again, more of a belly flop, sending a huge wave to the beach as it plunged back underwater and out of sight. Soon the only sound was the crash of water against the pebbles and your own heavy breathing. Only then did you realise you'd been clutching his arm, and his hand had found its way to the small of your back. You looked at him and he tore his eyes away from the lake, both standing in silence as the gravity of your instinctive pull to one another settled. As on the sofa, you'd found yourself growing subconsciously closer. It appeared there was no stopping it.

“You're wet,” he remarked. His eyes widened after he'd said it, his burning cheeks evaporating the water right off his skin.

“A little. So are you. It was worth it though, right?”

“Yes, it was worth it,” he said.

You weren't sure if you were talking about the squid or the fact that his hand still held firm against your back. Judging by the slightly furrowed brow, neither did he.

The new addition to the noticeboard almost blended into the myriad other notices—if it weren't for Andrew's recognisable handwriting, neat and elegant like the man himself—you’d have missed it. Of course the tiny book doodle in the corner was a giveaway for whom it was for. You read the contents, and your cheeks burned involuntarily. You had to read the note three times, inspecting every letter for forgery. It contained a date and time, and curiously, a new location. A flick of paper confirmed that no names had been added to the signup sheet for your newly titled club. Perhaps Andrew was bored of the common room, but the astronomy tower seemed an odd place for discussing literature, with not a comfortable chair in sight and no lights to speak of except the ones dotting the sky. A flicker of hope ignited, that perhaps he had other ideas for that evening.

Neither of you mentioned the curious change in venue as you chatted during classes or smiled across the laden breakfast table. You'd told Samantha everything you knew and suspected, and her dark eyes flitted between you both with a smirk on her face. By the time you were due to leave for the astronomy tower on a Tuesday evening, your friend had become insufferable in her teasing.

“Make sure you wear that perfume…”

“Sam, it's just a book club.”

“Of course it is. In the Astronomy tower. Alone.”

That final word made your stomach squirm. Still, you packed your book into your satchel and ignored the perfume sitting on the dressing table, passing Samantha with a wave met only by an eye roll. The tower was quiet, no classes scheduled and the bitter wind warding off all but the most dedicated students. Even Amit had decided to do his stargazing from the comfort of the common room that night. Andrew was already waiting, leaning against the railing and peering out at the clear night sky. Dressed in a black winter cloak, he almost blended in with the landscape were it not for his hair, almost silver in the soft moonlight.

“Strange place to meet,” you remarked, causing his head to whip around.

He shrugged, smiling shyly as you approached. “I thought it would be quiet. And…” He looked out at the sky again, as if the view was answer enough. It was.

“What would you have done if someone else had decided to join our club?” you asked.

“Apologise profusely and ask them to make themselves scarce.”

Smiling at him, you waited for him to carry on, but he seemed to be too nervous to say anymore. His gaze dropped from your eyes to your lips, throat bobbing as he swallowed deeply.

“So, why are we up here?” you prompted.

Andrew let out a deep exhale, his breath producing a cloud of mist between your faces. Mint. He'd brushed his teeth. The fact that you were now close enough to have noticed such a thing almost startled you. “I wanted to tell you something,” he said whilst shuffling his feet. He looked nervous, ready to bolt back down the stairs given the way he avoided your stare. Perhaps that's why you decided to be bold, and put him out of his misery.

“I like you, too.”

The seconds after blurting those four words out seemed to stretch into minutes, maybe even hours. Whilst you tried hard to keep your face neutral, inwardly your thoughts were in turmoil, desperately awaiting his response. Anything. Your chest hurt with the aggressive thumping of your heart, your palms felt sweaty despite the cold…

“You knew?” he asked.

“I guessed, or hoped.”

“I had a whole speech planned.”

“You can still say…” The rest of your sentence was cut off by his lips pressing against yours. The initial shock dissipated quickly, your body heating and blood rushing as it responded to his kiss. Only a tempting press of lips and it was over too soon—Andrew pulled back, the tip of his nose still brushing your skin as he took another deep, shuddering, minty breath. He seemed to be allowing you a chance to pull away, as if that were ever an option. Your hand snaked around his neck, another fisting the heavy fabric of his cloak, pulling him so eagerly he almost stumbled and fell straight into another, deeper kiss. This time he didn't hold back, gripping your waist with slender fingers, firm and sure.

You could have kicked yourself for how long you'd waited for this to happen. All those weeks spent agonisingly close on that sofa, you could have been doing this. And it was everything you'd dreamed of; his lips just as soft; tongue just as warm and offering such a gentle caress. His hands remained respectfully at your waist, yet the way he kneaded at your flesh suggested he wanted more. You shivered in response to a quiet moan as his tongue delved deeper, your bodies pressing tighter. When you finally broke for air, his fingers curled in your hair and he held you close, foreheads touching as you gathered your breath. Never before had you experienced a kiss quite like it, an outpouring of a deep well of tension. There'd be no going back now, not when you'd had a taste of him.

“Andrew...” Your voice was breathier than usual, and you felt an unmistakable twitch in his breeches. He almost pulled away, but you held him firm, lips barely brushing as you felt your own arousal simmering dangerously close to the surface. The temptation was overwhelming, yet you knew he was a gentleman. His expression was almost pained with desire.

“I won't do anything you don't want me to,” he finally said.

“I don't want you to think I go about doing this with every boy.”

He chuckled and brushed a finger under your chin, tilting your head enough to meet his gaze. Gods, he had beautiful eyes. “I don't think that. I really only wanted to tell you that I like you as more than a friend and to…well, to ask you if you'd like to accompany me to Hogsmeade at the weekend.”

A date, of course. Your mind had been in the gutter from the moment his lips met yours. Perhaps a faint flicker of disappointment had appeared on your face as Andrew smiled wider, his cheeks now a rosy pink.

“Give me three dates,” he mumbled.

You let out a nervous giggle before kissing him again. “Two, and I promise to keep my hands to myself until then.”

It was a while before you were defeated by the cold, lured back to the castle. You held hands on the walk back to the common room and Andrew cast warming charms on you both to dispel the chill. As beautiful as the view was on top of the Astronomy tower, you preferred the one right next to you. He was a little quieter than usual, perhaps nervous for what was about to come. It was only a promise of a date, yet the way your hands entwined so surely and perfectly, you had the impression that it was a mere formality, that your hearts were perhaps already promised to one another.

The end of the school year brought tears for the loss of classmates, promises to friends and a palpable excitement that rippled through the seventh years as they embarked upon new adventures. Andrew had travelled home a week earlier than most, leaving you feeling empty, despite the revelry taking place around you. Countless parties had been thrown to mark the occasion, yet you most of all missed the quiet hours spent curled up in his arms reading, talking, or much more physical pursuits. It had been worth the wait.

Along with much of the common room’s occupants you had a hangover, and inwardly cursed the Hufflepuffs for their home-brewed mead. Samantha recoiled from the soft morning light beside you, collapsing into an armchair with her trunk beside her and muttering about needing a pepperup potion. The train would be leaving in an hour, and all around you people were saying their goodbyes, perhaps for the final time. You'd be sad to see the castle go, and all the memories it held. The people you'd met would still be only an owl or floo away, though, and you looked down at Samantha's crumpled form with a fond smile. A final sweep of the room, and you were ready to go, rallying your friend with promise of hot cocoa on the train. She grumbled but traipsed behind you, until you were stopped in your tracks by something you'd missed that made your heart leap almost clean out of your chest.

You'd spotted a note on the noticeboard with the familiar little book doodle in the bottom right corner. Without Andrew, you'd not bothered to check for any notices, yet here it was—one final note for the book club that had started it all.

“Sam, I'll meet you outside…”

“Is that from Andrew?” she asked, peering over your shoulder. “Ooh, let me see!”

“I'd rather read it alone, if it's all the same to you.”

She tilted her head in disappointment but had no energy to argue, muttering about getting the information out of you later on the train as she slinked off to wait. Your gaze dropped to his beautiful handwriting, the care he'd taken to make this particular parchment worth keeping was evident. Removing it carefully from the pin, you began to read.

‘It started with Once Upon a Tome,

Now Princess, let's have our Happily Ever After,

I shall see you again in the Summer,

The beginning of our adventure.

Yours,

Prince Charming’

You held it close, warmth spreading through your tired body as the sounds of the common room evaporated around you. You recalled every minute spent with him, every date you'd squeezed into the remaining months of the school year. You owed it all to that one fateful day when you'd taken a chance to join a book club. A fairytale ending, indeed.

#andrew larson #andrew larson fanfiction #hogwarts legacy

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esther-dot · 10 months

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A Besotted Fool 1k by @sibyldisobedience

He scrubbed his hand down his face and found his attention drawn to the fluttering lace in one of the upper windows of the house. Suddenly there she was, his radiant girl; a soft, inscrutable expression gracing her lovely features. She nodded to him with a stately little dip of her chin, and he waved back at her, like some kind of overly eager green boy. He cringed inwardly and cursed himself for a fool. A pathetic, besotted fool.

Aunt Lysa Settles the Question 5k by @sibyldisobedience

"But tell me now child, and be quick about it, who is this young man and what reason does he have to be alone with you in the parlour?” Sansa bristled at being called ‘child’, she was seventeen and had just received her first proposal of marriage for goodness sake! She turned to Mr. Snow, the poor man looked as though he wished the floor might open up and swallow him whole. “This is Father’s friend, Mr. Jon Snow.” “Snow? What Snow? Do you mean that boy’s tutor?” Lysa looked Jon up and down, and grimaced. She then turned the full force of her ire on Sansa, who could only wring her hands. “And what pray tell has Father’s friend been saying to make you look like a peony?” Before Sansa could begin to think of what to say in reply, for it really wasn’t any of the old fussbudget’s business, Jon cleared his throat.

Married Life 10k by @sibyldisobedience

Sansa and Jon settled into married life very easily. The Dovecote was small, to be sure, less than a third of the size of Winterfell, but the lovers relished their proximity to one another. How wonderful it was to be so close — in constant contact — when during their three year engagement, they had been apart longer than they had been together. After one entire week of blissful seclusion, the couple had to concede that they could not live on love alone. So Jon returned to work, and some gentle ribbing from his co-workers, and Sansa took up her housewifely duties. As the young couple established a routine, they found that even after a few months, once the initial novelty of “playing house” had worn off, they were just as blissfully happy as they had been that first week. Sansa was as breathtakingly lovely as ever in her faded wrapper, beaming at him from behind the familiar coffee pot. And Jon’s deep Northern brogue never failed to send shivers down her spine, even when he was simply following up his parting kiss with the tender inquiry, "Shall I send home mutton or beef for dinner tonight?"

(the above are all in the 14 part series Little Women of Winterfell)

marriage is an economic proposition 3k

Sansa meets her childhood friend Jon Targaryen while traveling with Aunt Lysa in the capital.

PRE CANON - WESTERN - FAIRYTALE - REGENCY - HOLIDAY - SEASON 6 - ANNE OF GREEN GABLES - THE GIRL IN GREY - FREE CITIES - FAIRYTALE PART II - POLITICAL MARRIAGE - SALTY TEENS - POST CANON

#jonsa #jonsa fic #little women au #dot fic list

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the-starryknight · 6 months

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last lines of longest fics

thank you for this tag, dear @magpiefngrl <3 this was an interesting exercise! of course, few of my fics are all that long, but some patterns emerge here nonetheless.

A Room Up There (And You In It) (drarry, T, 60k) It felt glorious. It felt right. It felt like home.

Meet Me at Midnight (drarry, T, 57k) Draco smiled, eyes crinkling. "Good morning, Harry."

“Good morning.”

Two Zinnias and the Scent of Lemon (drarry, M, 17k) The gallery entry was filled with a team of half a dozen Aurors at minimum. Harry cast first, hands moving, sending a powerful Protego around them.

And they were off. Back into the fray.

Sleight of Hand (drarry, E, 15k) “Like I said,” Malfoy drawled, eyes over the coffee cup to Harry, steely gray and deeper, more serious than they had been so far. “We make great allies.”

Saltwater Stain (drarry, M, 9k) The water spray intensified, blue-green and wrong coming from the showerhead. Harry reached for the door behind them but found it locked. Draco took his hand; they were one, unbreakable.

Harry held him. What could it possibly offer them? They were together, a sturdy mast to weather any storm. The scent of saltwater filled the room, seaweed gurgling in the drain.

Split Figs in Summer (drarry, E, 8k) Under the sky full of glittering stars, Harry whispered a promise into his skin, “We’ll work on tomorrow together.”

Any Way You Slice It (wolfstar, E, 6k) He kissed me then, tasting like butterbeer and oranges and the June sun, and I would swear the world just held its breath for us. There was no war, no noise. Just the wind ruffling through his scruffy hair, and his hands on my hips, and his lips on my nose. Just the two of us.

The Art of the Matter (drarry, E, 6k) Draco pushed Harry onto the bed with a final shove and Harry went willingly, joyfully even, laughing as Draco knelt between his trousered-legs. Draco smiled at that too, skin singing with the thrill of their success. He kissed Harry with no hesitation, smiling into the kiss. Draco murmured against his skin, “As if I could ever be finished with you.”

Of Mirrors, Myths, and Men (drarry, E, 5k) “You’re beautiful,” Harry said, kissing his forehead. “I didn’t realize how much I wanted you till I started looking.”

I thought mates were a myth. Like the glass knitting itself back together, Draco thought they must belong like this, two shattered halves made whole. As if in any universe, they’d end up right back here, naked and breathless on the hardwood floor, a wing curled over Harry’s sleeping back.

“And now?”

“Now, I’m never going to stop.”

Surface Texture (Harry/Teddy, E, 5k) For the first time, I feel confident in asking. He wants me, and I him, and inside these doors, we have each other. Maybe I’ll draw us like this next, laid out together on the carpet, skin singing the same song.

patterns: evidently, I like ending with them lying together in bed/on the floor, or in an ambiguous "something more is about to happen but the central plot has been resolved" with no real in-between. lots of ending dialogue! there's even more of that in some of the shorter ones -- maybe a quality of my preference for the shorter form? something i'll be thinking about.

tagging whomever wants to play along! have at it, tag me if you feel like it.

#starry writes

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spark-my-nature · 2 years

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Decorum and Refinement - JTK

I won't lie, this is self-serving filth. I know I'm not alone in being down bad for Oliver Reed though.

Words: 5k

Content Warning: Explicit sexual content, face riding, roleplaying, light degradation, masturbation, all of the filth

Summary: Jake discovers your dirty little secret, but Oliver reaps the benefits of your fantasy.

It was ridiculous, really. Absolutely ridiculous, the effect it had on you. Almost as ridiculous as the persona itself.

You’d managed to keep Jake in the dark about your… special interest. You weren’t sure how, as he prided himself on knowing every single detail he could possibly learn about you. Your boyfriend was endearingly doting, but it made it exceptionally hard to hide anything from him, even to save yourself from the onslaught of embarrassment you were sure would follow if your fantasies got out.

Biting your lip and sighing softly through your nose, you clicked replay on the YouTube video for the fourth time that afternoon. You glanced at the time in the corner of your laptop screen, making sure Jake wouldn’t be home for another hour at least from his lunch with the guys. You let out a whine in the privacy of your room as the video started again, staccato strings softly arpeggiating through the speakers of your computer.

“Why did I decide to become an actor…” Oliver Reed’s rumbly voice began. Your heart beat a little faster, and a silly smile spread across your face, accompanied by a shy blush. You lay on your stomach on the bed, chin propped on your hand as you drank in your boyfriend’s masterclass persona. You were vaguely aware of the accumulating evidence in your panties of the chokehold it had on you, but you ignored it, knowing you didn’t have time to see it through before the real Jake would be home. Opting instead to torture yourself, you sighed again lustfully at the screen as Oliver’s pink lips glistened with whiskey through the fake beard.

He was going to be the death of you. You couldn’t tear your eyes off the veins and muscles twining delicately around his tanned forearms, extending into strong fingers that wrapped teasingly around the neck of the bottle of Jack Daniels and a cigar. He was so delicious, smoke billowing gently from his pursed lips, gesturing wildly with his cane.

The cane. Don’t even start with that fucking prop. You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment before returning your gaze to the screen, grinding your hips into your bedspread. You let out a shaky sigh as you watched Oliver say the words, “I am your daddy.” Another small whine escaped your lips, and you huffed slightly.

“Fuck it,” you muttered to yourself and quickly crawled up the bed, flopping on your back, and popped open the button of your jeans. You set the laptop on your thighs, balancing it before pulling your zipper down. Your hand wriggled into your tight jeans, slipping into your panties as Oliver leaned back in the green velvet chair. You sighed at the mess sticking to your cotton undies, and as the increasingly inebriated man on the screen stumbled around shouting profanities, your fingers went to work.

Jake, on the other hand, was no longer at lunch with his brothers. The guys were too eager to get back to their own respective partners, as was Jake, and so as soon as they’d finished eating, they said their goodbyes. He was still chuckling to himself as he switched his jacket to his other arm to open the door. Shaking his head, recalling the story Sam told him about Danny, he set his jacket down over the back of a chair and looked around. The living room was empty, but he saw your glass of water on the coffee table and sweater tossed on the couch, proving you were still home. Curious, he walked quietly down the hall, still no sign of you. His eyes had just settled on the staircase when he heard the smallest noise coming from the bedroom. Furrowing his brow, Jake paused, listening for a moment, and then he heard it again. His eyes widened, a smirk spreading deviously across his face at the source of the sound.

“My, my, my,” he whispered to himself, and creeped up the stairs. The bedroom door was ajar, and he could faintly see the glow of a screen in the darkness of the room. His mind rushed with the implications of a screen combined with the sweet whines you were making. Were you watching porn? He bit his lip in excitement, never having known you did such a thing. You’d never said anything, he wondered what genres you liked. He felt his pants getting tighter as his imagination ran wild. Was his amazing girlfriend into lesbian porn? Anal? What if you were into something really kinky… unable to stop his curiosity any longer, he tiptoed toward the bedroom door, avoiding the creaky boards on the floor. The last thing he wanted was to interrupt-

His jaw fell to the floor at the sight in front of him. You were laid out on the couch, hand moving in tight circles under the cover of your pants, mouth hanging open as soft pants escaped you. All of this exactly as Jake pictured it, better, even. But the contents of the screen, he never would have guessed in a million years. His masterclass video. That’s what you were getting off on? His moronic Oliver Reed parody?

Jake stood there, stunned for a few seconds, allowing the confusing, yet incredibly erotic scene play out before him. His hand found his erection through his pants, palming it and swallowing a moan. You seemed to be getting close, if the increasingly frantic movement of your hand was anything to go by.

An idea formed in his head, and he smirked, hoping it would go the way he hoped.

Pushing the door open a little more, Jake slipped into the gravelly British accent you apparently loved so much. “Well, well, well.”

You let out a short scream, hand flying out of your pants and slamming the laptop shut with a furious blush. You blinked at him, panting softly in surprise and remaining excitement. You watched in horror as Jake stepped into the room like he owned it, eyeing your body hungrily.

“How long have you…” you trailed off, wincing in anticipation. Jake’s smirk widened, resembling the Cheshire cat.

“Long enough, darling. Long…” he took another step closer to you, “…enough.” He was thoroughly enjoying your embarrassed but undeniably turned on expression, and he finally reached the side of the bed, resting his hand on the headboard and leaning over you tauntingly.

“I can’t say I’m surprised, love,” he continued in his Reed voice, albeit softer now in the close proximity of your face. “All the women love Oliver.” After a moment’s dramatic pause, he shot straight up and walked out of the room and across the hall to your office slash storage room. You craned your neck to see where the hell he was going, muffling a snort of laughter at the thud of boxes falling, then your eyes widened as he reappeared in the doorway, leaning casually on the doorframe. Your boyfriend was now sporting those flat-topped sunglasses, and he was carrying the cane. Your mouth actually watered as you took him in, smirking faintly at the fake beard. He looked just as deliciously handsome as you’d ever seen him.

He stalked forward and towered over you once more. You swallowed and allowed your eyes to wander down his body, biting back a whimper at the stiffening erection his pants couldn’t hide. Jake’s hand reached out to grab your chin, forcing you to look him in the eyes, and he leaned his head forward, peaking at you over the top of his glasses. He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, and smirked, remembering the clip in the video, and you licked your lips.

“Jake, I-“

Immediately, he cut you off. “Who the fuck is Jake? Huh?!” He straightened and gestured outwardly in mock confusion. His gaze landed back on you, hungrily.

“I’m Oliver,” he smacked at your inner calf with his cane to spread it outward, “Fucking,” the other leg, “Reed.” He stepped between your open legs and pushed your shoulders back, flopping you on the bed with a growl.

You moaned and grabbed his shirt in your fists, pulling him on top of you. You tugged his hair and captured his lips in a desperate kiss as you ground your hips up into his. A few hairs from the limp beard tickled at your cheeks and he pulled back, just enough to tease your bottom lip with a swipe of his tongue, before thrusting it past your open mouth. He groaned, deep in his throat, and rutted his now rock-hard length into your heated groin. Your hands found the few buttons that were actually done up near his stomach and you struggled to pop them open, finally shoving his shirt off his toned shoulders.

Jake broke the kiss and smirked down at you. “Now darling, why don’t you tell Daddy what’s got you all worked up,” he rasped, grinding into you again. Your eyes fluttered but remained on his. “I- mmm, I really fucking like Oliver,” you gasped when Jakes hand dove into your panties.

“Well,” he chuckled deeply, teasingly stroking your clit, “Oliver likes you, too, love.” He watched as your eyes rolled back slightly, then Jake pinched your clit gently. Your hips bucked and you moaned loudly, gripping the sheets. His fingers circled your clit a few times, then retreated up under your shirt to cup your breast. You whined impatiently, arching your back into his touch, and Jake chuckled darkly.

“I can’t wait to fuck you absolutely senseless, darling. You’re gonna let Oliver make a fucking mess of you, aren’t you, love?” You heard the taunting English accent growing deeper with desire as Jake plucked at your nipples. He was groping you obscenely, watching your face as he played with your tits. You couldn’t remember ever being so turned on in your life, your little fantasies paling in comparison to the show your boyfriend was putting on just for you.

Oliver, as you decided to call him in your head for the time being, gave your breast one last grope before unbuckling his belt. The metal clanged sinfully, and your hand went to seek out some relief between your thighs, but Oliver’s voice halted your movement. “Oi’! Don’t you dare,” He growled, unbuttoning his pants, and shoving them down to the floor in a heap. Left in his boxers and those stupid glasses, he grabbed your ankles and spun you to lie flat on your back with your head on the pillows. You gasped and he crawled over you, practically sneering with conceited lust.

“Please, Oliver, show me how you like to fuck,” you teased breathily, playing up the seduction in your voice to play along. You lifted your hand to stroke his beard, staring into his eyes through the glasses. Oliver’s eyes darkened at your tone, and his calloused hand ran up your front, pulling up your shirt with it.

“Oh, gladly, darling. But first, lets see those pretty tits, yeah?” You moaned and Oliver pulled your shirt up and over your head. His mouth immediately came down and latched onto your nipple, his other hand groping at your opposite breast. You whined helplessly. You couldn’t bring yourself to be embarrassed at how eagerly you reacted to his actions. You loved everything about this, being treated like Oliver Reed’s whore, groped for his own pleasure. Jake was making this filthier than you could’ve dreamed of.

Seemingly picking up on your obscene thoughts, Oliver lifted his face enough to flash you a cheeky grin before diving between your tits and shaking his face back and forth into your cleavage. For a split second you wondered how long Jake had been wanting to do that but hadn’t had the opportunity. The thought made you smile and you inwardly laughed at what a boy he was.

Oliver pulled back and he eyed your flushed face. “Forget a penny, I’d pay a fortune to hear your thoughts, my beauty,” he murmured sensually and ran his calloused warm hand down your side, beginning to work your pants over your hips and down your thighs. Deciding to test your limits, you smirked after kicking your jeans off, and shrugged one shoulder. “Just hoping you haven’t been afflicted with whisky-dick I suppose,” you raised an eyebrow challengingly.

Oliver’s jaw fell open slightly but he quickly composed himself. Grabbing your wrist, he growled as he slid your hand down his chest. “You are feisty tonight, love.” Your hand slid closer and closer down his stomach, his soft happy trail making you bite your lip. “Well luckily for you,” he leered, holding your hand still for a moment and pulling the band of his boxers away from his hips teasingly, giving you a shadowy glimpse at the base of his cock before snapping it back in place, “I know how to handle both my Jack and my women.”

He guided your hand down into his boxers and let go of your wrist, allowing you to touch him freely. You looked up, locking your doe eyes with his darkened ones, and held intensely heated eye contact. You ran your fingertips down just low enough to brush against his base, and then you raked your nails lightly upwards through his pubic hair. Oliver’s face momentarily gave away his slip of control, his eyes unfocusing. You grabbed both sides of his neck and flopped him beside you. He chuckled darkly and your other hand joined the first. You ran both hands down his lower abdomen, slipping lower and lower until you took his boxers down with them. You allowed his waistband to rest just a couple of inches below the base of his cock, the rest of his length still hidden. You eyed him shamelessly, licking your lips, and Oliver watched as you traced a single finger lightly down the short bit of exposed skin. Oliver physically shuddered at your teasing, allowing you to explore this new dynamic as you wanted.

Your finger traced along a thick vein and smirked as his erection twitched under your touch. Oliver was starting to breath more heavily, holding himself back from bucking his hips into your hands. “Listen you little minx,” your eyes met, both sets of pupils blown with desire, “you’re being an awful fucking tease. Don’t make Daddy punish you.” You moaned under your breath, hooking one leg over his hip, and grinding yourself up into his cock, still half covered.

He grunted and reached up, lowering his glasses down his perfect straight nose to peer at you over them. Your eyes wandered over his face. “I hope you’ll forgive me, Oliver. I just like to make sure my toys are in working order, is all.”

With a growl, Oliver shoved you roughly back into place on your back. “Oh, I’ll show you who’s the toy, you saucy little brat,” he spat. Standing, he grabbed the forgotten cane from the side of the bed. Your eyes widened and you clenched your thighs together as Oliver loomed over you. He held the cane horizontally with both of his strong, rough hands, and cracked it against his palm once. He wrapped his hand around your neck and pulled you to your feet. He sat in your place and took your arm, pulling you roughly over his lap, ass in the air. You whined and wiggled in his grasp.

“You’ll hold still, if you know what’s good for you, love. It’ll only make this worse for you.” His voice had become nearly unrecognizable through the accent and dark, gravelly lust. You couldn’t dwell on it long before the cane came cracking down against your ass. You yelped and Oliver’s hand smoothed over your reddening cheek, squeezing it with a sigh.

“I bet you just fucking love this, don’t you pet? You wanted Daddy’s cane to spank you. Naughty girl,” he brought the cane down twice rapidly, one smack on each cheek. You moaned and begged, “Please Oliver, I’ll be good now, please, please.”

“I’m not convinced, my darling. Maybe we should just check for ourselves, shall we?” Before you could answer, he was yanking down your drenched panties over your ass. They barely hit the floor before his hand spread your ass open, exposing all of you to him over his lap. He groaned softly and spread your pussy open with his fingers, watching how you glistened in the dim light. “Good fucking girl. So fucking wet, I could go for a sail between these pretty thighs.” You normally would have laughed, but his persona made the ridiculous statement erotic as hell.

You lifted your ass up invitingly, hoping for his fingers. Instead, you gasped as you felt the cool handle of his cane meet your unsuspecting clit. Oliver rubbed it up and down over the swollen bud, watching you struggle to keep your head from hanging. You craned your neck to peak at him, and he met your fucked-out gaze with a wink and a devilish smirk. The cane moved to your entrance and pushed in a few inches. You moaned loudly and finally dropped your head limply.

He began thrusting it into you lazily, eyes locked on the juices clinging to the wooden handle. He pulled it out of you slowly, wishing he had a camera to capture the image of the string of juices that stretched from your pink slit to his cane. “Look at you… Oliver’s pretty little fuck toy, aren’t you, love?” He strained out. You whined and nodded furiously.

Both of you had gotten so worked up at this point you couldn’t stand any more teasing. Oliver took your shoulders and guided you up off his lap. He swung his legs onto the bed and kicked his boxers all the way off, his freed cock harder than ever. Watching you look at him, he ran his hands up his thighs and took his cock in both hands. He began thrusting his hips up into his fists, fucking himself slowly. His beard hung off his chin, his head leaning back as he groaned. You bit your fist watching the show, absolutely drooling over your boyfriend. His hips were absolutely sinful, his tight ass clenching as he bucked over and over into the tight grip of his hands.

Sinful, delicious noises flew out of his pink lips, and you noticed his glasses were fogged up now from his body heat. Pausing his movements, he looked over at you and waggled his eyebrows.

“Do you plan to stand there all evening? There’s a perfectly comfortable seat right here,” he gestured to his hair-obscured face. You blushed, “you want me to…” He nodded eagerly. “With the beard and everything?”

He laughed loudly and you smiled. “My darling, I’m wounded. I was under the impression that you found my beard becoming.” You giggled and moved to crawl over his body.

“I just didn’t want to ruin it, is all. Believe me, you’re so… so very sexy…” you trailed off, cupping his jaw and eyeing his mouth as it quirked into a cocky smirk.

“You flatter me, love. It isn’t every day beautiful women throw themselves at me.” He paused. “Oh wait- yes it is.” He kissed you deeply, limiting your laugh to a huffed snort through your nose, making him smile against your lips. He pulled back and tapped his cheek with his hand. “Up you go, now. Be nice and keep daddy’s face warm.” You crawled up his body and straddled his head, yelping when he pulled you down roughly onto his face. Immediately his mouth worked into your wet core, licking the flat of his tongue over your clit repeatedly before swirling the tip around your clit and sucking lightly.

Jake’s signature loving and knowledgeable style of eating you out combined with the insatiable and filthy mouth of Oliver, and it was unlike anything you’d imagined. He slurped at you with an uninhibited fervor you rarely saw in Jake. Your boyfriend was fantastic in bed, and you had no complaints. But something about this side of him that shined through his alternate persona was stoking a fire in your belly.

He moaned into you and shook his face back and forth quickly, dragging his tongue over your clit in the process. Your head tossed back with a loud groan. “Oh fuck, fuck yes- Oliver yes, mmmm fuck,” you babbled incoherently. He was going to town like it was his last meal and you felt your orgasm beginning to surface. Oliver’s muffled groans, accented by obscene wet noises filled the room, and he pulled you impossibly closer, squeezing and groping your ass as he pressed his face into you desperately. You ground against his face as his tongue stretched into your hole, his perfect nose nudging your clit with each thrust.

You barely noticed the soft beard covering your seat on his face, aside from the odd tickle, but you could feel how absolutely drenched it had gotten. You looked down at him and groaned at the sight, the beard soaked and completely dishevelled, clinging to Oliver’s cheeks as we furiously sucked your clit rhythmically. The image gave your orgasm the last shove it needed and you gripped his hair tightly, letting out a strained yell as you came. Your high lasted longer than any you’d had before, egged on by the vibrations of your boyfriend’s desperate moans under you.

“Ohhh my god Ol-Oliver yes- I can’t stop cumming, fuck fuck fuck-“ you gasped for air and humped his mouth pathetically, thighs shaking around his dripping face. Finally, the waves of intense pleasure subsided and you weakly climbed off his face to collapse beside him, both of you panting.

After a moment you blinked at the ceiling, dazed. “Holy shit.” Oliver/Jake’s familiar giggle sounded beside you, making you turn and smile at him. His eyes were glowing with giddy desire, looking absolutely smitten. You giggled at the state of his beard, stringy wet hairs strung in every direction. He pulled it off his face and let it fall into the trash. Still in character, he chuckled, “Well, it was nice knowing you, beard.” He saluted and nodded once. “Remarkable. He went out doing what he loved.”

You laughed at his antics and rolled to your side. You ran your hand across his lean chest and bit your lip.

He looked over at you and smirked. “Still want more of Oliver, do you? Dirty girl.”

You gave him your best doe eyes and wrapped your fingers loosely around his aching cock. Instantly, his eyes fluttered and a sigh escaped his swollen lips. You stroked him loosely, enjoying the familiar, hard warmth in your hand. “Will you let me ride your cock, Oliver? Pretty please?” You cooed, cocking your head and lightly pumping him in your hand. His eyes fell shut and he let out an honest-to-god whimper. You felt a rush of heat to your groin, playing with his cock teasingly. “I want it sooo bad, Daddy. It looks so nice,” you continued, nibbling at his earlobe and licking a small strip down the shell of his ear, relishing his soft whines and pants. You squeezed his dick for emphasis as you whispered in his ear, “So big and hard. I want to know what it’s like, you know…” You paused to suck a hickey into his neck, “To fuck the great, Oliver Reed.”

With a tortured groan, he rolled swiftly on top of you. Oliver grabbed your right leg and hiked it over his shoulder, one hand coming down to rub the heel of his hand around your sensitive clit. You watched through half-lidded eyes as he pushed his glasses back up his nose into place, and then took his cock in hand, pushing into you. You both groaned, your pussy gripping his cock tightly.

“Jesus- so tight,” you vaguely noticed his accent faltering, but he slipped back into character quickly. “God you feel fucking divine, pet.”

“Mmmm- so big, please Oliver please,” you begged breathlessly. Oliver thrusted smoothly and hard, bottoming out with a strained groan.

“Christ, angel, what a perfect fucking cunt you have,” He praised through pants. The hand that wasn’t holding your leg up ran down the inside of your suspended thigh, coming down to spread you out farther and playing with your clit.

Your eyes rolled back, barely recognizing the sounds coming out of your mouth. You gripped the bedsheets with white knuckles as Oliver pounded into you, wet slapping noises echoing with each thrust. You felt your second orgasm approaching already, aided by the tight circles he rubbed into your clit. “Yes, baby- just like that, you’re gonna make me cum, please,” you whimpered, not caring how desperate you sounded.

A feral growl ripped out of the man on top of you and he circled your clit faster with his free hand. The hand on your leg slipped down momentarily to smack your ass a few times, returning to its post on your knee as he drove relentlessly into you. Soft grunts huffed out of his lips with every thrust, his balls slapping against you animalistically. You edged closer and closer, concentrating on the deliciously soft, rock-hard cock pumping into you.

“Come on, gorgeous girl, give it up angel, soak daddy’s cock like the good fucking slut you are. I need it, angel, please,” Oliver begged raggedly, his fingers a blur on your swollen clit.

The heavenly sound of Oliver Reed begging you to cum launched you over the edge, blinding white hot pleasure shooting through your body. You were pretty sure you were screaming, but you couldn’t tell for sure. Incoherent babbles of both Oliver and Jake’s name streamed from your lips through moans. Just as you regained awareness, your boyfriend lost all composure, pulling out of you and pumping his warm cum across your belly and spread pussy with the sweetest groan you’ve ever heard. His eyebrows tilted up and furrowed, his lips in a perfect “O”, and his hand flying over his cock in a blur of motion.

He let out a final, weak grunt and flopped beside you, once more joining you as you both caught your breath.

Your ears slowly stopped ringing and you fluttered your eyes open, glancing over at Jake. He looked absolutely heavenly, flushed skin shining with sweat, red lips parted as he breathed raggedly. His long eyelashes casted over his cheekbones, he looked adorable, in contrast with the situation. His long hair clung to his forehead, and he lazily reached up and ripped off the glasses that had miraculously stayed on. You reached over and brushed his hair off his face, tucking it sweetly behind his ear and cupping his jaw lovingly. He turned to look at you, eyes soft with pure adoration. You felt a flutter of butterflies from the look he gave you.

Slowly he leaned forward, tilting his head, and you met in a sweet, gentle kiss, losing yourselves in the moment. His hand snaked into your sweaty hair as your lips moved together, pulling away with a sigh.

“I love y- “I love you,” you both whispered at the same time, dissolving into giggles. Jake booped your nose with his finger, his adorable smile stretching across his face. You pecked his lips again. He grabbed a fistful of tissues from the nightstand to clean you off until you had gained enough strength to shower.

“So when were you gonna tell me?” He asked, voice rough and gravelly from the strain of the character voice and sex.

You blushed, feigning ignorance. “Tell you what?” You started to sit up to move out of bed.

Jake grabbed your hips, pulling you back down into his side. “Ah ah ah, not yet, miss,” he chuckled, wrapping his toned arms around your middle and gripping tightly. “When were you gonna tell me about your special interest in Oliver?”

He looked way too pleased with himself, so you looked away and giggled shyly. “Never, its embarrassing!” He scoffed and kissed your cheek. “Why? I think it’s kinda sexy,” he rested his forehead against your temple, nose pressed into your cheek. You felt his eyelashes flutter against your cheekbone, tickling you gently.

You smiled and bit your lip. “Really? You don’t think its weird?”

He snorted a laugh and pulled back, looking at you incredulously. “Babe, we just had the best sex we’ve ever had while I wore a cheap fake beard and the ugliest glasses I’ve ever seen, not to mention while talking dirty to you in an English accent. No, I don’t think you are the weird one,” he laughed. “In fact, I think you’re the most amazing woman I have ever met.”

You giggled and kissed him softly. “I think you’re the most amazing man I’ve ever met.”

“Me? Or Oliver?” he raised an eyebrow teasingly.

“You, dingus! Jacob Thomas, boyfriend of the year, rock god, chef extraordinaire, pirate enthusiast and love of my life.” You beamed against his lips, and he closed his eyes, letting out a contented hum.

“Oh yeah?” he mumbled bashfully with a goofy grin.

You pecked his lips. “Nah just kidding.” You giggled at his faux glare. “Of course, baby. I’m so fucking lucky it's incredible, I won the boyfriend jackpot with you, handsome,” you rubbed your nose against his.

His smile was blinding and he hugged you tight against him, nuzzling into you. “Ditto, gorgeous.”

#greta van fic #greta van fleet fan fiction #greta van fluff #gvf smut #jacob thomas kiszka #jake kiszka #jake gvf #oliver reed #oliver fucking reed #greta van smut #greta van fleet

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agentnatesewell · 9 months

Text

tremendous tasks, dear friends

the wayhaven chronicles | barbara robertson (f!detective) / nate sewell / mason + family (lucas daniels) | 5k words | rated G

happy holidays to @delucadarling on this twelfth night and epiphany eve! i have simply fallen in love with barbie and had such a wonderful time writing for her for the @wayhavensecretsanta

.🎄.

Within the forested woods surrounding a deceptively inconspicuous town, one brimming with holiday cheer and festive wishes, bustling with last-minute preparations of a yuletide celebration for humans and supernaturals alike, sits a dilapidated building. A relic of a time ago, thought abandoned and unbothered, hiding a veiled mansion beyond its crumbling facade.

In this warehouse, now as familiar as home, Barbara Robertson - detective or agent depending on when and who one asks - sits in the center of the living room elegantly dressed for the season. One last task, a final check-in, for the next day’s Wayhaven Christmas Fete remains, and her trusted Filofax is set securely nearby, traded for a cup of steaming, glasses-fogging drinking chocolate. Hands warming against the gold rimmed and whimsically painted precious porcelain, she shifts her attention from event planning to listening, intently, of past traditions once forgone and now renewed.

In this living room, now his home, Nathaniel Sewell - agent and acting commanding agent, a temporary promotion until their team leader returns from a self assigned important mission - sits adjacent, on the floor with long legs tucked beneath him; sweeping his hand over carefully laid materials, collected from the nature surrounding them, on the ivory lace-embroidered cloth covered coffee table. He picks out a hard confection from a glass jar in the middle of the table, passes it to her then reminisces, “My earlier days, when I was with my family, during the Advent period before Christmas Day, my brother and I would spend the morning hours collecting what we could on our grounds. Not dissimilar to what we’ve found on our strolls in town and the community garden this autumn.”

Long branches of holly from the gardens, deepest green leaves with sharp, curved edges, clusters of bright, reddest berries; vines of ivy growing along on the outer stone of their home, long stems dense with lined green and white leaves; hardy sprigs of rosemary from their kitchen window garden, fragrant and robust; precious bundles of mistletoe, from the town’s nursery, with pretty pearlescent white berries; and perhaps his most prized possession of the season, from a bespoke shoppe, a singular pear sitting on a bed of gold foil.

“Are you making a wreath,” she inquires, leaning closer to the greenery. Fingers already occupied with proffered candy instinctively seek her pencil, and blindly slide behind her ear, in case there is need to write any pertinent information of this tradition. As she inspects, Barbie notices there isn’t any sort of evergreen present that she’d become accustomed to with modern wreaths, though perhaps Nate had used all he could find to festoon along the fireplace mantle, perhaps all the evergreen in Wayhaven and the surrounding forest.

“A Christmas Bough.” The corners of his eyes crinkle as a smile plays at the corner of his mouth, voice trailing and he falls into a fog of nostalgia, happy memories returning to overshadow those which usually haunt him. As his thoughts fade, Nate chances a glance at Barbie, and he is pulled back into the present. For behind a curling strand of her blond hair, fallen away from her gilded claw clip, peeks a twist of red and white, and the scent of peppermint. The pencil which is usually there in her hand, in peril of becoming her drink stirrer.

“Barbie?”

“Nate?” The abrupt change in his tone, now alarmed, draws Barbie away from her study. She looks up towards him, green eyes peering over her red plaid-rimmed glasses, taking note at how amusement highlights the honeyed hues of his brown eyes, and how he’s closing the already narrow gap between them, brows raised questioningly and silently awaiting permission to come closer.

And it is easy for her to grant him such permission, as Nate is always so careful, comforting, safe, even in this spontaneity, and Barbie is quite curious what it is that has attracted his attention.

The brush of his thumb across her cheek, his fingers curling at her temple and over the shell of her ear prove far more exhilarating than any spice and sugar rush incurred during the holiday season. Nate chuckles, deep and resonating, just as silver bells sing, and he pulls away, his palm open. “You might find that peppermint candy complements the dark chocolate of your beverage far more than your pencil might.”

“What,” Barbie looks at her cup, pencil between the rim and its high handle, and groans. “Oh my god.” Shaking her head, she drops the utensil with a sharp laugh. “Guess I needed this break. Helping Tina organize the Fete at the station this year is keeping me busier than I imagined. Especially with all of,” she waves her hand, “this.”

Nate knows she is referencing her continued training with the Agency and on-call, standby assistance for the Wayhaven Police Department’s local cases - taking a holiday encouraged, always, during their sporadic diners at the local bistro - but does hope she has been enjoying the past week spent transforming their, in his opinion, humble home into a Christmas wonderland so expertly designed, it would rival the most elegant department store displays. And though Adam and, by order, Unit Bravo, had been convinced by Nate’s suggestion of team building exercises, Barbie has been enjoying herself. Excitement casting her in gold and silver radiance, she is even more breathtaking, indulging herself in the season. Dressed in themed ensembles, time made and spent introducing Farah to popcorn tins and Christmas themed movies, baking and icing so many cookies, decorating while singing tunes so delightful, he has been humming them both in tandem and alone.

Regardless, Barbie deserves empathy and understanding, and a second candy cane. “May I say that the Fete has been coming along quite nicely, and will surely be memorable for years to come.”

“You may,” she accepts his compliment, allowing her fingers, nails painted to resemble ribbon tied gift wrap, to just barely glide along his as she accepts the candy. To avoid a repeat of a near miss, Barbie stirs her drinking chocolate with the straight side of the candied stick, inhaling the melding scents as the steam rises and evaporates into the air. “Thank you, Nate.”

Pleasant moment aside, and desperately needing the embarrassing moment aside, Barbie points the candy cane, melting end, at the table. “Tell me about your Christmas Bough. I thought it was called a Kissing Bough?”

Nate nods. “You’re correct. Formally, these were called Christmas Boughs, and traditionally, Kissing Boughs. Every year, from when we could carry in ash wood or willow wood branches, our bough would adorn the doorway to our drawing room, welcoming our guests for the many parties held during the twelve days post Christmas. Usually family, many cousins, family friends.”

Barbie places her cup on the table, resting her elbow on the edge, listening intently once more. The cadence of his voice again melodic, a nostalgic recitation in celebration of a life passed instead of a sorrow of a life lost.

“One modern convenience this year.” Nate points to a neat stack of green craft wire, set opposite of the shining pear. “Bending curved tree branches into circles is much easier these days, but I would like to focus more on this particular foliage”

“Do they hold any meaning?” She asks, knowing too well that rarely does Nate take on a task casually.

“Holly,” Nate works as he speaks, nimble hands still familiar with the process from centuries ago, tying the branches together with the wire, a blur of green and red repeating until creating a circle. “Everlasting life.”

The irony is not lost on Barbie. By how Nate blinks his eyes, an attempt to keep them clear, she knows it’s not lost on him, either. But then he clears his throat, shapes his mouth back into a smile, and transfers the rest of the holly branches and half of the wire to the space in front of her. An offer to join him, and she obliges; observing and enamored by his hands, mirroring his motions to create a second circle.

“Ivy,” Nate continues, “dependence and endurance. Rosemary, remembrance.” Running the tip of a finger along the leaves, breathing in the released fragrance, he takes a deep breath. Another breath.

As silence grows, the bough making process is acknowledged as a memorial by them both. When her half is complete and returned to him, Barbie lays a hand on Nate’s shoulder. Immediately, she feels him relax, and this time the deep breath is an exhalation. When he turns to her, his smile is genuine, grateful for her grace. “Thank you. My apologies, for my sentimentality.”

“What about the mistletoe?” She squeezes his shoulder, and hopes the question cheers him up.

“Ah, mistletoe.” Nate lifts a bundle for himself, a second one for Barbie. She keeps it for herself. “A good luck charm. One could, during the celebratory period, greet their guests or each other for a kiss. A suitor could kiss the one they wished to court, on the cheek, and we did make sure all parties were in accordance. All would hope to be kissed, lest they endure the bad luck of being left out. There was a limit, as with every kiss, a berry would be picked. When all was gone, the kissing ceased.” He chuckles, picking a single spray which had fallen out of place. “Milton’s pockets would be full by night’s end, as he was rather outgoing and effortlessly charming.”

Barbie plucks a gem-like berry to roll between her fingers, twisting her lips as her gaze shifts towards Nate, finding he has done the same. It comes as a surprise to them both, a happy and quite welcome surprise, when Barbie closes the space between, kissing Nate’s cheek. Drawing away, she puts the berry in his palm. “There, now you have one, too.”

Behind a second, cordial-ish, exchange, through the doorway of this living room which has yet to bear the meaningful ornament of greeting, shaking bruising snowflakes off the jacket he’s worn during his overnight patrol of the town - stubborn to accept the order to dress weather-appropriately from their temporary leader, until an approving hum from Barbie, he will keep to himself that he did not mind the shearling-lined leather moto jacket that kept him from freezing - Mason grimaces at the warm welcome of glittering ornaments, the droning and inescapable music repeating too many damn times, and the strong and tangled scents of cassis, eucalyptus, white musk, and pine.

Thick blankets of snow keep him from his reprieve on the rooftop, and if it was any other season besides one that compels humans to decorate their homes with garish and gaudy blinking lights, corral them into the streets to sing in groups, he would volunteer to take the next patrol. But it isn’t wholly terrible, though. In the living room he can wait for Barbie to tie up any loose-ends, as she’d called them, with her next-day festival preparation; maybe Nate will help her, and Mason can retreat to the quietest and dimmest corner of the room to look out the window and watch the hidden parts of the forest, untouched by merry well-wishers.

Her voice cuts through his annoyance, happier he knows but unsure how to tell. She sounds like she did the other day as he watched her hang monogrammed stockings over the fireplace, Nate explaining some change, some rise and fall in her sound, more cheerful. When he hears Barbie laugh, the tension in his body fades, and the abrasive reminders of the season taunting his senses fall into the background. Mason sheds his coat, rubbing his hands over his arms to avoid losing too much heat too fast, and follows a conversation to the middle of the room, in front of the couch and on the floor.

Too far to perch on the arm of the velvet armchair, where he’s most comfortable when Barbie is around, he instead sits on the edge of the coffee table, angling away from the herbs and plants invading his senses. Any other time the seemingly innocuous rosemary would have him retreating, but she turns to him. And Barbie is fucking - glowing. Mason blinks, wondering if his retinas are taking longer to heal from the morning’s snow glare than usual. Still glowing with a pink tint to her cheeks, and damnit if that halo around her doesn’t make him think of that angel on top of their second Christmas tree, and damnit that he’s lost the cool edge to his entrance.

“Elf got your tongue, sunshine?” Barbie asks, smoothest he’s ever seen her, at least with a candy cane between her teeth.

In his periphery, Mason spots a small bundle of leaves and the plant is easily identifiable. Cheap, plastic replicas in abundance at the previous night’s party in some sort of garden dome when he’d walked through the park on his route. He swipes a sprig and twirls it, answering, “Wouldn’t mind you catching my ton-”

“Hello, Mason,” Nate sighs, tying what is left of the mistletoe together. “How was your patrol?”

Giggling teenagers and metal scraping at the ice rink and the entire town smells of vanilla, chocolate and sugar, that flashing robotic Santa waving in the air are all enough to keep anything interesting from happening; too chaotic to focus any magic, too much of a headache to get up to any trouble. Mason shrugs, “Same old.”

Settled, finally giving notice to whatever Nate and Barbie are actually doing, Mason juts his chin in the direction of the circles of holly. “You aren’t done decorating this place yet?”

“It’s a Kissing bough,” Barbie explains, rising to her knees to meet Mason. Nate subtly coughs the alternative ‘Christmas bough’, likely as a means to keep the atmosphere light and less hot, less heavy - wholesome! “When you’re under, you give a kiss, and get a reward.” She leans in, one hand on his thigh and he grins, arm slinking around her waist, ready for a knock-her-tights-off kind of kiss. But instead of her mouth, his is met with a waxy, tasteless and not sticky clump of berries. “It’s not up yet, Mason.” Smiling, having amused herself, she sits at the coffee table once more, awaiting Nate’s next instruction.

“You’re welcome to join us, if you would like to thread this wire through the pear.” Nate knows he is pushing Mason’s good will and willingness to participate in any more decorating, yet persists with his inclusion. “This should be our final project.”

“Wait! One more!”

From a flash of purple and a cloud of glitzing gingerbread scents and mirth, attention is captured towards the fir and cedar garlanded mantle in this living room, and standing between a cozy, crackling fire and the main Christmas tree, eight feet all and so elegantly adorned, skirt at the base holding exquisitely wrapped gifts, is Farah Hauville - home from one last visit to the Christmas Tree Lot at the edge of town for the season before taking over agent patrol for the rest of the day - standing atilt, resting an elbow on the top branch of a small, a quite small pine tree.

Amber eyes sparkling with triumph, Farah sweeps her hand out in an arc, resting it on her hip. “Ta da! What do you all think? Natey, Barbie? Mason.”

Not just quite small, the tree is rather sparse. Uneven weight distribution, inconsistent branch thickness and needle distribution - some thick with vibrant needles while others rather pale and almost white, some with just tufts at the end. A lone pinecone sits towards the base, and there may have been a debate if the bird’s nest fell or broke apart.

Nate stands, stepping slowly and surely to the tree, mind whirling as he thinks of how to express his thoughts; keep Farah from being crestfallen, express his gratitude for her enthusiasm, how to hide the tree in plain sight and preferably outside. “Certainly a unique tree,” he manages, “though, I do wonder if it would be better suited in the hallway. Could be set in an urn outside of your bedroom door and we can bedeck after your shift - wrap a strand of fairy lights, drape tinsel, use the rest of the ribbon.”

“Knew you’d say that,” Farah replies, bouncing, “This tree has been in that lot since it opened, and no one has given it a chance! A second look! I know it’s not pretty, it doesn’t match the other trees we brought home. It’s not perfect,” Farah flails her arms, pointing to the three other trees in the room that could have been portraits in a magazine. “But it deserves love, doesn’t it? Like the great philosopher, Linus, said.”

“Linus? I’m not familiar with their work.” Nate pokes at a dull needle with this index finger. “Unless you mean Linus of Thrace, the musician.”

Barbie soon joins, shadowed by Mason, and circles the tree to study it. “‘Charlie Brown Christmas’. Farah and I watched while you read ‘The Gift of the Magi’.”

“You were even playing the song the next day,” Farah remarks, miming him at the piano. He nods in response, fingertips brushing along the edge of a healthier branch. She continues her plea, turning to throw her arms out, wide and dramatic, and quotes, “‘I never thought it was such a bad little tree. It’s not bad at all. Maybe it just needs a little love.’”

“Farah,” Nate rubs the back of his neck, knowing she’d likely practiced her speech during her last few patrols about town. The tree truly does not fit in with the well planned out, specific aesthetic of the room but he is moved by her effort, her passion. “I can promise to find space for it. In here.”

To the great shock of everyone, Mason grabs a smooth, circular red ornament from the main tree, fixes it to a sagging branch on the new addition. He comments before Nate can protest, “I like it. It’s irregular, obviously intended by nature to be so. Has character. Leave it where it is, at least it’ll be something interesting to look at.”

Barbie stops pacing, following Mason’s lead, with a green ornament she hangs on an opposite, slightly lighter branch. Just a little trimming, tinsel and lights and ribbon, and this tree could truly be special. One of a kind. Its own new tradition.

It gives her an idea.

Leaving the others to discuss re-arrangement, Barbie walks back to sit on an empty space of the coffee table to consult the ‘CF’ section of her Filofax. A layout of the main room of the Christmas Fete is centered by a hallway length runner rug with tables at either side for Haley’s hot cocoa and treats station, beginning at an entry arch and a dais at its end. On the side of the page, the cast. Elves - Len’s kid and Douglas, Mrs. Claus - Tina, Santa Claus - Lucas, making his debut.

Lucas, her beloved brother and subject of her final, most important task - confirming his, and Adam’s, flight details and estimated arrival. Barbie checks the time, and tapping her phone screen she notes alerts from his airline. Five minute delay, ten minute delay, confirmation of arrival, a text from him.

Another hour or two from the city, and Barbie and Lucas will be reunited after far too long apart - and she can hardly wait! Smiling to herself, singing to herself that song from their childhood Christmas pageant, Barbie pencils in a small tree in the space between Mrs. and Santa Claus. She calls to the group, asking Farah, “Could you bring this Charlie Brown Tree to the Fete tomorrow? It’s just the right size, wouldn’t be in Lucas and Tina’s way. Added bonus, the people in town seeing what they missed out on, how a little love goes a long way.”

Nate places a hand to his chest, mouthing a ‘thank you’ to Barbie. Farah claps hers in excitement. “It would be an honor! I’m going to get Nate’s decoration box and get this little guy ready for the show! I’ll drop it off at the station.” Taking a hold of the tree at its base, Farah lifts it like a piece of paper and runs off and out of the room. And it is a testament to Nate’s reflexes and agility that he catches the two ornaments shaken off, and returns them to their home.

A ring of Barbie’s phone interrupts the calm in Farah’s wake.

Video call, her mirror image on the screen and Barbie gives her glasses a quick adjustment before swiping her finger across the glass to answer.

“Ho, ho, ho!” A voice bellows, and there is a grinning Lucas, dark brown hair expertly mussed under the brim of his vintage, thrift-shop treasure, red flannel and white wool Santa Hat. “Merry Christmas!”

Barbie waves, laughing, widening the camera view to show off the living room, then back to her. Nate greets Lucas, unsure where to stand and if he can even see him, moves to lean over Barbie’s shoulder where the pocket of his brown leather jacket fills the display. His own cellular phone rings and he excuses himself to answer. Mason shakes his head, and, arms folded, walks to settle on the edge of the couch.

Back to Lucas, and now Barbie spots a twinkling flash against the red of his hat, one more, behind him white snow flurrying and thickening with each passing second. His voice muffled, harsh streaks of wind silencing him, though she can pick up the unmistakable and clear, deep accent of Adam Du Mortain, calm and authoritative.

There is a leaden, sinking feeling in her stomach.

“Snow squall,” she finally hears, and when did Lucas move? Blurred behind the camera lens, he has found shelter inside the doors of the airport. Fellow travelers behind him converge into small groups, collective voices rising in confusion and frustration relaying the news to their loved ones. Airplanes had been taking off and landing, no imminent threat of weather. “Barbie, roads are closed, don’t know when they’ll open. Promise I’ll be home as soon as I can, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to make the Fete tomorrow.”

“Oh. Okay,” she answers, nodding, glancing around the room to find Nate speaking animatedly and Mason watching snow swirling outside. “Just stay safe, Luke, alright? Keep me updated. Is Adam with you?”

“Ordering the weather to behave,” he chuckles, attempting to keep her spirits from crashing. “Look, Barbie, I’m sorry.”

Trying to formulate a plan, alternatives and logistics, how to inform Tina, Barbie doesn’t respond until she hears her name again. She shakes her head, “It’s alright. Take your time. We will figure this out. Don’t do anything hasty or dangerous, you need to come home in one piece.” Barbie looks at the screen again, zoom tighter on Lucas, notices the same plush red and fluffy white at his shoulders. “Are you wearing your Santa costume?”

“If you’re going to travel for the holidays, you’ve got to travel in style and make a big entrance. Besides, someone has to spread holiday cheer amongst the masses.”

“Keep them distracted and don’t have too much fun. Again, stay safe. I’ll talk to you soon.”

As she ends the call, Barbie consults her Filofax, searching for an answer. Surely, she wrote up a back-up plan for Santa, Mrs. Claus, and the Elves, and she did but Sung committed to the community Christmas Feast. She turns to a blank page, scribbles thoughts - Surely, Adam will take care of Lucas. Surely, Mrs. Claus could take the place of her husband, saying he needs a head start on his journey, the children could video-chat with him.

“Barbie,” Nate’s voice is as understanding and gentle as his gait, taking a seat next to her, patting her back with a touch so light it does not register. He finds Mason, raising his brows and tilting his head and in seconds, Mason stands before them. “I spoke with Adam. Unexpected change of weather a few miles northwest of the city, might be due to magic gone awry, and does not appear to be malicious. Unit Golf has been dispatched to secure the situation, and Adam will be working with them. Bravo is on standby, but he feels this should be contained without our intervention.”

Mason shrugs, Barbie is still writing in her organizer.

Turning towards her, Nate’s smile is encouraging, “Now, you are in need of a Saint Nicholas for your Christmas Fete tomorrow. Do you have Lucas’ costume? He and I are of similar build and height, and I would be glad to stand in for him.”

Barbie, facial muscles finally moving and her mouth falling into an unintentionally pretty pout, unlocks her phone, finds her text messages, and brings up a picture to show him, then Mason. Lucas, mid-laugh, Santa hat flopping to the side, Santa jacket open with a white shirt underneath, Santa trousers on underneath, standing with a not so stiff shouldered, slightly amused Adam in the midst of white and colored glistering lights. “Spreading so much cheer that he performed a holiday miracle, making Adam smile.”

Mason, concerned with the pallor of her skin and the dullness in her eyes, crouches down and pats his pockets, where his now banished cigarettes were once stored - to prevent a fire hazard in this room of shimmering, glimmering potential kindling - pulls out a package, a monstrosity, a little cake shaped like an evergreen tree, an emergency treat purchased at the convenience store. Smushed, and he decides there is no way he will let her raise her blood sugar with something that tastes like plastic. “Eat something if you’re going into figuring-out mode. Maybe not this, I’ll get you something that doesn’t look like reindeer vomit.”

Nate, rubbing his bottom lip with this thumb, remembers the prior year’s Christmas celebrations. A truly magical time in this already magical town, every year healing from the tragedies at the start of their permanent tenure. He recalls a certain gentleman, an embodiment of the legend and a hero to each child, reading their name from a scroll and making them believe to be the most special. “Mr. Rockwell. He was treasured, and enjoyed the role.”

“Retired. Out of town to visit his new grandchild.” Barbie taps her pencil against the cover of her Filofax. Nate’s mention of the Santa Claus of the past decade, of his generosity and love, his joy infectious, reminds her of a conversation - between Mr. Rockwell and his wife, Lucas and Tina, and her. A transition of tradition.

“Wait.” Her eyes open wide, sparkling once more with another idea. “We are brilliant! Mr. Rockwell left us his suit, even though it was too short for Lucas, something about keeping the Christmas spirit. It should still be at the station, I’ll call Tina to confirm.”

Once more in the middle of this living room, Mason returns to see two faces look at him expectantly, and though there is some he does not understand, he understands the faces of two schemers. Especially one who has talked him into decorating more than he ever thought he would in eternity, and one he would do just about any damn thing for. He shoves the cookie, on a napkin to avoid another lecture by Nate, towards Barbie. “Eat this. And what do you both want?”

“Tina said the Santa costume is at the station, and she’s running a lint roller over it to get rid of any dust. You’re about Mr. Rockwell’s height -”

“No.”

Nate makes a second attempt, honeyed words pleading, “for no more than two hours. It would mean so much to this town that has become our home. It would mean -”

“I’m not dealing with any little brat screaming in my ears about some presents.”

“It would mean a lot to me,” Barbie finishes for Nate, flatly. “We will keep the kids calm, Nate and Farah will entertain them. Tina will talk to them, and you can just check their names against a roster and repeat their wish. Then take a picture with them.”

“Nope. Besides, we’re supposed to be in the shadows.”

Nate nods, acknowledging that Mason is correct. The accessories, such as the full, white beard, may be uncomfortable for him, as well as the inevitable sounds which come with the excitement of children. It may not be such a fair ask, and there may be some other possibilities. “Babs, there may be some adjustments I can have made to the suit, to accompany the length of my arms and legs. The tailor in town, I am sure, is quite busy. I can, however, make a request with ours at the Agency.”

An attempt to speak comes out as a squeak, and Barbie throws her arms around Nate’s shoulders in a hug. “Thank you, Nate. Really. We should go now, and get to your tailor as soon as possible.”

Mason, silver eyes sharp and observant, regards Barbie and he guesses she’s relieved, with the sharp exhale of breath, taking a bite of the cookie and writing down some last notes. There is an errant thump in his chest, and he rubs his palm against it. Then regards Nate, also exhaling a breath, longer, and his hands slide into his pockets, their refuge.

And damnit, her smile is making his jaw tingle, and he stretches it to alleviate that sensation. Damnit, she is so fucking beautiful like this, merry and jovial. And, groaning, Mason drags his hand down his face, wrapping his fingers behind his neck.

He thinks he might regret this for eternity, but then figures that being able to do what Nate is doing, make her glow like that again, so ecstatic? Maybe that’ll make an afternoon of misery worth everything.

“Wait,” he reaches, finding Barbie’s hand, and pulls them both up. “You just have to promise to stay near me, alright, sweetheart?”

Barbie’s mouth falls open, and she truly is stunned, frozen in place as she processes his answer. She then grins, thanking him with a kiss to his cheek. “You got it, Santa.”

In the midst of hazing lights, luminous trees and the rising dawn of the Eve, there is a stir. In this living room, under a bough and honoring the custom of the mistletoe, a couple hushes each other between deep kisses and berry extraction. His senses are heightened once more, and he grumbles an announcement of visitors. She spies past the door and wishes, one small wish, that he will appear.

And to her delight, they are not just any visitors.

The commanding agent will claim this a completed, successful mission, but with a hearty and robust, “Merry Christmal to all!”, Lucas will say that with a little magic, he fulfilled his Christmas promise.

fin.

#the wayhaven chronicles #twc fanfic #wayhavensecretsanta #nate sewell #twc mason #mar writes twc

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jedijesi · 11 months

Text

Caught In the Cat's Web Chapter 6

Miguel O'Hara x Felicia Hardy!Reader

Previous Chapter 🕸️ Series Masterlist

Warnings: Violence, Fluff, Smutty, she/her pronouns

Word Count: 5k+

Summary: Felicia and Miguel go undercover at the Mafia's gala to retrieve the Green Goblin's mask.

Co-Author: @stclairesplace

A/N: THIS IS MY FAVORITE CHAPTER SO FAR!

Nueva York, Earth-838

Felicia woke up the next morning with a throbbing headache. The dull pain throbbed behind her eyes as she blinked and tried to regain her bearings.

"Good morning, sleepy head," a voice, soft yet unexpected, startled the poor woman. Felicia's eyes darted toward the source, and there stood LYLA with a mischievous smirk on her digital face.

"Fuck! How long have you been here?" Felicia asked, her heartbeat still racing from the sudden surprise.

"Miguel asked me to watch over you. Your vitals are great, no concussion, thankfully. You're just gonna be sore." Lyla's figure flickered as she glitched around Felicia, her artificial eyes inspecting her wounds with a concerned gaze.

“O-Oh.” Felicia looked around the room, remembering how the night ended yesterday. “Is Miguel here?”

“On his way back, actually. Want me to alert him?”

Felicia shook her head, her hand instinctively moving to her temple, massaging the throbbing headache that seemed to intensify with each movement. She winced, trying to fight off the persistent discomfort before speaking. "No, no, that's alright," she murmured. "I should sneak out."

“Sneak out?” Miguel questioned as he opened the door. “That's not very polite.”

“You eavesdrop, now?”

Miguel rolls his eyes, “Super hearing plus thin walls makes it easy to hear your loud ass voice.” He says as he strides over to the side of the bed. “Here.” He says’ holding out a cup for Felicia.

“What's this?” She hesitantly takes the drink.

“You always get an iced latte with oat milk” He shrugs.

“What did you do to it?” She asks, taking off the lid and giving it a sniff.

“Be grateful, you brat.” Miguel crosses his arms. Felicia smirks at the remark, she slowly takes a careful sip, humming at how the flavor runs down her throat. Miguel sits on the bed next, facing Felicia. “May I?” He gestures to the bandages.

Felicia nods, watching Miguel as he slowly and meticulously removes her bandages. He reaches to the bedside table where he left an extra towel from last night, using it to wipe the leftover healing gel from Felicia’s skin.

“How’s it looking, doc?”

“No more gashes, just faint scratches your makeup can easily cover,” Miguel says as his thumb slowly runs over each faint cut.

“My hero.” Felica purrs teasingly but stops in her tracks as Miguel’s thumb runs along the cut below her bottom lip.

Felicia’s trance is broken as Miguel stands from the bed. “LYLA’s making the final adjustments on your suit to make it withstand more power, so it should be ready before we go to work today.” He says as he walks out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, Felicia following.

“Well in that case I can’t wait. Not to say that this very oversized t-shirt and boxer shorts aren’t the look.” She teases.

Miguel looks at her with a dark look on his face, a slight smile forms from her witty response as he walks down the stairs towards the kitchen.

Felicia sits down at the kitchen counter on the barstool, Miguel across from her leaning over the counter so he stands at her level. Her body language changes drastically from sass to insecurity, her hands tentatively holding onto her coffee cup.

She decides to be the first one to talk. “Look um- about last night-”

“Felicia…” Miguel cuts her off. His hands on the counter slowly move closer to hers the more they speak. “I know I don’t seem like the most approachable in these kinds of things, but um- you can always come to me. I don't want you to feel like you can't call for backup or that you're alone.”

Felicia nods to him in gratitude. She had never noticed it before, the way his eyes looked right now. Who would’ve thought that the always cold, warning glare could become so soft, so fast? They got so caught up just staring at each other that they almost didn’t hear LYLA greet them.

“Ahem!” LYLA clears her throat. “Are you two going to stare at each other like lost puppies still or can I finally say my piece?”

“What is it LYLA?” Miguel asks begrudgingly.

“We just got an alert from the vault. There was a pretty nasty fight with the an unidentified subject last night. Looks like they stole the Green goblins mask from the vault and left the universe, Miguel.”

Miguel now stands up straight, face etched with concern about the high price of tech being stolen, especially in the wrong hands. “Were you able to track them down? Get a precise location?”

“Was I able to track them down, of course I was! Why else would I be here?” She asks mockingly. “It looks like there’s going to be an auction tonight in Earth- 1048 at 9. If my calcs are correct they’ll try to sell that thing for cuckoo bucks to the local gangs and VIPs such as Hammerhead and Kingpin.”

“Okay so we go in stealthy, get the mask, get out. Simple Tuesday afternoon.”

“Sorry Mig, but not so easy this time.”

“Great.” He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. ”Why’s that Lyla?”

“Not only is it an auction, but looks like there's going to be their annual gala beforehand. And unfortunately, the place is well locked up and guarded with all the VIP, so you’re gonna have to go to the gala, Miguel.” LYLA says with a smirk.

“Alright then undercover it is. Alert Jessica to get ready.”

“She's taking the weekend off with her fiance, remember?”

Miguel frowns. “I can just do it alone then.” LYLA shakes her head no. Miguel lets out a heavy sigh as LYLA glitches to Felicia, making large gestures to her.

“Don’t worry big boy you had me at valuable. I’d love to come with and browse.” Felicia rises from her chair, scantily walking over to where Miguel and LYLA stand.

“No. I don't think so.” Miguel scoffs.

Felicia rolls her eyes, “You remember I used to do this like every weekend for fun, right? If anything I’m more qualified than you.”

Miguel hates how right she is. “Felicia, are you sure you’re even feeling up to this?” He questions her.

Felicia nods. “I miss this stuff, plus I could use a distraction anyway.”

Taking a moment to pace the kitchen, Miguel hesitantly agrees. “Alright then. We’ll meet in the conference room later, form a plan, and get dressed for the part.”

LYLA starts jumping excitedly, “Oooohhhh I can’t wait to start working on your aliases!”

After Felicia puts on some more presentable clothes, she and Miguel call a meeting in the conference room to inform Miguel’s group of highly-ranked Spider-People. Miguel and Felicia stand at the front of the room, watching as decorated members swing in, filling up the room.

Miguel clears his throat before grabbing the attention of the Spider-People. “We summoned you here today because there was a break-in at the Vault late last night.” A series of whispers ensues as Spider-People panic, trying to understand what's going on. “Enough!” Miguel bangs his fist on the table to bring the commotion to a standstill. “When Jessica Drew gets back from her leave, the two of us and LYLA will conduct an investigation. For now, the Vault tower is off limits, understand?” Heads nod in response to Miguel’s demands.

LYLA appears in the middle of the table to take over. “Tonight is a Gala for some of the largest crime families and VIPs. That's where the wings are. All of you are to be on stand-by while Miguel and Felicia infiltrate-”

“Felicia? Felicia Hardy?” A Spider-Man stands up, scoffing. “Come on! We all know the infamous Black Cat, if you wanna launch an investigation, start with her.” Felicia feels her blood boil, trying her best to contain herself. “She's probably using us all to get her dirty paws all over the Vault.”

“Don’t you accuse me! I’m innocent!” Felicia leans over the long table, pointing her finger at the smug spider.

“Why don’t you just settle down there, son, and let them speak, alright?” Web-Slinger speaks up, trying to get the heat off of Felicia.

The Spider-man rolls his eyes, “Yeah? Where’s your suit? You ditch it after the security cameras saw you in it? Wearing that trashbag isn't gonna make you innocent.” He gestures to the large black hoodie Miguel gave Felicia.

“Felicia Hardy has nothing to do with this!” Miguel snaps, his booming voice startling the crowd of heroes. “You have no right to know the details of her whereabouts last night, I personally, oversaw her mission and her locations. If I hear someone accuse the Night Spider or judge her based on her variants, we will be having a one-on-one talk, understood?.” The heads of each Spider-Person in the room nod, feeling the intensity of Miguel’s statement. Felicia on the other hand, stood there in surprise, studying the stern look on Miguel’s face. “Felicia and I will be heading out tonight. LYLA, fill them in on the rest, we're done.” Miguel grabs Felicia by the hand, dragging her out of the meeting.

“Miguel?” Felicia tries to gain the hysteric man’s attention as he storms down the hall, with her in hand.

Once the two enter the elevator, Miguel turns to Felicia with regretful eyes. “I’m sorry that Spider-Man accused you.”

Felicia shrugs. “I've been accused of a lot worse. Are you alright, though?”

Miguel nods. “Yeah, it's just that… I know you've been through a lot within the past 12 hours and I really didn't want to make things worse. You didn’t deserve that.”

The elevator doors ding open, prompting the two to walk out and down the hall to Miguel’s Penthouse. “Is it alright if I shower? Maybe get some makeup for these cuts?”

“Of course, mí casa es tú casa.” Miguel nods. “I’ll have LYLA deliver your outfit and supplies to your room for when you're done.

LYLA had completed all the planning for the heist, the only left to be done was dressing the part. Out of everything, getting dressed was apparently, the most difficult part for Miguel.

“Just flip this piece over there and then this moves under here. And then tha- Miguel, no! Now you have to start over!” LYLA yells frustratingly at Miguel trying to help him tie his tie to his suit.

“LYLA it’s been a while for me just calm down for a second! I can’t concentrate on all this yelling!” Miguel fires back at her.

“What’s with all the commotion out here?” Felicia’s voice comes from the hallway.

It isn’t until she steps out from under the shadows that her full profile is on display, and it’s one that Miguel knows he will never forget. She wore a tight black dress that hugged her curves perfectly with two leg slits that showed off her legs. Her face was made up with smoky eyes and light makeup to cover the bruises and cuts. While her platinum hair was let down resting over her shoulder and perfectly framing her face. When Miguel saw her, he felt his heart skip a beat and neither he nor LYLA could peel their eyes off of her as she sauntered to them.

“Is that what you call a tie?” She gestures with a giggle to the monstrosity of a knot that gathers around Miguel’s neck. “I’ll help you. Stand still.” Felicia rocked onto her tip-toes to fix Miguel’s tie for him, his eyes never once looking away. Once she was finished she patted it successfully, cheering “All done! Oh by the way I thought these might help with the whole disguise, Mr. Kent.” She says handing him a pair of simple black-rimmed glasses.

“Thank you,” Miguel mumbled to her quietly, still half flustered with her face being so close to his.

“Mhm. Are we ready to go?” Felicia asks cheerfully, impatient to take her mind off of the chaos from this past week.

“Yes, mhmm all ready.” Miguel stutters out. He opens up the portal quickly. Before stepping through after Felicia goes first LYLA sends him off with a not-so-subtle wink and points to Felicia’s outfit. Miguel lowers his head in an attempt to hide his smirk, not wanting Felicia to catch on.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

New York, Earth-1048

The portal opened up in a dimly lit alley just outside the grand building. The echoes of lively music and joyous laughter reached Felicia and Miguel's ears, promising an evening of revelry and luxury inside.

"Madam," Miguel said with a chivalrous flourish, holding his arm out for Felicia to take. His eyes sparkled with a mischievous twinkle, knowing that their mission demanded a bit of theatrics.

"Why, thank you, sir," Felicia purred with a playful smile, slipping her arm through his. Together, they stepped out of the shadows and into the opulent world beyond, bathed in the radiant glow of the gala's lights.

As they entered, the grandeur of the interior overwhelmed them. The intricate marble architecture reached up to the heavens, seemingly daring the stars themselves to shine brighter. Towers of crystal-clear champagne glasses sparkled like liquid diamonds, and candle-lit chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting a warm, enchanting glow over the opulent guests.

The scene before them was a living tableau of wealth and elegance. They couldn’t help but take a moment to admire the intricate marble architecture, towers of champagne, and candle-lit chandeliers. Guests adorned in gowns and tuxedos, with jewels that gleamed like captured stardust, mingled and danced. Each conversation, a whispered secret in the language of the elite. Each step, a waltz through a world of privilege.

Felicia and Miguel stood for a moment, awestruck by the sheer opulence around them. They had infiltrated the heart of affluence, a world of wealth and excess that seemed worlds away from their usual reality. With determination in their hearts and masks of sophistication in place, they prepared to navigate this glittering labyrinth, where secrets and intrigue hid beneath a facade of glamour.

Felicia wanted nothing more than to forget about the green goblin’s helmet and mingle with the mafia wives wearing the biggest stones she’d seen for wedding rings. Instead, she cursed to herself, trying to comprehend why doing the “right thing” was more important.

“Down, Gatita,” Miguel muttered to Felicia, bumping her side with his elbow to take her out of her trance. “I see you eye-fucking those stones.” Felicia sighed, forcing herself to look away, despite them practically screaming her name.

The two strut through the gala, offering a series of fake smiles to passing guests. As the waiter waltzs by with a tray of tall champagne glasses, Felicia snags two for her and Miguel, helping them pass as the average party-goer.

The music from the jazz band stops as the announcer takes the stage. “Thank you, everyone, for attending, the auction will start in twenty minutes.” He informs the crowd before the band continues once again.

“Come on,” Felicia says, leading Miguel to one of the marble columns at the edge of the crowded grand hall.

“What are we doing here?” He asks.

“Scoping out the situation.” She says, taking a sip of her champagne. “What do you see?”

Miguel studies the crowd for a moment as Felicia leans against the column carelessly. “A bunch of rich fucks.” He shrugs.

Felicia shakes her head in disappointment, swallowing what's left of the champagne in her mouth. “How are you the leader of the Spider Society?” She whispers. “I had a feeling this was your first time, though. Come here.” She wiggles her finger in a come-hither motion, prompting the gigantic man to bend down. Felicia fixes Miguel’s hair, running her fingers through it before subtly pressing a button on the temple tips of the black glasses. Suddenly, Miguel’s world is illuminated with information as the locations of cameras, guards, guns, and the layout of the room are on full display.

“Holy shit,” Miguel mumbles, blinking his eyes as they adjust to the new scenery. “Do you have a pair?”

Felicia shakes her head as she studies the crowd. “In my goggles, but after a while you start noticing this stuff without them.” She states. “You know the drill.”

The two wait for the twenty minutes to pass, studying their environment and listening to the band. “Wanna dance?” Felicia nods to the group of couples in front of the stage slow dancing.

Miguel scolds Felicia. “No.”

“You're no fun.” She huffs, crossing her arms and taking another drink from the waiter passing by.

The song finishes, leaving Felicia as bored as ever until a sultry melody fills the air of the dazzling ballroom. The soft strains of Feeling Good by Nina Simone reverberated through the space, capturing the attention of everyone in the room. As if drawn by an invisible force, Felicia hands Miguel her glass before finding herself stepping onto the dance floor, her body moving instinctively to the rhythm. As she swayed and twirled, her movements exuded a sensuality that seemed to captivate those around her. A sultry smile graced her lips as she explored her own body with gentle caresses, lost in the music and the euphoria it brought. Amongst the crowd, Miguel leaned casually against a column, his gaze fixed solely on Felicia.

Just as Felicia was caught up in her own world, a stranger from the audience approached her. With confident steps, he joined her on the dance floor, their bodies intertwining like a passionate tango. Though initially intrigued, Miguel's smile gradually faded into a look of discomfort as he watched the other man touch Felicia during their waltz. Miguel still admires the way she is dancing, but a small part of him wishes that he was the one she was dancing with.

As the song reached its crescendo, the final notes hung in the air before fading away, leaving behind a silence in the crowd. Breaking free from the embrace of the stranger, Felicia graciously thanked him for the dance as he kissed the back of her hand. With a glimmering smile, Felicia made her way back to Miguel's side. Her eyes still sparkling from the excitement, as it had been so long since she had gone to a gala or danced.

Once the announcer takes the stage, Felicia finishes her glass, trading with Miguel for his full glass and walking off. Miguel walks in the opposite direction to the champagne tower located adjacent to the stage. He places the empty drink down, before focusing on Felicia’s location, highlighted in his new glasses. Through the crowd, he watches as she places thumb-tac-sized devices around the room.

After a few minutes, Felicia gives Miguel the signal, as she finishes, prompting him to slowly move towards the room behind the stage where the valuables were kept.

“For our third item of the night, we have Green Goblin’s mask. It's said to have information and recordings of Spiderman, and other super-powered individuals.” The audience oos and aws over the mask, intrigued by all that it holds. “We will be starting the bidding at 3.5 million.” Paddles begin to rise rapidly as the attendees excitedly bid for the one-of-a-kind piece. After a few minutes of bidding, the clack of the gavel on wood echoes through the hall. “Sold for 15.7 million dollars!”

Miguel tried his best to hide his disgust, but it became difficult as the room of greedy idiots cheered. Finally, a staff member carefully whisks the mask away to the back, prompting Felicia to set off her EMPs and disrupters. Like an earthquake, the building rumbles, creating a series of cracks through the marble infrastructure. Panic radiates through party-goers as Felicia chugs the rest of her drink before blending in with the mayhem.

While chaos ensues, Miguel slips into the back but is immediately met with six large men, guarding the jewels and valuables of the auction. Not wanting the word to get out of a Spider-man, Miguel doesn't transform into his suit, instead, he cocks his arms, taking a swing at the first man. The others pull out their weapons but are too late as Miguel throws a smoke bomb into the middle, disorienting the men, and hindering their vision. Not wanting to accidentally shoot each other, they don't fire their weapons. However, this gives Miguel the advantage as he solely relies on his spider-sense to locate each man. It doesn't take more than two minutes for Miguel to sneak up on each guard, choking them out, stabbing them with his claws, using their weapon against them, or using his poisonous bite.

As the smoke clears, the only life left in the room is Miguel. Unfortunately, his suit jacket had been ripped during his maneuvering, forcing him to leave it behind in order to not be suspected of the crime. Hastily, he grabs the Green Goblin mask from its podium, before dashing out of the side doors.

As Miguel emerges, he finds Felicia waiting for him along with a pile of bloody bodies at her heels. “Finally!” She groans. With the mask in hand, the two sprint to the elevators at the end of the hall. “What took you so damn long?”

“Long?” Miguel questions, baffled by her question. “There were six guards, I took them out quickly!”

“I still don't understand why you were so adamant about being the one to get the mask. I could have done all of it without you in half the time!”

“Take this.” Miguel ignores Felicia, handing her the mask.

“What why?”

“I don't have anywhere to hide it, I trust you more with it.”

Miguel rolls the sleeves of his white button up to his forearms as Felicia presses the elevator button. Once the golden doors open, the two quickly rush inside, pressing the rooftop button, 70 floors up. As soon as the doors shut, they let out the heavy breaths they seemed to be holding, getting a hold of their bearing now that they were in the clear.

“Well I guess that could’ve gone worse”, Miguel says.

“Right, yeah, definitely.” Felcica breathes out, resting her elbow on the bar, and leaning back to calm down.

Miguel leans on the elevator wall adjacent to her. “You still have the mask, right?” He asks, paranoid.

Felicia rolls her eyes in disgust, raising it as proof. “Do you have no faith in me? Of course! You think I would be able to lose something this valuable?” She fires back with a smirk.

The elevator begins to slow down, signifying the next floor is approaching, only it isn't their floor. Simultaneously, a chill goes down Felicia and Miguel’s spine as their senses tingle, prompting their heads to whip around, looking at each other.

“Feel that?” Miguel asks.

“I feel it.” Felicia nods as Miguel searches the elevator for any kind of assistance.

“We need a distra-” Miguels stops in thought, and moves closer to where Felicia stands in the corner of the elevator, his body now completely covering her and the mask she holds. “Kiss me” He rushes as the elevator dings, signalling the new floor.

Without hesitation, Felicia’s free hand wrapped around Miguel’s tie, tugging his head down to hers. Their lips press together, trapping them in a fiery kiss. The handful of henchmen who entered the elevator, averted their eyes from the passionate scene, far too uncomfortable to watch. Miguel’s hands firmly wrapped around her waist, while one of Felicia’s hands secretly held the mask against his chest. Her free hand, tugged his hair, pulling a low moan from his throat.

Eleven floors later, the elevator slowed the pace again to let the group practically run out to leave the two alone again. Miguel and Felicia are barely aware of their absence as their lips mod together, tongues fighting for dominance. Her hand moves around his neck and hairline, occasionally grabbing a lock of his hair, making him groan again, addicted to the sound. Meanwhile, his hands were sliding everywhere desperately exploring Felicia’s body. His strong, calloused hands ran along her waist and up to the pit of her back, where he could feel her strapless bra through her thin dress. Without warning, Miguel scoops her up, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist for support. He pins her against the wall of the elevator, their bodies pressed together as they continue to kiss and pant heavily. Miguel separates only long enough to start pressing hot, wet kisses down the side of her neck. Felicia panting heavily above him, the feeling of his fangs teasing her neck, driving her wild. His head moves back up to kiss her on her jaw, her chin, and then her lips. Before their lips could reunite the elevator bell dings, announcing they’re arrival on the roof.

The bell snaps the two out of their trance, both baffled by the moment. Miguel lowers Felicia to her feet before turning to fix his tie and run his finger through his hair to compose himself. Meanwhile, Felicia stands behind the man, catching her breath and adjusting her dress quickly before exiting the elevator in complete silence. Miguel walks the barren rooftop, making sure no one is around before making a portal with his watch back to Headquarters.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nueva York, Earth-838

After emerging from the portal and back into headquarters, they act and look as if nothing ever happened. Their minds play tug of war, one side vowing to never do such a thing again while desperately wanting to recreate the moment.

In silence, the two rush to the vault where a team of Spider-People and LYLA waits. Felicia hands them the mask before taking a step back, letting Miguel handle the rest, unable to think with her mind clouded.

After, Miguel and Felicia make it back to his apartment. She wasn't sure whether she should stay or leave, but after a moment, she ultimately decided to stay as leaving could make things worse. As soon as they walk in the door they walk their separate ways. Miguel retires in his room while Felicia bolts for hers. She walks into the attached bathroom and splashes cold water on her face in an attempt to wash her thoughts away. This doesn't work though, leaving her to focus on her reflection as she thinks to herself.

What the hell is happening right now?

She’s unable to stop thinking about how amazing his lips and hands felt on her body. How she wanted- no, needed to feel it again.

I need to talk to Miguel about this, right? Felicia sighs, letting her head drop in shame. I’m gonna look like such a fool.

Felicia makes her way to the bedroom door, taking a deep breath before pressing the button to slide it open. She jumps, as she is met with Miguel’s chest. With nobody able to speak, they simply look into each other’s eyes until she sees the way his eyes shift, just like they did in the elevator.

Not a word had to be uttered before the two crashed their lips into each other once again. Miguel taps her on the leg signaling her to jump up, her legs to wrapping around his waist as he starts to make his way inside the room to the bed. Their lips remain interlocked as he lowers her on the bed. They part for a moment to breathe, causing Felicia to smirk as she sees the way his eyes look at her like she’s his prey. His body hovers over hers as they continue to lock lips once more. Her nails slid along his back, as his knee rubbed against her between her thighs, causing her to gasp at the sensation. Before things could go any further, Felicia lets out a light wince, causing Miguel to pull back immediately, concern written all over his face.

“What’s wrong, gatitia?” He rubs her thighs in soothing, circular motions.

“Oh no- nothing, just rubbed a sore bruise from the other night or something that’s all. I guess it still hurts.” She smiles sheepishly.

Miguel mutters out a soft, “I’m sorry”, taking his hand and gently raising her dress to reveal her aching side before delicately caressing the spot.

“It’s ok, you didn’t mean to.” She smiles softly, causing Miguel to reciprocate as he leans back down. Before their lips could meet again, a knock sounded at the door.

“Fuck.” Miguel groans with annoyance. “One moment!” He yells as he reluctantly stands up to answer, leaving Felicia to hastily fix her dress before following him down the stairs.

He opens the door revealing Webslinger with a lopsided grin. “Hey partner how’d the mission go?” He peeks inside to see Felicia standing by the end of the couch in her breathtaking dress, tilting his hat in greeting pairing it with a smirk.

“It went just fine, thanks for asking.” Miguel says, lacking emotion.

“Yeah, anything I need to take care of down at the vault for ya, boss? Put your mind at ease?”

“No thank you, it's all been taken care of. For future reference, you might wanna chat with LYLA about stuff. We’ll cover everything in the meeting tomorrow morning, alright.” He said before pressing the button to slide the door shut before Web-Slinger could utter a sound.

He turns back to Felicia, who has a small, shy smile on her face, her hand fingers with the ring she wore. “I’m probably gonna turn in for tonight, what with today’s events and all.”

Miguel hesitates to respond, wanting to ask her about everything. “Yeah, right, that’s good I’ll- I’ll probably turn in too. Get some rest.” He forces a small, pathetic, shy grin.

“You too,” she replies reciprocating the awkward smile, before finally turning away and retiring back to her room.

Miguel found himself standing in the middle of the living room alone, bathing in the serene, nocturnal glow from the wall-length windows. He wasn't sure how long he stood there, quietly reflecting, but it was long enough to realize he had no regrets.

Chapter 7

A/N: lmk if u wanna be added to the series masterlist!

Taglist: @leahnicole1219 @oscarissac2099

#jedi jesi #miguel ohara fanfiction #miguel o’hara x reader #stclairesplace #felicia hardy #miguel ohara x female reader #miguel o’hara x felicia hardy #miguel o’hara x felicia hardy reader #miguel x reader #spider-man x black cat #spider man x felicia hardy #spider man x reader #miguel o’hara smut #miguel ohara x reader #spider-man smut

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singaroundelay · 9 days

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FIC: Wake Me Up When September Ends

Hey. Hey look who is coming back with fic! Dunno if it's a change of headspace or the fact that September 13th was on a friday, but I come bearing gifts in the form of angst (with a happy ending). For those of you waiting for an update on The End is Only the Beginning — I'm happy to say there's a good 5k of angst and arguments and smut coming to an AO3 near you.

But first. Angst. (And it's all the more heartbreaking if you listen to the song whilst you read)

TITLE: Wake Me Up When September Ends PAIRING: Trent Crimm/Ted Lasso RATING: teen SUMMARY: Friday, September 13th.

Trent doesn't know the day holds so much meaning for Ted — and it takes a Green Day song on repeat for them to finally talk about it. EXCERPT: Odd, Ted isn’t on the pitch.

Strange. He should be there.

The two men left their flat together (as usual), grabbed a coffee and a tea, respectively including one muttered comment about pigeon sweat in a paper cup, from Mooca (like always) and walked into Nelson Road together (just like every other morning). If anything was out of the ordinary that morning it was Ted making an offhand remark about Friday the 13th being the perfect day for a horror marathon. (Since when did Ted like horror, their usual film marathons that got ignored a third of the way into the first movie in favour of a makeout session with wandering hands were usually rom-coms.) After a non-committal hum from Trent, the blip on the proverbial radar went away as they resumed their morning routine — dodging Colin's abominable driving skills and ending with a parting kiss as Ted headed up for biscuits with the boss and Trent padded towards his office where, again, he’d try to bar Ernie from the press room.

Six months of trying (and failing) but damn it — one day he’ll be successful and god if he can’t wait to rip up the man’s press credentials right in front of his weasel-like face and enjoy watching him be escorted from the premises.

Continue Reading: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58926268

#!myfic #ted lasso #trent crimm #tedependent #tedtrent #ted/trent #trent/ted #ted lasso/trent crimm #trent crimm/ted lasso #trent crimm gay icon #ted lasso fic #angsty fluff #queen of angst #bisexual disaster ted lasso #gay disaster trent crimm #TW: parental death

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buthowboutno · 2 years

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totally not late 15k hits post

hmm? what’s that? we hit 15k hits on ATWLP?? like, yesterday, right? mhmm? yes?

We’re just gonna totally gloss over how I’ve left y’all on a cliffhanger for the past two weeks but uhhh HERE’S SOME CONTENT PSPSPS I PROMISE THE NEXT CHAPTER IS COMING OUT AS SOON AS POSSIBLE (my gf was visiting, i was too busy fawning over her to type xoxo.)

I would just like to say again that my readers are so fucking insane and talented and you guys have really been SUCH a huge support for every step of the way. It only took like three chapters to gain 5k hits!!! That’s absolutely /wild/.

So anyways, to the stinkies that have been here since the beginning and the ones that have joined us recently, i love y’all so so much and here’s to the second half of this truly monstrous fic.

Beneath the cut: Donnie’s POV from the end of Chapter 15.

QuarkedUp: not dogging on the newbies but she may or may not have caused us to have to redo our entire experiment

BootyShaker9000: You? Not being outright facetious to someone?

BootyShaker9000: Who are you and what have you done with the short nerd?

BootyShaker9000: Follow up question, will you keep them forever?

QuarkedUp: I hate you

Donnie snorted at your text as it popped up on the screen. He caught May smirking at him through the corner of his eye while he typed a response.

“What, am I not entertaining enough company?” she asked, taking a sip of her cocoa and keeping eye contact with Donnie over the rim of her mug. May had pointedly left the matching set alone for you and Donnie.

Donnie had appreciated that with words he couldn’t begin to form yet.

“I fear there’s no way to answer this without getting on someone’s bad side,” Donnie said.

May snorted, setting her mug down and reaching for the tupperware Donnie had brought over. Mikey had made more lavender sugar cookies that he insisted that Donnie take over to you that night, nevermind the fact that you were coming over later tomorrow.

Donnie might have… left out that detail when Mikey had asked him.

“Ah, well, don’t let me get in between you and your partner,” May teased. She bit into a cookie and hummed appreciatively.

Donnie’s cheeks felt warm as he began typing again. He would never get used to May calling you his partner. Between her and Splinter, Donnie’s mind had been rife with intrusive thoughts about you.

Thoughts about grabbing your hand with his when you placed it on his knee, about sticking his face in his hoodies when you finally returned them.

Thoughts about…

Nope! Lock it down, Donatello.

BootyShaker9000: You do not.

BootyShaker9000: Would you like me to make you something to drink?

QuarkedUp: oh yes pl

BootyShaker9000: Have we reached the point in society where we just aren’t finishing words anymore?

BootyShaker9000: May and I just finished off the last of the hot cocoa, but I can make you a green tea?

Donnie got up from his beanbag and walked over to the little area where the kettle was set up, flicking it on and searching through the little drawers for the tea you liked.

“I’m so glad the two of you use the mugs I bought,” May said as Donnie pulled out the matching pair to his mug. Donnie gave May a soft smile before turning back around to retrieve the honey.

“We use them every time I come over. I think their excessive abuse of caffeine is the last thing keeping your roomie tethered to reality, if I’m being honest,” Donnie said. Not that he, admittedly, was much better. You had forced him to start limiting his Redbull intake to just two cans a day if you couldn’t have your third or fourth cup of coffee.

‘Turnabout’s fair play,’ as you had told him.

‘I’m an engineered weapon of war,’ Donnie said back, ‘I can handle a little caffeine.’

How rude of you to care about his well-being.

May cackled, reaching into the tupperware for another cookie, “That’s what they get for being an engineer. Us art majors just go insane in the poetic way.”

Donnie huffed a laugh through his nose, “How very Plath of you.”

“I think that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me,” May said. Donnie walked back over to retrieve his mug and took a long sip while he opened up his chat with you.

No new messages.

Weird.

BootyShaker9000: Sweetums?

“Has your roommate texted you in the last five minutes?” Donnie asked, setting his mug back down and tapping at his tech gauntlet to check your location.

“You’re… really overprotective, aren’t you?” May asked, but pulled out her phone all the same. With a few swipes she looked back up at Donnie, “Nothing since this morning.”

“Some might say I’m paranoid within reason,” Donnie said, focusing his full attention to his tech gauntlet. He tapped on your icon showing your location and pulled up your health stats. Heart rate slightly elevated, but nothing else too concerning, “My concern is backed up with years of empirical data and, for lack of better words, gut feeling.”

“I can refer you to some resources on campus for your anxiety, you know,” May said. She looked concerned, but Donnie just waved her off.

“Still not a student, but thank you.”

Donnie’s gauntlet started beeping obnoxiously, startling both of them. Donnie’s heart stopped when he saw the familiar notification on the screen.

“Something happened,” Donnie said, engaging his jetpack and taking off immediately through the open window. He didn’t wait a second to give May any explanation. How could he? How could he waste any second that should be spent making sure that you were okay?

He hovered above your last known location, finding nothing but the faint scent of your body wash and acetone that you had undoubtedly spilled earlier in your lab. Donnie dropped down to the ground and tried to trace where your smell was coming from. His eyes locked on his your hoodie that was folded neatly and placed on the edge of the sidewalk.

Donnie practically fell to his knees as he grabbed it. Your phone fell out of the front pocket as he did so with a note taped to the screen. Donnie’s hands shook as he picked it up off of the ground, thumbing the piece of paper open so he could read the messy scrawl.

Othello Von Ryan,

For old time’s sake, I’ll be frank. We have your partner and you have significant funds. There doesn’t need to be any hassle tonight, just so long as you follow every instruction.

Load $20,000 worth of Bitcoin onto a USB and go to the address sent to your phone. Bring no one. Leave your weapons behind. If you try anything, we will not hesitate to cut our losses and move on.

Consider our graciousness for your years of theft to be a gift for the happy couple.

–Purple Dragons

Donnie felt a eerie calm wash over him. It was like he had retreated into the back of his own skull, only merciless logic and cold fury guiding his next actions.

He pocketed your phone and rose from the ground with the hoodie in hand. He ran his thumb over the soft fabric, his mind completely focused while he pressed call on his phone.

“Leo? I’m going to need you to listen very carefully.”

#ATWLP #donnie x reader #rottmnt donnie #rottmnt donnie x reader #donatello x reader

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lemurlegs · 4 months

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Bewitched

Hi guys, so here's chapter 2. Hope you all like it.

Wordcount: 5k.

Warnings: blood, mentions of being stabbed

Previous chapter

Chapter 2.

Eggs and Inquisitions: A Brunch of Questions

Alastor's pov

Everyone in the hotel was sound asleep, dancing in the land of dreams. Well, everyone except Alastor. No, he was in the living room, comfortably settled in a plush leather chair, engrossed in a book, sipping on a cup of coffee that was starting to get cold. Alastor was never one for sleep; he and the Sandman didn't get along. Late-night reading sessions were routine for him. He cherished the hotel at this hour—Angel wasn't making inappropriate jokes, Husk wasn't grumbling, Charlie wasn't bouncing around and singing. Just pure peace and quiet. The only noise filling Alastors ears was the soft ticking of the clock on the wall, 3:06 it read.

Suddenly, a loud thud came from the front door. Alastor's ears perked up as he turned toward the noise. The doorknob rattled, and the door creaked open, revealing a young woman who stumbled inside, collapsing onto the cold tiles.

Well this certainly didn't happen everyday. Alastor closed his book, setting it on the coffee table. Rising from his seat, he slowly approached the girl.

“Well hello there, what an entrance you just made darling...” he said.

“...Darling? Can you hear me?”

Alastor summons his cane, swirling it around a few times before gently prodding the demon in front of him.

No response. He pokes her once more. No response.

Hmm how curious.

That's when the smell hit him: blood.

He leans closer, inspecting the fox in front of him. He reaches up towards her neck, gently placing two fingers to it, checking for signs of life. As he touched her skin and felt a weak pulse, he looked down to the rest of her body. Dark brown cloak covered in fresh blood. That's when he noticed the fabric being especially wet around her stomach. Crouching down he pressed his hand on her stomach, blood flowing out of her body freely.

Alastor took a deep breath, lifting his hand up to his face, licking his fingers clean. Delicious.

He steps back, observing the dying demon in front of him, debating what to do in this situation. He could just let the girl die, maybe even eat her after—her blood was quite delectable after all. But she reeks of dark magic; he can sense it on her. How curious. What could a young lady like her have done to anger such powerful magic practitioners. He was intrigued to say the least.

Alastor decided that his curiosity outweighed the desire to eat the demon. She's lucky he had a fulfilling dinner. He had a strange feeling that there was more to the fox lady than met the eye. After all, why would she be targeted by someone so powerful?

He bent back down, focusing his energy as he held his hand over her wound. A faint neon green glow lighting up the dark entryway, slowly healing the girl just enough to restore her consciousness.

After a few moments her eyes began to flutter open, her breathing became steadier as he stepped away once more. Observing the fox demon on the floor.

When her eyes fully opened, she jumped, startled by Alastor standing above her. He chuckled internally; it was always amusing to see people scared of him. As she propped herself up on her elbows, he continued to observe her.

She had large orange fox ears with black tips, and her ginger hair was incredibly long. He noticed two small braids framing her shocked face. Wait. yes. The sclera of her eyes were a slight hint of yellow, with deep red irises. She was a free soul, no one owned her.

After a while of this strange staring contest, Alastor broke the silence. Introducing himself and informing her that she dirtied up the floors, what a poor first impression indeed.

Her silence was quite irritating, he watched as her eyes traveled down to her abdomen. Ah, she noticed my generous help—he thought. As the seconds passed, Alastor grew frustrated with her lack of response. Naturally, he reminded her that it was rude not to introduce herself after he had given his name.

She opened her mouth, with a raspy but melodic voice, barely above a whisper, she started her sentence.

“ Than…thank y-you… my na-name is ….”

She paused. Why the hell did she pause? Was she so out of it that she couldn't remember her name? Was she trying to hide her true identity? And if so, why?

These questions plagued Alastor's mind as he watched her face take on a thoughtful expression. The silence was making him annoyed, so he cleared his throat to get her attention. She quickly snapped back to reality, giving him a name that was very obviously fake. He didn't press the issue; he'd find out her true identity soon enough.

Now that he had a name to put to the fox demon, he began to bring up the elephant in the room. The fact that she was literally bleeding out on the hotel floor.

Nodding, she looks up at him with pleading eyes, silently asking for help.

How adorable, she thinks I'll help her for free? What does she think this place is, heaven? She definitely is freshly fallen if she's this naive. He thinks to himself.

Alastor informs her that he can help her survive this predicament, but it will cost her.

“You didn't think I would be handing out freebies now, did you? Ohoho, how silly; must be the blood loss making your mind all fuzzy. No, dear, nothing's free here, I'm afraid. So, why don't we make a deal?”

He leans closer to her, extending his arm towards her. She looks up at him with a shocked but weak expression, I suppose she can feel that I stopped the healing process—he thought.

She asked him what he wanted from her. Wasn't it obvious? Her soul of course, it would be a fair price after saving her life after all.

Alastor watched as Ginger's face turned to an expression he's very familiar with. Fear. She takes a few moments to collect her thoughts, deciding if being bound to the Radio Demon for an eternity was a fate better than death. After what seemed like several minutes, which were probably just seconds, Alastor watched as she reached out with a shaky hand, placing it in his large palm, gently squeezing as she shook his hand.

She uttered one of Alastor's favorite words.

“Deal.”

Ginger's pov

As you shook his hand, Alastors face began to contort, his toothy grin twisting to unnatural lengths.

Green glowing stitches appear, as if to keep his smile permanent. His eyes turn dark, pupils changing to radio dials, his antlers growing like tree branches. The green light surrounds your body, blinding you as you feel the magic flow through your veins. The energy swims up from your arm, reaching up to your chest and settling deep within your soul. The heavy feeling you felt from the curse just became heavier.

The strong magic enveloping you became too much to bear. Strong magic usually doesn't affect you much, but with the exhaustion and blood loss, not to mention the dark magic from the curse that's still lingering around you, now with the soul binding deal filling your body, you couldn't help but pass out from the overwhelming feelings.

When you open your eyes, you find yourself laying under the softest sheets you ever felt. Looking around, you notice that you've been moved to one of the hotel rooms.

Oh also it's morning now. How long have I been out?—you ask yourself.

The room was larger than your average hotel room but not quite as spacious as a one-room apartment. The wallpaper featured a rich red hue adorned with golden prints, lending an air of luxury. The interior was modest yet undeniably expensive, as if the hotel owner was from old money. You were laying in a beautiful poster bed draped in luxurious linens, next to it were two nightstands holding delicate lamps that cast a warm glow in the room, while across from it stood a large dark wooden closet. Adjacent to the closet were two sizable windows, draped in red curtains, with a door in between leading to a small balcony. Every detail of the room spoke of refinement and sophistication, from the ornate molding on the ceiling to the meticulously chosen furnishings. It was a sanctuary of comfort and elegance.

In total, three doors adorned the room: one for entry, another for the balcony, and the third for the bathroom, you assume.

You sit up from the comfortable bed, pulling the blankets off of your body. You turn to the side, as you dangle your feet over the edge. Well more like your paws. Since that's a thing that exists now. Looking down at your body, you notice you're still in the bloody brown robe. Slowly remembering the things that transpired yesterday.

Died. Fell down to the fiery pits. Got tortured and cursed by your old coven. Almost bled out and collapsed in the hotel's lobby. Got ‘saved’ by some guy named Alastor and lost your soul.

Definitely a memorable first day in the afterlife.

Talking about almost bleeding out. You jump off the bed, your paws touching the cold hardwood floor. You walk towards the door you assume to be the way to the bathroom. Aaaaand looks like you assumed correctly. Good job.

The bathroom, though compact, provided ample space for one person. Stepping onto the pristine black and white tiles, you took in your surroundings. A sink with polished marble countertops with a mirror above it, accompanied by a few shelves for toiletries. Opposite the sink was the porcelain toilet. But it was the centerpiece of the room that truly caught your eye—a giant bathtub positioned boldly in the middle of the bathroom. Only fancy rich people have their bathtubs smack dab in the middle. What kind of hotel did you stumble into last night?

You stood before the mirror, taking in your reflection. Your face appeared largely the same as before, albeit with eyes that now glowed black and red, giving you a somewhat terrifying aura. But it was the other features that truly set you apart.

Your hair, once a familiar chestnut color, had transformed into a vibrant shade of orange, framing your face in a fiery cascade. And your ears—those were the most peculiar of all. They now resembled those of a fox, with their pointed tips and furry texture. You lift your now orange hair, looking at the space that occupied your human ears, and yep, just as you thought, gone. Hell took your ears and gave you fox features. Awesome.

Looking at your hands and feet, sorry, paws, you gonna need to get used to that. The skin on your hand was black, gradually fading into skin color when it reached your elbows. Same with your legs, black from paws fading till mid calf. Though you also noticed that your legs had fur on them. Definitely not bizarre, not at all.

Another addition to your hellish form was your tail. You always wondered what it would be like to own one. Didn't think there would be a day where that wish became a reality. Experimenting with its movements, you found it challenging to control, much like the fox-like ears atop your head.

As you grappled with your newfound anatomy, you couldn't help but marvel at the strangeness of it all. Life in hell had certainly brought about some unexpected transformations.

You sigh, grabbing onto your cloak, pulling it over your shoulders. You begin untying the makeshift bandage you put on last night. Preparing yourself for the nasty scar on your stomach, you're surprised when you don't find one, in fact, it looks like you never even got stabbed. Well that's something. Unfortunately your chest wasn't so lucky, the sigil shaped scar, now with dried blood, is sitting between your breasts. Determined to address the injury, you opened the medicine cabinet in search of a medkit, and to your relief, you found exactly what you needed. With the medkit in hand, you began the process of cleaning and treating your wounds

After that you decide it's best if you take a warm bath. You were dirty. Dirty from blood and dirty from dark magic. You turn on the faucet, filling the bathtub. You sink in the water, washing yourself. Cleaning away the filt, cleansing yourself of the negative energy.

After a few minutes you climb out, draping the red robe around you that was hanging on the bathroom door. You step back in the hotel room, you walk up towards the closet. You're hoping that maybe there might be some type of garment in there for you to wear. As you opened the closet door, you were greeted by a stunning sight—a gorgeous red dress.

The dress has puffy sleeves and a modest neckline, the fabric narrowing at the hips but falling loosely to mid calf. You put on the dress and it fits like a glove. That is definitely not creepy and weird, it's just coincides, haha.

Ok moving aside from the strange beautiful dress, you should probably go and look for the owner of this place. After all, you kind of just stumbled in last night. Not even checking in or anything.

You begin walking up to the door, turn the handle, you walk outside into the hallway, which is also very red. Damn these people really do love the color red. You walk towards a grand staircase, slowly descending as you hold onto the black metal railings.

As you reach the bottom, you are greeted by many new faces, there's a spider looking demon leaning over the bar, flirting with the winged cat-demon bartender. There's a tiny woman with one eye, running up and down the room, feather duster in hand, cleaning the non-existent dust. A blonde haired girl is sitting on the couch, next to her a white haired girl, they are surrounded by piles of paper and childlike drawings.

You cautiously approach the group, you open your mouth, but before you can introduce yourself, a pair of hands grip your shoulders. Jumping slightly, your shoulders tense as you slowly turn your head, coming face to face with the demon who you sold your soul to last night. He began pushing you towards the group.

“Good morning, folks! As you can see, I have acquired a new helper for the hotel," Alastor announced, drawing the group's attention to you. "I'd like to introduce you to our new resident, Ginger.”

Before you could even register what was happening, the blonde haired woman jumped up from the couch and ran excitedly toward you, her face beaming with the kind of excitement one might expect on Christmas morning.

“It is so good to meet you.” the blonde-haired woman exclaimed eagerly. “Alastor mentioned finding you on the lobby floor yesterday. I hope you're alright. My name is Charlie, I'm the owner of this hotel, and the princess of hell.”

Princess? Is this Lucifer's kid? Well she's certainly not what I expected—you thought.

She began explaining the cause of the hotel, something something redemption. You couldn't quite understand much, since she was talking at the speed of those fast talking auctioneers.

After she finished, the shorter girl next to her introduced herself as Vaggie, Charlie's girlfriend. Then Charlie began to introduce the others.

“This is Angel Dust, our first resident.” she explained as she pointed to the spider demon.

He gives you a slight wave, as he gulps down his drink “Heya toots, It's nice to meet ‘ya, we don't see many new faces ‘round here.”

“And this is our bartender, Husk”

The cat-demon named Husk turned to face you, with an uninterested look on his face, he said one word and no more.

“Hey”

Wow what a character—you thought. After that he went back to cleaning the glass cups.

A tiny woman scurried in front of you, climbing onto your shoulders.

“Hello, I'm Nifty, do you like bugs?”

Looking into her eye, you blink, confused as to what the hell was happening “Uhh bugs are fine I suppose?”

You suppose that was the correct answer since she started giggling, then she slid off your shoulders and resumed her frantic cleaning.

“Yeah that's Nifty” said Charlie “We're 90% sure she's harmless.” She said with a nervous chuckle.

“Actually, there's one more person missing. He's also a resident. I wonder whe-”

Charlie was cut off by a snake demon bursting through the front door, rolling in what looks like a giant laser gun, with tiny egg bois following him.

“Behold, the Heat Blaster 4000, my newest invention.” Said the snake man proudly.

Vaggie stepped in front of the demon, pointing A very sharp looking spear in his face, looking pissed.

“Sir Pentious, this is the third time, you can't bring giant laser guns or any other kind of weaponry in this hotel, get rid of it before I do!” yelled Vaggie at the demon named Sir Pentious, who looked defeated, he got rid of the giant gun with sad puppy eyes.

“Sigh, well I suppose you've met everyone.” Said the white haired girl.

“Yeah, it's very nice to meet everybody” you said as you looked at the strange group.

Charlie walks up to you once more “So, how long have you been down here?”

“Uhh well, I died yesterday morning, so not very long”

“We definitely need to teach you about how things work here then, we need to make sure you're safe after all” said Charlie with a nervous smile.

Alastor steps up, damm I completely forgot he was here, he was super quiet this whole time—you thought.

“Indeed we do, I will make sure the little vixen knows everything she needs to know by the end of the day” said Alastor as he turned to you, smile widening when he saw you look at him. What is he planning?

“Oh thank you Al” said Charlie, as Vaggie turned to her, whispering in her ear, you hear a very quiet, “Oh don't worry Vaggie, he won't do anything to her” as Vaggie turned to Alastor with a glare. He just started back with that unmoving smile of his.

Definitely reassuring—you thought.

“Well I'm sure we can sit here and yapp all day, but our new resident is surely starving, aren't you dear?” He looks at you with his head cocked to the side, still smiling.

“I suppose I could eat a bite or two” you said cautiously.

At that Alastor grabbed you by the arm, and proceeded to drag you to the front door.

“Fantastic! I know a quaint little cafe nearby that serves the most divine breakfasts this side of the pentagram.”

As you strolled through the streets of hell together, he offered his arm, which you accepted cautiously. Wrapping your arm around his, holding onto his bicep. Along the way, you couldn't help but notice how sinners kept their distance, some even fleeing in terror or killing themselves to get away. Stepping over dead bodies you begin to wonder just how powerful is this demon whose arm you're cradling.

You've had your fair share of encounters with powerful demons, albeit infrequent due to the difficulty of summoning them. Your expertise primarily lies with the Ars Goetia, leaving you with limited knowledge about other demon hierarchies and the inner workings of Hell.

You understand the hierarchy to some extent: Lucifer was topdog, followed by Lilith and Charlie. Then the sins, whom you've heard about but never directly interacted with. And then the ones you knew the most about, which wasn't a lot mind you, The Goetias.

Regarding the inner workings of Hell, your knowledge is sparse at best. You wonder if Alastor is as powerful as the demons you worked with when you were alive.

Lost in thought, attempting to piece together what little knowledge you had of Hell, you barely noticed arriving at your destination. It wasn't until Alastor swung open the cafe's front doors that you snapped back to the present moment.

You step into the building, taking in its cozy ambiance. The cafe exudes a timeless charm, with its warm lighting casting a soft glow across the room. The furniture, crafted from sturdy mahogany, boasts intricate carvings and plush upholstery, inviting patrons to sink into comfort. The scent of freshly brewed coffee mingles with the aroma of baked goods and breakfast meals, creating an irresistible allure.

Antique mirrors hang on the walls, reflecting the flickering light of the oil lamps and adding depth to the space. Delicate lace curtains adorn the windows, gently swaying in the breeze. Soft jazz plays in the background, enhancing the tranquil atmosphere.

Each table is adorned with a small vase of fresh flowers, adding a touch of color to the otherwise muted palette. The gentle hum of conversation fills the air, punctuated by the occasional clink of cutlery and laughter.

Alastor guides you to a table by the windows, courteously pulling out a chair for you before you have the chance to do so yourself. As you settle into your seat, he smoothly slides the chair in for you before taking his place opposite you.

His intense ruby gaze locks onto yours, causing you to shift uncomfortably under his scrutiny. The silence hangs heavy between you, awkward and uneasy.

“This place is beautiful, quite cozy," you remark, breaking the awkward silence, your gaze nervously meeting his.

"Indeed it is, dear. They serve the best dark roast, and their breakfast menu is to die for," Alastor replies with a charming smile.

As he finishes speaking, a waiter rushes to your table, looking visibly nervous. He presents you both with menus, and you opt for a simple eggs and sausage breakfast accompanied by a cup of coffee. Alastor orders a venison breakfast sausage with a side of eggs, along with black coffee.

Venison huh? Ain't he a deer though?—you wonder as the waiter scurries off to fulfill your orders.

"I suppose it would be wise to start explaining how hell works," Alastor suggests, settling his cane on his lap before clearing his throat to begin.

"Hell is divided into 7 circles, with the one we're currently in being the ring of pride. While the other rings are reserved for hellborns, the pride ring is dedicated to sinners."

"So, only pride has mortal souls? Wouldn't that lead to a lot of souls in one place?" you inquire.

"Ah, you certainly know how to ask the right questions. Yes, there's indeed an overpopulation issue, especially considering that sinners can only be killed by angelic weaponry.”

“Wow wow slow down now. What do you mean sinners only can be killed by angelic weapons. Also angels, they're doing what???” you interject, your curiosity piqued.

“Indeed, angels. They descend from heaven each year to exterminate sinners and control the overpopulation issue. And yes, angelic weaponry is the only thing that can permanently kill a sinner."

"Well, that's good to know, I suppose," you reply. As you contemplate another question, the waiter arrives with both of your breakfasts and coffees.

The aroma of the breakfast sausage and eggs fills the air, enticing your senses. You lift the coffee to your lips, inhaling the rich, earthy steam. Taking a small sip, you're met with the bitterness, prompting a scrunch of your face in response. Alastor watches you with amusement, clearly entertained by your reaction.

Reaching for the sugar packets provided, you begin sweetening your coffee. One packet, then another, until you're about to add the third. That's when you notice Alastor's judgmental gaze fixed on you.

"What? I like it sweet," you retort, undeterred.

"I'm pretty sure you're just drinking sugar water with a hint of coffee at this point," he quips.

Rolling your eyes, you pour the last packet into your cup and slowly mix it in with the little spoon provided. Raising the steaming cup to your lips once more, you take another sip, finding it now sweet as hell—exactly to your liking. A contented hum escapes your lips, only to be met with Alastor's eye roll in return.

“What's wrong, you don't fancy sweet coffee?” you tease, raising an eyebrow in playful inquiry.

“I don't enjoy anything sweet, darling. I prefer bitter and savory flavors.”

As you both continue to enjoy your coffees and the delicious breakfast, thoughts swirl in your mind about what else to ask him. The hierarchy of hell, the nature of soul deals, and demon powers—all topics you're curious about. But before you can voice any questions, Alastor breaks the silence first.

“Tell me something dear, you only recently arrived in hell. I couldn't help but notice, you didn't seem that much bothered by the bloodshed of hell's streets. Now why is that?”

Alastor's inquisitive gaze meets yours as he poses the question, his smile unwavering. You pause, carefully considering your response, wary of revealing too much about your past.

"Well, let's just say it's not my first encounter with such scenes. I've witnessed my fair share of carnage," you reply, choosing your words cautiously.

Alastor's smile widens at your response, his interest clearly piqued. "My, my dear, you've truly intrigued me. Please, do continue. I'm eager to hear more about the carnage you've experienced.”

You tread cautiously, mindful not to reveal too much. "When I was alive, I had a knack for manipulating men into giving me what I wanted—money, love, whatever I desired. And those who attempted to control or harm me... well, let's just say I handled them accordingly.”

This wasn't a lie. After the betrayal of your coven, you found yourself alone and in need of resources. Resorting to your feminine wiles, you maneuvered through a world filled with unsuspecting men, adeptly extracting what you needed. However, encounters with those who sought to control or exploit you were met with swift and decisive action, for you were not one to tolerate such audacity.

Much of your existence was spent manipulating wealthy men, living a life of luxury that constantly shifted. You traversed the globe, adopting new identities and altering your appearance to evade detection. Across the centuries, you bore witness to an array of historical epochs and pivotal events.

From the heights of the English Renaissance and Queen Elizabeth I's reign to the dawn of scientific discoveries by figures like Isaac Newton, you experienced the flourishing of human intellect during the Age of Enlightenment. You observed the industrial revolution unfold, marveling at inventions like James Watt's steam engines and the advent of the first automobiles.

You were there for the tumultuous upheavals of history—the American and French Revolutions, the rise and fall of empires, the construction of iconic landmarks like the Eiffel Tower, the first and the second world war. You even witnessed the birth of new forms of entertainment, such as the emergence of silent films, Radio, Computers, Telephones, and the Internet. You lived through centuries.

You've done your damm best to avoid the reaper, you've been alive for so long you're kind of embarrassed that you died from such a stupid mistake. The mistake of trusting others. Poisoned by a fucking cup of tea.

“How interesting. And how did you meet your end, if you don't mind me asking?" Alastor inquires curiously.

You grimace slightly before answering, "ugh, well, it's a bit embarrassing, not gonna lie. Foxglove. Not a fun way to die." you admit reluctantly.

Hoping he won't press the matter further, you're relieved when he changes the topic. However, your relief is short-lived as he redirects the conversation to something you were hoping to avoid answering.

“And how exactly did you almost die on your first day of your afterlife? Now I know hell isn't exactly the safest place, but my my, first day and already bleeding out? What kind of trouble did you stumble into?“

Both of you are on your last bites, the coffee long finished. You take a bite of the sausage, chewing slowly as you rack your brain for a suitable response.

“I got jumped by some demons. I fought them off, but unfortunately got stabbed in the process," you reply, opting for a vague explanation.

Alastor hums in acknowledgment, sliding his hand into his waistcoat pocket to retrieve a golden-colored pocket watch.

“Would you look at the time, I need to run an errand, so we should definitely get going. I hope I've answered all your questions," Alastor declares, rising from his seat.

You nod, though inwardly noting that not all your inquiries had been addressed.

Alastor settles the bill before gently guiding you by the shoulder. "Prepare yourself, dear. This might be a bit unusual.”

“What will be unusual?” famous last words as a sudden wave of darkness engulfs you, shrouding your senses in an oppressive void. Panic claws at the edges of your consciousness, threatening to overwhelm you. Yet, before fear can fully take hold, the darkness recedes with astonishing speed, leaving you disoriented and blinking in the abrupt return of light.

In those fleeting moments of darkness, it felt as though shadows themselves were travelling through your very being, tendrils of darkness threading through your consciousness and whisking you away from one place to another.

Well, that was certainly an experience," you say with a slight smile, trying to mask your inner turmoil. “Shadow warping is quite the power” you say, looking up at the deer demon. He raises his eyebrow at your answer. That's when you realize you have fucked up big time. You inwardly curse yourself for using the correct term—shadow warping. You should have just called it teleportation. When did you become so bad at lying???You need to pull yourself together.

Despite the mini internal breakdown, you ensure your facade remains intact. Alastor continues to observe you for a few moments longer, but apparently, he doesn't find what he's searching for. With a farewell, he vanishes in a swirl of shadows, leaving you to contemplate your next move.

As soon as he's gone, you set your sights on a new mission: finding the library, assuming this place has one. If so, you intend to learn everything Alastor chose not to tell you—perhaps even uncovering secrets about demonic magic.

Or, more importantly, how to break the curse.

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