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munsonluhvr · 2 months

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RIGHT WHERE YOU LEFT ME [PART 1]

synopsis: modern!cowboy!steve harrington x country!fem!reader | the small town you grew up in became unbearable by the time you graduated from high school. you fled to the big city, far away from farms, southern accents, and cows, leaving your family and friends behind. but, you return back to your hometown for a family wedding, and forced to confront someone from your past - steve harrington. word count -3.7k warnings: angst, complex friendships/family relationships. not spellchecked, but will be tomorrow.

𑁍 part 2 & part 3 coming soon...

Stepping off the airplane, the sun shines brightly in your eyes, acres, and acres of farm land outstretching in front of you. The heat is thick, nearly unbearable after sitting in a nicely air-conditioned plane for several hours. Your suitcase and backpack weigh heavily on your arms; you adjust to make them easier to carry.

“Y/n,” you hear off in the distance, and you make shade with your hand, squinting to look at the exit of the airport to see who’s calling your name. You see your grandmother, grandfather, and parents jumping up and down, waving their arms.

It’s been quite some time since you’ve been to your hometown, everything looking so familiar and foreign at once. Already, barely off the airplane, you notice how everything is so different from the city, from the environment, the sweet smell of grass and farm animals, the low hum of crickets and cicadas buzzing around. Even the people are different, the southern accents and cowboy boots, jeans splattered with mud and hard work. You know you’re home.

You hustle across the pavement, suitcases in tow. Your family rushes towards you with excitement, their arms and bodies embracing you with excitement. “It’s been far too long since I’ve seen my granddaughter,” your grandmother says, cupping your face in her soft, wrinkled hands. “I think I’m going to kidnap you, so you never disappear for years and years again.”

You laugh softly, comforted by the presence of your family, the people who know you best. You had fled this small hometown of yours, seeing something bigger and better. Though you had the greatest childhood memories, catching frogs in the creek, swinging for hours on the tire swing, cookouts at your grandparents farm, you felt as though there was something more, something else beyond small-town living. Though you aren’t sure you ever found it.

“C’mon, now. We got some surprises waitin’ for you back at the house.” Your grandfather says, ushering you towards the parking lot. All different sizes and colors of trucks filled the parking lot, shaggy dogs sitting patiently in the beds of the car. You groan. “Surprises?”

You barely had time to think as you and your family drove home, your grandparents and parents chattering and asking you endless questions about your life in the city. You answered each question, your eyes trained out the window as farms pass you by, multi-colored cows and horses looking back at you. The warm summer air blows through your hair, the thick heat causing sweat to accumulate at your hair line.

Rolling the wheels over the gravel and dirt driveway, your grandfather’s red truck bouncing side to side, you pull up to your grandparent’s large farmhouse, chickens scattered all across the lawn. There’s balloons, tied to the front step banisters, other cars parked alongside the driveway. “How many people are here?” you ask, looking between your family members in the car.

“Oh,” your grandmother says, looking over at you from the passenger seat, a mischievous smile on her mouth. “Just the whole town.”

You laugh softly, feeling already drained.

Your grandfather halts the car, your mom reaching over to rub your arm. “Don’t be overwhelmed.” You nod, biting at your bottom lip. You step out of the car, dusty dirty clouding your shoes.

“Go on in, I’ll get your bags.” Your father says, gesturing towards the car. You nod again, walking towards the house with your grandparents and mother. The front porch groans under your body weight, the frailness of the aged wood demonstrating how it should be replaced soon. You turn the doorknob, the chatter of voices coming to a halt as you let the door swing open, tens of eyes looking back at you.

In unison, countless people yell, ‘welcome home,’ bright smiles on their faces. As you look around, you recognize that it’s all of your grandparents friends, all of them looking older then the last time you saw them; some of your family members, your cousin who’s getting married in several days. You also recognize your friends from high school, most who decided to stay nearby after graduation, welcoming you back with excited faces. They all rush towards you, hands grazing your cheeks, soft pats on your back.

You greet people as they come up to you, your mind aching with overstimulation. The elderly guests tell you how much you’ve grown up, how beautiful you are; your friends catch you up on the latest gossip, what other classmates are up to; your family telling you how much they’ve missed you, how excited they are for your cousin to be getting married, the event bringing everyone together again.

“I’m so excited that you’re a bridesmaid,” your cousin, Heather, says. “I hope the wedding goes well – we’ve put so much effort into it.”

You hum, your mouth becoming dry. You feel the need to disappear. “It’ll go great, I’m excited to be a part of your special day.”

At last, you’re able to escape to the kitchen, searching your grandparents cupboards for a cup. You find one, turning the faucet on to let the ice, cold water rush out. You stick the cup under the faucet, taking sips as the cup fills.

“Never thought I’d see you again,” a deep voice says from behind you, causing you to turn around. Your heart drops to the bottom of your stomach, your skin flushing with heat. Steve Harrington leans against the kitchen island, arms crossed in front of his chest. His blue jeans are splattered with dark paint, his boots stained by grass, a cowboy hat settled low on his hair, covering his infamous, brown hair.

You swallow, turning around to lean against the kitchen sink. “Steve?” Your heart thumps against your chest, churning begins in your stomach. It’s been so long since you’ve seen him.

Steve hums, nodding. “Barely recognize me?”

You shake your head. “Of course, I remember you. I could never forget you.” And despite that being true, you tried for many years to forget Steve.

He still looks as beautiful as he did in high school; time has been kind to him. Steve, of course, looks more like a man, his form filling in nicely. His bare arms are tanned, sun kissed, his arms strong and muscley. Even from where Steve stands, you can sense he must work on a nearby farm, his musk tangled with the smell of the outdoors and horses. “I’m surprised,” he says, an edge to his voice. “You ran away so fast after graduation; barely said goodbye.”

You lean against the kitchen sink farther, the edge of the counter cutting into your back. “You always knew that was the plan, Steve.”

You and Steve had been close in middle school, two peas in a pod. He was a true country boy, finding refuge in the time you both spent at your grandparent’s farm. Steve was always there to ride the horses, riding as far as your grandparent’s property allowed. He was the person you’d build forts with using fallen down trees, who taught you how to fish in the creek, capture lightening bugs in jars. You and Steve spent so many hours outside, seldom coming in before the stars were able to be seen against the dark, black sky, smelling like grass and summer air, fingernails caked with dirt.

In high school, you and Steve remained friends, but the adventures outside came to a close. You both got your own friend groups, though by living in such a small town everyone was friends with each other. You’d go to small parties; Steve would be there too. You’d watch the football games in the stands, Steve would be beside you, a blanket in his hands to throw over your laps. You always knew Steve cared for you, always be there to swoop you up in his beloved pick-up truck.

Steve shrugs, crossing his boots as he leans against the kitchen island. “A lot of time has passed, I guess. How’s the big city?”

You open your mouth to respond, suddenly feeling vulnerable in front of Steve, as if you’ve met the person you feel like you can confess to that the world isn’t particularly great when you get out of your hometown’s limits, but your grandmother comes barreling in to the kitchen; her hands clasp when she sees that you and Steve stand only a foot away from each other, talking for the first time in years. “Look at you two together; it’s almost as if no time has passed.”

You smile, looking down at the floor, as your grandmother makes her way over to you and Steve. She outstretches her arms, placing them on yours and Steve’s bicep. “I just wanted to tell you Steve that the horses need to be brought in from the pasture, there’s going to be a storm tonight and they should be in the barn.”

You frown, looking between your grandmother and Steve. “Nana, why would Steve bring in the horses; I can do it.”

Your grandmother laughs, placing a hand on her mouth. “I guess I forgot to tell you, but Steve works for your grandfather and I now, works for the farm.”

You nod slowly, your eyes landing on Steve. You suppose you aren’t surprised; Steve always loved the farm as if he was a part of the land himself. Steve nods too, looking towards your grandmother. “I’ll get right on that. I’ll see you around y/n.” Steve steps away from you with a curt nod, exiting the house from the kitchen door that leads out to the backyard.

“Such a nice young man.” Your grandmother hums, watching the curtains flow with warm summer air. Outside, the sky has darkened inch by inch, dusk beginning to creep over the town. “He’s a hard worker too. Always asks me what you’re up to in the city and what not.”

You raise your eyebrows, glancing at your grandmother. “Oh?”

Your grandmother smiles when she finds you looking at her, a curious look on your face. “Oh yeah. I think he’s always been in love with you, ever since you were little, out running through the fields like wild things.”

Your cross your arms over your chest, clearing your throat. “That’s not true, grandma, we’ve always been good friends.”

Your grandmother hums, then shrugs, turning back towards the living room where house guests still mingled. “You’d be surprised,” your grandmother says over her shoulder, walking out of the kitchen. “How distance makes the heart grow fonder.”

The next morning you wake up in your childhood bedroom, with a raging headache. Mingling with friends and family proved to be an exhausting task, overstimulating too. As you wake up, you look around your room, trinkets bringing back memories in an instant.

You see your vanity, old pieces of makeup and perfume scattered around the countertop, pictures of your friends wedged in between the mirror and its frame. On your shelves, old, tattered books about horses are wedged in between glass figurines of horses, their sparkly eyes staring back at you. Horse ribbons, royal blue, and bright red, hang from all corners of your room. You feel comforted by your things, the memories like pieces of candy, sweet and savory.

The window is open halfway, the curtain billowy as it blows in the wind, warm summer air making its way into your room. Faintly, you smell food cooking, bacon and pancakes wafting through the air. Your stomach growls loudly and you decide it’s best if you get up for the day.

In your pjs, you creep down the staircase, noticing that everyone else’s bedroom doors are open and vacant. Once you get to the kitchen, you see your parents and grandparents, and the family dog, sitting around the kitchen table.

“Nice of you to join us,” your mother says, stabbing at a piece of scrambled eggs. “Grab yourself some breakfast.”

The kitchen is bright with light, slightly messy with bowls of batter, cracked egg shells covering the countertops. “What are your plans for today, y/n?” your grandfather asks, watching you put together your breakfast.

You shrug. “Heather needs me to do one last fitting for the dress later today but that’s it. I’ll probably just hang around here today.”

“Might as well go to the barn,” you grandmother says. “I bet the horses miss you.”

Your father hums, sipping from his cup of orange juice. “That would be nice to see you at the barn again, spending time with the horses. To see you be a country girl again instead of a city girl.”

Everyone at the table laughs, even you, but your grandmother groans. “I don’t know how you bear living in the city, living in the country is so much better.” You bite into a piece of bacon, the sweetness of it mouthwatering; bacon isn’t this fresh in the city.

You smile as you notice how you agree with your grandmother; your younger self would be so disappointed. “Very true, grandma.”

After breakfast, you venture up to your room again. You feel like your old self again, almost a glimpse of the past, as you pull your boots on, a pair of throwaway jeans fastened by your old turquoise belt you saved up for in high school. It’s been a long time since you’ve been near horses, or been in a barn, and you’re ready to get your hands dirty.

You make your way out of the farmhouse, taking the dirty path to get to the freestanding yard out in the field. Though it still looks the same, the red paint has chipped off, exposing the brown wood of the structure. The field is fenced off with white rails, the horses walking happily through the tall grass, bending their long necks down to graze. As you approach the barn, the sweet yet tangy smell of horses accumulates you, tickling your nose.

Inside of the barn is cool, a nice refuge from the sun that beats down outside. Chickens run aimlessly down the center aisle, clucking with alarm, little bits of hay and grain crunch underneath your feet. You notice some of the horses have chosen to navigate their way inside to their shady stalls. You walk down the aisle, noticing how your grandparents have bought new horses. You get to the end of the barn, looking out to the tree line that meets the vast and open farm property. You look to your right and see a plaque hanging on the door: ‘Dolly’

You can hardly believe it as a light brown horse blinks back at you. Dolly is your childhood horse, you’re sure she’s elderly now. You open the stall door, reaching your hand out as the horse greets you happily. You decide to pull her out to give her a groom.

After tying her to the wall, and getting your supplies, you begin to brush Dolly, each sweep calming you immensely. You work in silence, only the sounds from the farm animals fill the silence. That is until a figure appears at the end of the door – Steve.

You look back at Dolly, training your eyes on her. Though it’s not line that makes you invisible; Steve clears his throat as he sees you standing in the aisle.

“Hey,” Steve says, a bag nearly the same size of him in his arms. He plunks it down on several bales of hay and you read that it’s horse feed.

“Hey,” you say, looking back at Dolly.

“It’s like I’ve seen a ghost,” Steve says, glancing at you, then picking up a bale of hay, carrying it towards the end of the barn. “Seeing you in here.”

You frown, your arm slowing to moving in small circles. “What do you mean?”

Steve shrugs, his face obscured from the darkness of the barn, his outline only clear to you. “We used to be in here together all the time, remember? Then when you left it’s been just me. It’s like a flashback to high school when I see you, here and now, with Dolly.”

You suck your cheeks in, chewing on the insides of your cheek. “Oh.”

You watch as Steve pulls bolt cutters from his back pocket, clipping the string that holds the hay together apart. “It’s a good thing. I like it.”

You clench your jaws, nodding slowly. “So, you work at the farm now?”

Steve nods, pulling flakes of hay off. “Started right after graduation, never stopped.”

“You always did love the farm; I think even more then me.”

Just then, Steve laughs, standing up to look towards you. “Remember all the fun times we had? When we’d stay out so late until your grandparents would come looking for us with flashlights? Man, those were the times; I think about those memories a lot.”

You smile, beginning to brush Dolly quicker. “I also remember when you’d scare me with frogs, holding them up to my face and letting them jump on me. That never stopped in high school either, you knew I hate frogs.”

Steve hums, a playful smile on his face. “I guess I kind of had a crush on you back then. But don’t worry, I’m over that now.”

Silence rolls over you and Steve, his confession startling you. Steve liked you at one point? Suddenly you remembered what your grandmother had said in the kitchen last night. How had you never realized that?

Steve clears his throat. “Are you going riding?”

You shrug, glancing at Dolly. “I was thinking about it. Want to join?”

Steve looks at the hay he was disassembling. He shrugs. “I guess I could spare a few minutes.”

You smile, then nod. “Great.”

You and Steve tack up the horses in silence, dancing around each other as you grab the saddles. Once you’re set to go, you use a bale of hay to mount Dolly, lining up behind Steve as you both guide the horses out to the pasture.

Your skin automatically gets hot under the sun, the temperature a big difference from the shade in the barn. The crickets chirp loudly, the breeze blowing the tall grass lightly. You and Steve guide the horses along the perimeter of the fence, going at a slow lope. As you ride along the farm, you remember all the places you and Steve would play, skin slight with sweat as you imagined yourself as a princess and a knight, as cowboys running along the train tracks.

You remember the twinkle in Steve eyes, how his chubby cheeks would turn pink from sun exposure and exhaustion, his knees covered in scrapes and dirt. You smile to yourself, as you imagine the young version of Steve coaxing you to jump from the swing that was tied to a tree branch into the stream, or how he carried you back home when you twisted your ankle, tears threatening to spill out.

“What’re you smiling for?” Steve asks, glancing over at you, his face shaded by his hat. He holds his reins in one hand, letting his other hand rest on his thigh. He guides his horse close to you, your legs nearly brushing.

You smile, shaking your head. “Just thinking about the mischief, we got up to when we were kids.”

Steve smiles, looking ahead of him. “Those were the good days. High school wasn’t bad either. Just too bad you had to leave us.”

You glance at Steve. “Not like anything would have changed if I stayed.”

Steve shrugs, glancing back at you. “Us not talking for years would have changed.”

You glance away, looking straight ahead. “I know, I’m sorry for not keeping in touch.” Steve shrugs, shaking his head. “You did what you had to do; I know this town always felt too small for you. Did you ever find what you were looking for?”

You shake your head. “No,” you say simply.

Steve nods, letting silence come in between you two again. You ride next to each other, letting the memories roll through your minds.

You ride for the next little while, until you hear a loud bell ring from the farmhouse. Even from far away, you can see your grandmother’s body standing on the porch, her arms waving. It must be time to get your dress fitted.

“I should probably get back,” you say, beginning to turn Dolly around. “Heather needs me to get my bridesmaid dress fitted one last time.”

Steve nods, following you as you head back towards the barn. “I’ll race you.” Steve says, kicking his horse forward before you can object. You gently kick Dolly forward knowing Dolly is no match for Steve’s much youthful horse.

Once you and Steve get to the barn and down from your horses, you walk the horses into the barn, retying them to the wall. You work quickly, knowing Heather gets impatient with time.

“You know,” Steve says, pulling his saddle off, “Jason Carver is having a little get together tomorrow. You should swing by – or I could pick you up.”

You nod, tossing Steve a smile. “Yeah, sure, that sounds fun. We could catch up too.”

Steve nods, returning a tight-lipped smile. “Okay, great.”

You pat Dolly as you return her to her stall, watching as she goes straight for her hay, You walks towards the door, turning to glance at Steve. “Thanks for the ride. See you tomorrow.”

Steve waves, watching as you turn around, your legs tanned from the time you just spent out in the sun. His heart squeezes as he remembers you, thinking of the way his younger self would spend all day together, out in the field together, then how he’d go home and lay in his bed exhausted, but his mind would race as he’d replay the day over in his mind.

Then he remembers how in high school, he would watch you with your friends, how you switched your tom-boy clothes for skirts, and the feeling he had when realized he loved you and that seeing you in skirts made his day. Steve, as he watches your walk back to the farmhouse, how he loved to be near you, the late-night drives home from small get togethers or sitting with you at the football games. How your face lit up against the stadium lights, how you’d cheer, a toothy smile on your face.

Steve has had so many questions, relying on your grandmother to feed him pieces of information about your life in the city, wondering if you have a boyfriend in the city, if you miss being in the country or miss him. Now here you are, like a gift from heaven. Now you’re back home – right where you left him.

#stranger things fanfiction #stranger things x you #stranger things x reader #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington stranger things #steve harrington x fem #steve harrington x y/n #cowboy!steve harrington

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slightly-gay-pogohammer · 1 year

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i did it for winx i did it for powerpuff girls anyway here’s my pitch for a good “modern” scooby doo remake

shaggy comes from a family of paranormal investigators. at barely 16 years olds he returns to his hometown of coolsville with his dog after his super rich parents tell him it’s time to live up to the family name, taking him there specifically because of many rumors about cursed areas of the town and crmiinals who take advantage of said rumors to pretend to be monsters themselves. while there he reconnects with his old childhood friends and eventually all together they form the mystery inc... and have to deal with a benevolent yet very clumsy spirit who took over scoob’s body

character thoughts under read more!!!

shaggy is, again, the last of a family of paranormal investigators, who ever since he was a child had to deal with his parents bringing him in adventures and dealing with (real and fake) monsters. you’d guess that would make him brave, but. no that just made him very paranoid. while he acts like the team’s straightman, he’s also the only one who knows how certain monsters work, ironically working as one of the “brains” of the group!

scooby, again, used to be a normal great dane. a little lazy, not even particularly friendly, at least until shaggy brought him with him in coolsville; during their first night out. while he ends up falling into a trap, a benevolent ghost takes over his body, making him able to talk and tell the kids that coolsville is in big trouble and that they need to stick together. overall, he’s the team’s mascot, someone who’s directly connected with the main antagonist similarly to the mystery inc series, but also a goofy spirit (and now dog) who’s appreciating life!!

velma is a seemingly distant and cold nerd, but also the first one who joins shaggy in his adventures after she learns that all the curses and mysteries of her town might be real. her knowledge and ability to think on the fly comes from her being a dnd player and, most importantly, a dungeon master, and out of everyone she’s by far the bravest member of the team. while a little snarky and with a lot of problems with social cues, she’s a smart and quick thinking young lady who’s happy to be part of a real adventure. and also has a girlfriend who may or may not be yet another monster since her being into criminals and monstergirls is a recurring trend now

daphne is part of the popular girls in school, but since we hate stereotypes she also has a reason to be popular other than “she’s pretty XD”. tiktok influencer and vlogger, she joins shaggy and velma almost by accident uhhhh i’d say 3 or 4 episodes into the series, maybe trying to start off a paranormal youtube channel, and eventually gets very close to them. the assigned people person, she knows everything about everyone in town and is generally very charismatic, but make her angry and she’ll make sure that you will remember with who you’re messing with.

fred, daphne’s boyfriend, is a member of the football’s team and the mayor’s son... and for “half” of the first season, he unknowingly acts as a minor antagonist, since i’d say. down with the politicians, the mayor is one of the bad guys, and with fred being a total himbo he accidentally works as his spy. eventually he finally understands that something is up with his dad, especially thanks to daphne who reminds him who truly cares for him, and eventually shaggy and velma too, with who he shares good memories of pretending to be detectives together and watching “that one weird show with the talking dogs and the kids looking for ghosts... goober or something!” he finally becomes the team’s wild card, the brawn and. yea i’d bring back his love for traps and elaborate schemes. he and velma become super besties after she tells him about her latest dungeon in her session

#scooby doo #velma #velma dinkley #daphne blake #shaggy rogers #scoobs #fred jones #my drawing #colored stuff

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siriusly-a-slut · 2 months

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New Feelings

Masturbation, pillow humping, kinda perv!sirius, padfoot watches you, innocent!reader

On summer vacation with the boys, you sigh and roll over on your bed, book in hand and chest resting on a pillow. Remus, James, and Peter have all gone to a shop in downtown Italy, looking for ingredients to make homemade pasta, claiming it’s the Italian experience.

You stayed home despite the beautiful city to read and spend some time alone, and although Sirius was also staying in the house, you knew he wouldn’t bother you. You and Sirius are of course friends, but you aren’t very close without the other boys. You close your book and rest your chin on your hands. Going out with the boys would’ve been less boring, you almost regret not going out to see the city.

You scooch yourself up on the pillow you’re laying on, only to feel a tingling feeling in your core. You move your hips back down, pushing the corner of the pillow into your legs more. You take a shaky breath in, your heart is beating a mile a minute and you look behind you to your wide open door. This feels so… wrong, but now you’re curious, and are desperate for the feeling to return to your core.

There’s a dog standing in the hallway, staring into your door. You jump a bit and stand up

”Oh I didn’t know James brought you on vacation…” you mumble, half to yourself and half to James’ shaggy black dog. You realize James has never even told you the dog's name, he usually just shows up places with James. You’ve never thought much of it, and you try to shoo the dog away, wanting to finish your business. The dog trots right in your room and walks in small circles before lying down right in front of your bed.

You have no choice but to leave him in, since he is making himself at home in your room. You close the door and lock it quietly, even though Sirius is on the other side of the house.

You climb back on your bed, and this time purposely spread your legs over the pillow. You drag your hips across the pillow, inhaling and exhaling deeply at the pleasure it gives you. You bite your lip and repeat these motions, soft whimpers falling out of your lips. You’ve never felt anything like this before, and your eyes widen as you feel your underwear get wet.

You furrow your brows and take your flimsy pajama shorts off, and pull your knickers down your thighs, seeing a damp spot in them. You touch it, and your thumb eases over the slippy substance easily. You bring a couple fingers in between your legs, and you feel the same thing.

Does this have to do with the tingly feeling? With you spreading your legs? You pull your panties up hesitantly, but feel way too hot to stop what you were doing. You don’t bother to put your pajama bottoms back on, and find that the absence of them increases the tingles you feel.

You start to pull your hips against the pillow faster, a bit more eagerly. You can feel more of the wet substance pooling in your underwear, and it makes you feel good, you want more, want to feel more. You’re so excited at this new feeling that you’ve forgotten about James’ dog on the floor.

He's watching you intently, but even if you turned around and looked at him, you would just think the dog is just curious about the movements. But in reality, he’s staring directly at your ass and getting a nice view of the damp spot you’ve created.

The quiet whimpers turn into louder moans, but not too loud, you don’t want Sirius to hear something like this and question you. You wouldn’t even know how to answer, because you don’t know what you’re doing yourself. You use a hand to cover your mouth and frantically move your hips up and down, opposed to the slow dragging movements.

You get saliva on your hand as muffled moans escape your mouth. Your lips part softly and you squeeze your eyes shut. You get really tired and slump gently onto the pillow, breathing heavily. Your hips move against the corner of the pillow ever so slightly, missing the feeling of the climax.

The dog jumps up on the bed and tries to stick his nose right between your thighs. You jump at the feeling and sit up, pushing the dog away off the bed you’re in. You stand up and open the door, the lock popping open as you turn the knob. The dog trots away quickly, and you shut the door again, changing your underwear and putting the pillow back in place.

Unbeknownst to you, in the hallway, Padfoot changes back to Sirius and his pants are painfully tight. He can’t believe he jumped up on you, he couldn’t contain himself. You were just so hot, so innocent and new to the activity you were doing. He shuts himself in his room quietly, his back to his door as he groans faintly and pulls out his cock, the image of you vivid in his mind.

#Sirius Black #Sirius Black smut #marauders smut #marauders era #marauders fanfiction #sirius black x reader #new writers on tumblr

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gracieheartspedro · 10 months

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I Can See You

fem!reader x dbf!joel miller

Hi friends! It's been awhile (:

I am back to writing! This time, I'm planning on having many parts to this story. It's a DBF Joel Miller story, which I love to read, which means I had to write it, right?

I wrote this with no Y/N, instead each character gives her a nickname/pet name.

So here's Part 1, I really hope you enjoy!

Word count: 2.7k

Warnings: DBF! Joel, age gap-ish (reader is 25, Joel is 39), eventual smut, joel being a little bit of a perv, reader not having a filter, alcohol consumption

“Mornin’,” His Southern accent was even deeper than usual. My head peaks up from behind my computer, noticing his very tired eyes. The bags under his eyes still somehow did him justice.

“Mornin’ Joel,” I mutter before taking a sip of my coffee. I watch as he finds his way towards my bosses office. He was only my boss at work, but at home he was just Dad.

I watch his ass move in his jeans, shamelessly.

Finding your coworker hot is one thing, it’s another when it’s also your dad’s friend and he was about 20 years older than you.

I’ve thought Joel Miller was quite the looker since I was about 18. I had just started working for my dad. I was mainly just scheduling and doing work orders. Joel took me out to a work site one day, on my father’s request. He wanted me to get know some of the people who would be scheduling work from us. I got to sit around with the property manager of an apartment complex in a tight black dress in the dead of summer, watching guys replace windows. While outside that day, Joel worked alongside some of the laborers, his tanned skin and shaggy dark hair glistening with sweat. Something about him doing manual labor turned me on. Something awoke in me that day, and ever since then, I thirst over him in silence.

I catch myself looking a bit too long, quickly averting my eyes to my computer screen. I act like I am typing something, glancing over to Joel and my dad walking out of his office together. They are discussing another project that Joel was overseeing that would keep him very busy in the upcoming months.

“My girl here will be starting back at college in the fall, so she will only be part time for awhile,” My dad says, drawing attention to me.

“Oh really, where ya going?”

I blank out completely for a moment.

“UT Austin,” I finally answer.

“Smart girl, you living on campus?”

“Nope, just getting my master’s in Engineering so living from home makes the most sense.”

Joel shakes his head, “Master’s. Didn’t you just graduate high school?”

“I’m 25, Joel.”

His eyes scan me for a moment, realizing I’m much older than he remembers.

“Ha,” He grumbles, “Time flies huh, Steve?”

“Sure does, you just wait for that Sarah of yours is off to college,” My dad laughs, slapping Joel’s shoulder. I wince, realizing again he has a young daughter. It wasn’t ideal, to say the least.

“We got about 5 years on that,” Joel says, his eyes returning to mine, “Well it’ll be nice havin’ you around during our busy season.”

“Happy to help,” I reply, not really meaning it.

“Hey, Joel, you and Sarah making an appearance at our BBQ this weekend? We invited the whole neighborhood and I can’t remember if you told me you’d be there.”

His eyes are still on me, “Yeah, I’ll be there,” his eyes return to my dad’s, “Just me and Tommy though, Sarah is goin’ over to a friend’s house.”

“Can’t wait!” My dad cheers, “Baby girl, can you make sure my schedule is cleared Friday evening so I don’t have to worry about when I can get the meat?”

“Of course, dad,” I grit my teeth, “I’m on it.”

“Hey baby girl, can you go grab me some extra plates?”

My dad was over the top with his BBQs to say the very least. The whole neighborhood was in on it. Steaks, burgers, hot dogs, chicken, the whole thing. I spent all morning getting the huge backyard and cabana ready for all our visitors. We usually had someone come over to do all the setting up, but Dad made sure to remind me that I was living rent free and being paid on his payroll, so setting up was the least I could do.

People littered the pool and backyard. I weave between people, giving smiles and welcomes where I could.

I walk in to the kitchen, the cold AC air hitting my bare arms. Luckily, I was wearing shorts over my bikini shorts, or else the goose bumps would be up and down my legs, too. I begin searching the cabinets for the large serving plates you always used for big gatherings. Leaning down, my triangle bikini top almost lets my boobs loose. I sit up straight, messing with the knots on my back. I knew tightening it could only help so much.

“Need help?” I almost jump out of my skin. I turn quickly, spotting Joel Miller standing in the kitchen with me.

“Shit, you fucking scared me,” I breathe loudly, patting my chest to make my heart stop racing, “I think I can get it.”

“Mhm,” He sticks a tooth pick between his teeth, “Lemme help, girl.”

God he was so fine. I hated myself for having a crush on him. But the domestic and simple gray t-shirt that hugged his arms so well and the blue jeans? I simply could not resist staring.

No chance in hell. But I got to look at him every day and imagine it.

I turn on my heels, holding the ties out to him so he could tie them.

“I need them tighter,” I mutter, “Don’t want these puppies falling out in front of the Adlers.”

“Don’t want to excite Mr. Adler too much, he may have himself a heart attack.”

I smile to myself, biting my lip. He ties it, his fingers grazing my bare back slightly.

“All good now, girl,” I turn to face him, looking up at him through my eyelashes, “Now what were you lookin’ for?”

“Serving plates,” I explain, “Dad is finishing up those steaks, needs more space.”

“Well let’s get ‘em and head out to all the fun,” He says, ducking down to the cabinet I was looking in originally. He finds them, handing them up to me. He looks so good looking up at me from this angle.

“You want to grab us some beers,” I suggest, “I’ll meet you out there?”

“Your dad runnin’ low?”

“Probably, so grab three.”

–

“So, you going to be here all summer?”

I had no interest in talking to Tommy, but he was keeping me from toeing the line with Joel in my drunken state, so here I am. I sit in my lounger chair, wanting so bad to take off my jean shorts. I knew if I did, Tommy would take it as I’m making a pass, so I sweat extra.

“I’m starting college in August, so yeah I’ll be around the office and staying home.”

He smiles, “Good to hear, love seeing you around.”

I smile back faking a cheery laugh, “Thanks, Tommy… care to grab me another beer?”

“No problem, sweetheart.”

I watch him walk away before searching the crowd for Joel. I spot him across the yard, talking to one of the newer neighbors. A single mom who moved in two months ago. My dad kept joking the other night that he’d be making her my stepmom, which only made me gag. She was beautiful, younger than my dad, but just about Joel’s age.

A pang of jealousy rises within me.

Joel finally catches my wandering eyes. He smiles gently, giving me a nod.

“Here, darling,” Tommy says sweetly, “Need anything else?”

“Yeah, actually,” Your brother, “Can you help me with something?”

“Sure, ‘s up?”

I sit up, leaning over making my boobs hang right in his eye line.

If I couldn’t keep one Miller’s attention, maybe I could snag second best. My beer filled brain thinks about how they are cut from the same cloth, so they both are probably good at this.

“Do you want to help me change a lightbulb?”

He raises his eyebrows, “I guess, where at?”

I smirk, “My bedroom.”

We sneak away, my eyes scanning the area. It didn’t appear as anyone was following us. My room was the last room on the left upstairs, so the anticipation as I guided him down the hallway was killing me.

Ever since Joel grazed my back earlier, I’ve been ready. So fucking ready.

“Are we actually changing a lightbulb?”

I open my door for him, gesturing to him to follow me in.

In the dim light, Tommy was very cute. He was a sweet guy and I knew he’d be the first to jump on my idea.

“You tell me,” I say, starting to untie the knot Joel tied. In my moment of trying to be sexy, I realize Joel tied the stupidest and hardest knot ever. Tommy notices my struggle, reaching around me, frantically trying to get the top off.

As it gets loose, I reach up to grab his neck.

“What the fuck is going on ‘ere?”

His voice freezes me. Tommy looks towards the door in horror.

“Joel-“

“Tommy, you fucking know better,” His voice is so intimidating and scary, I cant even muster the courage to turn around, “Git.”

Tommy gives me eyes saying I’m so sorry, and I just stare blankly at my wall. I hear Tommy’s foot steps run down the stairs. I realize how drunk I am because my wall paper begins to move on it’s own. It doesn’t usually do that.

“Now you,” His stride towards me is quick, “I’m not your Dad, but don’t think he’d like you fucking his employees.”

Maybe it was the liquid courage, “Who said I was trying to fuck him?”

I snap my head towards his stern and impossible to read face.

“Bullshit,” He spits, “He got through my knot, he assumed somethin’ was about to happen.”

“Well, even if that’s where it went, why are you putting your nose in our business?”

He chuckles darkly, “So now it’s ours, huh? I have you know, girl, Tommy’s business is my business. And you’re just makin’ my job hard.”

I tiptoe closer to him, “And what’s your job, again, Mr. Miller?”

“Make sure people are behavin’ themselves.”

I realize what he’s doing. My tipsy mind took a second to search his face for more, but I can't read him at all.

“I’m behaving, Mr. Miller. I promise,” I reach up, touching his jaw, “No more funny business.”

It was the closest I had ever got to him. I felt a rush just touching him.

“Good, get your top back on and come down to the party. Your dad is looking for you.”

I look down at myself as he leaves the room. My fucking tits are out, and he didn’t even look down.

The game he was playing was not the same one I was playing.

–

The next morning, I have a pounding headache and no drive to leave my room. I was embarrassed and horrified. I knew I would have to face Joel and Tommy on Monday morning, so I had to make amends beforehand. I really didn’t want them to tell my dad and I was pretty out of line for trying to fuck Tommy when Joel wasn't giving me the attention my drunk ass thought I deserved.

After spending hours in bed, rolling back and forth thinking of a script to say, I figured that honesty is the best policy.

Well, honesty with a little bend in the truth.

I get showered and dressed. My usual summer time outfit was a crop top and short shorts, but today I needed to be more… conservative.

I find a nice summery dress, that went to midthigh. It was yellow, not a lot cleavage, floral. Innocent.

When I get downstairs, my dad sits in the living room, his feet propped up watching the news.

“Where ya going, baby girl?”

“I’m going for a walk,” I lie.

“Wearing that?”

“Yes,” I nod quickly, “Do you need anything while I’m out?”

He shakes his head, “No, have fun, I guess.”

I could tell he was suspicious, but he wasn’t one to pester me too much. He had high expectations for me, but I always exceeded them. He never questioned me too much, unless it was about school. He didn’t even really care about my love life. He always got excited when I told him I was going on dates in college. I mean, I rather him be excited than bother me about the guys I was seeing.

I start my journey to Joel’s. I didn’t even know if he was home or not, I was going on blind faith.

It was hot as shit and I was not fully prepared to walk to his house in a dress and sandals.

I could’ve just driven there and back. But no, I decided to roast in the hot summer sun.

–

When I arrive to his house, I just kind of stand in his driveway, catching my breath. He was home, his truck was here.

I walk to the front door, knocking first then ringing the door bell.

It takes about minute, but he gets the door.

And he’s shirtless.

It was the worst and best moment of my entire life.

“What are you doing here?”

And it’s not quite the response I was anticipating when I arrived at his door.

“I uh-,” I hear some stirring inside the house, which causes me to peak my head past Joel’s shoulder.

I see movement, but my eyes find Joel’s again before I could focus in on it. He pushes me back a bit, coming outside and shutting the door behind him.

“I came to apologize, but you seem busy.”

He shakes his head, “Not busy, just woke up.”

“With someone?”

What the fuck? Why can’t I shut my mouth?

“Pardon me?”

“Well I walked this whole way to apologize about my inappropriate behavior yesterday,” I explain, “But yeah, that’s it.”

The door creaks open and I am wholeheartedly anticipating a hot MILF or something. But instead, it’s a little girl.

“Sarah, get inside!”

“Oh hi, I know you!”

I smile at the girl. She was cute, I had to admit. She looked a bit like Joel, mainly the smile. A smile I wasn’t too familiar with, because he wasn’t too keen on my jokes. Ever.

“Yeah, I work with your dad,” I explain, “Nice to see you, Sarah.”

“You too, do you want to have lunch with us?”

“Sarah she can’t st-”

“I’d love to, only if your dad says it’s okay.”

He got himself in a pickle, but I was aching to have a conversation that didn’t involve me putting my foot in my mouth like I almost did again. Plus, some food and water would help the heatstroke I felt coming on.

He stares at me, almost like he wished I’d disappear, “Of course, come in. Sarah is making sandwiches.”

“I hope you like turkey and cheese!”

—

“Thanks for the sandwich, Sarah,” I say, wiping my face making sure I didn’t have mustard left over.

She smiles with her mouth full, “You’re welcome!”

“Hey Sarah, why don’t you go get ready for swim practice,” He suggests, “Me and your new best friend need to have an adult conversation.”

She looks up at him annoyed, “I guess, but don’t scare her away. She has a cool pool I want to swim in.”

I laugh out loud, “Yeah, don’t scare me away, Joel.”

He doesn’t laugh, he just looks at me with his lazer eyes. I just wish Sarah a farewell and shut my mouth, waiting for the storm. He stirs, eating another bite of his sandwich.

“So you came to apologize, huh?”

I swallow, “Uh, yeah. I’m sorry for my inappropriate behavior. I had one too many yesterday.”

He nods, “Yeah you were practically falling out of that top of yours before you took Tommy upstairs. Surprised you didn’t have it off before then.”

My eyes widen, “Well that’s humiliating.”

“Don’t think anyone was particularly mad about it,” He says, “Maybe one of those neighborhood watch moms, but who cares about ‘em?”

I can’t help but smirk. Was he insinuating that he wasn’t mad about almost seeing my boobs?

“Yeah, they always give me the most disgusted looks when I’m out jogging.”

“Cause’ they miss bein’ young and beautiful,” He explains, “All their husbands stare, too.”

I can’t believe he’s talking to me like this, I find myself leaning in a bit to try to talk quieter. It seems like this is conversation we should be whispering to each other.

“Do you stare?”

Foot. In. Mouth.

He smirks, giggling a bit. I finally got to see him smile.

“Of course, I do.”

----

Hehehehe tell me what you think! I'll be back with part 2 soon!

#Joel Miller #Joel miller x reader #The last of us #Joel x reader #joel miller smut #dbf joel miller #age gap joel miller

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dmitriene · 3 months

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cw: comfort, maybe slighty hurt, leon in need of acceptance, dog poem references, hints on established relationship, kisses, markong, hints of possesive behavior, slighty suggestive, female anatomy, just a blurb pairing: older leon kennedy x fem reader

every action has a consequence, and an violent dog does not become violent on its own, does not bite an outstretched hand simply because it likes it, and does not defend itself by growling and pressing itself to the floor when you approach it — because she is not like this on her own, but because of the influence of society.

leon is much different from a wild street dog looking for food in the gateways and biting those passing by, he is different in that he does not bite the feeding hand, presses his muzzle to the warmth and believes in the fleetingly offered sparks of comfort, even if over and over again he will still be abandoned, broken by society, closed in on himself, drowned in oppressive darkness.

he himself licks his wounds, licks them with a flask of alcohol, trying to keep his distance, baring sharp teeth in fleeting aggression and dark humor, but time after time he still shortens the distance and allows himself to invade his soul again,to caress in order to deceive later, to instill false hope in an already matured dog, who remains a puppy inside.

you were the first to reach out to him in an attempt to soothe him, taking small steps to meet his exposed, sharp teeth and loud growls — from small gestures, be it a good morning wish, to slow touches, straightening the collar of his shirt when you notice that it is wrinkled, or his dark strands of hair, shaggy here and there, feeling a little harsh under the palm, and lepn doesn’t twitch, growl, or even bite, he just wrinkles his nose and looks at you through narrowed blue eyes.

he opened voluntarily, exposed himself to stroking touches, bit not in order to defend himself, but in order to express affection, mark you for the eyes of everyone else with a scattering of scarlet bite marks, somewhere yellowed due to the applied force, purple hickeys blooming along the line of neck and shoulders, left for show, and descending down to the partition of your breasts and in passionate, burning spots even lower, where his fingerprints remain on your waist, and on the inside of supple flesh on the thighs, where there a familiar marks again, a path leading to the wet petals of the bud, folds, tormented and swollen from his worship.

from that moment on, leon had a place where he could come and where he would be greeted with warm hugs, where his problems would lie as open wounds on his bleeding heart, each of which you would cover up, sew up, and kiss on top, making sure that by the time he leaves there are no and traces of past traumas, and he can’t help but stay with you forever, can’t help but return here again and again, knowing that he will be accepted here, that he’s not a violet dog.

#.𐙚july's writings #leon kennedy x fem reader #leon scott kennedy smut #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy smut #leon scott kennedy x reader #leon kennedy fluff #leon kennedy comfort #leon smut #leon scott kennedy fluff #leon scott kennedy x fem reader #leon scott kennedy comfort #leon scott kennedy x you #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy drabble #domestic leon kennedy #leon scott kennedy #leon kennedy blurb

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iamjacksragingboner · 4 months

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Overbearing Soap 3

Overprotective Soap gets sick, and is hellbent on making you do things for him: feed him, wash him, jerk him off, all the regular things people do for you when you're sick.

Part 2

Word Count: 2.6K

Warnings: Smut, hand fucking, jerking Soap off, dub con, you know the deal

A/N: Gonna be real with you, I've never actually written smut before. Shits difficult when you don't know what the fuck goes on. YOU'RE TELLIN ME THE PEENER GOES WHERE? Anyways go easy on me shawties.

You weren’t entirely sure when you got used to Johnny living with you, but you had kind of just accepted your joint occupancy at that point. You’d spied on Johnny’s laptop—apart from the various open porn tabs which you didn’t dare click on—his emails to the landlord, moving out of his apartment and putting his name on your lease as well. He hadn’t exactly discussed this with you, but then again, you figured Johnny never really tended to discuss any of his decisions with you; they just sort of happened, and you were just along for the ride.

There was a time where Johnny woke up with a fever, all sniffly and hot, yet shivering in bed next to you. “I swear, if you get me sick, Johnny, I will have your guts for garters,” you moaned, dragging yourself out of bed and away from the blubbering snot machine.

You were surprised and equally concerned to find that he didn’t have the strength to retort at all, instead settling for a groaning, almost whimpering noise, which wasn’t good in the slightest. You pressed the back of your palm to his forehead, and grimaced as it came away burning hot. “Alright,” you sighed, “let’s get you on the mend, big guy. I’m thinking a cold washer, some soup, and lots of water for you.”

You, of course, held true to your promise. You felt that you were obligated to—he’d practically bent over backwards to accompany you through your own healing process, whether you liked it or not. It would be cruel of you not to return the favour.

Johnny was not, by any means of the phrase,ba willing patient. He seemed to be outright adamant that he was a) not sick and b) able to take care of not only himself, but you at the same time. Of course, he had said this to you with his head in the toilet and you kneeling next to him, rubbing his back as he hurled once more.

“Honestly, Johnny, it’s fine,” you said, running your fingers through his now shaggy mohawk, as he rested his head against the seat of the toilet, eyes half closed. “You did the exact same for me, if not more; I’d feel bad just leaving you to fend for yourself.”

Johnny hummed, his eyes slipping closed as you scratched the back of his head. “Don’ want ye ta get sick, bonnie,” he murmured, “I’d feel worse than I do now if I did.”

You couldn’t help but sympathise with the man; he clearly cared a great deal for you, which at one point in your time spent together, confused you greatly. Why had this great big soldier that you didn't actually know all too well insisted on taking care of you, to the almost obsessive degree of moving into your home and following you around like a shadow, or guard dog?

You had to practically drag the man out of your kitchen and back to bed when you came home to him attempting to cook. You say attempting, because his eyes were half open, and he kept putting the knife down he was using to cut garlic to go blow his nose. He hadn't gotten very far in his cooking adventures.

"Lass!" he called, his voice pinched and nasally. "Go put yer feet up, 'm makin' soup for us!" His enthusiasm was punctuated by a rather loud, honking sneeze, and you grimaced at the thought of how much food he'd likely already contaminated.

"I'm good, thanks, John," you said, gently, reaching around him to grab the knife from his hand and put it down. Placing your hands on his shoulders—ignoring the way he seemed to lean affectionately into your touch—you guided him over to the couch. He would still be able to see you at work in the kitchen, which would satisfy his guard dog tendencies, and would be off his feet and relaxing, satisfying your own anxieties about the cleanliness of your kitchen. "You stay here and just chill out, I'll handle the cooking, honestly."

Johnny, a little affronted at being kicked out of the kitchen, and probably delirious, went to stand up. Within an instant, he was hit with a wave of light headedness, and stumbled into you. You were quite frankly amazed that you didn't crumble under his weight, as you guided him back down to the couch. You left your hands pressed against his chest for just a moment—in your mind it was a preventative measure to refrain Johnny from getting up again, feeling his pectorals was merely a side effect—before straightening up. "Stay," you said authoritatively, pointing at the sickly man before you for good measure.

You made the soup to the comforting sounds of the TV on low volume and Johnny's grunting little snores, tasting it every so often so that it was to your liking, but making sure to cut the onion up small—Johnny didn't like onions, the big baby. You left a bowl to cool on the counter for a bit as you tiptoed over to Johnny's sleeping form on the couch.

He looked so peaceful; curled around a cushion, one arm under his head, his lips parted just so, curls from his overgrown mohawk trickling down his face, eyelashes pressed against freckled cheeks, stubble covering those scars on his chin that you always thought about tracing with your fingers as you lay awake at night, listening to his snores.

You reached out longingly, a finger just barely brushing his chin before Johnny's eyes shot open, and he grabbed your wrist with a speed and force that made you cry out in shock. His eyes softened as he realised it was you in front of him, and he cooed, bringing your hand up to your mouth to kiss your knuckles.

"Ye scared me, bonnie," he whispered, and fuck if that groggy whisper didn't make your cheeks heat up. Maybe you'd caught his fever.

"Soup," you said simply, pointing to the dish on the counter. There was no way you were flustered. Absolutely none.

"Soup's ready, is it?" he asked gently, the words muffled by your knuckles still pressed against his lips. "Yer gonna have ta feed me, lass; I cannae feed myself, my arms are too weak, I'm too frail ‘n weak."

If you were in any right mind you would have called his bluff, given the speed at which he grabbed your wrist, but unfortunately you were too busy turning beet red at his lips still brushing against your skin. They were so soft. You had definitely caught his fever.

Feeding Johnny soup was surprisingly more difficult than you initially expected. This was mostly because while he kept saying he was too weak to possibly feed himself, he kept trying to grab the spoon from you to feed you.

"Johnny, don't!" you had cried out for what felt like the umpteenth time that evening. "You're sick and you've eaten off that spoon, that's so gross."

Johnny, seemingly unconcerned with possibly spreading his germs, shrugged and continued to try to force feed you soup, even adding plane noises to further entice you. It was, in fact, not working. "Ye need sustenance, let me feed ye, bonnie."

"What happened to not wanting me to get sick too, hmm?"

"Changed my mind—we die together like men."

Once you had finally managed to feed the sickly goblin of a man, it was time to put him to bed. This also meant breaking the news to him that you would not be sharing the bed that night.

"Whaddya mean?" Johnny asked, incredulously. "Who am I supposed to hold when I sleep?"

You sighed, hands on your hips like a tired mother. "A pillow or something? Look, Johnny, it's just one or two nights, I'm sure you'll survive."

Somehow you managed to get Johnny to agree, and you went and slept on your lumpy little couch. It was a little colder without having the living radiator sleeping next to you, but you managed.

You woke up the next morning with your arm hanging off the couch, with someone holding it. Peeking over the edge of the couch to look, you were greeted with Johnny's sleeping face once again, your hand held in his, pressed to his mouth. You had to physically restrain yourself from crawling down there and wrapping yourself in his arms, instead choosing to gently release your hand from his grip.

"Johnny, I'm sorry, but you reek—you need to step like three more steps away from me or have a shower, like pronto." Johnny had pressed himself against your back as you worked in the kitchen, having no real concept of personal space even when ill.

Johnny huffed and puffed like a petulant child, refusing to step back from you. "Been so weak though, bonnie, cannae wash myself. Might need ye ta wash me."

"I am not going to wash you."

How you ended up in the shower with Johnny, both of you more naked than you'd like, you'd never know. All you knew at that current moment was Johnny asking you to wash his dick.

"It's not gonna bite ye, lass, ye dinnae need ta worry."

"That's actually not what I'm worried about, Johnny."

You had already washed the rest of him, his skin covered in soap suds, and you were absolutely not enjoying the view. Definitely not.

'Just do it, it's for a good cause, I'm sure. He helped you, just return the favour! It definitely isn't weird, and is very normal actually. Nurses do it all the time!'

Mustering up what little courage you had, you reached down with a sponge and began to wash his lower stomach, gradually working your way down bit by bit. You made it your mission to not look at it or Johnny, keeping your eyes trained instead on the wall beside you.

"What good are ye gonna do starin' at the wall? Gotta look where yer scrubbin, lass." With a heavy hand on the back of your head, Johnny guided you to look down, directly at his dick. This definitely wasn’t doing anything for you. What was worse, was that it was pointed directly at you, twitching any time the sponge got just a little too close to it.

"You're hard."

'Nice going, captain obvious; got any other astute observations up your sleeve?'

"Well, it's a very normal bodily function, lass, nothin' ta be afraid of. Though the view I've got certainly isn't helpin' things."

If you weren't uncomfortable with the situation before, you most certainly were now. It didn't help that you were definitely going to have to dig through your drawers for your vibrator after this. For unrelated reasons that definitely weren't related to Johnny's dick.

"Fine, fine, fine, let's just get this over with." You ran the sponge across his length, stopping immediately when he grabbed your wrist and hissed.

"Not with the sponge, lass! Steamin' bloody Jesus, are ye tryin' ta kill me? Use somethin' softer!"

Unless you counted the toilet scrubber, you didn't really have any other cleaning implements in the bathroom at your disposal. Johnny seemed to notice your hesitation and grabbed the sponge with his other hand, dropping it on the floor of the shower.

"Ye can just use yer hands, love; nothin' wrong with that."

Plenty wrong with it, actually, according to you, especially with that sweet tone his voice had adopted to guide you. But, it wasn't like he was going to let up any time soon. You held your breath as Johnny steered your hand along his dick, not bothering to question the fact that he could suddenly use his hands again, instead keeping your attention glued to your hands. He guided your hand to its base, and you ran your fingers through the curls in some sort of attempt to keep this strictly professional. You were here to clean. Nothing else.

Of course, you could only do so much to the hair at the base of his dick, there was still the elephant (dick) in the room to consider: would washing his dick for him essentially be like jerking him off?

You got your answer pretty quickly in the form of the grunt he made as you finally began to properly wash his dick, your hand, covered in soap suds, gliding up and down its length. In all fairness, there wasn't really any way to wash his erection that didn't bring him any pleasure. It was just incredibly awkward.

You huffed. "I'm not washing your dick if you're going to make sounds while I do it. It's clean enough." You let go, letting it twitch and throb at the absence of touch, and Johnny whined.

"I cannae leave the shower all pent up like this, bonnie," he groaned, taking a step towards you, his dick moving with him. You tore your eyes away in exchange for looking him in the eye. Horrific mistake on your part, the combination of wet curls and those kicked puppy blue eyes was a double whammy—you'd do anything those eyes told you to. "I cannae deal with it myself..."

"There's no way I'm doing that."

"Please, lass, ye cannae leave a poor, sick man hangin' like this."

"I can and I will."

"Please..."

"... Fine."

You knelt before the man, a little uncertain about the position, but eager to get it over with—Johnny seemed eager too. It seemed that the minute your hand even grazed his aching dick, he was buckling in the knees and holding the walls of your shower for support. The tip of his dick wept petulantly, beads of precum dribbling from the slit, only to be wiped away by your thumb.

You weren't a prude, you'd slept with people before and you knew what you were doing, it was just... a little weird to do this with someone who was essentially your roommate. Who slept, pressed against your back in the same bed as you. Who held you hand any chance he got. Who grew jealous of any man who spoke to you. You were starting to think it was a bit of a stretch to call him your roommate.

"Come on," Johnny whined, wrapping his hand over yours and thrusting into it, impatient as ever. It was mesmerising, the way the head of his cock, pink and weeping, glistening in the shower lights, would peek through your closed fist and retract again, Johnny grunting above you, his eyes closed and head thrown to the ceiling. "Fuck, been waitin' for this, bonnie. Yer hand's so soft."

You didn't respond, stuck between feeling turned on and horrified. Johnny was fucking into your hand with unbridled enthusiasm, and you were there for moral support, you supposed.

"Ye look so good on yer knees for me, lass, so pretty for me."

At least he was nice about it. You didn't mind all that much, you’d decided. It wasn't like you had a particularly bad view either, staring up at Johnny's naked form, water trickling down his hairy chest, down his stomach and into his happy trail. Big blue eyes stared down at you longingly, raking across your body as if you were his and his only.

With a grunting moan, Johnny came, white hot ropes dribbling down your forearm as he thrust into your closed fist, his hand tightening around yours. With a shuddering sigh, he sank to his knees in front of you, and laced his fingers around yours. Bringing your hand up to his lips, you were met with the familiar sensation of Johnny kissing your knuckles, his eyes never leaving yours. You were left in silence.

"Thank ye, bonnie," he murmured against your hand, staring at you through his lashes. "I'll pay ye back, I promise. Let's get ye cleaned up, aye?"

#john soap mctavish x reader #john soap mactavish #soap call of duty #soap cod #soap x reader #johnny soap mactavish #johnny mactavish x reader #soap mactavish x reader #john mactavish #john mactavish x reader #johnny soap mactavish x reader #soap x you #johnny mactavish

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netherworldpost · 1 year

Text

It is not that I think Daphne Blake is brave as much as I know of the sheer god killing power she would summon should anything happen to her girlfriend or boyfriends or dog.

Velma Dinkley? So very clever, able to see the edges of space-time. If something were to happen to her girlfriend or boyfriends or dog, I wouldn’t so much as fear Velma’s personal abilities, as I would be terrified of What she would find, what she would offer, in return to annihilate her target. There is no price so high as to be out of her reach and no Thing so wretched she would hesitate to make a deal.

Fred Jones is a pillar of human strength and mercy beyond comparison, a champion of mortal humanity. Pushed to the point of retaliation, should something happen to his girlfriends or boyfriend or dog, and you would be facing the very limit of human ingenuity. It is the very definition of cosmic hubris to underestimate the shape of terror this should bring.

Shaggy Rogers, I will simply say, has a full awareness of what lay Beyond and has the good sense to be afraid. That depth of knowledge can only come from having traveled to places darkness itself fear tread, and yet he has survived, navigated, returned. And you think you could? Should something happen to his girlfriends or boyfriend or dog? You think you could hide, when faced with his wrath, you think there is Anywhere you could go and be safe? Out of his reach? Ever again?

Scooby, I save for last, for if you were to harm his family, he would save you for last. As in, you are the last thing in the universe, and the completion of his revenge being the last act anything, anywhere, endures. The totality of existence, the completion in the equation of “what is suffering,” would be your name.

#Scooby #Scooby Doo #velma dinkley #daphne blake #fred jones #shaggy rogers

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cranberrymoons · 7 months

Text

lovers that bless the dark

prompt: fall (@steddieholidaydrabbles) rating: t word count: 734 tags: meet-cute, love at first sight, fluff, and one very cute dog 🍂🥰 title from "autumn in new york" by billie holiday because i am cliché

It happens on a Saturday afternoon in the park, when the air is crisp and the sun is golden and the leaves are swirling on the path underfoot. There’s a saxophone playing in the background and there are kids running through the field to their left, and in front of the fountain, Steve Harrington is meeting the love of his life.

It happens all at once, without anything to tell him it’s happening. Just – a dog breaking free from a leash and a frazzled owner chasing after it and paws crashing into his chest and nearly knocking him back into the cold water from where he sits perched on the stone ledge.

He catches himself with a hand braced on the dog’s back, fingers pushing into shaggy black fur, and he looks up when he hears a shout.

“Sorry!” the man is yelling as he hurries over. He looks exactly like his dog: long dark hair, big brown eyes, slightly flustered and very uncoordinated. “Shit, sorry, he doesn’t normally do that.”

“What, tackle people?” Steve asks, because – honestly.

“Yeah,” the guy says. He laughs, a little awkward, a little apologetic. He reclips the dog’s leash and tugs him out of Steve’s lap. “Or – you know, run away in general.”

Steve looks up from where he’s brushing loose hair and pieces of dried leaves off his jeans.

“This is Ban,” the man says belatedly, nodding at the dog. “He’s also very sorry.”

Steve frowns a little as he reaches down to scratch the top of the dog’s head, and the dog lurches forward eagerly, nose pressing into his knee.

“Hi, Van. You’re forgiven.”

“With a B,” the man says. “Ban. It’s short for Bananarama.”

“You –” Steve laughs, squinting up at the man through the flare of afternoon sunlight. “You named your dog Bananarama? Do you have a cat named George Michael?”

“John Mellencamp, actually,” he says. “I call him Mel.”

And Steve can’t actually tell if the guy’s joking or not, but he’s smiling, big and wide and endearing, and Steve feels something take flight in his chest, warm and soft and comforting as a mug of hot cider.

(This is the falling in love at first sight part, and looking back on it, he’ll know; in the moment, he knows nothing other than wanting to be closer and closer and closer to that feeling.)

“I’m Steve,” he says, and then he dips his head down to pretend he was directing it at the dog. “It’s nice to meet you, Bananarama.”

The man makes a small noise of mock outrage and tugs on Ban’s leash. “I can’t believe you just full-named my dog.”

“Well, he is technically in trouble,” Steve says. He scratches Ban under the chin. “For the jumping and the running away and the almost knocking me into dirty fountain water.”

He watches the guy’s face twitch, eyebrows skating up toward his hairline as he lets out a little laugh, which Steve returns. He realizes belatedly that he’s been smiling through this entire interaction, enough that his face hurts with it a little, and he rakes his teeth over his bottom lip.

“The fountain is clean, actually,” the man says. “We just did a community clean-up day last weekend, so.”

“Oh, well in that case,” Steve says. He tucks the book he’d been reading back into his bag. “I guess I have nothing to complain about. Who wouldn’t want to be knocked into a clean fountain when it’s fifty degrees out.”

“Exactly,” the man says. Then, as if he’s only just remembered – “I’m Eddie. By the way.”

(And this moment, the one where he reaches down to help Steve up, and Steve’s hand slides into his for the first time: this will enter their relationship lore, along with the dog and the book and the fountain and the park itself. It will become one of those things they tell their kids fifteen years from now – he grabbed my hand, and I just knew, just like that . And he does know, sort of: he knows that Eddie’s fingers are calloused, and that makes him curious; he knows that his skin is warm, and that makes him linger; he knows that they fit together, and that makes him want to hold on.)

“Hi, Eddie.” He smiles, pulling his bag onto his shoulder. “Want to buy me a coffee?”

[also on ao3]

#steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #steddieholidaydrabbles #my fic

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sapphire-writes · 1 year

Text

an ego thing ~ modern!Aemond x Reader

summary: Tensions rise in class when you're paired up for a group assignment. warnings: 18+ (exhibitionist, p in v, fingering, daddy kink, slight degrading, choking, some brat taming), language, jealousy, possessiveness word count: 2.1k note: our academic Daddy & academic baddie are back! Alexa, play "Jealous Girl" by Lana Del Ray, enjoy my loves!

“I’m pairing you up for this assignment,” your professor says, “count off by fives.”

You roll your eyes. If there’s anything you hate the most in college, it's group work. Sometimes it's okay, if you can choose who you’re working with or if it's a class you have with Baela. Otherwise, it’s a massive pain.

You count off reluctantly and know you won’t be paired with Aemond since he’s planted in his usual seat beside you.

It’s your 8 am history lecture and he still looks amazing. With his usual coffee cup, dark grey sweats, and a black t-shirt. That long hair hanging freely down his back, eyes sparkling and alive with academic anticipation.

Daddy.

FUCK. You’ve got to stop this. It’s getting embarrassing how down-bad you are for him. Chill out.

“Alright, pair up, find your numbers,” your professor says and you groan.

You hold up two fingers, waiting for whoever joins you. You meet Aemond’s eyes giving him a tentative smile. He smirks slightly holding up one finger.

“Guess you’re my partner,” the voice of Harper Tully startles you, and you look at her.

“Oh, okay sounds-”

“Oh sorry Y/N,” she says smiling awkwardly, “I meant Aemond.”

Your mouth drops in embarrassment, cheeks flushing.

“Right, sorry, my bad,” you tell her.

She smiles, taking the seat next to Aemond.

“No worries,” she says, beginning to take out her laptop.

You can’t help but notice the blush that covers her cheeks, nearly matching the deep auburn color of her hair. An uncomfortable knot forms in your stomach.

“Guess I’m stuck with you,” a voice says, sighing dramatically.

You turn to see Luke Velaryon standing near your desk, a lopsided grin on his face and his hair shaggy as though he had just run his hand through it.

“Hey Luke,” you return his smile as he claims the desk next to you.

Your professor has outlined the assignment clearly, it doesn’t seem too difficult, and certainly nothing you cannot manage. But Luke Velaryon seems more interested in talking about anything but history. Not that you can blame him. You find yourself staring across the room at Aemond and Harper.

She’s pretty, like, really pretty as she twirls that auburn hair around her finger, biting her lip as Aemond speaks. Who even bites their lip like that in real life? What is this a porno? What is she doing? And what is he doing?

Aemond is focused on his work, like the top student he is, not sparing a glance your way. At least not that you notice. You and Aemond are exclusive, this is something you’ve discussed, but besides your recent date, you haven’t shown the two of you are together outside the privacy of your dorm rooms.

Unbeknownst to you, Aemond is unnervingly aware of the proximity you have to Luke Velaryon, the giggle he elicits from you when he says something stupid. Fucking stupid ass Luke Velaryon is definitely not that funny. Aemond grinds his teeth together as another giggle escapes you.

The minutes drag by and you find yourself staring at the clock as you and Luke finish early. Luke’s a nice enough guy, he’s pretty sweet telling you stories about his dog Arrax he loves so much. At least it takes your attention away from Harper Tully touching Aemond’s arm, grazing her foot against his calf.

“Alright, any groups want to share what you talked about?” your professor asks.

Aemond’s hand moves upwards, beating you by just a second. Your professor nods at him. You barely hear him speak, crossing your arms.

“Well said, Aemond,” your professor tells him, “Anyone else?”

You can feel Aemond’s eyes on you, but you refuse to look. Clamping your mouth shut, you grind your teeth. Your professor glances at you, as though expecting you to answer. Not today.

You’re fuming by the time your professor tells you to turn in your papers and ends class for the day. You leap from your seat and slam the paper down at the same time Aemond turns in yours.

With a huff, you avoid his gaze, immediately leaving the classroom. Other students follow and you power walk trying to put as much distance between you and him as possible. You’re irrationally angry, watching Harper flirt with him has sent your stomach turning, your heart pounding against your ribcage. You’re halfway down the hall, already having rounded the corner when a hand grabs your arm.

“You running away from me?” Aemond asks, tugging you against the wall and out of the sea of students who are switching classes.

You yank your arm away from his, crossing them over your chest.

“I hardly thought you’d notice, what with Harper’s hands practically down your pants,” you snap before you can stop yourself.

Aemond’s eyes widen, and his mouth is set in a hard line. Your mouth turns into a pout when he doesn’t answer.

“That’s what I thought,” you tell him, as Luke Velaryon rounds the corner.

His eyes flicker between you before he smirks.

“You forgot your backpack,” he tells you pointing behind him.

You left so fast you’d forgotten it.

“I would have grabbed it but…actually, I don’t know why I should have just grabbed it,” Luke tells you frowning.

“It’s fine,” you tell him, pushing by Aemond and heading back into the class.

You open the door to the empty classroom, the professor already gone. You stalk over angrily to your bag, shoving the contents inside. You hear the door open and watch Aemond enter, leaning against it. You scoff, turning away from him.

“Bet if you hurry you can still catch her,” you call, zipping your bag.

“Who?”

“Harper.”

You sling the bag on your shoulder and walk towards him. He blocks the door perfectly, fitting in the entire doorway. You’re so pissed you simply glare at him.

“Move,” you tell him.

“No,” he snarls.

“Aemond, get out of my way,” you growl at him.

“Gods when did you become such a brat?” he snaps, glaring at you.

Your mouth drops open in shock.

“Excuse me?” you harshly whisper, cheeks red, mortified by the name-calling.

Aemonds’s eyes graze you, looking you up and down. He reaches behind him, flicking the lock on the classroom door, before bringing his hand to the back of your neck, dragging you closer. Your bag falls to the ground as you’re pressed flush against him.

“When did you become such a brat?” he repeats before crashing his lips against yours.

The kiss is punishing, as he thrusts his tongue into your mouth, swallowing a moan he elicits from you as his hand grips your hair, yanking it hard. His other hand grabs your waist, turning you and pressing you against the door. Aemond lifts you up, and you instinctively wrap your legs around his waist as he pushes you into the door.

“Like you weren’t flirting with Velaryon,” he groans, digging his fingers into the meat of your thighs, moving his lips to your neck, “Right in front of me.”

Aemond sucks harshly on the skin of your next, eliciting a whimper as you tangle your hands in his hair.

“I thought you were smart,” he says against your neck, moving to nip at your collarbone, “not a very smart decision baby.”

You growl, frustrated with him, and yank at his hair harshly.

“You were fucking flirting with Harper,” you accuse.

“Don’t be stupid,” he says harshly, wrapping a hand around your throat, “I wasn’t flirting with Harper Tully.”

“You were,” you insist as he grinds his hips into yours.

He lets you go, and you stand on shaking legs. Aemond’s hand remains wrapped around your throat as he pushes his hand into your leggings, underneath your panties. He sneers at you, sliding a finger through your wet folds.

“Luke Velaryon get you this wet?” he taunts, sinking a finger inside of you.

“Fuck.”

“Answer me.”

“Fuck you Aemond.”

His hand moves to hold your chin, angling it so you’re looking at him.

“That’s no way to speak to the guy you were calling Daddy the other night,” he growls, relentlessly with his fingers.

You can hear the sound of your wetness squelching against his fingers, biting your lip as his palm grazes your clit. You flush with embarrassment, but hold your tongue as you come closer to your orgasm. A whimper slips through your lips and Aemond kisses you harshly.

“Ah ah ah,” he says, pulling away from your mouth, and your pussy, “you don’t get to cum that easily. No fucking way.”

You whine at the loss of contact as Aemond fully releases you. He kisses you again, hands on your waist moving toward the desk at the front of the classroom. Spinning you around, he pushes you against the desk, effectively bending you in half.

“Aemond-”

“You’re going to take it,” he says gruffly, pulling down your leggings, “right here, right now. I don’t care if the whole fucking school hears you.”

He kisses your asscheek as he makes his way back up, a sweet gesture compared to his sudden roughness. You hear his belt unbuckle as a chill of anticipation rolls through you.

“We can’t do this here,” you whisper, though it is half-hearted at best.

You can’t help but feel thrilled by his need to take you now. Take you here of all places. You can feel the tip of his cock spreading through your folds as he runs his head through them. You whimper as he smacks his cock against your clit.

“Too bad,” he says, his tone mocking, “should have thought about that before mouthing off to me.”

You’re ready to mouth off again but the words get trapped in your throat as he slides his cock inside you. The stretch is incredible, the angle allowing you to take him deeply, just like the first night in the library. A garbled moan leaves your lips as he begins to pound into you. One hand on your hip to aid his merciless thrusts, the other holding your neck, pressing your torso against the desk.

Your legs tremble with the force of his thrusts, every stroke sending waves of pleasure through your frame.

“Where’s that mouth, huh?” Aemond asks, slapping your ass with his hand.

“Aemond,” you mean, “Aemond please.”

“Poor baby,” Aemond croons, not stopping his thrusts for a moment, “getting all worked up over nothing.” Another slap to your ass, leaving your cheeks stinging.

You whimper as he continues, amazed at his ability to reduce you to a whimpering mess. His hand snakes around your chest then, pulling you up so he can kiss your neck.

“Fuck-”

“You’re all mine,” Aemond growls, biting harshly on your ear, “tell me, who really made you this wet?”

“You did,” you gasp, “You Aemond.”

“Soaking my cock in our fucking classroom, dirty girl,” Aemond purrs, “you want to come?”

“Please, please let me come,” you beg, abdomen tight, on the precipice of pleasure.

“Who makes you feel this good?” he asks.

“You,” you whimper, “you Aemond.”

“What’s my name?” he asks, and you can hear the smile in his voice.

Your cheeks flush, and you feel his hand reach down to play with your clit.

“C’mon say it,” Aemond taunts, “or continue to be a brat, and see what that gets you.”

He pinches your clit as he finishes his sentence and you cry out, lost in the sensations of pleasure and pain.

“Please let me come Daddy!” you whimper.

“Good fucking girl,” Aemond moans, fingers circling your clit.

It takes only a few moments before you’re trembling against him, orgasm washing over you. Aemond unsheathes himself from your warm cunt and you turn instinctively, dropping to your knees. You take him in your mouth in one fluid motion, bobbing your head and swirling your tongue, tasting yourself on his thick cock. He holds your face and you let him fuck your throat, gagging as he finishes.

Aemond helps you to your feet, and you look at each other, disheveled and wide-eyed. You grab your leggings putting them on quickly as Aemond pulls up his pants. You glance at the door.

“I don’t want to go out there,” you tell him and he chuckles.

“Let me check,” he says heading to the door.

He flips the lock as you remain frozen, opening the door and peering out. Aemond turns, smiling.

“Must be no next class,” he tells you.

You sigh in relief.

“Thank goodness,” you tell him, grabbing your bag.

Aemond smirks at you.

“All better?” he asks.

You frown.

“Shut up,” you tell him.

He raises an eyebrow.

“Do we need to continue?” he asks, “I thought you were a quick learner, but if you need another lesson…”

“I do not!” you tell him, flushing, “and I have another class.”

“Let me walk you?” he asks.

You bite your lip looking at him. Aemond Targaryen. He fucking did it again. He smirks like he’s reading your mind, and holds out his hand. You take his hand in yours lacing your fingers through his and walk out of the classroom together.

NOTE: Happy Monday! Hope you enjoyed! 💖

AET taglist: @ephemeralninon, @aemonds-wifey, @haydee5010, @schniiipsel, @sweetsweetpsyche, @letmeloveyouuuu, @glitterandgoldfinds, @greenowlfactif, @vrtualfairy @fan-goddess @let-love-bleeds-red @praline357, @castellomargot, @f4ll-for-you, @fairysluna, @namelesslosers, @pax-2735, @yentroucnagol, @rwdkarla, @itsabby15, @sweetsweetpsyche, @stickycrusadecollective, @sweetniasblog,

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unmotivatedwrit3r · 6 months

Text

One in Eleven Million (ch. 6)

damian wayne x reader x jon kent

(A/N): So I think this ends up being ten chapters? I'll try to post more frequently; I've tortured you all long enough haha. Though I'm hoping to get a couple different things out in the next couple of weeks, so you'll get more from me, just not always of this.

As always, masterlist linked here.

warnings: air travel, turbulence

wc: ~1300

Damian turned from where he was watching you continue your project to face Jon. He pulled off his zip up sweater, tugging down the sleeve of his long sleeved shirt to hide the bandages Jon did at the hotel earlier in the morning, before passing it over to Jon.

“Here.” Damian nudged him. “For the sunglasses.”

Though he could feel your eyes on the back of his neck, Damian ignored you for now, taking his sunglasses back from Jon’s outstretched hand. In the corner, Jon curled into a ball, head tilted against the wall and face buried in Damian’s sweatshirt. Damian watched him for a moment, chest tight. No matter how many times he’d been through this with Jon, it didn’t get easier seeing him in pain. Jon flicked him a thumbs up and Damian relaxed, turning back to you. Overhead, the safety announcement came to a close.

“He’s okay?�� You asked, eyes fixed on Jon. Your arms, already wrapped around yourself, tightened. Damian nodded, eyes straying back to his left for just a moment before returning to you.

“He will be, once we get up in the air and away from the chaos of the airport.” He tipped his chin at the project left abandoned in your lap. “How long have you been doing that?”

“Oh a couple of years maybe? I’m not sure exactly. Do you,” you hesitated. “Do you do some kind of art? And you read Arabic, right? I saw the book you were reading last night.” Damian’s eyes scanned your face. You looked nervous, though genuine, and he found himself not minding the questions. It felt more like curiosity than idle small talk. He hated small talk.

“I do. And speak it.” Your eyes lit up.

“Cool,” you breathed, smiling. “I’m not great at languages but I would like to be fluent in a few one day. And art?”

“I draw,” Damian revealed. “And paint.” He fought to keep from mirroring your smile.

“That’s awesome. I write a little bit, but only as a hobby.”

“Really? About what?” He asked genuinely.

“Whatever I get motivation for I guess? I wish I had a better answer but I just like it.”

“Doing things for liking them is an answer.” Damian could almost see you mulling the words around in your head. He took the moment to observe your features up close: beautiful eyes and an unexpectedly striking smile.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“I know.”

Your startled laugh tore the last of his self restraint down. Damian’s face split into a grin.

The two of you spent the next while talking about everything and anything. You shared your reasons for being on the plane at all, your favorite color, your other hobbies. In turn, he showed you pictures of his art, his cat and dog, and gorgeous shots of Gotham at sunrise. He had a lot of pictures of him and a brown man with shaggy dark hair and bright blue eyes. In the recent pictures, Damian began to overtake him in height. “My oldest brother,” Damian offered when you asked.

“You’re the youngest?” He nodded.

“Of several. I am one of the tallest, though.”

“Oh boy,” you laughed. “I bet your older siblings hate that.”

“They do.”

And then there were the pictures of Jon. Jon by himself or with Damian’s pets, Jon captured in Damian’s art, and Damian and Jon together.

“Where was this?” You asked. In the picture, Damian was standing on a pathway covered in a dusting of snow, bundled up and on crutches. Jon, in a blue zip-up and jeans, was making a snow angel on the ground in much deeper snow beside him.

“A few winters ago. In Gotham.”

“I remember that snowfall” You thought back to the remnants of a Mr. Freeze plot. Following Batman’s intervention, all that was left was a snowy cold front. “But mostly I stayed inside and caught up on work during the snow day. And watched too much TV.” Damian huffed a laugh.

On his other side, small snores emanated from the pile of denim and red fabric. Jon didn’t wake when the flight attendant came around with snacks. Damian accepted Jon’s pretzels for him.

“How long have you two known each other?” You asked, some time in. Damian looked over at Jon. The lights in the cabin were dim, and both boys were bathed in shadow.

“A decade or so, now,” he said. Then, a little quieter. “He’s my best friend.”

“You’re a good friend Damian.” Your eyes followed his over to Jon. He looked smaller than you’d ever seen him, all 6ft something curled up in an economy airplane seat. “He’s lucky to have you.“And I know I don’t know you guys that well but I can tell he’s a good person. And that you’re lucky to have him too.”

Damian didn’t argue.

“I am.”

Two hours in, Jon stirred, pushing the hood off his head and blinking slowly.

“Hey,” he mumbled. Your breath caught unwittingly in your throat. Jon’s voice was rough and his hair was mussed from where it had been smushed underneath his hoodie. You curled your fingers into your palms, resisting the urge to push back a curl that had dropped onto his forehead. Jon rubbed the backs of his hands against his eyes, dislodging his glasses. “Did I fall asleep?”

“Morning,” you managed. Some part of you was surprised you managed to get out any words at all, much less in a tone that wouldn’t pass for a squeal.

Damian took his sweatshirt back from Jon’s offering hand. “Feeling better?”

“Yeah,” he said, attempting to stretch while crammed in a seat with no legroom. You just watched, chest squeezing pleasantly. Damian was watching similarly. What am I doing? You wondered to yourself. He’s not yours, neither of them are.

“You needed the sleep,” Damian said beside you. Jon snorted out a laugh.

“Thanks Dames,” he said dryly.

“Always.”

You wrenched your attention away from the boys, turning your phone over in between your hands. It was too late, you knew. You were already attached. But this was a plane, a vehicle to get you from place to place. There was no reason they would be any different, just a passing point in your life. Selfishly, you hoped they might be more.

A tap on your shoulder from Damian brought you back into the conversation.

“Huh?” Two sets of concerned eyes were watching you carefully. Your eyes met green then blue for only a moment. “What’s up? I zoned out for a moment, sorry. Tired.”

Damian looked like he wanted to argue with you. You hoped he wouldn’t; you might have only met him the day before, but you had a feeling he’d figure it out anyway.

“Do you know how far we are?” Jon asked instead.

“Oh sure I can check that one sec.” You opened the airline map on your phone. “About an hour and a half away.” The little airplane icon on your phone screen placed the plane somewhere above the Chicago area. “See?”

“Oh that’s cool!” Jon said to Damian, taking the device from you. “Kinda looks like the thing your dad has for my dad.” There was context you were missing, you assumed. Damian huffed a laugh.

“It’s a similar technology.”

“What do your dads do?” You asked them.

“He’s a journalist,” Jon offered.

“Businessman.” Damian’s lips quirked up. “Family business.”

That did not clear it up for you whatsoever. You snapped your mouth shut on any follow-up questions at the jump of turbulence. Your shoulders stiffened instinctively for a moment before you relaxed back into your seat. This wasn’t your first batch of turbulence and it probably wouldn’t be your last. Damian didn’t seem shaken. Jon, though, looked terrified, one hand gripping Damian’s wrist and the other tapping furiously against his thigh.

“Is this normal? On commercial planes?”

“Sometimes,” Damian assured. “The pilot warned of turbulence earlier.”

“They usually come over the loudspeaker when it happens, just to reassure people.”

Your prediction came true with a crackle of the intercom.

“Just an average bit of turbulence folks. All numbers are still in the green, so no need to worry. As a precaution, the seatbelt signs are going back on so please stay seated if possible.”

The pilot’s voice seemed to reassure Jon. You, for one, were tired of hearing it.

#damian wayne x reader #damian wayne x reader x jonathan kent #damian wayne x reader x jon kent #damian wayne imagine #damian wayne x gender neutral reader #jon kent imagine #jon kent x gender neutral reader #jon kent x reader #OIEM series #emerson writes sometimes

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black-amortentia · 4 months

Text

Under the Mistletoe with Sirius

Sirius Black x Auror!Reader (HP era) | Warnings: Mainly just fluff, hints at a past relationship between Sirius and reader, barely proofread

Summary: Sirius Black was spending Christmas on the run, and a visit from an auror is not the gift he wanted. Luckily, it's not just any auror. Will a close call reunite him with an old friend?

“Well, well, well... What do we have here?”

You stood in the alley, hands on your hips, staring down at your quarry. His grey eyes turned to you, wide with fear as you made yourself known. The shining auror bagde on your chest caught his eye.

“Whatever am I going to do with you?” You continued, drawing his eyes to your face.

Sirius Black, the most wanted man in the Wizarding world, stood slowly, gaze fixed on yours.

“Auror L/N,” He said quietly.

You closed the small distance between you. Holding out your hand, you lifted an eyebrow. “Come on, then.”

Sirius sighed, his hand landing in yours.

You pulled him into a hug, his arms coming around your waist to embrace you in return.

“Y/N... It’s good to see you.”

“What are you doing here? You’re lucky it was me that ran into you and not someone else.”

“One of the houses in this village used to be part of the Order. Thought I’d see if it was still free.”

“Sold last month, actually. New owners moving in soon.”

“Really lucky I ran into you, then,” Sirius grinned.

“Oh, please, Sirius, luck had nothing to do with it,” you told him with a shake of your head. “I volunteered for this shift.”

Sirius’s brow furrowed in confusion. “You did? Why?”

“I thought you might feel a little nostalgic. Or don’t you remember that Christmas the two of us spent holed up in that house you mentioned?”

His lips curved into a playful smile. “I could never forget that Christmas, Y/N.”

Sirius laid a hand on your shoulder. “I often wonder what might have happened if one Christmas wasn’t all we had.”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “So have I. Too bad the war got in the way.”

There was a moment of quiet between you, shared looks of longing, what-ifs heavy in the air. Finally, you cleared your throat. “We should get you out of here before you’re seen. This way.”

“We’re just going to walk?”

“I’ve got somewhere you can lie low for the night,” you told him. “Just around the corner. The whole village should be in church.”

As you walked down the lamp-lit street, Sirius grabbed your hand and pulled you toward a lamppost decorated with mistletoe.

“Really?” you asked with a laugh.

“You know mistletoe means you have to kiss me, right?” he teased, leaning in close. “It’s bad luck not to.”

“Is that so?” you murmured, your heart skipping a beat at his nearness.

“Absolutely,” he whispered, his eyes dancing with mischief. His hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin. “Just a quick kiss...”

You tilted your face up, lips parted, memories dancing in your mind.

But just before your lips could meet, a quiet chatter of voice floated down the street and you jumped out of Sirius’s arms.

“I hear voices. Get down!”

Sirius ducked behind a nearby garden wall, slipping into his dog form in a fluid motion. You leaned against the lamppost, looking nonchalant but alert, like any good auror on patrol.

An elderly couple strolled past, headed for the church. You nodded politely, and they smiled in return. It seemed to take several agonizing minutes for them to get out of earshot, but that was probably just your impatience.

When the coast is clear, you turn to look for Sirius. “That was clo- ah!”

As you looked for the shaggy black dog, the ice on the lamppost and the ice under your feet conspired to send you sprawling onto your back, knocking the wind out of you.

You blinked up at the light above you, the sprig of mistletoe seeming to laugh at your plight. You felt the weight of two paws on your chest before Sirius’s canine head appeared in your vision. He cocked his head at you, then leaned in and licked your cheek.

“Get off me, you mangy mongrel.”

Sirius changed back into a human, still pinning you down. “Mangy? I’m insulted!”

You laughed at the look on his face. “What are you doing, anyway?”

Sirius glanced up. “The mistletoe, remember? Going to risk that bad luck?”

“Well, we need all the luck we can get, don’t we?”

Sirius’ eyes glinted playfully as he leaned down, his cold nose brushing against yours. His lips captured yours in a gentle kiss that soon deepened, his body pressing against you. Your fingers tangled in his shaggy hair as the kiss left you breathless. When you finally broke apart, his eyes were dark with desire.

You moaned softly, and Sirius raised an eyebrow. “Someone sounds eager.”

“No, there’s a rock in my back,” you groaned.

Sirius chuckled as he got to his feet, holding out a hand to help you up. “One close call is probably enough for tonight. I should get going.”

When you were back on your feet, you didn’t let go of his hand. “Don’t spend Christmas alone. Come on, it’s just a few doors down.”

He leaned around you to count the houses. “But that’s… I thought you said someone bought it.”

With a jingle, you pulled a set of keys from your pocket. “Oh, didn’t I tell you about the new owner? It’s got protections and charms that would even impress Dumbledore. Come on. One night.”

Sirius’s face breaks out into a grin as you pull him down the lane, watching for threats. “Maybe this time, it can be more than just one Christmas.”

“Yeah,” you said. “Maybe it can.”

#sirius black #sirius black x reader #sirius black x you #sirius black x y/n #sirius black fanfiction #sirius black fic #harry potter fanfiction

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minaturefics · 1 year

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Once More (With Feeling)

Prompt: Faramir invites an old friend back to Minas Tirith

A/N: It's a little different, just slightly, to how I usually write. It's a rollercoaster, and it's long, so get yourself a hot beverage and prepare yourself for 6k words worth of brainrot.

Faramir x Reader

Fem reader

No content warnings

6.2k words

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You paced the lavish sitting room, throwing irritated looks at all the doors. Faramir was a busy man, you knew, but he had always been punctual. With a groan you sank into the cushioned bench and stared out of the tall, pointed windows.

Minas Tirith had changed since you were last in the city as a girl. Gone was the heavy atmosphere, the distant encroaching darkness on the horizon, The Dead Tree, its gnarled branches cold and bare, the darkened halls, haunted by Denethor’s bitterness.

The city had thrived under the new king’s rule and the new steward’s management. The white stone glowed in the sunlight, vines grew across walls and flowers blossomed in window boxes, there was chatter in the streets and laughter in the halls.

It was no mystery then, why Faramir wrote to invite you back into the city, now renewed and reborn. No, the mystery was why he wrote to you at all.

You had only known him for a year, more than ten years ago. Just two young teenagers, bickering with each other over readings while the tutor tried to calm the both of you. He had been a scrawny thing then, growing taller, but not broader. Not quite a man, like his brother was growing into, not quite a boy, like the other children in the Citadel. His hair too, had been at an awkward length, shaggy around his ears, falling about his forehead and into his grey eyes.

But while Boromir might have been the bolder of the two back then, when it came to academics, Faramir was just as eager. He had been relentless in his pursuit of knowledge, hounding the tutors and dogging the librarians, and, more than once, your spirited debates with him had drawn a small crowd of curious onlookers in the Citadel. There was even a time where you had to race him to the library to get your hands on some coveted book before he did.

But perhaps, the most infuriating thing about him was his kindness.

How he would smile softly after an intellectual argument, as though consoling you, if you had lost, or congratulating you, if you had won. How he would share his notes with you if you had missed lessons, or gift you with chocolate in return for a peek at your own writings. How he would walk you back to your rooms after classes, showing you shortcuts and asking about your day.

How he had offered you his handkerchief and wiped your tears away the night before you left the city with your uncle.

Your heart clenched and you blinked yourself back into the sitting room.

There were voices in the corridor now, and hurried footsteps. You stood and straightened yourself, smoothing the creases in your dress and schooling your features into something neutral.

The door swung open and a man walked in.

He was tall and broad with the build of an archer, with steady legs and strong arms. His light brown hair fell in gentle waves to his shoulder, and his beard was short and well-trimmed. You took in his sharp jaw, his pink lips, his face, handsome, noble, familiar somehow.

His grey eyes sparkled in the late afternoon light and a jolt shot through you.

Faramir.

You stared at him and his barely-there smile grew.

“You’re late,” you blurted.

His eyes widened in shock before he shook his head and chuckled. “And I was told you arrived early.” His voice was low and rich, inviting and warm.

Faramir. This man was Faramir. Solid, handsome, real.

“You have my apologies,” he continued. “There was a meeting that ran over. I did not intend for you to wait so long for me.”

“It’s no matter, I was just admiring the city. A lot has changed.” You turned away from him, scolding your racing heart and chastising your rapidly flushing cheeks. You sucked in a breath and straightened your spine. It was just Faramir.

He came to join you by the window and you kept your eyes fixed on the plains beyond the buildings. “Your letter surprised me,” you said. “I hardly thought I ever crossed your mind.”

A laugh escaped from him, short and sharp. “You’re still the same.”

Your head snapped towards him and you narrowed your eyes. His easy, unfazed demeanour rankled something in you. “It is quite a slight, being told one hasn’t changed in so many years.”

Did he still see you as that awkward, graceless girl? Someone who had not filled out her dresses yet, who made ill-timed comments in conversations, who battled with her skin, her hair, her sharpening mind and her rapidly fading childhood.

He blinked at you, jaw agape. “I did not mean… I simply meant…” He laughed again and gave you a rueful smile. “Forgive me. What I should have said, I suppose, is that I am glad to see you again.”

That strange, foolish feeling was rising in you, like you were fourteen again and you had said the wrong thing at the dinner table. You fought the urge to cross your arms and you nodded slowly. “I am glad to… to be back. Thank you for your generous invitation.”

The words felt strange in your mouth. So formal and distant. Polite. You gestured woodenly at the view. “My uncle would have been pleased at how well the country is doing.”

“I am sorry to hear about your uncle.”

“It has been a few years now.” You hazarded a look at him. His eyes had melted into something soft. You forced yourself to hold his gaze. “I am sorry about your father and,” your breath hitched, “and Boromir.”

“Yes,” he said, voice low. “It has been quiet in the Steward’s House of late.”

Your chest constricted and you wanted to reach out, to lay a hand on his arm, to say, I too have been left alone by all who loved me.

He cleared his throat and nodded at the door. “Has anyone shown you to your rooms yet? I thought that the one on the second floor, that faces east, would be best. But if you’d prefer your old room, I’m certain we can —”

“No.” You swallowed and flashed him a smile, burying the discomfiting feeling. “I mean… No, thank you. I’m sure what you have prepared will be suitable.”

A bell tower somewhere chimed the hour and he grimaced. “I’m sorry but I have another meeting, the last of the day, in a few minutes. Would you be happy to join me for dinner? It would not be anything formal. We could even dine outside, if the fine weather holds. There is so much I wish to discuss with you.”

It was jarring to hear those words coming from Faramir’s lips. Invitations to dinner were something said between two adults, not adolescents.

But you were no longer fourteen, and Faramir was a man now. A friend.

A stranger.

“Yes, dinner outside would be lovely,” you said. “I look forward to it.”

He broke out into a wide smile. “I shall send someone to show you to your rooms, and please, if there is anything you should require, just ask.”

“Of course, thank you.”

He reached out and took your hand, large fingers enveloping your own, and gave it a light squeeze. “I shall see you in a few hours.”

He withdrew with a smile and closed the door behind him.

You stared at your hand for a moment, heat rising to your cheeks, before scowling and scrubbing it against your dress.

The evening breeze swept through the open doors and the candles on the table flickered. The temperature had dropped with the sunset, and in the end Faramir had settled for dining in one of the rooms that opened up to a courtyard. Trees rustled and crickets chirped and music from another part of the Citadel drifted over the walls. The warmth from the lit fire licked at his back and he belatedly wondered if he should have offered you the warmer seat instead.

Faramir caught his eyes wandering from some vague spot behind you to your face again. You were focused on the last bit of roasted meat on your plate, cutting it into dainty pieces before lifting it to your lips. He let his eyes trail over your hair, braided and pinned, to the softness of your cheek, the angle of your jaw.

When he had seen you that afternoon he could scarcely believe his eyes. He did not expect you to stay the same, of course, and yet… the sight of you, grown, beautiful and striking, made his pulse jump.

Where was the girl he had known? Who had picked up her skirts and clambered up walls with him, whose quick wit had both frustrated and delighted him? Was she gone, suppressed by etiquette lessons and laced up gowns, washed away by time and tempered by misfortune?

But then you had opened your mouth and bluntly stated his tardiness and he couldn’t help but laugh. No, your spirit was still unchanged, your fire still undimmed.

You looked up and his eyes skittered away. His palms grew clammy and he exhaled. Valar, he was acting like a silly boy, sneaking looks at you across the table, filling his mouth with food instead of conversation.

“What is the matter, Faramir?”

“Nothing.” He smiled.

You had an inquisitive look on your face, half-curious, half-challenging. The same sort of expression you used to wear before launching into an argument. “You were looking at me.”

Heat started to creep up his neck and he dropped his eyes back to his nearly empty plate. “I was just thinking.”

He heard your intake of breath and he prepared himself for an onslaught of words, ready for the cajoling comments and prodding persuasions that you always used to coax him to speak.

Instead, he heard the clatter of cutlery and he looked up to find you arranging your fork and knife at the side of your plate. You glanced towards the open door and, something in that small action, so intensely familiar, made the words tumble from his lips.

“Would you like to go on a walk?”

“I…” Your astonished look morphed into one of suspicion. “How did you know?”

“You used to walk after meals, if I remember correctly.”

“I didn’t think you noticed.”

He noticed. Of course, he noticed. Boromir had once pulled him aside, warning him that if he did not get his looks and glances under control, their father might start getting ideas for future marriage matches. He had wondered if your uncle had realised this and that was why he had whisked you off to the family estate back in North Lebennin when autumn arrived once more.

In truth, Faramir never found out the reason; he was never told, and he never asked.

He grinned and stood. A walk would be good. Dinner had been pleasant, with the usual, banal questions asked and answered. Proper and polite. A far cry from shared smirks and ceaseless chatter you once shared with him. Perhaps some movement would ease the atmosphere. “Shall we walk? Is there any place you would like to see first?”

You paused for a moment, biting your lower lip, before a sly smile crept onto your face. “The old lookout tower. The one that overlooked the Houses of Healing.”

“I do hope you won’t chase me up it. I do not think the excitement would agree with the food we just ate.”

“I won’t.” You looked out at the courtyard then back at him, eyes now dancing with mirth. “Are you becoming old and decrepit?”

“More like sensible and wise.” He walked over to the hooks by the door and reached for the two cloaks that hung there. “Here, you are welcome to borrow one of mine. It is cold out.”

He offered you the thicker one and watched as you ran your fingers over the soft wool before throwing it around your shoulders. It fell past your feet, pooling on the floor, and the sight of you swathed in his cloak stirred something in him.

He led you out into the courtyard and then onto the open ramparts. Hundreds of little lights flickered in the city below. It was quiet, save for the distant bustle of the kitchens and the rustle of the guards shifting on their feet. The wind carried your perfume to him and he inhaled the sweet scent of lilies.

“I have always wondered,” he said, “why you left Minas Tirith.”

“My uncle was worried about me growing up in court. I think he wanted to avoid any pressure that might have befallen me. Marriage offers and gossip and the kind.” You looked away, towards the plains. “I was sorry to leave, but I am glad that I had gone.”

His heart dropped. Had he been selfish? Writing to you and asking you to visit the city when you were clearly happy out in the country? Had you not thought of him once in all the years? He swallowed. “Does it bring you pain to be here?”

“No, not at all.” You shook your head and laughed, and his shoulders relaxed. “I simply meant that I think he made the right decision. It might have been a little boring, but I grew up unrestrained.”

“I do hope you will enjoy the excitement of the city.”

“The change of scenery is refreshing. And I will confess that a break from my responsibilities back home is welcome.”

He noticed then, the shadows under your eyes, the weary tinge in your smiles.

Yes, the both of you were no longer children.

The old, crumbling tower neared and your steps quickened. You paused at the base of the steps, throwing a mischievous look over your shoulder, before vanishing up the stairs. He chuckled and hurried after you, taking the steps two at a time. “You said you would not race me!”

“I said I would not chase you up it!”

He caught sight of the edge of his cloak and the flash of deep purple silk underneath it as he rounded the corner. “So you’ll have me chase you instead?”

Your laugh echoed in the narrow stairwell. “I have no doubt that you’ll catch up. You were always the faster one.”

“And you always the cheater.”

“It is called levelling the playing field.”

The gap between you and him rapidly narrowed, and as the both of you emerged at the top, his hand closed around your shoulder before he could stop himself. You turned, flushed and giggling, eyes alight. Laughter rose in his chest and he chuckled, breathless and buoyant. “You’ll get me into trouble. Like before.”

“Faramir, you are the steward. There is no one to get in trouble with.” You grinned at him before striding towards the merlons. “In any case, I have no plans to lob mushy apples from here so you need not worry about disgruntled guards and unfortunate citizens.”

“I always have to worry about disgruntled guards and unfortunate citizens. It is no easy feat, running a city like Minas Tirith.”

“I can imagine.” Your voice was soft, sympathetic.

He strolled towards you, and you glanced behind at him, shadows from the flickering torches dancing across your face. Your eyes were intense, searching. Valar, he could never stand to hold your gaze when it was like this. It was as though you saw through him.

“Faramir, why did you ask me here?”

He shoved his hands into his pockets, feeling boyish and clumsy. “I was… clearing some of the rooms in the Steward’s House when I chanced upon our old classroom. I found one of your old essays.”

“A beastly thing, I’m sure.”

He slowed to a stop beside you, close enough that your cloak fluttered against his legs when the wind blew. “It was rather good, actually. I’m certain you would have made a valuable advisor if you had stayed in court.”

“Well,” you scoffed. “I do not think the court missed us much when my uncle and I left.”

“Boromir and I did.”

“You did not write.”

“I was not certain I was allowed to. Father refused to tell me anything, and then there were other matters. Training, classes, scouting missions.”

He felt a pang in his chest. In truth, he had thought of you over the years, but there were always things to attend to. His father’s growing resentment, his strange prophetic dreams, city matters and trade routes.

The War.

It had been a sleepless night when he had wandered the empty halls, opening old doors and peering into neglected rooms, when he stumbled upon the old classroom. It was still and dusty, books stacked by the window and sheets of paper on one of the tables, abandoned as though someone intended to come back, but never did.

He had been hit with an intense loneliness, a hollowness, an aching.

When he had seen your familiar scrawl on the sheets of paper, along with an unflattering sketch of the tutor, the memory of your playful smile flashed into his mind. And then there was a comforting warmth in his chest, and then for the first time in weeks, he had laughed.

“Faramir,” you said, and he shook himself out of his thoughts. “I am sorry I did not write either.”

“It is no matter.” A smile tugged at his lips. “We are here now.”

“Faramir, if you wobble the ladder I will drop these books on your head.” You gripped the polished wood with one hand and clutched a stack of books to your chest with the other.

“If memory serves, you were the one who had a habit of rattling stools and ladders.”

You glared down at him, scoffing at the grin on his face. He was leaning against the shelf with his arms across his chest, relaxed and languid. That night on the tower had shattered the stiffness between the both of you, and the last week and a half had been filled with nostalgic adventures.

Between his duties, Faramir had shown you the changes in the Citadel, walked with you to the markets and shops, even challenged you to a slingshot contest which he won. There had been dinners on balconies, and picnic lunches in gardens, and midnight snacks in derelict towers.

He had told you about his experience in the war. His heartbreak at finding Boromir’s cloven horn, the near-fatal Osgiliath charge, recovering in the Houses of Healing. And you told him how you had to manage the family estate, the scramble to build temporary houses for the refugees, how many of them chose to settle and work the land instead of returning to the ruins of their villages.

He had smiled at you in that soft way you knew, had given you the unbroken strip of apple skin he peeled, had discussed new theories and topics with you by the light of the fire.

“Are you coming down?” Faramir smirked at you. “Or are you going to add to that dangerously heavy pile in your hands?”

You shook your head and started down the ladder, feeling the rungs with your feet.

The library was empty, the librarian having gone home for the day. Light rain pattered on the windows and a fire crackled somewhere in the room. The library, of all places, had remained the most unchanged. There was something comforting in that, in the musky smells of books and paper, of the plush chairs and rickety stools.

As you neared the bottom, your foot slipped, misjudging the distance to the floor, and you stumbled. Instead of hard stone, you were met with a firm chest at your back and a hand on your waist.

Had Faramir always been this warm and big?

“Are you alright?”

You felt the rumble of his chest, his breath by your ear.

His hand, large, heavy, burned through the thin silk of your dress.

“Yes, thank you.” You stepped out of his touch and fumbled with the books in your arms, rearranging them into a neat stack. Valar, what has gotten into you? It was just Faramir. You shoved the books into his arms and turned away. “Next time you can go up on the ladder.”

“I think I would flatten you if I fell.”

“I’ll be sure to step out of the way.” You forced a laugh and wandered down the aisle. You heard him follow after you, his steps slow and steady.

How could such a simple thing affect you so? It was not as though you were so wholly inexperienced; there had been one or two sweethearts in the past, though most of them were short lived.

Had there been anyone for Faramir? Some pretty thing with a perfect education who could recite poetry and embroider and dance?

Your stomach churned and the twisting feeling in your heart squeezed the traitorous words up your throat. “You know, I am surprised you have not found a partner yet. I would think that the offers must be pouring in.”

“Why would you think such a thing?” He was closer now, just behind you, and you could hear the dismay in his voice.

“The maids, they love to gossip.” You laughed, but it sounded hollow to your ears. “I spoke to a couple of them when I went down to the kitchens two nights ago.”

He fell in step with you and you glanced at him. There was a small smile on his lips but his eyes looked clouded. “There have been offers, yes, but I have declined them all.”

“Unable to find a suitable one?” You arched an eyebrow at him.

“It is not a question of suitability. There is no need for me to choose a partner for their station or standing. Such things never mattered to me, even more so since my family’s passing. I would much rather have someone’s genuine love and affection.”

Of course he would say something of that sort. You smiled to yourself, heart warming at his words. They would be lucky, whoever he loved.

The rain fell harder against the glass and thunder rumbled. You glanced at the window, a memory coalescing in your mind. “Is the little alcove still here? The one behind the curtain?

Faramir grinned and inclined his head towards the back of the library. “I believe so, though it has been some years since I have sat in it.”

He led you to the back of the library where a narrow velvet curtain hung in the corner. He drew the fabric back to reveal a cosy space with a wooden bench built into the wall by the window. The lantern that hung from the low ceiling was dusty and unlit.

You padded over to the bench, bending and inspecting the corners. “It is still here,” you breathed, tracing the two sets of initials carved into the wood. “I cannot believe it.”

He leaned over you, so close that you could inhale his scent. Sandalwood and something, paper perhaps, or mild soap. “So it is.”

You looked up and Faramir’s face was mere centimetres away. Were there always so many yellow flecks in his grey eyes? And his lips… did they always look so soft and inviting?

All you would have to do would be tilt your head, and your lips would connect…

You stepped back and waved stiffly at the lantern. “Shall we light this? We could read here. If you’d like.”

He glanced at the narrow bench. There would be no doubt that the both of you would have to be pressed up in some way to fit.

“If you would like. I think there are might be some oil on the librarian’s desk, and a lit candle, I could —”

“I’ll go.”

You turned around and marched away, pressing your hands to your hot cheeks when you were safely hidden by the shelves. You took a breath. It was just Faramir. You would find the oil and the candles and sit and read with him, and think nothing of lips or kissing or how solid he had felt behind you.

Faramir was in a hell of his own making. Truly, it had been all his fault. For the first time, he cursed his gentle nature. If he had chosen not to speak and steered you away from the instrument shop…

How could he have forgotten that he was not the only friend you had made in your youth?

Elphir, the boy, no, the man who made lutes and drums had been one of them as well. And how could Faramir have denied you when you had lit up at the sight of the old shop and nearly tripped over your feet rushing to the door? And when you had asked if Elphir could come to the Citadel in the evenings to teach you how to play, he could not find it in himself to refuse you, even as discomfort settled deep in his stomach.

In some fantastical lapse of judgement, or perhaps in some foolish notion to watch over you, he had offered the sheltered courtyard below his sitting room to you and Elphir, and now music drifted into the room. Teasing, taunting, tormenting in the way it would mingle with your laughs.

He strode over to the window and slammed it shut.

For five evenings now, you had rushed off after dinner to Elphir, returning to your rooms after your lesson without seeing him. The pot of tea you usually shared with him in the evenings sat unfinished and cold on the table each night. Faramir sagged against the stone pillar and stared up at the vaulted ceiling. If Boromir was alive, he would call Faramir a fool and insist that he go over and chase the man away. But what right did he have?

He was not your lover or your partner, and even if he was, it would be unreasonable to get upset over you spending time with another, especially for something as innocent as music lessons. Faramir was your friend and…

He was your friend.

His breath hitched as the thought rippled through his body. Somewhere in the past three weeks he had forgotten that.

When he had written to you, inviting you to the city, he had only planned to reconnect with an old friend. Someone who got along with him, who understood what his family had been like, who was not a soldier or a subordinate.

He did not intend to be run away with his feelings.

He had grown used to you in the Steward’s House. Your shawl was draped over a chair, the table was always laid for two, you wished him goodnight in the evening before you retired. He had even considered clearing the set of rooms next to his own for you so that you did not have to walk through two corridors just to visit him.

But alas, you were not his.

“Faramir!” You burst into the room with a wide smile on your face and he startled. You slowed your steps, tilting your head and lowered the arm that held your lute aloft. “Is something the matter?”

He shook his head and tried to smile. “I was just deep in thought. How was your lesson?”

“There is something I want to show you.” You wandered over to the cushioned seats by the fire. “Will you sit?”

He nodded and sat in the lone arm chair instead of sharing the bench with you. Your brows creased for a moment before you shook your head and positioned your hands on the lute.

A haunting melody began to fill the room. It was simple, no more than five or six notes that changed subtly every few bars. It tugged at something in his mind, a dream perhaps, or a memory.

A woman humming, a gentle hand on his cheek, the comforting scent of beeswax.

“My mother,” he whispered, frozen where he sat. “She used to sing this to Boromir and me. To get us to sleep.”

Your playing petered out and you looked up at him. “You used to hum it when we were younger, when you thought no one could hear.” You laid your lute to the side. “Elphir taught me the basics of playing. I taught myself the song. In the night, after my classes.”

He felt the corners of his eyes start to burn and he glanced away. How could he not love you now?

“I am sorry, if I shouldn’t have —”

“Please do not apologise. I…” He shook his head and dabbed at his eyes. “ She would be happy to hear these rooms filled with her music once more.”

You came over to him and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder, your thumb soothing the tension in his muscles with its idle strokes. His eyes focused and unfocused on the decorative ribbons on the bodice of your dress. The crackle of the fire and the rhythmic sound of breathing filled the space between your bodies. He felt your hand drift towards the side of his neck, your thumb just grazing the edge of his jaw, and he slowly, slowly looked up at you.

Your eyes were soft and half-lidded, your lips slightly parted.

He did not dare move, did not dare breathe.

“Faramir.” He shivered at the sigh in your voice. “I—”

A knock sounded on the door and you jerked away from him. Cold air replaced where your heated hand had been.

A muffled voice came through the door. “I have your tea, sir.”

“The tea,” he muttered, rising to his feet. “Would you like to…”

“It has been a long day,” you said, snatching up your lute and striding to the door. “I… Goodnight.”

You flung the door open and he heard the startled squeak of the maid followed by the rapid patter of your footsteps.

You slammed your room door shut behind you and leaned against it. Your breaths came short and quick, chest heaving and skin searing.

What had you almost done? What words were going to spill from your traitorous lips?

It was just Faramir.

Just… a friend.

You shook your head and slumped to the floor. There was nothing decidedly friendly about what had just passed between the both of you. And… and what? What could possibly happen between you and him? You had an estate waiting for you in Lebennin, there were people who needed your instruction and leadership. And Faramir was the Steward of Gondor; the people needed him as well.

Your trip to Minas Tirith was supposed to be nothing more than a visit to an old friend. You had forgotten yourself. For so many years you had run the estate on your own, had resigned yourself to quiet meals in the day and lonely nights in the study. There was no time, no place, to entertain such ridiculous notions like love.

And yet…

You stared at your hands, hands that had held him for just a moment, had felt the coarseness of his beard and the beat of his heart.

Want burned in you.

Want for his lips, his hands. For his gentle smile, for his joyous laughter. For a permanent seat at the table, for space on his shelves for your books.

Faramir stared at the tea tray on the table. Two cups, two saucers. A full pot of tea.

He stroked the side of his jaw, his own fingers feeling indelicate compared to your touch. There was no mistaking the look in your eyes, desire mixed with tenderness. Perhaps it was not so ridiculous to think that you might return at least a fraction of what he felt for you.

His stomach swooped and a strangled laugh burst from him.

But was it just a flash of fancy, borne from the moment? A reckless action in the dim of the night?

Were you going to slip from him, retreat back into your shell of polite distance? He would not be able to bear it, to hear your stilted words, to have you shrink away from his casual touches. To have you vanish again, taking your laughter and your light away with you.

Should he go to you? Would that be impertinent? But he had lost you once before with his inaction, and only a fool would not learn from their mistakes.

You tugged the borrowed cloak on your shoulders closer around you. It smelled like Faramir, like sandalwood and that evasive something, ink perhaps. Mist had descended on the Citadel and drifted across the parapets like sheer curtains. Your steps were soft on the stone and you wandered from torch to torch, veering closer for warmth, roaming further for the cover of shadow. The guards paid you little attention, and the stars overhead twinkled unbothered.

Twice you had tried to walk to Faramir’s room, twice you had turned on your heel and fled back to your rooms. In the end, your room had become stifling and you rushed out into the open air.

Your blood had cooled and, now in the starkness of the open night, you felt foolish.

You paused by the old watchtower, leaning on the cold stone and staring down at the Houses of Healing. You would apologise when you saw him next, and then perhaps it was time to return to the family estate…

Muffled footsteps approached and you turned.

Faramir emerged from the mist, still in his day clothes, his hair mussed and his eyes tired.

“Faramir,” you whispered, arms falling to your sides. You opened your mouth to speak, but your rehearsed speech refused to leave your lips.

He came to a stop in front of you, a disarming smile on his face. “Somehow, I am not surprised to find you here.”

“Were you looking for me?”

He nodded, and amusement coloured his smile. “I suppose, in a way, I have always been looking for you.”

“Is there something you wanted from me?”

His twinkling eyes grew serious. “I wished to speak to you.”

You turned away, suddenly unsure, but his hand reached for yours. His thumb caressed your knuckles and you lifted your eyes to him. “What about?”

“I think you already know.”

You swallowed and tried to speak, but the words stayed lodged in your throat, and your eyes fell to your joined hands.

“I have never been good at disguising my feelings,” he said, voice soft and low. “I am sure you must be aware…”

Aware? Aware of what? His feelings? That he only viewed you as a friend, and that perhaps you had taken advantage of his kindness, mistaken it for affection and…

His fingers skimmed your chin, gently urging it up. His grey eyes were alight, burning almost, with an open passion so rarely seen in him. You scarcely dared to look away. Your heart pounded in your ears.

“Perhaps I have always loved you, even before I realised what that word meant. I was too young, too naive.” He cupped your cheek and you leaned into his touch. “But we are older now. And I can say for certain that I… I —”

You surged forward and pressed your lips to his. They were pillowy and soft and carried a trace of bitterness from the tea. He deepened the kiss, pulling you flush against him. You laid a hand on his chest, fingers splaying across his heart. He sighed into your lips, his exhale hot on your skin. You felt him grin and you nudged his nose with yours.

“I think,” you muttered, “I have wanted to do that for a long time now.”

He laughed and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “You are welcome to do it any time you wish.”

“Faramir, why me? And after so many years since we last saw each other.”

“Can such a thing truly be explained?” He hummed to himself. “I suppose the simplest answer I can give is that you bring me joy. And perhaps also, I think we make good partners. We have always made good partners.”

You sobered at his words. “Faramir, we are not children anymore. My estate… I cannot leave it unmanaged. And I have neglected my duties already these past weeks.”

“We will find a way,” he assured. “It is only a full day’s ride from Minas Tirith, is it not?”

“Less, if one has a good horse.”

“Less, I think, if you had the reins.” He chuckled. “We are not children anymore, yes, but that only means that we can truly do as we wish. As we choose.”

You mulled over his words. “And you would choose to have a busy bride, to have to make trips out to the country with her?”

“I choose to have you.” He stroked your cheek. “And you, my love? What would you choose?”

“I choose, I think,” you said with a smile, “to remain where I have always belonged.”

“In Minas Tirith?”

“With you.”

He grinned and wrapped his arms around you. He laughed into your hair and you tucked your nose into his neck. You inhaled his scent, thinking of the unknown, familiar note in it that always eluded you. Thinking of how it smelled like rain and books, of apple peels and bitter tea.

Thinking of how, perhaps, it smelled like home.

---

If you made it this far, holy shit thank you for reading.

I characterised Faramir a little bit differently here. I think I have a tendency to conflate kindness with passivity when it comes to him, but I think he can be pretty intense if he wanted to be.

And also, I feel like this entire piece is tinged with the bittersweetness of growing up, but I hope that it veered more sweet than bitter. To you young'uns out there, truly, I promise you, it is not terrible to grow up ❤️

Taglist: @sotwk

#faramir x reader #faramir x you #faramir x y/n #lotr fic #lotr fanfiction #lotr fanfic #faramir

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