#The quiet snowfall (Asks) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

whatsnewalycat · 6 months

Text

Once in a Blue Moon

One Shot // Dieter Bravo x HotelStaff!F!Reader

Description: You're the only person working when a Christmas blizzard rolls into town and snows you in with a notoriously difficult guest, Dieter Bravo.

Rating: E (Explicit 18+ Only)

Word Count: 12.9k+

Tags/Warnings: one shot, slight dub con elements (power imbalance, isolation, alcohol) although both parties are enthusiastically consenting, hotel guest x hotel staff, blizzard, Minnesota because that’s my best friend, dieter generally being an ‘if you give a mouse a cookie’ ass bitch, kinda enemies to lovers???, Christmas, loneliness, palm reading, food and eating, cannabis, conspiracy theory mention, fluuuuuufffff, smut, dirty talk, a dash of conflict, painting stuff, power outage, poverty mention

Note: Merry Crisis! This is part of a secret Santa gift exchange and a present for my dearest Syl (@all-the-way-down-here @im-sylien). I hope you enjoy!! Have an excellent holiday, friend ❤️🎄

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23RD, 2:00 PM

“We are right in the bullseye for what people are already calling The Great Christmas Storm. Blizzard Warnings remain in effect throughout most of Minnesota until Tuesday morning. Forty to fifty mile-an-hour winds, combined with an anticipated twelve to twenty-four inches of heavy snowfall, are expected to create whiteout conditions, making travel dangerous or impossible in the Blizzard Warning areas. If you must travel—”

You kill the engine and look up through the windshield at Blue Moon Manor. The white exterior of the three-story Tudor Revival mansion seems to glow in contrast to the dark clouds hanging overhead. Some rich guy built it as a family home in 1905. It stayed in the family for over a century before a property management company scooped it up. Now the ornate family heirloom is a boutique hotel. Go figure.

You open your car door and grab your backpack from the backseat, swinging it over your shoulder as you step out of the vehicle. As you walk up the path to the staff entrance, snowflakes start floating down from the gray, low-hanging clouds like teeny-tiny feathers, landing on your cheeks and nose, melting on impact.

So it begins.

You press your security code into the door lock, waiting for the quiet beep-beep-beep of approval before shoving the door open to the back office.

Your coworker Jenna looks up at you when you enter giving you a nod of greeting as she zips up her jacket, “How is it out there?”

“Just starting,” you drop your backpack on the built-in bench and take off your stocking cap, shaking out your hair as you ask, “How’s it been here?”

“Let’s just say I’m ready to go home and drink some wine,” she snorts, “Should be a piece of cake for you, though. 202, 203, and 101 checked out early because of the storm, and the check-in today cancelled.”

“Storm of the century,” you mutter, “Merry fucking Christmas.”

“I hear it’s gonna get nasty. Do you really have to stay the whole time?”

You wave her off as you peel off your jacket, “It’s fine.”

“I’m sorry I can’t cover some of the shifts.”

“Really, it‘s fine,” you insist while hanging up your coat, “Bossman said he’d pay me double time to stay ‘til he gets back to town.”

“You’re goddamn right he’s gonna pay you double time.”

Trying to change the subject, you go over to the daily checklist, “Ok, 202, 203, and 101 are gone,” you frown, running over your mental tally of guests, “So, what? Just 302?”

“Just 302. Lucky you.”

“Yeah, lucky me,” you roll your eyes, then look out the window at the snowfall, heavier now, “You better head out before you get stuck here with me and Mr. Fluoride Mind Control.”

“I suppose,” she sighs, grabbing her purse, “Well, have a Merry Christmas?”

“You too,” you smile and meet her eyes as she extends her arms and beckons you closer. You groan, but accept the hug, face pressing against her puffy winter coat.

When she steps back and starts towards the door, she tells you, “Don’t have too much fun now.”

“I’ll try not to,” you snort, “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” she calls behind her as she opens the door, letting in an icy-cold draft of snowflakes before closing it behind her.

You sigh and wiggle the mouse on the computer. The second you do, the service bell dings.

“Fucking already?” you mutter to yourself as you follow the floorplan through the kitchen, into the formal dining room, then finally arrive at the archway to the parlor.

You find the man staying in Suite 302 leaning against the grand piano, thrumming his fingers on the shiny surface.

Wearing pajama pants and a grubby t-shirt, chestnut curls shooting up every which way, he sighs and taps the call bell again. The shrill ding makes your eye twitch a little, but you paste on an amenable smile, “Mr. Bravo, how can I help you?”

He spins towards you and looks at you over his sunglasses, dark eyes flicking up and down your body before settling on your face, “Can I get some towels?”

“Of cour—”

“And can you do that thing where you fold them into animals?”

You furrow your brow and tilt your head at him, lips parting to ask what he means, but he preemptively answers.

“Some hotels fold them into swans or elephants or whatever. You know what I mean? Towel animals.”

There’s no way he’s not fucking with you.

“I, uhh…”

He raps a knuckle on the piano, then saunters off, calling back, “Thanks, you’re the best!”

You stand there for a moment, mouth agape as you watch him disappear up the stairs, thinking: No fucking way I’m doing that.

And yet, half an hour later, you’re sitting in the back office watching a YouTube video on how to fold two towels into an elephant.

Following along with the step-by-step, you make the legs. Easy enough. The head ends up looking like an uncircumcised cock with wings, though. You set it on top of the legs and take a step back, glancing between your creation and the video’s example. As a final touch, you stick a couple googly-eye stickers on it.

“Good enough,” you sigh and tuck the microfiber monstrosity under your arm.

When you arrive at Suite 302, you pause for a moment, turning your ear towards the door. You hear the old wooden floor creaking as he walks around humming to himself. It smells like paint and skunk spray.

You swallow your buzzing nerves and knock on the door, fidgeting a little as you wait.

Inside, a fit of coughing erupts, and he chokes out, “Hang—on—”

His footsteps squeak across the floor to the kitchen. Clink of glass. Water faucet. The coughing stops for a few silent seconds, then he groans and the footstep squeaks grow closer.

A cloud of weed smoke bitch slaps you when the door to Suite 302 swings open.

He frowns at you, crossing his arms in front of his broad chest as he leans against the doorframe, “Hey, uhhh…”

“I got your towels,” you smile, presenting the towel elephant to him.

His eyes drop to the elephant, then he raises his eyebrows, “What is this?”

“An elephant?”

He glances between you and the elephant, flattening his mouth into a line before telling you, “Looks like a dick and balls with googly-eyes.”

The force you use to hold down your laughter makes you snort.

So fucking professional.

Your eyes meet his. An amused smile graces his lips as he takes the elephant.

“Anything else I can get for you?”

“Yeah, can I, uhhh… can I get some snacks? Something sweet, something savory.”

“I’ll see what I can find,” you nod, peering over his shoulder into the hazy room, “Just a reminder, we don’t allow smoking.”

“Oh, it’s not cigarette smoke.”

“I can smell.”

It goes straight from your brain out your mouth, drenched in sarcasm. So fucking professional.

His eyebrows shoot up in a surprised expression.

“I apologize, Mr. Bravo—”

“Oh, fuck that. Don’t,” he chuckles, waving off your stammering, “Call me Dieter, by the way. Mr. Bravo makes me sound like a fucking… karaoke machine.”

“Ok,” you chuckle, then put your customer-facing demeanor back on and tell him, “I’ll go see what we have for snacks. Let me know if you need anything in the meantime.”

He pushes off the doorframe, giving you a nod of acknowledgment as he steps back into Suite 302 and closes the door.

You return sometime later with a silver serving tray hosting a variety of cheeses, dried fruit, olives, spreads, and crackers. When you knock, he hollers to leave it outside the door, so you do.

The remaining daylight you spend cleaning.

Blue Moon Manor has eight suites: one on the first floor, four on the second, and two on the third. Working from the bottom up, you rid the recently vacated units of dirty dishes and trash, then collect the linens and haul them up to the laundry room on the third floor.

By this time, the serving tray you left outside Suite 302 has disappeared. The pot smoke, however, dissipated throughout the entire level. It seems even stronger than the last time you were up here. Almost like he completely disregarded your polite reminder of the no smoking policy.

You decide to table the issue temporarily. If he was still smoking by the time you returned to take his dinner order, you’d remind him again.

The prospect of confronting what your boss referred to as “a very important client” intimidates you, though, if you’re being honest.

Not that you’re particularly intimidated by him as a person or anything.

Sure, he has an IMDb page and some awards, but beyond that, he’s just another entitled guy.

It’s more so the influence he has on your employment that intimidates you. Sometimes your feral mouth speaks before your poorly-domesticated brain can articulate a proper response. If you were to say something combative, and this guy complained to your boss, you’d probably lose your job—a loss you cannot afford.

When it’s time to take his dinner order, you gather yourself before knocking on his door, repeating your script in your head as you wait. Then the door swings open and you’re absolutely blindsided.

He answers while wringing his hair out with a towel. It’s one of the two you brought him earlier. You can tell because there’s still a googly-eye stuck to it, pupil shaking around inside its little plastic dome. The other towel clings to life around his waist, parting to show off a slice of his tan thigh.

Regrettably, you follow your knee-jerk reaction to ogle him, looking him up and down before returning to his expectant eyes.

This results in an uncomfortable staring contest, where you’re trying to make your mouth work and he’s trying to figure out what the fuck you want, as made evident when he asks, “Do you need something?”

“Dinner,” you blurt out, then shake your head, “Sorry, I mean—What’ll you be having for dinner, Mr. Bravo?”

“What’re the options?”

“Chicken roulade or salmon.”

He groans, throwing his hair-drying towel over his shoulder.

“Do you guys have any normal food, or does it have to be upscale bullshit?”

You pause to once again gather yourself, and in that two-second silence he decides, “I’ll take the chicken roulade.”

“Dining room or room service?”

He shrugs, looking over his shoulder into the suite, then back at you, “Dining room.”

“Fabulous. While I’m here, can I take your tray from earlier?”

“Let me get it,” he mumbles, closing the door. While he’s gone, you go over the lines you rehearsed, and when he opens the door to hand you the tray, you tell him, “Just as a reminder, we don’t allow indoor smoking—”

“Look, usually I open the window and use a doob-tube, but, uhhh… the weather outside won’t allow it. I don’t want the wind to fuck up the crank windows.”

“But still—”

“And not that it’s any of your business, but I have a medical condition that I treat with cannabis. This is prescribed to me—”

“What? I’m not—”

“Besides, it should be legal—”

“Ok, you know what? Fine! Smoke away, but don’t be surprised when the manager fines you for it, plus the cost of extra cleaning charges.”

He crosses his arms and straightens his spine, “I can live with that.”

“Great,” you snip, taking a big step back, “Dinner will be ready at six.”

He closes the door a little harder than necessary and you stomp down to the kitchen, fuming the whole way.

Lucky for you, dinner prep involves flattening chicken breasts with a meat tenderizer, which helps tame your frustration. As you follow the recipe, sprinkling seasonings and feta cheese onto the breasts and rolling them up like neat little sleeping bags, potential consequences for your outburst run through your mind. Bad review, getting canned, all that.

Maybe if you hadn’t been dealing with this guy’s shit for the past two weeks, you would’ve been able to handle the situation with a level head. But his haughtiness is fucking grating. He can’t just answer a question or make a simple request. It has to be a whole production that makes it clear: he thinks he’s better than you.

By the time you finish cooking, though, you come to peace with the fact that you’ll probably have to kiss his ass to rectify the situation.

When the grandfather clock in the parlor chimes six times, you plate the chicken roulade and bring it to the dining room, slightly surprised to see him already seated at the table.

“Mr. Bravo,” you smile in greeting.

“Dieter.”

“Dieter,” you repeat as you set the plate down on his place setting, “Can I get you anything to drink? We have a Sauvignon Blanc that would pair well with the chicken—”

“I’ll take it.”

You go to the sideboard and find a bottle of wine. As you pour him a glass, he wrings his hands together and glances around, “Anyone else coming down?”

“Just you.”

“What about you, where do you eat?”

You shrug, setting the bottle down beside his glass, “In the kitchen.”

“You could eat out here.”

“Oh. It’s fine, sir. Really, I don’t mind.”

His nose wrinkles up under his sunglasses and he shifts in seat. You study him for a moment, sensing an air of loneliness about him.

“Unless you want me to join you.”

He shrugs, “Seems silly for both of us to eat alone.”

“So true,” you nod, clasping your hands together, “I’ll uhhh… I’ll be right back.”

When you return with your plate, you sit across the table from him. An uncomfortable silence settles in the room. The kind that makes your skin feel too tight and amplifies every little noise. The chewing, the utensils clinking, the wet swallows, everything seems ten times louder than reality.

Clearly, it’s not just the two of you in this dining room. There’s a third guest, the giant invisible elephant wedged between you.

He finishes his glass of wine and pours another, asking, “Do you want some?”

“I… shouldn’t.”

“Uh-huh,” he raises his eyebrows, looking at you over his sunglasses, “Do you want some anyway?”

You consider it, squishing your face to one side with indecision.

“I won’t tell on you, sweetheart, I promise.”

Your eyes flick to his, finding a sort of amused playfulness there.

“Fine,” you smirk and push back your chair, going over to the wine cabinet to grab a glass, “Just one.”

“No one’s twisting your arm about it.”

You return to your seat and reach across the table to grab the bottle, pouring only a small helping.

“Cheers,” he holds up his glass.

You mimic the sentiment and take a big sip, then tell him, “Mr. Bravo—”

“Dieter.”

“Dieter,” you nod, glancing at your wine glass, “I, umm… I apologize if I was rude earlier.” You meet his eyes and shrug, “If I’m being completely transparent, my boss will have my ass if the whole third floor smells like weed when he comes in next week.”

He watches you as he absorbs this, face inscrutable.

“But if you want, I can show you the back patio. You can smoke out there all you want, I really don’t care about that part.”

Leaning back in his seat, he takes a swig of wine, then says, “Fine.”

“Thank you, I appreciate it,” you smile.

“Uh-huh,” he sets down his glass, wiggling around a little as he tells you, “For the record, you weren’t being that rude. Well, maybe a little, but… I don’t mind. Suits you better than the bullshit customer service thing you do.”

You blink at him, biting your tongue, then return to cutting your food and making small talk, “Well, I hope you didn’t have any big plans for the holidays. Traveling might be tough the next couple days.”

He shakes his head, “Not doing it this year.”

“Not doing Christmas?”

“Nope. What about you? Do you celebrate Christmas? Any plans?”

“You’re looking at ‘em,” you gesture around the room with your wine glass and take a sip.

“No shit, you have to work?”

“I’ll be working until the storm passes. Tuesday at the earliest, by the sounds of it.”

“Yuck. You guys have a staff bedroom, or do you get to stay in a suite?”

“I have my pick of the empty suites.”

He pokes the food on his plate with his fork, “Which one are you picking?”

You chuckle a little before answering. Maybe it’s your imagination, but you detect a certain vibe coming from him. Not only that, but he’s attractive in a way you’re not entirely immune to.

“I think I’m gonna try a new one each night,” you tell him, “101 for sure, maybe 301 and 203. Not 201–“

“Oh well obviously, fuck 201.”

“Obviously,” you laugh, shaking your head.

He smiles at you, sparking heat at your center, then both return your attention to your food. The rest of the meal passes in a much more comfortable silence. Not wanting to overstay your welcome around a guest or veer further into unprofessionalism, you rise as soon as you finish.

“I’ll get out of your hair, but if you need anything, ring the bell. I’ll be around.”

“Sure,” he studies you over his sunglasses as you gather your dirty dishes, his jaw ticking back and forth, then he says, “Hey, thanks for keeping me company. It was nice.”

You want to tell him you thought it was nice, too. Or maybe say something about how it felt like a mildly off-putting but not entirely unsuccessful first date. Not at all what you assumed it would be like.

Instead, you give him a polite smile and nod, “Of course.”

—

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23RD, 8:00 PM

DING

You look up from the cribbage game on your phone at him, just a few strides away but apparently oblivious to your presence. He fidgets with the sleeve of his high-drama fuzzy jacket, shifting his weight from side-to-side. Waiting.

“Hi—”

“Holy shit!” He startles, gripping his chest, “Where the fuck did you come from?”

Before you can stop it, you snort out a laugh, then cover your face reflexively, “I’m so sorry Mr.—”

“Dieter.”

“Dieter,” you nod as you rise to your feet, stuffing your wide grin into a neat smile, “How can I help you, sir?”

“Call me a fucking ambulance for the heart attack you just gave me,” he jokes, shaking his head, then takes a step towards you, “No, uhh… I was gonna step out to smoke, do you wanna join me?”

“Oh—umm,” you chuckle a little, briefly considering the offer before politely telling him, “No, thank you.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure,” you glance down at his feet, clad in mismatched socks and crocs, “But here, let me clear off the back patio so you don’t have to stand in the snow.”

He shrugs and follows you through the parlor into the dining room, where you tell him, “Just give me a minute, I’ll put my stuff on.”

“Take your time,” he murmurs, going over to the sideboard, “Is this fair game?”

“Help yourself.”

“Do you want one?”

He flips over a lowball glass on display and sifts through the decanters of liquor, plucking out a bottle of finely aged whiskey. A drink sounds good. But the prospect of this virtual stranger fixing you a drink makes you uneasy.

Does he know that it’s just you and him under this roof for probably the next few days? Between the offer to smoke you up and pour you a drink, is he intentionally trying to intoxicate you? Or is he just being cordial?

You realize he’s staring at you, waiting for a response. Heat rises to your face. Shaking your head, you tell him, “I’m fine, thanks.”

He uncorks the decanter and turns to pour whiskey into his glass, so you dismiss yourself to the back office.

After bundling up in winter gear, you grab a shovel, then start towards the dining room. You stop short in the kitchen. The motherfucker walked right past the STAFF ONLY sign and started rummaging through the fridge.

“You’re not supposed to be back here.”

He glances back over his shoulder at you, “Why not?”

“Because—well, because—”

“Can you make me grilled cheese?”

He straightens and closes the fridge door, turning to face you. You, clad in your coat and boots and hat and all that shit, holding a shovel, just blinking at him, mouth agape.

“Right now?”

His jaw shifts to one side as he genuinely considers the question.

“Can I shovel first?”

“Sure,” he shrugs.

“Thanks,” you mutter, then trudge past him into the dining room.

He follows along behind you, through the hall to the back door, asking, “Do you have tomato soup?”

“Probably. Want some with your grilled cheese?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

When you twist the door handle and yank it open, a knee-high snow drift topples over at your feet.

“Jesus Christ,” you hiss and flip on the outdoor light switch to peek outside. A strong gust of wind knocks you back a step, carrying a flurry of shimmering, swirling snowflakes. Your cheeks sting at the icy cold sharpness of it, eyes watering in protest.

What a fucking nightmare.

“Forget it,” you huff, slamming the door closed. You prop the shovel against it and turn to Dieter, pulling your gloves off, “I don’t care, can you just use the doob-tube and turn on the fan in the bathroom?”

“The fan doesn’t work.”

You release a big sigh, tugging off your hat as you lean on the wall and kick off your boots, “Of course it doesn’t. Alright, plan C.”

—

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23RD, 8:45 PM

The range hood’s fan roars to life.

“Have at it,” you tell him as you walk over to the sink and unlock the window, pulling it up a few inches.

Dieter pulls a palm-sized wooden container from his coat pocket and leans back against the stove, twisting the top open. A one-hitter pops up from one of the two barrels of the container. He takes it and stuffs it into the dugout, “So, what, we’re all trapped here until the storm passes?”

You cross your arms in front of your chest and shrug, “Theoretically.”

“Figures,” he mutters, then pinches the pipe between his lips. He pulls a pink lighter from the pocket of his fuzzy coat and brings the flame to the other end. The tip brightens to a glowing ember as he inhales.

“I thought you didn’t have any plans.”

He holds the smoke in his lungs and croaks out, “I don’t,” before turning to blow the smoke into the fan intake.

“Are you upset that you’re snowed in with me?”

“It has nothing to do with you, sweetheart” he glances at you, then takes another hit.

“Ok, let me rephrase,” you shift, casting your gaze to the floor, trying to conceal the warmth blooming beneath your skin, “Are you upset that you’re snowed in?”

He shrugs, “I don’t like being stuck places. Especially another fucking hotel.”

“Whadda you mean?” you frown.

Your question hangs in the air while he takes another hit. He grimaces and steps over to the sink beside you, tapping ash from the little metal pipe with his lighter, then returns to his place at the stove and packs another onie.

“Did you ever watch the documentary Beasts of the Bubble?”

You shake your head.

“Don’t, it’s dogshit,” he snorts and takes another hit. On the exhale, he asks, “You know that I’m an actor, though, right?”

You nod.

“Right, well, long story short… Early COVID days, I was out in England shooting a movie and they wouldn’t let us leave the hotel.”

You have to stop yourself from rolling your eyes, sensing heavy dramatics on the horizon.

“They wouldn’t let you leave the hotel?”

“My friend—well,” he wrinkles his nose, “Yeah, my friend. She tried to escape, got her fuckin’ hand shot off.”

“Holy shit, seriously?!”

“Yeah, Lauren Van Chance. Pow! Shot right off. Fucking brutal,” he shakes his head and takes another hit. As he blows the smoke into the fan, he coughs a little, then shakes his head, “Anyway—wait, why am I talking about this?”

“Because we’re snowed in.”

“Oh—yeah. I dunno, feeling like I can’t leave… my therapist said it’s a trigger, I guess.”

“I get that,” you search his face, watching him frown at the one-hitter. Apparently satisfied with how stoned he is, Dieter releases a relaxed sigh and sets the onie down on the counter.

“If it’s any consolation, I promise I won’t shoot you if you try to leave. Like… I don’t know, you might need some snow shoes or whatever, but you could—”

He waves you off, “Eh, it’s fine. It’s just a thing, you know? Makes me feel all fuckin’ cagey and on-edge. Restless.”

You lick your lips and nod, glancing at the floor before you look at him, “Anything I can do to help?”

“Bud helps,” he shrugs, “Talking helps.”

“Does grilled cheese help?”

It takes him a moment to understand what you’re asking, but when he does, he chuckles, “Grilled cheese is basically a fucking Xanax.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then let’s get you a grilled cheese.”

—

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 24TH, 10:00 AM

“The Department of Transportation has declared a state of emergency, and urges people to shelter in place as snow will continue to fall in the Twin Cities and across most of central and southern Minnesota through tomorrow. Overnight, some places received as much as 10 inches, with 40 mile-an-hour winds creating drifts—”

DING

Regrettably, your heart skips a beat.

You tuck your phone into the back pocket of your slacks and cross the kitchen, pushing through the swinging door into the dining room. When you get to the parlor, you find Dieter fiddling around with priceless antiques displayed on the shelves of an ornate built-in bookshelf. He glances over at you, “Hey.”

“Good morning, did you sleep ok?”

Nodding, he pulls his attention away from the bookshelf and takes a step towards you, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his pajama pants, “Did I miss breakfast?”

“No, what can I get for you?”

“Denver Omelet?”

“Sure,” you clasp your hands together behind your back, “Hashbrowns? Fruit? Anything to drink?”

“Yes, yes, and yes—coffee, water, orange juice with pulp.”

“Down here or in your room?”

“Here is fine.”

“You got it,” you smile, walking back to the kitchen. The creak of his footsteps mimic yours on the old hardwood floor, so you think he’s going to sit at the dining room table, but the duo whine of the swinging kitchen door takes you by surprise.

You turn to face him, “Oh, you don’t have to—”

“May I?” He holds up the wooden onie box.

“Sure,” you nod, clicking the range hood on, then go to crack the window open.

The soft murmur of the radio fills the silence while you prep his breakfast and he smokes. You absentmindedly hum along to the Christmas music, dicing a green pepper, an onion, and some ham. By the time you approach the stove to start cooking, he’s tucking the paraphernalia away in the pocket of his pajama pants.

“Have any big plans for the day?” He asks as he goes over to the coffee pot and pours himself a cup.

“Ahhh, well… I think I’m gonna knock out some tasks that are hard to do when we’re busy. Inventory and deep cleaning, things like that. What about you?”

He shrugs, leaning back against the counter, “Gonna try to keep plugging away at painting ideas.”

“Oh yeah? What’re you painting?”

“It’s uhhh… it’s part of a series I’m working on, capturing the essence of interesting hotels across the country.”

“Really? That’s—that’s actually really cool. I love that. And you chose Blue Moon Manor?”

“Well yeah,” he sighs, looking around, “It’s gorgeous. The original features are well-preserved, all the intricate woodwork and craftsmanship. It’s unique, I like it.”

“I agree, it’s a special place.”

“I’m just… I don’t know, I’m stuck at the starting line, not sure what to paint. I haven’t found anything here that feels right yet.”

You look between him and the menagerie of omelet fillings sizzling in the pan, “Have you seen any of the other suites?”

“In pictures.”

“If you want, I can show you around today? All the vacancies are made up pretty. You can poke around and see if you find any… I don’t know, inspiration, or whatever.”

“Yeah?” He grins, “That would be… yeah, fuck yeah, that would be amazing.”

—

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 24TH, 2:00 PM

You may be in trouble.

Not the kind of trouble punishable by anyone but yourself, but still.

What you mean is that you think you might have a crush on Dieter. Or, more honestly, what you mean is that you know you have a crush on Dieter.

This revelation occurred to you about halfway through your impromptu tour of Blue Moon Manor.

You were standing in the sunroom of Suite 203 while he wandered around, jotting down notes and taking pictures on his phone. The snow fell heavy outside, coming down in thick wet clumps that made it difficult to see beyond the border of the property. Everything blanketed in a pristine, shimmering white.

A deep sense of isolation plummeted your heart to your feet. Christmas Eve, when people all across the world gathered with loved ones, and you were working. Not that your empty one bedroom apartment missed you much. At least if you were there, you could lay in bed eating raw cookie dough while watching your comfort tv show. Throw yourself a proper pity party.

So, there you were, wallowing in your circular loneliness, going around and around the drain of self-pity, when Dieter approached you.

“Hey, you alright?”

You snapped out of your trance and looked at him, finding something very earnest and knowing in his eyes. It surprised you. He didn’t strike you as the kind of person who generally cared about what others were feeling.

“Yeah, just… thinking about how much I’m gonna have to shovel,” you chuckled, brushing off his concern.

“Sorry, you just looked… I don’t know, kind of sad.”

“I’m fine,” you assured him with all the sincerity of someone whose pants were on fire.

“Uh huh,” he studied you for a moment, then looked down at his phone and shook his head, releasing a big sigh, “I think I’m ready to move on.”

“Alright, follow me,” you pushed off the window and walked past him. As you did so, you misjudged your space and brushed up against him.

Pure negligence or subconscious desire, you’re still not sure, but the contact was a static shock. This quick jolt of heat that made you gasp and jump away from him, stammering, “Oh shit. Sorry, I, um—”

He chuckled, a handsome, dimpled smile stretching across his face, “It’s fine.”

“I’m embarrassed,” you blurted out. As if it wasn’t obvious enough.

“Don’t be,” he shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged, “Accidents happen.”

“Ok,” you laughed and buried your heated face in your hands, then regained your composure and said, “Ok, let’s see Suite 201.”

“Is that the shitty one?”

“It’s not shitty,” you snorted, starting towards the door, “It’s perfectly fine, just not as glamorous as the rest of them.”

“Uh huh. Like the ugliest Miss America contestant.”

“Sure—”

“Or the uhh… the smallest blue whale.”

“Yeah, I mean—”

“Suite 201 is to this hotel what Def Leppard is to glam rock.”

“Wow, ok,” you laughed, ushering him through the doorway into the hall, “Yeah, I think you got it.”

The whole dumb interaction is all you can think about. It plays over and over again. That look, the accident, Def fucking Leppard. The rush of excitement you feel when you see him or even just think about seeing him.

It is undeniable.

You have a big fat crush.

So fucking professional.

For what feels like the hundredth time, you lose count. You toss your clipboard down on the stack of fluffy white towels in defeat, scrubbing your hands over your face.

Maybe a cleaning project would be more productive. The first floor common rooms need dusting, or you could scrub the floors, or prep dinner, or blah blah blah… god, it all sounds so fucking boring.

Curiosity prods your heart.

You tiptoe through the laundry room, out into the third floor hallway, and linger there for an indecisive moment, listening to the low bass of his humming to himself and the thick pulse behind your ears. A few cautious steps towards Suite 302 reveals a DO NOT DISTURB sign hanging from the doorknob.

Rejection takes the shape of a stone in your mouth, heavy and hard and cold as you swallow it down. It settles uneasy in your gut.

Dusting it is.

—

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 24TH, 6:59 PM

Every minute that drags on feels like an eternity.

The grandfather clock in between the library bookshelves mocks you.

Tick-tock-tick-tock

Begins to sound more like:

He-doesn’t-like-you

You glare at it, then down at your phone, swiping away a low battery warning to continue playing cribbage.

Outside, the wind snarls. Blue Moon Manor groans in resistance, and you wriggle deeper into the sofa cushions, telling yourself: Five more minutes then I’ll check on him.

It’s so dumb.

Really, you know how it sounds.

But not once has he put out the DO NOT DISTURB sign. For two weeks, he has been consistently demanding, never letting more than three daylight hours go by without asking for something.

As soon as you let yourself feel some affection for him?

Can’t get far enough away from you.

He-doesn’t-like-you-DING! DING! DING! DING!—

You sigh at the clock.

—DING! DING! DING!

“Fuck’s sake,” you mutter.

The lights die.

All white noise drops except the crackle of the fireplace, howling wind, and ticking clock.

“Fuck.”

Two floors up, something clatters to the ground, then Dieter hollers something unintelligible.

Well, he seems chipper.

You climb off the couch while googling power outages in the area.

Footsteps thud down the steps onto the first floor landing.

“Hello?”

“I’m in the library,” you call, not looking up from your phone as you text your boss.

His steps draw closer, then there’s a light in the doorway.

“This place is so fucking creepy in the dark, Jesus Christ,” Dieter hisses, “What’s the deal?”

You squint up at his dim figure, “Storm took out the power. I texted the manager to see if there’s a genny.”

“Genny?”

“Backup generator,” you turn on your phone’s flashlight, “Sorry for the inconvenience, I’ll go see if I can find some lighting if you wanna wait here—”

“I’m coming with you.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that, sir—”

He gestures for you to lead the way, so you start towards the back office with Dieter hot on your heels. Once inside, you go over to the desk and pull open a drawer, fish out a headlamp, and slide it around your head. When you press the on button, a beam of light shoots from your forehead onto the desk.

“Cute,” he teases.

You look at him, unintentionally shining the light in his face.

He steps back and shields his eyes, “Jesus!”

“Ope. Sorry sir,” you stifle a laugh, grab a second headlamp from the drawer, and hold it out to him, “Do you want one?”

Grumbling under his breath, he takes it from you and slides it over his fluffy hair, then turns the light on.

“Ok, this is pretty sweet,” he admits as he starts wandering around the room, “I feel like a miner or something.”

“There should be a tote in here somewhere that has a bunch of candles,” you tell him as you start rifling through cupboards. When the search comes up empty, you try the closet, where you find a big purple tote labeled CANDLES.

“Here we go,” you pull the heavy container out into the room.

“Want me to carry that?”

The offer holds about as much conviction as a drain holds water. He leans back against the desk, plucks a pen from the pencil cup, and starts doodling on your daily checklist. Barely interested.

“No, I got it.”

You lift it and shuffle past him, slightly demoralized, then immediately bump into the doorway, “Oop.”

His headlamp blinds you, making you wince, then he chuckles, “Here.”

Dieter pushes off the desk and steps towards you, laying a gentle touch to your shoulder.

When you forfeit the tote, you notice the dark smudges dried onto his hands and forearms.

“Were you painting?”

“Yeah,” he awkwardly adjusts his grip, then starts back the way you came. You follow behind him, trying to aim your light at the ground by his feet.

In the kitchen, he says, “It smells good in here.”

“Probably the roast I made for dinner,” you pause for him to maneuver through the swinging door into the dining room, “I can get some for you after we get the candles going.”

He holds the door open with his foot and waits for you to pass through the threshold before setting the bin down on the dining room table.

“Thanks,” you say as he steps aside.

The white candles come in three shapes: pillar, votive, and stick. All of them unscented, so when you pop off the lid to the tote bin, the only thing you can smell is wax and dust and old flames.

You grab a half-melted pillar and ask, “Hey, do you have a lighter?”

He rummages through his pockets and pulls one out, then takes the candle from you. The flint sparks into a tiny flame that he holds up to the wick until it ignites, casting a warm golden glow onto the walls and ceiling. You pass him another pillar. The pads of his fingers brush against your hand when he takes it, sending your heart racing.

“Hopefully this isn’t a uhhh… weird or alarming thing to ask—”

“Oh god, what?”

“Is there anyone else here?” He lights the pillar and hands it to you, “You’re the only other person I’ve seen around.”

You take the lit pillar and set it down shrugging, “There, aren’t umm… no, it’s just me and you.”

“Oh.”

Where hyper vigilance should be, that old warning to not take candy from strangers, or not to turn your back on a man you don’t trust, something hungry and loud starts to grow. A devastating need for him to creep closer. For him to cross the boundary of what might be considered moral or right in such a situation. To touch you in ways that inspire heat between your thighs.

He doesn’t, though.

He just helps you light candles and strategically place them around the common rooms on the first floor, uncharacteristically reserved. You both remain quiet while you go about doing this, but the silence isn’t entirely uncomfortable. It’s the kind of silence that feels more like a peace treaty than a punishment.

Your phone buzzes with a notification, and you pull it out, reading the text message out loud, “We don’t have a backup generator.”

“Shit.”

“And power might be out until Tuesday.”

“Tuesday? Are you fucking serious?”

“I apologize, sir—”

“Don’t do that,” he scoffs, shaking his head, “That whole… hospitality voice thing.”

The words come out sharp and bitter.

Your blood pulses hot, and you hear yourself say, “I’m a hospitality worker, exactly what tone of voice do you expect I use?”

“Like I’m a person, not a fucking client or whatever. I’m so sick of that shit, everywhere I go people kissing my ass,” he goes to the sideboard and flips over a glass, pouring whiskey while attuning his voice to a feminine, mocking tone, “Oh, Mr. Bravo, sir yes sir, do you need anything? Do you want a snack or a nap, do you need to be swaddled, do you want your dick sucked?”

He pauses to take a swig of the liquor.

Meanwhile, steam might as well be coming out of your ears. Just fucking boiling with rage, needling the red danger zone.

“I hate it. You all talk to me like I’m a goddamn toddler, it’s so fucking annoying—”

“Oh, fuck off. I’m annoying?”

He leans back on the sideboard and blinks at you, swirling the whiskey in his glass.

Stomping over to the liquor display, you pour a drink and seethe, “Ever think that maybe if you didn’t act like a fucking toddler, people wouldn’t treat you like one? I mean, for Christ’s sake, dude. You literally take a nap every afternoon and demand we cut the crust off your sandwiches. Last week you threw a temper tantrum because we put tap water in your sippy cup.”

“Ok, first of all that was a water bottle. And, have you ever tasted the water here? It’s disgusting. Not to mention the fucking—”

“The fluoride, I know,” you roll your eyes, “I know I know I know. It’s gross and contains fluoride and tastes like blood or whatever the fuck—”

“I did not say it tasted like blood,” he quips, pauses to take a sip, which you mimic, then he adds, “It does, though, for the record.”

“My point is that… If everywhere you go smells like shit, maybe you should look under your own shoe. You dig?”

For a moment, you can’t read him. He stares down into his glass, twisting his wrist around in a way that draws attention to the thick-banded rings on his fingers. Then he glances up at you, a smirk playing on his lips, “That’s perfect. Can you just talk to me like that from now on?”

Your head jerks back, and you let out a little scoff, “What, like a bitch?”

“No,” he chuckles, “Like… I don’t know. Real. Real-er, anyway. You seem cool. You, though. Not your toothless, sanitized worksona.”

“Jesus,” you scoff into your glass, shaking your head, “I’m not sure what to say to that.”

“Anyway. I just mean… talk to me like I’m a person, not a fucking guest or whatever.” When you look up at him, he shifts a little and adds, “Please.”

You hold his gaze long enough for your stomach to flip, then chicken out, dropping your eyes to your glass, “Sir yes sir.”

He lets out a chuckle, shaking his head, “Uh-huh.”

You appraise the remaining whiskey in your glass, then tip it back, wincing at the burn as you set the glass down.

“Do you want me to bring some candles up to your room, or will you be dining down here?”

“Will you be joining me?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Yeah, of course,” he shrugs, “If you’re not busy.”

“I think I can squeeze you in,” you tease.

His tongue pokes out to wet the seam of his lips, then his smirk breaks out into a big, boyish smile, “You think so, huh?”

The innuendo makes itself clear. Your face heats up and you snort, “Shut up.”

“Hey, you said it, not me,” he raises his hands defensively, following you as you start towards the kitchen, “Is it cool if I smoke?”

You push through the swinging door, holding it open for him, “I can’t turn the fan on.”

“Uh-huh,” he ambles over to the counter beside the sink and casually hops up onto it, “Is that a yes or a no?”

After taking a moment to weigh the pros and cons, you sigh, “Just… blow it out the window, ok?”

So he smokes while you pull the roasting pan from the oven and prepare two plates, piling on potato wedges and green beans and hearty slices of roast beef. You wrap up your activities simultaneously, then move back to the dining room.

While you set the table, he goes over to the wine cabinet and asks, “Wine?”

You hesitate, once again contemplating the pros and cons of answering in the affirmative. If the wine goes to your head, you could make a mistake. On the other hand, maybe it would help untangle your knotted stomach. Make it easier to converse with him.

“Don’t feel like you have to say yes,” he adds when he notices your trepidation.

“Fuck it, why not?”

So fucking professional.

With his back turned to you, he surveys the bottles displayed in the wine cabinet, “Pinot? Cab?”

“Actually, I was thinking of breaking out the 2016 Cos d'Estournel.”

He looks over his shoulder at you, “The what?”

“Left side, second row from the bottom,” you point to it from across the room, “Dark bottle, white label.”

Once he finds it, he lifts it from the rack and studies it, “Cos d'Estournel. Ritzy stuff,” he sets it on the table between your seats, “What’s the occasion?”

“What is this, a role reversal?”

He grins at this. Then, as if committing to the bit, he strides over to pull out your chair. When you raise your eyebrows at him, he smirks, “Humor me.”

You roll your eyes a little as you sit down, but truthfully, your heart stutters.

Dieter walks back to the cabinet and picks out two wine glasses, “So? The occasion?”

“I don’t know,” you frown, “Well, I mean, I do know, but it’s hard to explain.”

He doesn’t say anything as he twists a corkscrew into the wine bottle and yanks out the cork, then pours the rich red wine into one glass, and the other.

“It’s just… I don’t think I’ve been in a situation like this before. It’s strange. The storm, the holiday, the manor, the-the you.” He smirks, sliding a wine glass over to you, and you give him a nod of thanks, “I feel like anything could happen or nothing at all and I wouldn’t be surprised either way.”

Again, he doesn’t respond, but a thoughtful expression creases his face as he takes the seat across from you. Not sure what to make of it, you ask, “Does that make sense?”

“I know what you mean, yeah,” he leans back in his chair and swirls the wine around in his glass, meeting your eyes from across the table, “The possibilities within the confines of these walls are endless.”

The way he looks at you conjures impure thoughts. Hand between your thighs, nails digging into his back. Bending you over the table and pulling your hair.

You raise your glass in the air, “To the possibilities.”

“To the possibilities.”

—

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 24TH, 9:30 PM

You sit at either side of the lush Victorian sofa in the library, cashmere blankets draped over each of your legs. Illuminated by the warm glow of candelabras and the crackling fireplace, you flip through a book on palm reading while Dieter draws in a sketchpad.

For a while, he seemed quite engrossed in the project. Brow furrowed, hunched over the pad of paper as he scribbled. But with each monotonous tick-tock-tick-tock from the grandfather clock, he starts to stir more and more.

He finally tosses the sketchpad down beside him, leaning back and letting out a long groan, “I’m so boooorreeeeed.”

“Drama,” you tease, peeking over your book at him, “Can I do anything to help?”

“Can I open another bottle?”

“Go for it.”

Dieter jumps to his feet and clicks on his headlamp. The dancing beam of light fades out of sight as he walks into the hallway.

With a sigh, you look down at the book and try to continue reading, but keep losing your spot. Your attention instead is drawn to the fireplace. Its flickering flames seem to pull you into some kind of a trance, coaxing out bite-sized daydreams and nightmares, trying to predict what will happen when you and your fresh new crush start drinking in the dark.

What happens if we get drunk? Would we fuck? Would we fight? Would he be mean? Or pushy? Would I make a fool of myself?

You sit here for a while, letting these tiny fires burn out in your brain, so engrossed that you barely notice Dieter mosey back into the room.

“Hope wine is ok,” he says as he clicks the headlamp off, then he sets out two wine glasses and a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon on the coffee table.

“Of course, sir.”

He snorts and shakes his head while leaning over to twist a corkscrew into the bottle.

“Sorry. Habit.”

“Don’t sweat it, sweetheart,” he yanks the cork from the bottle, then pours out two servings, “What’ve you there?”

“Hmm?”

“The book.”

“Oh,” you hold it up to show him the cover, “Cheiro’s Palmistry for All.”

He holds out a glass to you. You set the book aside and take it from him, crossing your legs to get more comfortable.

“Palm reading?”

“Yeah,” you chuckle, “I don’t know, it seemed interesting.“

“Have you ever been to a palm reader?”

Shaking your head, you take a sip of wine. Then another. A warm buzz tingles on your tongue and you ask, “Have you?”

He nods, “Yeah. Well, kind of. I dated this girl who dabbled in divination,” he takes a big gulp of wine, then sets his glass on the coffee table and moves closer, gesturing for your hand, “Here.”

“You know how?”

“I picked up on some stuff,” he shrugs.

Leaning forward, you place your glass next to his and bring yourself closer, extending your hand to him.

He holds it like a fragile thing, gentle but steady, “Is this your dominant hand?”

You nod.

Smoothing a thumb over your palm, he coaxes you to unfurl your fingers. His skin is warm and soft on yours as he examines you, thick fingers tracing the creases of your palm.

It feels nice. Intimate, almost. No thanks to the wine and ambient lighting.

“This side shows your conscious mind. Your life right now,” he clears his throat and says, “You’re perceptive, intuitive, a little moody. Emotions tend to run the show, but you’re also a realist. You have a passion for life and adventure, but often find yourself paralyzed by the reality of your situation, leaving you in a constant state of dissatisfaction. Logical, hard-working. You’re independent. You’ve had financial and emotional hardships. Not many serious romantic relationships, mostly flings. But this doesn’t mean you don’t get attached easily. You do, but tend to put up walls to protect yourself and disconnect before it gets too serious.”

Static vibrates through your skin. An eerie, frantic feeling of being seen too close for comfort. You swallow hard and study his face, too afraid to confirm or deny its accuracy.

“Cup your hand,” he instructs, guiding your hand to do so. Furrowing his brow, he examines the soft fleshy bits on your palm, poking and prodding them, “You have a temper, but you’re shy. You’re cynical. Closed-off. Reliable, because you have to be, but you wish you could just say fuck it and run away sometimes. That’s umm… that’s who you are in practice. Other hand.”

You give him your non-dominant hand. It’s shaky and sweaty and as he takes it you chuckle, “Sorry, I’m… nervous.”

Grinning, he glances up at you, “So I’m doing well, then?”

“Yeah,” you gulp, heat rising to your face, “It’s… yeah. Hang on, can I…?”

You take your hand back and wipe it on your pant leg, then reach over to grab your wine glass, swallowing the remainder of your wine. He does the same, then refills them.

While this is happening, you can’t help but notice the thick current of electricity pulsing between you.

You take turns stealing fleeting glances, and when you return to face each other, legs crossed, you’re much closer than you were before. Your knees meet his, maybe probably definitely crossing the line of what is considered appropriate distance for you to have with a hotel guest. Neither of you seem to mind, though.

In fact, it seems like quite the opposite.

As you extend your non-dominant hand to him, he huddles even closer, so close you can smell the Bordeaux on his breath, and cradles your hand in his.

“This side shows your natural tendencies. Who you are in theory, who you will be if you follow your intuition,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to yours, then back to your palm as he slides his index finger along a deep, diagonal crease, “First of all, your fate line is strong. If you follow your intuition, you’ll succumb to it.”

“Ominous.”

He frowns and shakes his head, reverentially tracing the sensitive map of your palm, “No, actually. You’ll have a crisis or two. One big one, at least, some kind of a revelation that causes you to upend your life. But it sets you on a path of vitality and happiness and strength. A few smaller ones, not as momentous, but still significant. The hopeless romantic you are, you’ll fall in love hard and fast, but that’s the one that sticks. You freely express your emotions and feelings. It’s… I mean, it seems good. Who wouldn’t want that? Cup your hand for me, sweetheart.”

You do.

He smooths his thumb over the mounts and divots, tilting his head at them, “You’re stubborn and you have a strong sense of self. Hedonistic. Imaginative. You daydream a lot. I don’t think you’re as reserved and shy as you let on. Maybe it’s a defense mechanism you learned along the way.”

You look up at him, finding his eyes locked on yours. A deep longing bubbles up your spine and you feel yourself lean in a little closer. He continues caressing your hand, dropping his gaze to your mouth, and asks, “Do you want my advice?”

“Sure.”

“I think you should follow your intuition. See where it takes you. I think… you need to let go of whatever reservations you have from the past, because it’s holding you back from a beautiful life.”

There’s a part of you that boils red and hot with denial. It screams from the back of your head that this is all bullshit, he’s just trying to fuck you, to use because he’s bored and tipsy.

But really, you know he’s right.

You know you’re dissatisfied with your white-knuckle, fake smile existence. You ignore your desires and inner-most knowing in favor of security. You attribute more weight to the negatives than the positives in every aspect of your life.

“You’re saying I should follow my gut?” you ask, studying his face.

He brushes your palm with his thumbs, “Yeah. I think so.”

You look down at his touch, hesitantly bringing your unoccupied hand to his forearm, allowing yourself to feel his warmth, “But what if it’s wrong? What if I make a mistake?”

“But what if it’s right?”

Meeting his eyes, you recognize the longing in his heavy-lidded gaze. You bring your hand to his cheek, sliding your thumb across his patchy facial hair, heart pounding, nerves buzzing as you close your eyes and lean in.

His soft lips meet yours. A gentle, questioning kiss that flips your stomach upside down. You pull back to make sure it’s ok. He seems to do the same, dark eyes flicking around your face before slipping a hand behind your head and pulling you back in.

The second kiss holds more conviction. A spark that ignites you both, quickly leading to the third and fourth kiss, at which point they start to blend together, a mess of tongues and spit and gasps.

You climb onto his lap, straddling him, pressing your body onto his. Through the fabric of his pajama pants, you feel his hardened excitement and use it to your advantage, rolling against him to gain friction. He grabs your hips and rocks them in sync with your movements, groaning into your mouth.

Heat builds steady at your core, tingling and gushing through your veins, screaming for more more more. Aching to feel the warmth of his skin on yours, you slip your hands under the hem of his shirt and slide your palms up his back, pulling him closer.

He parts from your lips to take off his shirt. You do the same, unbuttoning your shirt and tossing it aside, then reach back and claw at your bra clasp.

“Let me,” he signals for you to turn around. You do, climbing onto your knees with your back facing him. His fingers ghost along your spine, leaving a trail of twitching, hungry nerves in their wake.

“That feels good,” you tell him, arching your back with a whine.

“Good,” he murmurs, continuing the tedious touch, “I wanna make you feel so fucking good, sweetheart. Is that what you want?”

“Yes.”

When he unclasps the bra, you slip it off while he slides a hand around your belly and pulls you back into his lap.

He leaves a trail of kisses from your shoulder to the nape of your neck, where he stops to massage his tongue against you. A moan erupts from your throat at the tingling, hot sensation it cultivates. His hands roam around your body, over your breasts and ribs and abdomen, activating all those often-neglected nerves, but never staying long enough to bring relief.

“Fuck, Dieter,” you whine, “You’re teasing me.”

“Maybe,” he chuckles, smoothing a palm up your sternum and urging you to lay back onto his chest. You follow the suggestion and recline against him, head resting on his shoulder. Your skin buzzes where it meets his, the warmth of him flooding your brain with feel-good chemicals. He drags his fingers along the soft skin of your belly, making you whimper.

“But it feels good, doesn’t it?”

You nod.

“Don’t you want to savor it?” He cups your breasts and rolls your nipples between his fingers and thumbs, sending a rush of pleasure to your head, “Don’t you want me to show you how good it feels when you finally let go?”

“Yes,” you gasp, nodding, eyelids fluttering closed, “I want it, I want it—”

“Good,” he coos, pinching your nipples harder, “I want it too. Wanna see you fall apart in my hands. Will you let me do that for you, sweetheart?”

“Yes.”

He releases your tits and tugs at the waistband of your pants, “Take these off for me, will you?”

You roll off the couch onto your feet, facing him as you slowly tug at your waistband, teasing every inch of skin you reveal. He watches you with lust-blown eyes, palming himself as he drinks in the spectacle.

“Underwear too?”

He nods.

You hook your thumbs under the soft fabric of your bikini, “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“I wanna see it.”

“You wanna see it,” he mutters, chuckling a little, “Ask and you shall receive, Princess.”

He shimmies out of his pajama pants, keeping his eyes on yours as you slide the underwear down your thighs. His thick, hard cock bobs out and waves hello.

“Fuck,” he sits up and rests his warm palms on your hips, glancing between you and your cunt, “Look at this pretty pussy, holy shit. Come here, baby. Come sit on my lap again.”

“If I sit on your lap, will my Christmas wish come true?”

“Maybe,” he smirks and leans back onto the sofa, tugging on your hand to follow. You turn around and carefully lower yourself onto his thighs, his knees between yours. Guiding you closer, he murmurs in your ear, “Tell me what you want, sweetheart, I’ll see if I can make it happen.”

You lay back on his chest, once again letting your head rest on his shoulder, and stroke his cheek as you tell him, “I want you to touch me.”

“I can do that,” he chuckles, kissing your forehead as his hands begin to wander, sliding down your sides to your hips and thighs, between your legs to pry them apart, “There we go, baby.”

When he touches your entrance, you both groan. His cock twitches against your back. He drags his fingers up and down your seam, spreading your slick, hissing in your ear, “Fucking soaked for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

“Uh-huh,” you whimper, nodding, watching him pet your swollen clit so soft and slow it sends sparks of need up your spine, “That feels so fucking good holy shit—”

“Yeah? You like the way I play with your sweet little cunt?”

“Oh my god—I do, Dieter, I do.”

A feral noise rumbles in his chest, and his fingers pick up speed, working in quick, tight circles as he pants in your ear, “I love it when you say my name. Sounds so fucking good on your lips. Say it again for me, baby.”

“I love the way you touch me, Dieter, please don’t stop.”

“Wouldn’t fucking dream of it, sweetheart. I just wanna make you feel good, make you feel so fucking good—”

You moan when he sinks one thick digit inside you, making your body buzz with pleasure. Your eyes flutter shut and you reach back, blindly carding your fingers through his hair, caressing his cheek, his neck, tugging on his earlobe, anything you can do to ground yourself and somehow repay the ecstasy accumulating thick and hot inside your belly.

He kisses your palm and asks, “Do you want more?”

A sort of strangled noise comes out of you, but you nod in the affirmative, and he obliges, sliding another finger inside you. They rut in and out at a steady pace, keeping tempo with his undulating touch on your clit. Heat branches out at the center of you, coursing through your veins, making your heart race.

You gasp and nod, “Keep doing that, Dieter, don’t stop please don’t stop holy shit—”

“You gonna cum for me, baby, hmm? Cum all over my fucking fingers?”

“Yes yes yes yes yes—”

Your whole body clenches as the feeling grows and grows, reaching a precipice.

“That’s it, sweetheart, let it go,” he pants in your ear, and when you plummet over the edge, whole body twitching with blinding pleasure, he coos, “Theeere we go—”

You whimper and clamp your legs shut, letting out a series of gasping breaths as the waves of your orgasm pulse, then start to peter out. Your tensed muscles go limp, and you open your eyes to look up at Dieter, “Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah?”

He gives you a boyish grin that makes your chest swell with desire. You sit up and turn around to face him, straddling his lap with his cock pressed hard against your wet, throbbing pussy.

Tracing the curve of his lips, you purr, “I have another Christmas wish.”

“What’s that?”

You roll your hips, gasping at the pressure of him against you, “I want you to fuck me.”

He moans, eyelids fluttering and lips parting, head falling back against the sofa as he grabs your hips and silently urges you to keep going. You whimper and start to move to the rhythm of his suggestion, sliding up and down his length.

“Wanna feel your cock inside me,” you breathe, brushing his cheek with your knuckles, meeting his dark, wanting eyes, “Want you to stretch me out and make me yours—”

“Holy fucking shit—”

“Do you want that?” you coo, searching his face.

“God yes, please, baby.”

You situate the tip of him at your entrance and hook your hands behind his head, then lower yourself down.

The stretch of him is exquisite. He activates every nerve ending he touches with an aching, hungry need. Your mouth falls open with gasping breaths and pathetic little whimpers, and you hear Dieter groan, “So fucking tight, Jesus Christ—”

“Feels so goooood,” you croak, closing your fists in his hair.

He sucks in air through clenched teeth, digging his fingers into the meat of your ass, and rocks you back and forth, each thrust rubbing along something absolutely devastating. You blink your eyes open to meet his, all lust-blown and wide with awe, searching your face. His hand slides up to your face, cupping your cheek, brushing his thumb against your heated, damp skin.

“Kiss me,” he pants, reeling you in.

You fold over on top of him, meeting his lips with desperate urgency, a frantic exchange of messy kisses marked with gasps and moans. As the heat in your belly grows, you roll your hips faster, and he thrusts up into you, parting from your lips to growl, “You take my dick so well, sweetheart—that sweet pussy feels so fucking good wrapped around me, oh my fucking god—”

“Feels so fucking good, Dieter, don’t fucking stop,” you whimper, pressing your forehead against his, nodding in approval as he grabs your hips and fucks up into you hard and fast, “Oh my god, just like that baby yes yes yes—”

He captures your lips in his and you both moan into the heated, needy kiss, static building and building, spreading hot from your center. It feels so fucking good your eyes start to tingle and swim with tears, and you cry, “I’m gonna fucking cum, don’t stop—”

“That’s it baby, just let go, let it go, let me feel you—”

“So fucking good—Ffffuck—”

The force of your climax steals your breath, ecstasy pulsing liquid static through you, then yanks you down from the clouds and sends you crashing into the earth. Your body convulses and you let out a choked sob.

“Oh my god—oh my god, fuck,” his hips stutter and he pulls out, stroking his cock to completion, shooting hot ropes of cum onto your bodies with a moan.

Both of you remain rigid for a few moments, chests heaving, silently reveling the sweet rush of release before going slack. You collapse on top of him, eyes closed, and release a content sigh as you play with the damp curls at the nape of his neck.

He hums and wraps his arms around your middle, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, “How do you feel?”

“Amazing,” you chuckle, “Wow.”

“Wow is right,” he snorts, then pets your hair and asks, “Any other Christmas wishes?”

After thinking about it for a few seconds, your lips part with an answer, but you chicken out and close them.

“Hmm?”

“It’s dumb.”

“Uh-huh,” he pulls back to meet your eyes, “Tell me anyway.”

You chuckle a little, tracing his jawline, “It’s ok.”

He just blinks at you, waiting, so you swallow and shrug, “I don’t want to sleep alone.”

He hums, pressing a kiss into your forehead, then your cheek, “Do you wanna spend the night with me?”

“Is that weird?”

“I don’t think so. Do you?”

You shake your head.

His gaze drops to your mouth, and you lean in to kiss him. It’s warm and soft and sparks hopeful optimism in your chest, like this is something and not nothing.

When he pulls back, a sly smile spreads across his face, “Your place or mine?”

—

MONDAY, DECEMBER 25TH, 8:00AM

When you wake in Suite 203, it takes a moment for the events of the previous night to catch up to you.

The power going out, the candlelit dinner, the palm reading, the best fucking sex you’ve had in your life.

Was it a dream? Did that actually fucking happen?

But when you hear rustling from the other side of the bed, and feel an arm slip around your waist, pulling you back into his chest, reality punches you in the gut.

You stay still and wait for Dieter’s breath to fall back into a pattern of soft snoring, then slip out of bed and take a shower. With the power still out and the blizzard still raging outside, it takes a bit of guesswork to navigate the process in the dim bathroom, but you emerge successful.

When you tiptoe back into the bedroom, Dieter is still sleeping. You get dressed and go downstairs to make some coffee and think about your decisions.

For an hour or so, you pace around the kitchen island, ruminating over the things he said to you, the things you said to him, the way he made you feel, and the reality of your position in life versus his.

What felt good and right last night takes a different appearance in the harsh light of day. He could hurt you in so many ways if he wanted to. He could get you fired. He could be using you. He probably doesn’t actually care about you, he was just bored and horny and you were wrong this isn’t something, it’s nothing and you’re no one—

“Hey.”

You freeze and look up at Dieter, standing by the fridge in a soft chartreuse bathrobe.

“Hey,” you flash a nervous smile and wave, “How’d you sleep? Can I get you some coffee, anything to eat?”

He frowns, squinting at you, “Why’re you doing that?”

“Doing what?”

For a few seconds, he just stares at you, letting tension twist your guts to shreds, then he drops his gaze to the floor and nods, “Ok. Ok sure.”

Your whole body turns to cement. Cold and heavy and unmoving.

He walks over to the French press and pours a cup of coffee, “So… you’re having some regrets, and you’re gonna go back to this now? Miss hospitality?”

You swallow down a feeling like fire, avoiding eye contact as your vision blurs with tears, “I don’t know, I’m just… I’m just kind of freaking out, I guess?”

“What’re you freaking out about?”

“I guess it’s just that you were right,” you shrug, wiping at your eyes, “You know, with your palm reading. I get attached easily and, I don’t know… I don’t wanna scare you away because, umm… yeah.”

When he doesn’t say anything, you glance up at him, finding a warm smile on his face. Surprised at the expression, you sniffle, “What?”

He approaches you, still smiling, “Because you like me?”

Heat rises to your face. You hold his gaze, watching him lean back on the counter beside you, and you mumble, “Maybe.”

His smile grows wider, digging out dimples in his cheeks, “Yeah? Maybe a little bit?”

You shrug.

“And you think that’s gonna freak me out?”

Again, you shrug.

“Come here, sweetheart,” he murmurs, tugging on your hand. A fresh wave of tears floods your eyes when he wraps his arms around you, stroking your back as he assures you, “I like you too.”

“You do?”

“Cross my heart.”

“You’re not gonna get me fired and ruin my life?”

“What? No—I mean, I hope not. Unless your boss somehow finds out you got dicked down in the library—”

You laugh through the tears, “Oh my god, that would be a fucking nightmare.”

He chuckles, pulling back to look at you. You hook your hands behind his head, and the two of you stare at each other for a few seconds, humor fading from your faces, then you whisper, “This is… this is something, though, right? I’m not crazy?”

“I think it’s something,” his eyes flit around your face, and he shrugs, “You know, I’m a lot like you. I, umm… I tend to keep people at a distance, because I fall easy and hard and yeah… it’s scary. But, I don’t know. I have a good feeling about you.”

You nod, glancing down at his mouth, “Intuition?”

“Yeah,” he smirks, leaning in closer. His lips press against yours, giving you a slow, tender kiss that blossoms in your heart.

When you pull back, he tells you, “I do have one immediate problem, though.”

“What?”

“I don’t know how to ask you to make me breakfast without sounding like an asshole.”

“Like that’s ever stopped you before.”

“Wow. That’s it, I’m docking a star from my review.”

“Uh-huh,” you grin, running your fingers through his messy hair, “I cannot imagine what your review of this place would be.”

He takes a deep breath, then puts on an infomercial voice and says, “Four out of five stars. Gorgeous building, the food is amazing. Truly unique place. One of the employees let me eat her pussy for breakfast—”

You snort with laughter.

“—could not recommend enough. Deducted a star because she said I was an asshole.”

“Lovely, but you did not eat my pussy for breakfast. I’m sure I would’ve remembered that.”

“Not yet I didn’t,” he waggles his eyebrows at you, sneaking a few kisses as he herds you backwards onto the kitchen counter.

—

MONDAY, DECEMBER 25TH, 6:00PM

After breakfast—real breakfast, not oral sex in the kitchen, which was a treat in itself—Dieter went up to Suite 302 to finish the painting he wasn’t able to finish yesterday.

On paper, you had a very busy day. Your daily checklist gives you credit for every single item and some extras.

In reality, you cleaned up the messes made yesterday, which mostly involved washing dishes and following a wiki-how on getting cum out of velvet, and put together a charcuterie board for whenever dinner would happen.

With the remaining daylight hours, you laid on the chaise in the parlor, then the bed in Suite 203, and flipped through books of poems, and successfully resisted your many urges to disrupt Dieter’s work.

The snow stopped overnight, but the blizzard continued to howl all day. Strong gusts whirled the freshly-fallen snow through the air like some kid shaking up a snow globe. But when sunlight started to fade, so did the wind. Everything settled in its place, and the thick blanket of white finally became distinguishable from the nighttime sky.

Inside Blue Moon Manor, Dieter completed his painting, then crawled into bed with you. Apparently it had been just as difficult for him not to disrupt his own work.

He said he thought about you all day. He said he wanted to say fuck it and put the painting on pause to spend time with you, but felt he needed to finish it. He wanted to show it to you after dinner.

Naturally, your nerves have been buzzing since.

You insisted on an earlier dinner, blaming the lack of a lunchtime meal, but the look on his face when you made the argument made it clear he could see right through you. He didn’t mind, though. He helped you pour out glasses of wine to pair with the charcuterie board, then the two of you set everything up beside the fireplace in the parlor and fucking demolished it.

Afterwards, you washed the dishes while he smoked pot by the window. You didn’t even care if your boss smelled it anymore. It seemed trivial.

As Dieter tucks away his onie-box in his pocket, you recount the thought to him. He hops down off the counter and scoffs, “I mean really, what would he do? Fire you?”

“I don’t think he even can. There are three people that work here, and I am by far the most reliable.”

“I believe it,” he takes your hand, leading you from the kitchen to the dining room, “Tell you what, if my smoking gets you fired, you get to stay here with me and make his life hell.”

You laugh at this, shaking your head, “Yeah, ok.”

He turns around, “What, you don’t believe me?”

“No, I believe you. I just think it’s the kind of bet someone knows they’ll win.”

“And winning in this case would be, what? You keep working this dead-end job while I drive myself crazy thinking about you?”

“Hey—it’s a good job,” you release his hand and cross your arms in front of your body.

“No, that’s not—” he sighs, glancing around as he shifts his weight from side-to-side, “It’s a fine job, I just mean… I don’t know what I mean. I mean I wouldn’t mind it, you staying with me. That’s all.”

Searching his face, you deadpan, “That’s so romantic.”

“God, I can’t wait for you to see this,” he chuckles, then takes your hand and pulls you along, “Come on.”

You follow him through the dining room into the dark hallway, where you pause to turn on your headlamps, then climb the service stairs to the third floor, coming to a stop in front of Suite 302.

“Alright, lights out,” he clicks the off button on both your headlamps and leads you through the doorway, then the pitch black room.

“Ok, it’s probably gonna look weird in the lighting, but,” he turns your headlamps on, and you gasp.

The canvas shows a sunroom with windows of blinding white light. Suite 203. And there you are, staring out the window, shadows falling over your face.

“Dieter—”

From behind you, he slips his hands around your waist and kisses your cheek, then tells you, “I was taking pictures, you know, on the tour you gave me. And… I don’t know, I saw you there and took a picture because you just looked so…”

“Sad? Lonely?”

“Kind of. More like a, uhh… a palpable kind of longing. Sorrow and isolation. Like you’re looking for something or someone, but you don’t know what.”

You reach back and cup his cheek, brushing your thumb against his patchy facial hair.

“I wanted to capture that because it is… exactly how I’ve been feeling for years. Just so fucking lost and alone.”

Butterflies flutter around in your stomach, and you whisper, “You don’t have to be alone anymore.”

“Neither do you,” he murmurs, “Better yet, people all over the country will see you and know they’re not alone, either.”

You swallow the lump in your throat and nod, your light bouncing around the canvas, then say, “It’s fucking beautiful, Dieter. What’s it called?”

“Once in a Blue Moon.”

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #dieter bravo #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal fanfiction #dieter bravo fic #dieter bravo smut #dieter bravo fanfiction #dieter bravo fluff #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo x f!reader

511 notes · View notes

alltheirdamn · 1 month

Text

Crush | Jackson Joel x f!reader

Song inspo: Crush by Ethel Cain

Summary: After sharing a late-night smoke with a stranger, you let him take you home to his place... Rating: 18+ Explicit MDNI Word Count: 3.6k Warnings: pure filth, porn with not a whole lot of plot, cigarettes/smoking, alcohol, flirting, light banter, oral (m & f receiving), deepthroat, rimming, anal play, spanking, rough unprotected piv sex, filthy talk, pet names (sweetheart, good girl), language, creampie, joel is a filthy bitch per usual A/N: If Joel isn't the most Ethel Cain coded man ever written I dont know what else to tell you.

Masterlist | Ko-Fi

“Got any t’spare?”

The deep, timbre voice jolted you from your peace and quiet. Footsteps crunched on the snow toward you, a tall older man dissolving from the shadows. The gray streaks in his hair shimmered under the twinkling lights that hung over the bar's roof, and you tracked his long, languid steps as they neared your shivering body. As he got closer, you could finally make out the unkempt beard growing on his jaw and neck. It was short and manageable but still messy as if he had no care about his appearance. What struck you silent, though, were his darkened brown eyes. The creases around them softened him in places, but there was a pain that lingered behind his irises that paralyzed you.

Biting your half-smoked cigarette between your teeth, you reached between your jeans and silken underwear to retrieve the hidden carton. Cigarettes were hard to come by in Jackson, and you knew how to keep your share of them a secret. But something about this man made the idea of lying seem dangerous, so you complied.

“Here,” you muttered, inhaling another drag.

He took the cigarette carefully, his thick fingers barely brushing over yours. Despite the snowfall above you, his hands were warm against your skin. You shuddered as you pulled away to dig your lighter from your back pocket.

You held the flickering flame to the butt of his cigarette, igniting the tobacco until a plume of smoke billowed into the air.

“I ain’t seen you ‘round Jackson ‘fore,” he said, his Southern accent thick and distorted from an inhale of smoke.

You dipped your head, fitting your fingers around the cigarette as you pulled it from your lips.

“Just got here this weekend,” you huffed.

“Who y’come here with?” He asked.

“Do you tend to go nosing around someone’s business before introducing yourself?” You smirked.

“Shit,” he muttered, extending a free hand. “Joel.”

You gave him your name as you wrapped your hand around his. Joel’s fingers squeezed your hand softly before he abandoned your grip and returned to his cigarette.

“I came by myself,” you finally answered.

He nodded slowly, and you both silently inhaled another pull, the smell of smoke swirling around you. You had gotten used to the tinged smell that followed a drag, the bittersweet ambiance that tended to linger on your clothes and hair. You let your eyes wander over Joel as he squinted up into the sky, the pout of his lips wrapped around the cigarette filter.

“S’not an easy trip gettin’ here,” he commented. “You’re a lucky lil’ thing.”

His eyes fell to yours as he said the final two words and something about the drop in his voice made you squirm. The tug of his lips told you he knew it, too. You hollowed your cheeks as you sucked in a lung full of smoke, the cherry burning bright as it lit up Joel’s shadowed face.

“Lucky, huh?” You quipped. “I don’t think it’s luck.”

“Whadaya think it is then?” He asked, tilting his head.

You pinched the cig between your fingers, studying the thin filter as it dwindled closer to the butt. You were already craving another; the stress of traveling had really gotten to you, but you knew you’d need to ration your contraband if you planned on staying in Jackson for a while. You’d already sacrificed one to Joel, which was stupid, but you enjoyed the company of someone who needed it as badly as you did.

“I think I fought tooth and nail to get here. I learned to survive out there alone, and I did it all without luck.”

“Y’saw some scary shit out there,” he nodded, reading between the lines. “I know it ain’t easy. Did the same thing myself ‘few months ago.”

“You’re here alone, too?” You wondered.

“Came here alone, but I got family here,” he shrugged. “My brother, Tommy, he’s the one runnin’ the town.”

Your eyes widened, taking in the area around you. All the houses, the people walking by, the little bar nestled behind you… it was all because of his brother.

“Well, when you see him next, you better tell him thank you for me. I’m really grateful to have somewhere to stay.”

“Sure thing, sweetheart,” he grinned.

A comfortable silence settled over you, and you both alternated between puffs of smoke. Joel glanced at you ever so often, his dark eyes staring intently at your mouth each time. After a while, your cigarette burned less, and you tossed it beneath your feet to extinguish it, the heat of it melting a hole into the snow.

“Y’know what tastes good with a cigarette?” Joel asked.

“What?”

He dropped the butt of his cigarette to the ground, following your lead and squashing it into the snow.

“Whiskey,” he said matter of fact. “Got some up at my place if y’wanna come over.”

“I won’t say no to that,” you smiled. “You owe me for the cig anyway.”

Joel’s home was nestled far into the woods at the end of town, its cozy space welcoming and warm. The steps up to the front door were covered in snow, and the front porch was adorned with a wooden rocking chair and table. He opened the door and ushered you inside, the bite of the night chill finally relenting once the door shut.

“Lemme take this,” Joel offered, his hands guiding your winter jacket off and hanging it on a hook by the door.

You were left standing in just a thermal and jeans, your body shivering as the cocoon of warmth disappeared. He shrugged off his heavy jacket, placing it beside yours. His green flannel stretched against the muscles of his body, and you ogled at him. You would have never guessed that he looked like this under the cover of his jacket.

“It ain’t polite to stare,” he joked.

You blinked at him, heat crawling up your neck and coloring your face red.

“Well, you’re not hard on the eyes,” you tossed back, giving him a playful grin.

Now he was blushing, the soft pink tint blooming under the scruff on his cheeks. With a subtle tilt of his head, Joel guided you to his kitchen, and you watched as he searched for a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. It was hard not to fixate on his thick fingers as they dwarfed his mug, nor was it easy to avoid watching the muscles in his neck flex as he swallowed a long sip of the liquor.

“So, do you make a habit of inviting strangers to your home?” You asked, sipping the whiskey slowly.

“Only the pretty ones with tobacco,” he smirked.

The burn of the liquor down your throat coursed down your chest, warmth spreading into your limbs. Joel’s heavy stare was enough to make warmth bloom in other areas, too, the friction in your jeans becoming a problem that needed fixing. You had spent months all alone on the road trying to make it here, never once giving in to your desperate needs. You barely had the energy to fantasize about a man touching you, and now you were feet away from an opportunity to fulfill your needs.

“Ah, so you’re only interested in what I have to offer.”

You were gunning for a reaction, hoping he’d take the bait. Joel was a stranger; maybe that sentiment was part of the attraction. No strings, no emotions…just someone to fuck and blow off some steam with.

Joel finished the rest of his drink before stalking toward you, his fingers dancing up your arm. You squirmed at his touch, stepping into his space and letting your chest brush against his. His fingers squeezed your chin, tipping your head back so that you met your eyes.

“Y’got other things to offer?” He smirked.

“Depends on what you want.”

You grinned at him playfully, grinding your hips against the erection tenting in his pants. Joel exhaled a strangled groan, his fingers tightening around your jaw before traveling down your throat. You gave him a defiant look, arching your neck to allow his large hand to cover the entirety of your neck.

“Think I wanna see ya’ on your knees, sweetheart,” he rasped. “Wanna see those pretty eyes full of tears when y’try to take my cock down this pretty lil’ throat.”

You moaned helplessly, squeezing your thighs together to try and relieve the pressure building inside your core. Joel used his hand around your neck to guide you to your knees, your eyes still obediently staring up at him.

“God damn, you’re even more beautiful like that,” Joel exhaled.

He worked at his belt, letting go of your throat so that he could use both hands to free his cock. And the moment your eyes caught sight of his thick cock, you understood why he needed both hands. You wet your lips involuntarily, the aspect of trying to fit the girth of him in your mouth igniting a newfound excitement inside you.

“Stick out your tongue,” he ordered.

You quickly obliged, your jaw dropping open. You could hardly contain the grin tugging at the corners of your open mouth, arousal buzzing through your veins. Joel shoved his pants halfway down his thighs and bent over to meet you at eye level. With a brief grin of mischief, he spit into your open mouth, humming in satisfaction as he eyed the saliva coating your tongue.

“Mhmm,” he smiled. “Good fuckin’ girl.”

Joel pumped his cock a few times before sliding it over your tongue, the stretch of your mouth around it forcing your jaw sore. You hollowed your cheeks around him, the salty taste of his precum dripping down your throat as you took him deeper. You swirled your tongue around the tip of his cock as it glided further into your mouth, your eyes twinkling as you watched Joel’s head tip back in ecstasy.

“Yeah, just like that, sweetheart.”

You reached a hand up to caress his balls, stroking them in tandem with each bob of your head. Joel nearly buckled over at your soft touch, his hips snapping forward until your nose collided with the wiry hair surrounding his cock. You sputtered violently around him, saliva dripping down your chin while tears sprung from your eyes.

“There we go,” he grunted. “Lookin’ so pretty chokin’ on my cock. Y’like that?”

He shoved down your throat again, suffocating you with his musky scent and salty taste. You nodded vigorously, your mouth still full of him. Snaking a hand down your pants, you tried to squeeze your fingers between the fabric of your underwear, desperately seeking relief from the ache throbbing harder inside your core.

Joel tutted at you, ripping his cock from your mouth. You wailed in protest, a string of saliva still webbing from the tip to your mouth. A strong hand gripped your hair, and you stared up at him with swollen lips and lust-blown eyes.

“Y’gonna offer me a taste of that sweet lil’ pussy now?” Joel asked, quirking a grin.

“Take what you want,” you panted, grinning at him.

Joel didn’t need to be told twice. He hauled you up and walked you toward the empty dining table, slamming your chest down into it hard enough to make you gasp for air. With your nails digging into the wood, Joel worked at ripping your jeans and underwear down your legs, the half-empty carton of cigarettes falling to the ground.

“That’s a cute hidin’ spot,” Joel chuckled.

“I like to keep them safe from strangers.”

“Ain’t done a good job of that tonight.”

Joel’s hand came down with a resounding thwack against your ass, a cry erupting from your lips. The sting of his palm on your skin radiated down your legs, the slick pooling further down your thighs. Jesus Christ, if he didn’t fuck you soon, you might go crazy.

“God, damn, sweetheart,” Joel exhaled, swiping a finger over your entrance. You jerked at his touch, chasing the pleasure coursing through your body. “Just drippin’ for me, ain’t she? Y’need my cock stretchin’ this tight pussy out?”

“Fuck,” you groaned. “Please, Joel.”

“Got you beggin’ for it already,” Joel laughed. “I think I like you.”

You ached for his cock, but you felt him shift behind you and gasped as his tongue licked a thick stripe up your center. You squirmed as his beard tickled your shivering skin, and your cunt fluttered around his tongue, each flick against your aching clit sending a ripple of tremors down your limbs. The bridge of his nose brushed through the crease between your entrance and tight ring of muscles, and you instinctively flinched away.

“Y’ever had someone fuck you here?” Joel muttered.

You wagged your head in protest, and he hummed in approval before his tongue traced around the tight ring. The sensation was so foreign to you, but his mouth on you felt too good to oppose. Back and forth, his tongue lapped up your juices and returned upwards, a consistent rhythm that had you gasping for more.

“Might have to stretch out this virgin hole if y’let me,” Joel mumbled, his fingers prodding up your inner thighs.

“Maybe,” you exhaled shakily.

Joel took your lack of words as an invitation to start annihilating you with his mouth, his lips suctioning over your clit, his tongue pulsating over your sensitive bud. It didn’t take much longer until your orgasm was cresting to the surface, a wail escaping your mouth as your body seized.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” Joel groaned. “Think this sweet lil’ pussy’s ready for me now?”

You were too blissed out to formulate words correctly, so you only responded with a desperate whine and a slight shimmy of your ass. Joel straightened behind you, lining up with your leaking entrance. The thick head of his cock brushed against your wet folds, pushing in slowly, and you held back a whimper as your body adjusted to the stretch of him bottoming out inside you.

“Shit,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “Just suckin’ me right in, ain’t you?”

“Feels so fucking good, Joel,” you moaned.

He drew back his hips, his cock nearly slipping out of you before he drove right back in. The table beneath you creaked, and your core fluttered around the girth of his cock, splitting you open. Joel’s hands groped at the plush skin of your ass, spreading you open for his pleasure. Any other man and you’d be embarrassed by how exposed you were, but for some reason… Joel was driving you insane.

“Takin’ my cock so well, sweetheart,” Joel praised.

You keened at his words, each thrust of his cock blinding your vision. Calloused fingers dug into your hips, and the smoky fragrance of his skin evaded your senses as he dipped over your spine, drawing his mouth close to your ear.

“Wish y’could see the way your pussy wraps around my cock,” Joel teased. “Gonna wreck you ‘til you’re a fucked out mess, sweetheart.”

“Use me,” you panted.

The pent-up desperation from months spent alone was clawing out of your throat; the harder he fucked you, the more you craved it. Joel’s hand wound around your hair, tightening it around his fist until he could pull your neck back. That’s when he really started ramping up the speed. His body slammed against yours, thrust after thrust, turning you into a blubbering mess of jumbled words.

“Desperate.” Thrust. “Lil.” Thrust. “Thing.” Thrust.

“Wanna—wanna cum for you, Joel,” you gasped.

Pain radiated up your neck the tighter he gripped your hair, but you couldn’t give a damn as the orgasm surged through your core. Joel kicked your legs out wider, the angle of his cock spearing into you the deeper he pushed.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” Joel urged. “Lemme feel this pussy squeeze my cock.”

Hypnotized by his words, your body reacted on cue, a white-hot explosion detonating inside your core. You screamed out his name, your cunt turning into a vice around his cock. Joel choked on his breath, his movements choppy and off-beat as he pounded through your climax. The wet sound of your cunt around his cock was loud enough to echo through the empty house, and Joel exhaled in satisfaction as he reached down to pull one of your legs onto the edge of the table.

The new position sparked another fury of warmth inside your veins, his rough hand squeezing the underside of your kneecap as he broke you open wider.

“Gonna fill this tight lil’ hole with my cum,” Joel rasped. “Y’want that, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” you pleaded.

Wedging your leg higher onto the table, Joel snapped his hips in repetition, carnal groans falling off his lips each time he sunk deeper. You tossed a glance over your shoulder, seeing his face scrunched up in concentration; his eyes were so fixated on his cock slipping in and out of your drenched hole that he didn’t realize you were watching. A muscle in his jaw twitched, and you could feel the sudden surge of tension paralyzing his body. Joel ground out your name as he emptied himself into you, white-hot ropes of release painting your insides.

“Jesus,” you exhaled, watching his features soften as his eyes fluttered shut.

Joel’s eyes snapped open, connecting with yours. A grin teased one corner of his mouth, beads of sweat coating the thick mustache covering his upper lip. Gingerly lowering your leg to the floor, Joel bent over your body, brushing a hand under your chin to guide your lips to his. He coaxed your mouth open, the sweet taste of whiskey and cigarettes still dancing on his tongue. You nipped at his plush bottom lip, drawing it between your teeth until he groaned.

“Want another smoke?” You asked, pushing your nose against his.

“Just gotta do somethin’ first,” he whispered.

Joel slipped out of you, the immediate trickle of liquid gushing down your thighs at his absence. He crouched behind you, pressing gentle kisses into the supple flesh of your thighs as he traveled higher. Two thick fingers plunged inside your gaping entrance, the stretch not nearly as shocking as it was with his cock. You chewed your lip to hold back another wanton moan, his fingers curling against the spongy spot inside your core.

“I need you to relax for me, okay, sweetheart?” Joel insisted. “Y’trust me?”

“I barely even know you,” you laughed. But you obliged, regardless, nodding your head eagerly.

Joel’s fingers worked their way out of you, trailing higher up the seam of your entrance until they prodded at your virgin hole. You buck your hips at his feather-like touch, the pads of his fingers pushing against the tight muscle gently.

“Relax,” he crooned.

You inhale sharply, letting your body sag onto the table. The initial stretch of his finger was uncomfortable, your body tensing as Joel worked you open. You whimpered quietly, shifting your body slightly as he slid another finger in alongside the first, your body sucking him in knuckle-deep.

“Attagirl,” Joel murmured. “Got both your holes stretched and filled now. Feels good, don’t it?”

You gave him a pathetic nod, your body on the cusp of overstimulation. Joel gently pulled his fingers from you, and you looked back to see him draw them between his lips, sucking them clean. Those dark brown eyes flicked up to meet your watchful gaze, a dangerous smile splitting across his face.

Oh, hell.

You and Joel spent the rest of the night on his porch, watching the snow blanket the ground between dancing puffs of smoke. There was minimal chatter after he cleaned you up, your clothes pieced back together, and the cigarette carton stashed away in its usual spot under your jeans. Ever so often, you’d eye Joel between drags, watching his jaw flex as he hollowed his cheeks. Under the pale light of the moon and flickering bulb over his porch, you made out the streaks of grey in his hair, familiarizing yourself with each curl that stuck to his sweat-dampened skin.

“You’re starin’ again,” he stated, his eyes locked on the snow swirling in the air.

You blushed, ashing the butt of the cig over the porch rails. The heat of his gaze on you was impossible to ignore, so you cooled yourself and turned to him with a shy grin.

“Guess there’s just something about you,” you muttered.

Joel’s brown eyes twinkled, and he smiled right back.

“You just sayin’ that ‘cause y’got my cum leakin’ out of you, sweetheart?” He teased.

“Christ,” you exhaled, rolling your eyes. “That’s definitely not why.”

“Y’gonna tell me then?” He pressed his shoulder into yours.

You returned the playful shove, letting your arm brush against his. Flicking the end of your cigarette into the yard, you straightened your body.

“You owe me a pack of Reds,” you laughed. “Then, maybe I’ll tell you.”

“Just tell me when y’wanna come and get ‘em,” Joel smirked.

He drew you in for a soft kiss before urging you to head home, both of you reluctant to leave the porch. As you walked through the gate in his fence, you glanced back one last time to capture his attention with a small wave of your hand. Hidden in the shadows, you saw Joel’s hand lift to his mouth, blowing you a kiss that drifted past the lingering haze of smoke and falling snow.

#jackson joel #jackson joel x f!reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel x f!reader #joel miller one shot #joel miller fanfic #joel miller tlou #tlou fanfic #post outbreak joel #smut smut smut

375 notes · View notes

atsumou · 12 days

Text

ii. JUST ME & YOU

miya atsumu x f!reader

── next: iii. Honeyed gaze | series masterlist

synopsis: You spend time with Atsumu exploring the heart of Shizuoka—from the local convenience store, all the way to Sumpu Castle ruins; and while the two of you are alone, Atsumu can’t help but ask a question that’s been weighing his mind.

chapter content warning: college au, fluff!!!, slight angst, implied alcohol use (briefly mentioned), mutual pining (reader & tsumu are so down bad for each other it hurts), miscommunication, requited unrequited love, slow burn, poor depiction of shizuoka city, not beta read.

word count: 3.6k

notes: divider: cafekitsune. hehehehe more tsumu & reader content !!

“Anyone notice the weird tension between those two or is it just me?” Suna shuddered, rubbing his gloved hands together in hopes for extra warmth.

Shizuoka wasn’t graced by deep snowfall but the afternoon temperatures still dipped low enough to have locals dressing thick enough to brave the winter breeze.

The brunette recounted the moment in the hotel lobby where he found the two of you situated side-by-side on the couch, looking rather on edge—the slight bounce of Atsumu’s leg, and the way you nibbled on your bottom lip.

Osamu snickered, cheeks blanketed with a tinge of pink from the iciness of the city,

“Maybe yer jus’ imaginin’ things.”

Clearly it was a sarcastic remark, his tone dripped with irony that it—almost—eerily sounded like Atsumu. For a brief moment, Suna thought so too, and did a quick, discreet glance at his friend just to make sure it was the correct twin. Being a nonchalant character, Suna had developed a habit of looking up from his phone whenever one of the Miya twins spoke just to make sure he wasn’t conversing with the wrong one—the twins loved to play that prank.

“Best not ta interfere whatever is goin’ on between ‘em. They’ll sort it out like mature adults.” Kita spoke up, tucking his hands inside his pocket. Curious as he was at the odd situation between the both of you, he didn’t want to meddle—it was something you and Atsumu had to deal with, alone.

Mature adults, huh.

Two options. Your mind came up with two options to choose from, albeit, not really sensible:

1. Stay holed up in your own room for the whole three hours, and steer absolutely clear from Miya Atsumu, and that weird look on his stupidly handsome face.

2. Leave the shared suite to explore the heart of Shizuoka on your own, leaving him all alone.

But, there was a secret, third option: Face this situation like a mature adult, and act like civilised people for goodness sake.

Your mind scolded you—or was that your heart?

“. . Yeah, guess so.” You awkwardly cleared your throat, tugging at the ends of the fluffy cerulean fabric wrapped around your neck. The room was way too quiet, each mocking tick of the ivory wall clock filling the growing void between you and Atsumu.

“So. .” “Hm . . ?”

The blonde shifted his weight from one leg to the other, caramel gaze never leaving your own.

“What do ya feel like doin’?” He continued, a hint of unsureness in his tone.

Atsumu was rarely unsure but he didn’t know when he had started questioning every single action he did when it came to conversing with you—it almost felt like the blonde was walking on eggshells, not because he was afraid of your reaction but the fact that in his mind, he seemed like he was bothering you even if he knew he wasn’t.

It’s scary to think how one’s mind worked absolute wonders to not only self sabotage but also to re-think one’s actions, especially if it involved love.

The day Miya Atsumu realised his feelings transitioned into something deeper—unlike you—he welcomed it with open arms, and no regrets; as if he was able to foresee what the future held, the blonde knew this would eventually happen, and he accepted it in a heartbeat despite being fully aware of the fact that his feelings may not be reciprocated.

It was a rather quick realisation.

Naturally, whenever Atsumu’s admirers approached after a match to congratulate him, he’d bask in their endless strings of praises, effectively inflating his ego, and pride as a volleyball player. It became second nature to him at this point—hands on hips, honeyed eyes closed, head nodding along to every single word thrown his way.

But after a particular game back in third-year highschool, it didn’t feel the same anymore. Atsumu’s ego, and pride didn’t blossom inside his chest, no sense of accomplishment engulfed his body despite the high praises—inside one ear, and out the other. He didn’t pay attention nor relished it for even a second because all he needed after a tiring game was your validation, and praise.

Atsumu didn’t just need it, he yearned for it, and didn’t dare question what his heart wanted. Instead, he came into terms with the enclosed beast inside his ribcage, the feeling of uncertainty looming behind his back like a fox waiting to pounce.

“Mhm. Not too sure, you?”

You replied, awkwardly stretching your arms above your head, feigning calmness. In reality, your heart pounded like crazy, praying it wasn’t loud enough for him to hear it.

For a split second, Atsumu thought keeping to yourselves might be the best option for now but the idea dissipated as quickly as it formed—he wasn’t about to chicken out. At the end of the day, your friendship came way before he developed these stupid feelings for you.

So he thought of a different idea,

“How ‘bout we explore a bit? Y’ down for that?” Atsumu really hoped that you’d say yes to him—in every sense of the word—because it’d been quite a while since the two of you spent alone time together, and he missed the good old days where feelings didn’t complicate the situation. Not to mention your strange actions as of late, albeit subtle, Atsumu was one to always notice a slight shift in a person’s behaviour—especially when directed towards him.

Oh, he’s noticed the way you slightly held back from conversing or even standing next to him—the hesitancy laced in every action, each a careful, calculated move as if navigating through a field of mines. It raised concern in Atsumu’s mind; what if you somehow found out he loves you more than a friend, and distance was your humble way of showing him you didn’t feel the same?

He hoped that wasn’t the case. Atsumu held onto the fact that maybe you liked him back too, and it was your way of navigating through those feelings. Safe to say, it raised a question in the back of his mind but that was for later.

“Sure. I don’t feel like staying holed in here, anyway.” Liar. That was the first idea you thought of.

Atsumu could almost jump for joy when you agreed but instead, he shot you a warm smile, deliberately ignoring the way his heartbeat picked up as soon as you nodded; he could already imagine the two of you falling into a step along the chilly streets of Shizuoka as the sun slowly dipped into the horizon—hues of oranges, and pinks decorating the winter sky.

Okay, maybe, the first thing you thought of was to help your poor heart, and avoid Atsumu until dinner but that didn’t mean you were immune to him—who were you to turn down the opportunity of getting some alone time with him? As scary as it sounded, you found yourself looking forward to it.

Engulfed by the cold afternoon breeze, you shuddered, burying the bottom half of your face beneath the azure scarf wrapped around your neck as you fell into a step with Atsumu, the hotel’s automatic glass doors closing behind the two of you.

The latter instinctively moved closer at your response to the cold—clothed arm brushing against your own.

You didn’t say anything nor moved away, instead, you let him come closer—raging butterflies in your stomach, and a thundering heartbeat made itself known.

If anything, the small gesture put Atsumu’s heart at ease.

Today’s destination for the next few hours was Sumpu Castle—after some thoughtful decision with Atsumu—paired with a little pitstop to a local convenience for some much needed sweet treat.

Despite the dropping temperatures of the late afternoon, the blonde next to you had made his ice cream cravings known. Truthfully, he’s so lovesick that even walking next to you had his body burning with unspeakable emotions, thus the need for a cold treat.

After returning a polite greeting to the clerk, Atsumu beelined for the self-service ice cream, a hint of urgency laced in every step, determination engraved in his caramel eyes. It made you chuckle a bit, clearly oblivious to the reason.

“You should put more.” You spoke, watching the way the vanilla soft serve swirled onto the paper cup Atsumu held, the other hand carefully pulling onto the lever.

The latter looked over his shoulder, honeyed eyes tinged with slight tease as he found your gaze, “It’s priced by weight, ya know. Why? Ya wanna share this with me?” A slight smirk painted his handsome face, and boy was that enough to render you speechless.

Just the thought of sharing an ice cream with Atsumu made you all warm inside. There may or may not have been an imaginary scene in your mind where the blonde happily gives you a scoop from his own spoon—god, you felt dizzy.

It took all your willpower to keep the corners of your lips in check, making sure they didn’t curl up at his words.

“No, I meant. .” You trailed off, voice dissipating into the thin winter air, wracking one’s brain to find any appropriate sentence that came into mind—one that didn’t peek into the untouched emotions you had for Atsumu.

The blonde let out a velvety laugh, brows shooting up in amusement at your flustered form. Adorable as always. He didn’t say anything else, instead, he turned back around to decorate the ice cold treat with toppings, lightly humming to the faint music of the convenience store.

On the other hand, you stood rooted on the spot—mentally facepalming, unsure as to what even brought about the sentence earlier.

With the awkward situation forgotten, you and Atsumu were en route to Sumpu Castle—of course, he didn’t live it down for the first few minutes, asking if you wanted some ice cream with that teasing look on his face,

“Sure ya don’t want any? Seemed like ya were really eyein’ it back at the store.” You playfully rolled your eyes in response, gaze lingering a little too long on the spoon he held.

As tempting as it sounded, you held yourself back.

The two of you walked along the streets of Shizuoka in silence, occasional hums from the blonde next to you as he relished the saccharine soft serve melting on his tongue.

The only difference now was it wasn’t as awkward as your mind thought it would be—the silence was comfortable.

Blending into the quotidian noises of the city as each step neared the destination; the low hum of cars passing by, distant conversations of the locals, birds singing atop leafless trees—you let it comfortably engulf your senses.

It was silly to think how love blinded you in ways you couldn’t comprehend, most importantly, forgetting the fact that Atsumu was still your close friend. The friend who didn’t hesitate to console you after your first bad grade in university, the friend who listened to all your rants, the friend who accompanied you in the library whenever he had time.

Love had twisted your perception so much to the point where you were almost running away from Atsumu, ignoring your platonic history together. It was silly, really, and this little moment between the two of you made you realise how foolishly blind you’ve been acting.

But then again, it was a double-edged sword. If you let yourself get too comfortable with Atsumu, you’d possibly end up with a broken heart. On the other hand, if you distanced yourself too much, it’d heavily strain the friendship.

Which risk you were willing to take was something you’ve been pondering.

Sounds of Atsumu’s laughter filled your ears, it pulled you out of trance, the city’s noises muted, as if left far, far behind.

“Samu and I didn’t even go ahead with the plan but we got a heck of a scoldin’ from Kita!” You looked to the side, watching as the blonde tipped his head back to let out a hearty laugh, reminiscing the old highschool days. The low afternoon sun casted a golden shadow on his side profile, illuminating his caramel eyes, and flaxen strands.

The citrine glow gently traced Atsumu’s features—from his thick brows, all the way down to his rosy lips, and everything in between. For a brief moment, you envied the winter sun for brazenly kissing every bit of his face before you ever could.

You subtly shook your head, snapping out of it before your gaze fell on the corner of his mouth, a smudge of ice cream lightly coating it.

“You have a bit of ice cream here.”

Atsumu raised his brows, watching you point at the corner of your mouth, a hint of amusement in your gaze.

The former darted out his tongue, lightly licking at the spot in hopes to wipe it away. You watched for a few seconds as he struggled to reach the spot, a small smile forming on your lips—Atsumu looked absolutely silly but you’d have to admit, he was still devastatingly handsome.

Sighing, you grabbed the serviette—that he got from the convenience store—tucked between his fingers, and angled his face before your own, mere inches apart. Both hands absentmindedly cupped Atsumu’s jaw, gaze fixated on his mouth as you carefully wiped the ice cream off his face.

The blonde froze, his jaw taut beneath your hands. You were close, too damn close that you took up his field of view—not that he was complaining. It felt like time slowed down, and he could only hear his short breaths, and thumping heart; Atsumu watched your gaze beneath your lashes, the way your lips pursed in concentration.

As you pulled away, everything suddenly came back to him—the soft murmurs of Shizuoka, the wintry breeze, the cup in his hand.

He let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, a puff of ivory mist clouding his view for a second as he composed himself—or at least tried to. Your searing touch lingered on Atsumu, he could almost blindly trace an outline of your hands from where they were a few seconds ago.

A clear of his throat sliced through the growing silence before he muttered a small ‘Thanks’. You could only nod in response, not trusting your voice.

The rest of the walk turned a bit awkward but thankfully not for long as the castle grounds came into view, earning gasps of awe from the both of you—the ice cream incident long forgotten, and Atsumu’s finished cup thrown in the bin.

The historic ivory walls, and coal-black Kawara tiles was definitely a sight to see—greeted with a wooden bridge situated atop still waters that led to the Higashi Gomon Gate.

After paying for the admission fee, you and Atsumu didn’t hesitate to explore the castle grounds—you were greeted with snippets of Shizuoka’s great history; the statue of the honoured retired shogun, replicas of his armour, and clips & information about the castle’s materials.

Soon, you found yourselves outside, surrounded in vast winter greeneries, a lake situated in the middle of it all. Despite being in the middle of winter, Momijiyama garden was unique for its seasonal displays—endless trees filled with hues of pinks, and reds from camellias decorated the traditional garden.

Atsumu glanced sideways at you, eyes sparkling with awe as you scanned the entirety of the serene place. Your expressions were infectious, a small smile forming on his face as he stared at you longer.

“D’ya want a picture? I don’t mind takin’ some. ‘M no Suna but I’ll try m’best.” The blonde offered, jutting his arms out for your phone.

You hesitated for a bit before giving him the device. Sure, there were no problems when it came to posing for pictures, it was the fact that Atsumu was the one taking them.

The latter positioned himself to get the best possible view of the garden—all of a sudden, you didn’t know how to smile naturally; everything felt stiff, and awkward.

He let out a hearty laugh, honeyed eyes glued to your miniature form on the screen. You looked awkward as hell but Atsumu found it absolutely adorable.

“W-what? Why are you laughing?” You let out a huff before turning away, trying to cover yourself from any more photos, clearly flustered at his sudden reaction.

“Ah, hey, don’t go hidin’ yer face now! I was jus’ tryna make you smile.” Atsumu waved a dismissive hand, a big smile plastered on his handsome face as he kept taking photos.

You shook your head and posed accordingly, ignoring the fact that your heart hammered on your chest, and the way Atsumu’s smile widened in your cooperation—caramel eyes sparkling with adoration.

After a few more clicks, a much needed rest was due. The two of you sat on a bench near the lake—Atsumu scanned the view before him while you mindlessly scrolled on your phone, checking the photos taken mere minutes ago. Most of the photos were of you looking away, clearly camera shy, and stiff but ones that caught your eye were pictures of you smiling at the camera—at Atsumu.

The expressions on your face were genuine, and relaxed. You took a mental note to post those ones later.

The time spent with Atsumu enlightened your heart a bit, it made you realise that he was still your friend despite the way your chest tightened around him—that it was unfair for him to be cluelessly met with distance from your end. After all, you weren’t teenagers anymore.

Something had been weighing heavily in the back of Atsumu’s mind, and he didn’t know how to bring it about. The blonde stared at the mixed hues of green before him, as if looking to the trees would somehow tell him how to start the conversation.

Ah, fuck it. “So, how’s it goin’ with that special someone?”

Looking up from your phone, you furrowed your brows, wracking your brain for context—ah, right. One drunken night, after a particularly dreadful exam, you’d accidentally told Atsumu about having feelings for a certain someone. You thanked the heavens that you didn’t start name-dropping but it got the latter way too curious for your liking—little did he know, that was about him.

“Hm? Ah, you know . . Same old same old.” Your heart raced, wishing he didn’t pry any further. Atsumu noticed the way you fiddled with your fingers, so he remained silent, an invitation to either let the topic drop or carry it on at your own will.

“I do have this crazy idea, though . .”

A whisper, enough for Atsumu to hear. He nodded, all ears, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous. “I’ll probably confess to him with rejection in mind. I know he doesn’t have feelings . . Plus, I’m doing myself a favour so I can finally move on.” You let out a puff of ivory mist, heart weighing heavy at the thought of rejection.

Rejection from the very man who sat next to you.

Atsumu slowly nodded, trying his best to comprehend your thoughts. He’s never heard of that before—confessing just to move on from one’s feelings. Usually, when one confessed, they had a relationship in mind. He opened his mouth, not really knowing why or how this question came to be,

“Hypothetically, what if they say they like ya back?” Atsumu angled his torso towards you, a strange glint in his honeyed eyes as he met your gaze—was it desperation? Curiosity? You’d never know.

“Mhm. I don’t know. I don’t even think I’m ready for a relationship.” “So . . yer jus’ gonna confess for the sake of movin’ on? Even if he likes ya back?”

You nod. What a liar.

It was far more complicated, really. Sure, it would’ve been easy to have feelings if it was some random stranger from a lecture but this was Miya Atsumu you were talking about—a close friend you’ve grown to love platonically, and romantically. Just the mere fact of confessing could strain the friendship, so you had to tread very carefully.

Even if it meant selling yourself short.

The possibility of having your feelings reciprocated weren’t exactly zero to none but you also didn’t know if getting into a relationship with Atsumu was something you should be doing. In all honesty, you were scared shitless.

Atsumu nodded once again. He took a mental note of your words, not knowing what to make of it.

The walk to the restaurant was silent—the sun fully dipped into the horizon, leaving hues of blues, and pinks in the winter sky of Shizuoka City. Warm lights slowly filled the darkening streets as locals began heading home, some opting to eat dinner out.

Atsumu seemed to be eerily quiet, and in deep thought for the duration of the walk. You, on the other hand, were busy conversing with Suna on the phone—who had been asking your whereabouts. You chalked it up to tiredness since you all had an early morning, and explored nonstop.

“An’ here I thought ya both got lost on the way.” Osamu waved the two of you over. The three of them stood just outside the restaurant, patiently waiting in the cold. “Ya could’ve jus’ went inside ya know.” Atsumu snickered.

The five of you were ushered to a booth, conversations of today filled your ears as Osamu filled his brother in about the bike tour with occasional photos shown by Suna.

Atsumu was the first to slide into the booth, his gaze met your own for a brief moment. You saw that as an invitation to sit next to him but as you were mere seconds from doing so, he spoke up, patting the wooden bench beneath—ignoring the way you looked at him.

“Suna, come sit ‘ere. I wanna see more of yer photos from the tour.”

Oh.

Sliding next to Kita on the opposite bench—followed by Osamu—you awkwardly cleared your throat, a very weird feeling settling deep in your chest after the odd encounter; your skin prickled in embarrassment.

Surely it was nothing—you hoped it was nothing but somehow, you didn’t believe yourself.

—

taglist (open)

tags: @ushijimaschubbs @tsumudoll @starlitsawamura @littlemiyastars @h3art-ablaz3 @eggyrocks @integers @rrosiitas @food8me @schelamski @honeytwo @nyaaa-cat

#₊˚ෆ YUE WRITES!#miya atsumu #atsumu #atsumu fluff #atsumu angst #atsumu x reader #atsumu x you #atsumu x y/n #miya atsumu fluff #miya atsumu angst #miya atsumu x reader #miya atsumu x you #miya atsumu x y/n #haikyuu #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu angst #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x you #haikyuu x y/n

177 notes · View notes

honeygrahambitch · 3 months

Text

"Well, I don't mind it." Will said as he laid a blanket on the wooden floor, followed by a pillow. "It's not my first time sleeping in this kind of conditions." He added as he grabbed another pillow and another blanket and threw them on his improvised bed. "I am more worried about you. Need any help with that?"

Hannibal was unsuccessfully trying to light up the damp pieces of wood in the fireplace.

"It's not my first time sleeping in this kind of conditions either."

Will stared outside the window. There were high chances they wouldn't be able to open the door of the cabin in the morning due to the heavy snowfall. Another blanket would have been welcome since the wooden walls of the cabin allowed the chilly wind to creep in, whistling.

"Don't bother with the fire." Will said as he heard Hannibal's third frustrated groan. He only let those out in exceptional situations. There are not many things that don't go right for Hannibal Lecter.

"You will freeze." He replied shortly.

"My body warmth will be enough for us both. And these blankets might be a little moldy but you can pretend it's a fancy lavender scent."

The fact that Hannibal showed no reaction to his joke worried Will even more. Part of him knew he should just shut up and let Hannibal struggle with the fire for as long as he wants but another part of him didn't want to shut up. Changing the subject sounded like a reasonable idea.

"We might end up eating frozen squirrels. That is, if we can open the door."

Hannibal didn't even turn to face him, still leaning over the the fireplace. This time his silence felt heavier. It felt like a response.

"Are you there?" Will asked.

"Have you ever eaten a frozen squirrel, Will?"

His voice sounded somewhat dangerous, yet bittersweet. As if the question was meant to be spilled like an inkpot.

"I have not."

"I have."

"You won't have to do that again. Come here, I made us a nice bed."

For the first time, Hannibal abandoned the fire and turned to face Will. "Do you believe I am concerned about freezing? About having to eat frozen animals?"

Will was not sure what to answer to that since it sounded rhetorical.

"I don't care about what happens to me. I am worried about having you go through all of that. I am trying to keep you warm."

"Heartwarming." Will commented, arching an eyebrow. "However, I do care about what happens to you and I will keep you warm."

"I don't-"

Will made one of those sounds he would make to quiet his dogs when they would protest.

"You will step away from that fireplace and you will come here." Will ordered sternly. He followed Hannibal with his gaze, obeying him without any other objection. He crawled next to Will, under the moldy blanket.

Will searched for his hands underneath the blanket and brought them to his mouth. He blew warm air over them.

"I will keep you warm." Will repeated, this time softly, as a whisper. Hannibal stared at Will's face in the darkness of the cabin. His blue eyes gleamed like morning dew on the petals of a forget-me-not.

"Keep me warm, Will." Hannibal said, accepting his fate.

At least now, someone would keep warm the little boy who had died in the snow.

#this makes more sense if you have watched or read hannibal rising #hope it didn't ruin you as much as it ruined me #hannibal #hannigram #hannibal lecter #will graham #hannibal nbc #hannibal series

285 notes · View notes

idyllic-affections · 5 months

Note

Would u please do Arlecchino adopting a reader? I just want to be adopted by our dearest Arlecchino

warmth.

summary. arlecchino's warmth is quite an effective repellent for snezhnaya's everlasting cold.

trigger & content warnings. home invasion, gunshots are mentioned, a bit of violence in general, reader's parents are murdered (not by arlecchino) but it is non-descriptive and reader does not witness it.

tropes, pairings, fic length, & other notes. hurt/comfort, found family-ish. arlecchino & child!reader. 1.1k words. they/them pronouns used for reader.

author's thoughts. hehehehehe arle <3 i was supposed to write a fic featuring kafka (hsr) today in celebration of her coming home. Erm. yeah. That did not happen! clearly. /lh

It happened all too quickly.

It truly was a peaceful night, just like any other. The fire crackled on soothingly in the background, shadows dancing on the walls, and the warmth staving off the frigid cold that was all but characteristic of Snezhnaya's nights. Peering out the window would reveal the light, steady snowfall; typically, more blizzard-like conditions would be present, but perhaps the Tsaritsa was in quite a good mood that night in particular, for the snow was gentle in its falling and the winds did not rage on cruelly, biting and nipping angrily at any unfortunate person caught out in the middle of the storm.

Their mother hummed a soft lullaby to them as her calloused fingers, all thanks to years of sewing and hunting combined, rubbed up and down their back. Their father had been in the kitchen—cooking was a responsibility shared between their parents (and really, how could he have asked his wife to move when their beloved, sweet child was half-asleep on her lap? That was a /far/ too wicked request. No, he would not dare disturb theirs and their mother's peace).

...And in a split second, it had all come crumbling down.

Someone's weight was thrown against the door, causing a loud slam! to resonate within the walls.

Once, and their mother sprung up, jerking them awake with her motions. In their half-asleep state, they hardly understood what was going on as their father rushed defensively out of the kitchen with an axe.

Twice, and their mother gathered them in her arms before darting towards the back of the house—the absolute farthest end—at her husband's command. She rushed into one of the bedrooms, swiftly ripping the closet door open and pushing them in, insisting quietly that they hid among the pile of thick winter coats where they would not be seen.

"You just have to hide for a little, okay?" she murmured softly, deft hands pulling coats over their little body and face. "And remember—stay quiet, okay? Shh."

At the end of her sentence, she made a shushing motion with a shaky, trembling smile.

Perhaps it was her attempt at soothing them, but children are often not so easily fooled. The gesture did naught to calm their pounding heart. She had done her best to look certain and reassuring, but all it did was make them all the more terrified.

Their mother stood up, closing the closet door only slightly; it may look suspicious if it had been closed completely, she thought.

Then, she was gone, and they were left only with the company of their thoughts.

It was mostly quiet for a few minutes. They could vaguely make out the muffled sounds of talking—fighting, more accurately. It sounded angry. As if these invasive strangers were demanding something.

They choked back a sob as the walls shook around them due to the noise. A scream, then a gunshot, then another, and then silence.

Through the silence, they could discern the sound of wet slicing. Their heart dropped further into the endless pit of their stomach as they tried their best to curl further into themselves and the pile of coats.

Click, click, click...

Heels, gradually getting louder as their wearer approached. Someone was coming. Someone was going to find them.

It all happened far too quickly.

...And now, before them, none other than the Fourth of the Fatui Harbingers was kneeled. It was not hard for her to find them, not with all their shuffling and shaking and heavy, anxious breathing.

Interestingly, she was far less threatening than what they thought she might be. They didn't doubt that she had the capacity to be absolutely horrifying, but with them...

"You can come out now," she encouraged. Her tone could hardly be described as forceful; if anything, she was... suprisingly gentle. Patient, even, as she held out her hand invitingly. It was as if she were coaxing a frightened animal out from its hiding place. "There is no longer anything to be afraid of."

Still, they hesitated. "Where—" Their throat was dry with terror and their little voice trembled as it came out. With shaking hands, they moved some of the coats off of them. The Knave did note, however, that they clung to one particlar coat; it must have belonged to one of their parents, if she had to guess. Children clung onto sentimental items like that. They swallowed and tried again: "Where are my parents?"

"They are no longer with us. I am sincerely sorry. Had I arrived sooner, they might have lived."

A tremble shook their whole body—whether it was from the cold seeping into their house through the open front door (though the room they were in was a few twists and turns in a hallway away, the Snezhnayan cold was a unique beast in that it could turn a house frigid in a matter of seconds) or from grief, they could not be sure.

"Where..." They sniffled, hands balled into small fists as they tried to rub away the tears gathering in their eyes. "What do I do? I don't wanna be alone..."

"You won't be," Arlecchino said. "You will come with me. You will never be alone again."

All they could do was stumble out of the closet, coat held firmly in their hands and nod. Where else were they supposed to go? Furthermore, how were they meant to say no to a Fatui Harbinger? She was kind enough to offer to take them somewher, and truly, anywhere would have been better than the cold and lonely house in which their parents were killed.

Though, it was greatly debatable whether the Fourth was being kind or opportunistic.

At their young age, they couldn't wrap their mind around any ulterior motives she may have had. They could not so much as consider such a thing, not when she so kindly and tenderly took the coat from their hands, wrapped it around their shivering body, and hoisted them up into her arms. She radiated a warmth that they could not help but lean into, head coming to rest on her squared and confident shoulder. It was not so unbearbly cold when they were in her arms.

One might regard her mannerisms... parental, as if she had great experience with young children and their needs. It surely seemed so, considering how effortlessly and fluidly she handled them. It was like she had done it a million times before.

Indeed, it would not be surprising if that were the case.

Arlecchino hummed, adjusting their weight in her arms slightly.

Then, her nails softly raked over their head and through their hair. Her smooth, self-assured voice reached their ears with a command they could not deny or resist:

"Rest for now, little one."

please consider reblogging with kind tags or comments, it helps me out quite a lot!

#aphelion writes 🌸#favoniuslibrary #astronetwrk #platonic genshin x reader #platonic genshin impact #platonic genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #arlecchino x reader #fatui #fatui harbingers #fatui harbingers x reader #platonic fatui harbingers x reader #platonic arlecchino x reader #genshin platonic #platonic genshin

380 notes · View notes

miniversse · 3 months

Text

⭑ “snowbound” ⭑ pt. 1

╰┈➤ OTHER PARTS

⭑ bang chan x female reader

⭑ content includes: drinking, fwb relationship, mentions of sex, non-idol chan, non-idol reader, established relationship, work relationship, drunk confessions, lots of inner talk

⭑ note: i won’t advise you to skip the build up! i’m planning to create a very small series for this idea i had, probably another part or two. lmk what you think!

⭑ minors dni

⭑——————————————————⭑

your hands are wrapped around his hard chest, and your legs were squeezed up to keep you warm from the winter mornings. before your mind could think of what breakfast to make today or what chans schedule will look like, you’re struck with memories of yesterday night, and that you and chan are no longer friends with benefits…

you progressed from taking shots to consuming full soju bottles, you lined them up with his like trophies and admired the late night snowfall. you and chan met through work, and visit after visit, kiss after kiss, you became each-others stress relievers, and you wouldn’t complain about that until yesterday night.

“have you hooked up with anyone else at work?”

the question has been waiting at the tip of your tongue, and the only thing holding you back from asking it was to be respectful and not invasive, but when your on your 3rd bottle of soju, what’s holding you back?

“nope. why do you ask?”

“oh, i was just wondering, ‘yknow”

“yeah, i never got time to meet anyone outside our office block so it’s just been you”

you nod and rest your lips on the mouth of the soju bottle. you sat close to him on his balcony, admiring the light snowfall that coated the city with white and shiny flakes. this moment reminded you of why you loved chris, it wasn’t really for his sex, it was the way his presence filled you with warmth and the desire to always be next to him. you knew you shouldn’t develop feelings because it doesn’t seem mutual, but your lives were harsh. work was demanding and you only got a few hours between each-other to empty your tension.

fuck it

you turn your gaze to him and watch his adam’s apple move with his hearty chugs.

“chris, you think it’s ok if i talk to you ‘bout something?”

“don’t you wanna wait till your sober?”

“yea but, i’ve had this thought for far too long, and i think this way would be easier for me to confess”

he turns his chair to face you and faces forward, giving you his full attention.

“whats up”

you began to feel nervous, and maybe began regretting this empty confidence you shone on him, but you and chan have seen a lot in your lives, so it wouldn’t hurt to see more.

“i’ve been seeing you in a different lens, not one where we get to fuck and call it a day. one where we are together through thick and thin.”

his expression remains the same and he keeps quiet, expecting to hear more.

“i know that it would be a big jump for us, but it could be a better jump.”

you place the soju bottle on your lips and get past a few sips before your stomach begins to turn and twist and your fingers tremble.

he sighs and leans back in the chair, placing his hands in his pockets. you began to look around for your belongings, preparing to be kicked out of his house.

“i brought you over to tell you that i wanted you for more than your body, but i guess it’s useless now”

you’re muscles relaxed, and you felt warmer at his reassurance. you couldn’t help but give him a big smile, trying to keep your cool. he smiled back, the cold smoke sneaking out the creases of his mouth.

“well, i guess that’s out the way.” you laugh, trying to fill in the silence. you haven’t noticed the increasing intensity of the snowfall, so you grab the bottles, ashtray and head inside to lay by chans fireplace.

he settled for a warm shower, but you settled to lying down on his heated hardwood floors, watching the fire dance and crackle as it soothed your bones. chan had given you one of his hoodies to change into to keep warm. the door of his bedroom creeks open, and he walks out in an black t-shirt, plaid pants and socks.

“you’re gonna freeze to death like that! and you haven’t dried your hair?”

he approaches you and lies down next to you, meeting you at eye level. you couldn’t describe how this moment felt. the orange flames casted on his smooth, relaxed face. his hand was placed over yours, his fingers tracing around yours. your body was physically there, but mentally, you and chan were bound, or rather, snowbound.

“i’m fine babe”

you’re brought back to life with three words that left his lonely mouth.

“babe? i never thought i’d hear you call me that”

“and i never thought i’d be laying down next to you by the fireplace, exchanging looks”

you wiggle closer to him, taking in the soft smell of his shampoo being overridden with his strong cologne. your lips follow the scent, and end up landing on his warm neck. he raises his head, giving you more to work with. his hand was settled on your back, bringing you closer and closer till you could feel the heat of his body against yours.

your mouth seemed to be the star of the show now, but that might change.

⭑ PART 2

213 notes · View notes

hyperactively-me · 10 months

Note

It's cliché, but what if reader caught flu in Kastron? Idk why but to me it looks like country in the north, yk, cold and stoic king and queen from the land of sun. But my point is, reader gets sick, so sick that she collapses and everybody freaks out because they think it might be poisoning of their queen

omg i love this idea so much

Your home kingdom had never experienced winters like the kind in Kastron, where the seasons were known for their harshness and the relentless snowfall that blanketed the land. Back home, there was no snow in the winter season, just gray skies and cold air. But, here in Kastron, the winters were relentless. Feet of snow would pile up and snowstorms would overtake the kingdom. On a particularly calm day, you decided to go for a walk out on the palace grounds, just to explore the snow.

You ventured into the icy wilderness that surrounded your palace. Your homeland had never experienced such a breathtaking winter wonderland, and you were determined to explore every inch of it. That morning, you had pulled on some boots, wrapped yourselves in furs and coats and pulled on some thick gloves. You slipped out of the palace without letting anyone know, wanting to be left to your own devices. You wanted quiet alone time, anyway. You had been slaving away in the study most days now that it was too cold to go outside.

As the day wore on, the cold began to gnaw at your bones, and you reluctantly decided to return to the warmth and comfort of the palace. That evening, as you lay in bed, an unsettling chill settled over you.

When morning came, you awoke to a stifling bug in your throat. Your throat was scratchy, your nose congested, and your body ached from your trek through the snow. Weak and feverish, you summoned your strength to fulfill your duties for the morning. It was a battle getting dressed and ready for the day, your eyes drooping with an exhaustion that only comes from illness.

As the day progressed, you found yourself wrapped in your readings when Simon had let himself into the study.

“It’s lunchtime,” he says, pulling your book from your hands.

“Ah, I suppose it is,” you say, sniffling ever so slightly.

Simon accompanied you as you made your way to the dining hall for lunch. The aroma of hearty seasonal foods filled the air, but your appetite had abandoned you. The weight of your illness pressed upon you, and you shivered with chills. You let Simon pull your chair out for you, and you practically drop into the seat as you sit down.

As you attempted to eat, the sickness tightened its grip. Shivers wracked your body, and sharp muscle and body aches made every movement painful. Dizziness washed over you, the sickness engulfing you entirely.

“Simon—” you slur.

With a feeling of overwhelming sickness, you collapsed at the table, and the world around you faded into darkness as you lost consciousness.

. . .

You don’t know how long you’ve been out for. Your consciousness swirled in the darkness, fading in and out. As awareness slowly crept back, you found yourself lying on something soft. It was very nice, very plush, more comfortable than your own bed. Your eyes flutter open, your eyelids feeling heavy. You were in a dimly lit room, the soft glow of candlelight flickered, casting shadows along the dark walls.

“Thank God you’re awake,” a voice whispers, relief evident in his voice.

“She’s awake,” a different voice yells out, and you groan from the volume.

“Go fetch the doctor.”

Weak and disoriented, you managed to speak, your voice hoarse and feeble. “What… happened?”

You fully open your eyes now, blinking away the fuzziness from your vision. Simon is sitting in a chair next to the bed. Two guards stand watch at the door. You look back at him, his balaclava is gone. His worry etched deep lines across his features, a frown present on his face. His hand gently rested on yours, his touch reassuring.

“Where am I?” you ask.

“My chambers,” he says gently, his hand squeezing yours lightly.

You try to push yourself to sit up, but his hand reaches to gently push you back down.

“No, no, lay down.”

You take a look around the dimly lit room, noting the sparse decoration of the large room. “What happened?” you ask again, letting him nudge you back down to resting.

Simon's expression remained somber as he recounted the incident. “You collapsed at the dining table during lunch.”

“Oh.”

“We thought you were poisoned,” he added solemnly, shifting in his seat. “Specifically, we thought your food was poisoned.”

A shiver ran down your spine as Simon's words settled in. Poisoned? It was a disconcerting thought, even in your fevered state. “Poisoned?” you repeated, your voice filled with confusion and worry.

Simon nodded, his eyes locked onto yours. “Yes, there was a moment of panic. But after an examination, it was clear that it wasn't poison. The doctors said you’ve contracted the flu.”

Relief washed over you at the revelation. The idea of poison had been unsettling, but the flu, while serious, was something that could be managed and treated. You couldn't help but wonder how a simple walk in the snow had led to such a dire situation.

“The flu,” you mumbled, still feeling disoriented.

Simon's grip on your hand tightened, and he offered a reassuring smile. “Yes, the palace doctors have been attending to you. They said that you’ll make a full recovery in a week or so.”

You’re both quiet for a moment.

“I feel like it's fair to mention that there may still be talk that you’ve been poisoned, but we’re currently trying to quell the rumors.”

You let out a weak sigh and nodded.

“Thank you, Simon,” you whispered, feeling grateful for his presence and care. It was sweet, seeing him like this. Genuinely concerned. Caring. Thoughtful. It warmed your heart.

Just then, the palace doctor entered the room, carrying an assortment of remedies and a concerned expression. They began to examine you, asking questions about your symptoms and carefully checking your vitals.

As the days went by, you remained in Simon’s chambers, isolated to give you privacy and much needed rest and quiet. Every night, he would leave, off to sleep in a different room. During this time, you spent countless hours talking to Simon.

“Are you sure I can stay here?”

“I’m quite sure.”

“I– I’ve taken over your whole room, though,” you try to argue. You feel bad for monopolizing Simon’s quarters, especially whilst being sick. You shift under the blankets and cushions.

“If I didn’t want you in my room, I wouldn’t have carried you here myself.” His voice held a tone of finality.

During this time, you spent countless hours talking to Simon, strengthening the growing bond between you two. His loyalty and devotion had been unwavering throughout this ordeal, and you couldn't help but start to feel like your connection to him was strengthening.

“I brought you some books,” he says one day, carrying a stack of books in his arms.

You immediately perk up, pushing yourself up your pillows.

“So sweet of you,” you praise, clapping your hands with a smile.

He blushes slightly. “I think you’ll like these,” he says, setting the books down on the bedside table. You eagerly scan the titles and covers. It was clear that he had put a lot of thought into selecting them for you.

“You really knew which ones I would like,” you said, genuinely touched by his considerate gesture.

Simon smiled warmly, his eyes reflecting genuinity. “I've been paying attention,” he replied softly.

You smile at his words, appreciation running through you.

More days passed, and the doctors administered treatments and provided you with nourishing soups and herbal remedies. Slowly, but surely, your strength began to return, and the flu loosened its grip on your body.

“I’m finally starting to feel better, Simon,” you said one morning, pushing the covers off your body.

“That’s good,” he nods. “Very good.”

You push yourself off the bed, standing in front of him for a moment.

“Hey– are you sure you’re okay to stand–?”

You flashed Simon a reassuring smile as you stood on your own two feet, feeling a sense of triumph over the illness that had kept you confined to his bed for what felt like an eternity.

“I'm sure,” you replied confidently, though your legs wobbled slightly under the weight of your hardly used legs. “I've been itching to get up and move around for so long now.”

Simon, still concerned, extended his arm toward you. “Just in case,” he said, offering you support. Gratefully, you accepted his arm.

With a sudden burst of confidence, you gently pull Simon to stand in front of you. His brows furrowed in confusion. However, before he could voice his curiosity, you wrapped your arms tightly around him, pulling him into a tight hug.

Simon's initial confusion melted away as you pulled him into your embrace. His arms soon encircled you in return, and you both held each other close. It was a hug filled with unspoken words, a silent confirmation of the connection that had developed between you when you were sick.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” you whisper, pressing your cheek against his chest.

Simon's arms tightened around you, and he rested his chin on top of your head.

“It’s not something I would ever think twice about,” he replies, voice warm.

You look up at him.

“I appreciate that, I really do. I would do the same for you,” you say quietly, running your hand up and down his back.

Simon smiles down at you, his eyes filled with affection. “I know you would,” he says softly, his thumb gently stroking your back.

You nod, your heart feeling lighter.

- - - - -

(masterlist)

#awww #so sweet so cute #he's so bbg #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost x you #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x you #simon “ghost” riley x reader #simon “ghost” riley x you #hyperactivelyme

765 notes · View notes

auspicioustidings · 3 months

Text

Ae Fond Kiss - Part 3

Brose and Butter

Summary: You finally return the favour and look after Simon while he is breaking and a long building tension breaks. Words: 3k TWs: cheating

Parts: 1 2 3 4

The new place was nice. Bigger than the old one, better area. It wasn’t like you and Johnny had planned to live where you had been forever, you had been looking at houses before he died. Lots of bedrooms. There had been plans to fill them.

This house didn’t have as many bedrooms as he had dreamt about. One master bedroom with an en-suite, 2 other bedrooms and a bathroom on the top floor. A nice open plan ground floor with a kitchen and living area plus a toilet. A garage big enough to have a little workshop in it since Simon enjoyed working on bikes.

Because he was living there too. It had been an argument you had lost when he had insisted on paying a lot of money into the house but having the deed be entirely yours. It felt like you were taking advantage somehow given that you knew he adored Joseph so had never really went back to his own flat after he had started living with you. It was supposed to be temporary.

But it made sense in a way. He was gone half of the time anyway, so his flat was laying empty for months. This way he always came home to a warm house instead of an impersonal, dusty museum. And J was always so happy when he was home. It was nice to have the help around the house too.

You tried to ignore the amount of justifications you both came up with for the situation. You and Simon Riley did not like one another. You could not like one another. It didn’t matter if you sometimes got caught in his eyes (or that you swore they flickered to your lips, to your body). It didn’t matter if your mind wandered sometimes to imagine how he might kiss you (hard you thought, the first blow in a brawl that begged for retaliation).

The master bedroom was yours. It felt lonely, especially now that J stayed in the nursery. Too quiet, or at least it used to be. Before Simon had left for work a fortnight ago he had given you a little white noise machine. The thing had about a million settings, but in the end you found that the low sounds of snowfall on the window and a log fire always settled the anxious beat of your broken heart enough for you to sleep.

He was due back today. Not that you kept track given that he was just a housemate. Not that last time he wasn’t home when you thought he was meant to be you made yourself so ill with anxiety that Kyle’s partner had to come round to stay with you. Price had shown up a few days later to check in and explain Simon and Kyle had been delayed a week in a location with no signal but they were ok and it wasn’t anything to worry about.

You suspected he only showed up in person because Kyle’s partner had contacted him. You didn’t know what the deal was there if you were honest, the two of them had a strange relationship but whenever you asked about it from them or Kyle you got nothing but pained smiles and gentle dismissals.

God you hoped he was back as planned. It had been embarrassing enough before although everyone was happy to play it off that you had a stomach bug and that’s why you were completely strung out, hadn’t been sleeping and had been throwing up. You had almost managed to convince yourself of it at this point.

When you heard the door open and the thunk of heavy boots you should have really just continued on with mixing the brownie mix (you just felt like making them you supposed, coincidence that they were his favourite). Instead you smiled and wiped your hands off on your jeans, going to the door to see him hopping on one foot as he untied his laces to get a boot off.

“If you’re going to fall over I’d prefer you wait until J is up from his nap so he can watch.”

He swore and nearly did fall, but just about managed to keep himself upright by leaning on the wall to get the boot off. He was in black sweats, hoodie and his balaclava as he usually was when he came home. Only there was something wrong in the set of his shoulders. There was something haunted in his eyes.

“Simon?”

Your voice was gentle now, soothing. Bad deployment you thought. You had been with Johnny long enough to know that they happened, but he had been so different. When Johnny was on a bad deployment he came back with his blood up. You knew how it had went by how hard he fucked you.

And you had always taken it. Even when it got bad and he warned you off, you would open yourself up to him and let him use your body to exorcise whatever demons were lingering. His anger you had known how to deal with, you had learned how to take orders, go to your knees and take it with a ‘thank you sir’ to help it burn off. It was scary and it was painful but you would take a thousand days of that strange angry (and make no mistake, devastatingly hot) version of the man you loved if it gave you one more minute with him.

Simon was different. He didn’t seem angry at all, he seemed sad. You felt your heart lurch when he dropped his bag and stumbled across to you, going to his knees for you. He looked up at you as if you were the only thing in the world then. And you don’t know what instinct it was that drove you, but you gently pushed down his hood and pulled off his mask.

He let you. He stayed still on his knees even as you ran fingers through his hair to fix it back in place. It always was a mess when he took his balaclava off. Fuck. Having Johnny who was usually fun loving and completely willing to let you direct the action turn to an animalistic dominant beast was one thing, but it could never have prepared you for having Simon who you had only ever known as strong and domineering on his knees with his eyes wide and trusting and waiting for orders.

It was a reminder of how impossible the idea of liking this man would be. He was nothing like the man you had lost, the one you had loved. The one you still did. You didn’t think there would ever come a day when you were able to stop.

And still you spread your fingers across his cheekbones to tilt his head up and give him a stern look, one that said that he was going to be okay because you would accept nothing else. He had freckles you realised with a start. He let out a shaky sigh and seemed to take your touch as permission, falling forward to hug you, head resting heavily on your stomach.

You kept petting his hair, feeling like your brain was fuzzing out. You just wanted to take care of him for once. It was always him taking care of you. It didn’t have to mean anything did it? He was sad and you could be what he needed right now without it meaning anything.

“You’re ok Si, hm?”

“I’m ok.”

“There, that’s good. Come on, you need to help me finish the brownies before J wakes up. He’ll be happy to see you.”

Finishing off the brownies was done in a strange haze as Simon slowly came back to himself. He kept close, almost always having at least one point of contact between you. Warm hand on your waist, the heat spreading out and making your skin feel prickly. A touch of your hair that you felt from scalp to toes. A brush of his thigh on yours that had your pussy clenching. You had forgotten it could do that at such little provocation. You hadn’t thought it would ever do it again after everything.

For one mad moment as the kitchen was tidied and the brownies taken out to cool you were sure you would kiss him. Fuck, you wanted him. You wanted Simon fucking Riley.

And for one mad moment as Simon fucking Riley was dragged out of a trauma spiral instead of languishing in it for days as he had become accustomed to, he was sure he would put you on the kitchen island and taste you. You, the annoying fucking princess who did nothing but make fun of him and have obnoxious taste in almost everything. Fuck.

The cry of a newly awakened and hungry almost 1 year old broke both of you from what was surely a bout of madness.

“Do you want to…?”

“Ye, be nice to see him.”

You followed behind, guilt poisoning the brief excitement at watching J react to seeing Simon back. He was getting so good at recognising different people now, his reactions bigger and emotions clearer.

He was signing already, you had taught him ‘mama’ and ‘more’ and ‘hungry’. God you could burst with pride at how inquisitive he was. A little late with his words but the doctors weren’t too worried about it. You showed him photos of his dad, tried to teach him how to say dada. You wanted so badly for it to be his first word. The poisoning guilt turned viscerally painful when you realised you hoped Simon would be there to hear it.

You just needed someone there to see that Johnny wasn’t forgotten about. You still felt like you were burning up anytime his family called to check in. Joseph was healthy and happy but everything still felt like somehow you were failing him. Failing Johnny.

That familiar guilt slowly settled as it always did, becoming a manageable, dull throb. You likened it to a headache really. Sometimes it was debilitating like a migraine, sometimes it was barely noticeable. When Simon returned it always spiked but quickly dulled down as he settled back in.

That night, after Joseph was put down with a goodnight kiss from both you and Simon, you went to bed feeling off balance. You about stopped breathing when the door clicked open and a body almost gingerly settled in next to you.

He had just been in Las Almas he told you. It wasn’t for anything difficult, the mission didn’t go wrong and he even got to see some old friends. But in the dark he bled out his grief that in such a familiar place, Johnny wasn’t there.

Much like everything else between you two, something changed without it being stated. Simon slept in your bed with you from then on.

–

Joseph’s first word was dada. He hadn’t been looking at the photo when he said it.

–

Simon heard the thunk of fist on flesh before he felt it. His anger flared and he grabbed Gaz by the collar, growling at him.

“The fuck was that Garrick?!”

Only for once Gaz didn’t immediately look to diffuse the situation as he always did when the 141 came to blows. This time he bared his teeth.

“Are you fucking her?”

Simon pulled at his collar before shoving him back, anger mixing with confusion mixing with guilt. He hadn’t fucked you. He fucking wanted to. And he was starting to think it was only a matter of time. It was an exquisite kind of torture holding you through the night as he had been everytime he was home for the last 6 months.

“Not that it’s your business Garrick, but no, I’m not fucking her” he hissed, hating that he even had to say it out loud because it felt like a lie even if it wasn’t.

“But you are sleeping in her bed.”

“That a problem?”

God of course he would think it was. Johnny had died in the line of duty and here he was living his life. The life Simon never thought to want with the beautiful, clever, funny and infuriating woman and the baby who looked at him like he hung the stars.

Gaz laughed derisively, running a hand through his hair in disgusted disbelief.

“It’s not… like that” Simon tried.

It was.

“Fuck Ghost, I never took you for a saint but I at least thought you had a shred of humanity left.”

“You think I don’t know it’s wrong to settle in with Johnny’s fucking widow?! With his baby? Christ Sergeant I’m well aware I may as well be pissing on his bloody grave!”

“You-” Gaz choked out, looking angrier than Simon had ever seen him. “You think this is about you betraying him? That’s what you’re worried about?”

“You think I wouldn’t be good to her?”

Simon couldn’t believe this is where the conversation was going. Was he really trying to convince someone he could love you? Out loud? He knew he couldn’t, he knew there was nothing he could say that would make it better. But he wanted you so much.

“Like you were in Las Almas?”

His blood ran cold.

“What’re you…?”

“Oh fuck off you twat. You weren’t subtle and I’m not an idiot.”

“It wasn’t… it was one time Gaz. They weren’t… he hadn’t proposed or anything yet.”

He hated himself. He hated Johnny. He wanted to throw up when those words left his mouth, as if a ring on your finger made any difference.

“She’s my friend. She’s my friend and I had to keep it to myself because I loved Johnny. Because I love you. I fucking picked you two over her. And now what? You can’t fuck him anymore so you’ll take the next best thing?”

His heart twisted and twisted until it was disfigured into something dark and cold. He was a monster. He was a monster because you weren’t the next best thing. He was a monster because if Johnny showed up tomorrow, he wouldn’t let you go. He would fight him for you if he had to.

“...I’m in love with her.”

“Fuck.”

Kyle Garrick was no stranger to how love fucked up everything. He hated this situation, but if Simon loved you, if you loved Simon? He couldn’t ruin it with a betrayal from years ago. Maybe that made him a terrible person. But Johnny was dead, what good would it do to ruin your chance at happiness after him and ruin your perception of him at the same time? He hoped it wasn’t the wrong decision to make.

“If you hurt her, I’ll kill you myself Lieutenant. And don’t think Captain and the gorgeous little psychopath waiting for me to come home won’t help.”

Simon knew he would as well. But now that he had finally stopped lying to himself about what he felt for you there was nothing he could do to stop the feral possessiveness that demanded he claim you.

–

“You’re just being sensitive princess.”

Oh you could strangle him. Simon had been off when you had gotten back from dropping J with Kyle’s partner. Price had been there and you had not asked why. Kyle was off as well you thought, eyes darting between you and Simon before hugging you and heading off.

It was only the second time J had stayed without you overnight. You were less a mess this time than you had been the first time at least. You needed it. You loved that kid more than anything else in the world, but you needed a break. A full night’s sleep. A night to relax which was being ruined by Simon being a bloody dick because you had asked what was up.

“Top form tonight, that why someone clocked you?”

He’d probably have a black eye tomorrow based on how the skin was already puffy and discolouring. You assumed it must have been Kyle. Right now you wished he was still here so you could thank him.

“Thinking of taking a swing? Don’t think you could reach but I’ll crouch if you ask nicely.”

“If I ever ask nicely for anything from you then I can only hope someone takes me out back and puts me out of my misery.”

You were getting angry. Of course you were. Because it was… well it was Simon. Nobody could wind you up anywhere near as easily as he did. You thought maybe it was mutual as he sneered and got up in your face, looming over you as you crossed your arms and glowered up at him. Stupid, tall fucker.

“You think I couldn’t make you ask nicely princess?”

“And you really think you could casper?”

He leaned down, arms caging you to the kitchen island, teeth seeming sharper somehow, like at any moment he might sink them into your throat.

“I could have you begging like a bitch in heat” he whispered in your ear.

It affected you. Of course it did. But you could hear the huskiness of his voice and you could feel the heat of him. You weren’t the only one affected.

“Yeah? Prove it Riley.”

The tension that had been slowly tightening for the last year snapped violently. You tasted blood on his lips when you bit into them, you felt bruises form from how roughly he gripped your hips as he hauled you onto the counter.

Two brutal and torturous hours later, thoroughly fucked every which way and still not having been allowed to cum, you did beg. You begged and cried and thanked him when he finally sent you into an earth shattering orgasm. Another hour and you were begging and crying again for him to stop. He laughed darkly and wrung two more orgasms from you even when you told him you couldn’t cum again. Only when you truly had nothing more to give did he feed you brose and butter.

The last thing you remembered before passing out, exhausted, sated, cleaned and cuddled up, was mumbling hoarsely to Simon that you loved him. Maybe it was just your head being muddled from the events of the evening, but you swore you heard him say it back as you drifted off. You swore he apologised for it.

#mhairiwrites #cod #fanfic #soap x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #john mactavish x reader #ghost x soap #brose is the Scots word for porridge btw #brose and butter is a euphemism for something that is not porridge

150 notes · View notes