#blame the bourbon

[headlong-flight]

It's been decided. The boyo and I are moving to Santa Cruz. I'm going to drive a VW Thing. And, we're gonna run a Lighthouse.

Take it back. I'm driving a Bronco like in The Eiger Sanction.

[spaceoperajay]

that "living with your mother at 26" swag of having the stuffed animals next to the alcohol

[indestructiblelittlefuckers]

sunday question!

[risingoftime]

TWO STEP TRAP | SMOKE STACK TWINS X F!READER |

You are one of the best dancers at the Midnight Blues joint in Chicago; it was only a matter of time before you encountered the Smoke Stack Twins. Their names linger in the club like perfume and cigars. If you are in the scene, you know them… and of course, they knew you.

contains: 18+ mdni, prequel to sinners, dancer!reader, porn with plot, smut, oral (Stack is a eater), threesome, p in v, pet names, man handling, body worshipping?? talking you through it, fingering, fucking two bad bitches at the same damn time.

You picked up your pace as you looked down at the watch on your wrist. It was nearly ten pm, and Marcus would threaten to lock your ass out if you didn’t arrive on time. He knew better though, you were the one that everyone came to see. Word spread quickly in the streets of Chicago, but there’s a place folks whisper about but rarely name out loud for fear of the White man hearing. It ain’t on any map called The Last Two Step, but if you know the right knock and carry enough heartbreak in your shoes, it’ll guide you behind an unmarked door at the edge of South Parkway Boulevard. In the joint, velvet smoke curls through the air, and every note from Ambrose’s piano drips slow and sticky, like honey off a blade. The Last Two Step is where time forgets itself in the sway of hips and the clink of glasses filled with bourbon. Nobody stumbles in by accident. If you find yourself there, something or someone wanted you to. And once you cross that threshold, baby, the night decides what happens next.

At the corner of your eye, you could see a slightly older, light-skinned woman shimmying her body down the alley to the hidden doorway of the club. “Miss Felicity! Wait up & hold the door, will you?” You hollered. Her head whipped to look behind her in alarm, but her glare softened once she saw you quickly following after her. She laughed at you as you tried to steady your breath.

“When will you learn your lesson and stop rushing at the last minute?” Felicity shook her head as you hurried inside and double-checked to see if anyone followed after y'all.

You flashed her a grin and said, “Probably right after you stop pretending you don’t love the thrill. Chaos builds character. Have you ever heard that?”

“Girl, you’re practically asking for trouble,” she muttered. Ambrose and the boys were still setting up the stage and tuning their instruments when you passed the wooden dance floor towards the changerooms in the back. Their eyes tracked the way you walked and paused to sneak a peek at your backside when they thought you wouldn’t notice. They were never slick enough to avoid getting caught. “Y’all are no better than little boys!” Felicity swatted at them as she climbed onto the stage and straightened her skirt. Felicity’s voice carried throughout the establishment even when she wasn’t singing and harmonizing with the band.

“Can’t blame us for admiring!” one of them defended.

Rolling your eyes, you pushed into the changeroom, more like a storage closet the dancers used to store their things and prepare for the night. Soon enough, the floor out there would be packed with sweaty bodies, hungry eyes, and a swanky beat that was hard to resist. And you? You’d be right in the middle, moving like a snake, soaking up the spotlight like it was poured just for you. Showing off your sultry moves, enticing the eyes of whoever looked upon you.

You weren’t just entertainment. You were a magnet. Marcus, the owner, knew it too. He would give you some of the shares to keep the crowd thick and thirsty, which is why he called you “eye candy.” A walking advertisement, you were good publicity for his juke joint. The three other girls in the room with you, Jacqueline, Deborah, and Ann, had the same deal. They didn’t care for me much, never had been. You drew too much attention, and it didn’t help that you didn’t come from the same background as them. You were the daughter of sharecroppers or “cotton pickers,” they say. Your skin was dark and smooth, shimmering in the light and under sweat. Your full lips, tantalizing gaze, and body that bloomed too fast for your age made you all the more unforgettable. Slim, sultry, and curved just right were the words used to describe her.

Looking into the handheld mirror as you finished the last touches to your makeup, you could see Marcus in the corner of your eye. “Baby, I ain’t paying you to doll yourself up and hide away!” His tone was playful, but there was an edge to his voice, and you knew that if you said the wrong thing, Marcus’ temper would appear. That is probably why he still ain’t been able to keep a woman. He’s only truly satisfied when he's drunk.

“Geez, what’s the hurry?” you whined as you hiked up your skirt higher to show more of your bare legs and patted down any stray hairs on your head from the finger curls.

“I gotta handle some business with the twins. Show ’em this is the kinda spot they wanna put their money in,” Marcus said, smoothing down his vest with a wink. The mention of the twins made your ears perk up. Smoke & Stack weren’t just names; they were similar to legends, stitched into the underbelly of Chicago. You didn’t just meet the Smoke Stack twins, you survived an encounter with them. If they were sniffing around Marcus’s place, it meant money was about to flow, and trouble wasn’t too far behind.

The music thrummed through your body and travelled to your chest as you allowed yourself to get lost in the rhythm and blues. All around you, a sea of Black bodies moved as one to the voice of Felicity and Ambrose’s band. In the night, they became a living and breathing entity under the heavy and melliferous air of the juke joint. The outside world slipped away in this moment, and all that mattered was the here and now. This is why you always answered the call of The Last Two Step, chasing the high of being free and being a person who is looked up to and not down upon. So far, there were no signs of the twins, and Marcus was growing more antsy by the minute. He’s resorted to pouring you more alcohol than he could offer, anything to make the party look wild and enticing to anyone who came inside.

Anticipation is the sweetest form of torture, and when the identical twins strolled through the entrance, it seemed as though the room truly came alive. Your eyes met with one of them. It wasn’t easy to tell them apart. He flashed a crooked smile, revealing a set of grills over his canines and front teeth. You twirled lightly, letting your waist roll slowly and deliberately. A glance over your shoulder caught the twins approaching Marcus at the bar, who suddenly looked boyish beside their commanding, muscular forms. Marcus was tall, handsome, and fit, but the twins had a figure that only one could have achieved by working hard in the fields.

Jacqueline broke you out of your thoughts when she walked beside you, “If one of those twins so much as smiled my way, I'd be slippin' outta my panties without a second thought.” She looked at the group of men with hungry eyes, drinking them in. You couldn’t blame her, but you’d be damned if any of the other dancers got a taste of the twins before you did. If the rumours were true, the twins were hung like a horse and knew how to eat a girl out so well that she could start humming in colours she had never seen before.

You watched as Deborah and Jacqueline positioned themselves near the twins and got brutally ignored. Better them than you. It’s better that you learn what not to do through them than make a fool of yourself. Moments passed as you danced amongst the crowd, and the music began to slow into a two-step dance, and people began to couple off. Scanning the crowd, you could see a man making his way to you. He’s been ogling you for most of the night and didn’t look too rough. Shit, one dance won’t hurt, right? It’s not like it’ll be your first or last.

Mid-stride, one of the twins drawled, “Ease up, kid,” bumpin’ his shoulder with a grin. “I’ll take it from here, see?”

The young man screwed up his face, about to give the southern gentlemen a piece of his mind but thought better of it when he saw the twin flash him a crooked smile. Smoothing out his button-up shirt, the young man puffed out his chest and recovered quickly. “No worries, boss.” He gave me a once-over before nodding his head in dismissal. The unnamed twin didn’t even bother to turn his head to ensure he was gone before extending a hand in your direction.

“May I have this dance?” His smile revealed the notorious grill the twins were famous for, shining faintly in the dimly lit venue. You couldn’t recall whether it was Smoke or Stack who wore it. Ultimately, did it matter? You paused and accepted his hand. His warm, large, and calloused grip completely enveloped your hand. Aside from counting cash, your thoughts drifted to what else his fingers might be good at. He instantly pulled you in closer with ease. Your bodies were flush against each other, now chest to chest. You peered up at him.

“Well, I don’t have much of a choice, now do I?” You countered. The chuckle that left his throat vibrated throughout his whole body. It didn’t help that when you took a breath to calm your erratic heart, his cologne and natural fragrance evaded your senses. As the two of you fell into rhythm with the music, the thoughts running in your head were anything but holy. It was rare for a man to elicit such a response from you on the first encounter.

“A lady always has a choice,” he rebutted, voice like molasses slow drippin’ off a spoon.

“Who said I was a lady?” you challenged, chin tilted and your cheeks filled with heat. Once it slipped out of your mouth, there was no snatching it back. You've always been reckless with how words leapt past your lips without permission. He didn’t as much as blink at your question and didn’t smirk either. Just stepped in closer, real close, until the scent of smoke, cologne, and something else curled in your nose again. His thigh rose between your legs, stopping just shy of making contact with your center, enough to make your breath catch in your throat, dipping you down and pulling you back up in time with the strums of the guitar that played aloud.

“Then I reckon I ain’t gotta treat you like one,” he murmured, voice pitched low and dangerous, his eyes never leaving yours. “But I do like a woman who talks back.” You swore your knees might buckle right there. “S’wrong? Cat’s got your tongue?” he joked to lighten the obvious tension that grew quickly between you two. You could hear your heartbeat over the hum of the blues and chatter surrounding you. His thigh lingered, firm and deliberate, almost making you forget your damn name. But you weren’t going to let him have the upper hand. Not entirely.

Leaning in just a little, with parted lips and sharp eyes. “And what do they call you, stranger?” your voice came out strong and daring like you weren’t already trying to keep your head on straight.

He didn’t answer right away, dragging his gaze from your eyes to your lips, then down to the space between you that barely existed anymore. “They call me Stack,” he finally said, a slow smile began curling at the corner of his mouth. “But you can call me Elias Moore.” He said it like a promise as he lowered his deep red fedora hat, his eyes never leaving yours. His name hung in the air, impossible to ignore. The kind of name a woman didn’t forget, even if she wanted to. The Elias Stack Moore stood before you. Being his girl could open up more doors for you than you could count.

“Come on,” he drawled, his hand brushing the small of your back. “Dance floor’s gettin’ too damn crowded for what I got in mind.” You felt him guide you, firm but unhurried, through the sea of moving bodies, past the haze of cigar smoke and spilled bourbon. Nobody paid y’all any mind. Juke joints were built on secrets and sideway glances anyway.

The changeroom door creaked as he pushed it open with his shoulder. The low bulb above our heads flickered like it knew what was coming. Inside, it smelled like lavender powder and dust. The old velvet curtains were draped over crates, hiding booze and our valuables. The crooked mirror watched us from their respective corners. He closed the door behind you with a click that felt louder than it was.

He leaned against it for a beat, arms crossed, watching you like he was still deciding whether to kiss you or ruin you slowly. “Now,” Stack’s voice dropped to a sinful hush, “where were we?”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. This boy must’ve lost his goddamn mind if he thought the two of you were going to get hot and heavy in this sorry excuse of a change room. You weren’t a lady, but you had class and respect, very little of it, but it was there nonetheless. The two of you stood in the quiet room, and the silence stretched thick with possibility. Stack pushed off the door and lazily strolled toward you like he had all the time in the world. His boots barely made a sound on the old wooden floors. Every inch he closed made your skin feel tighter.

“You always this quiet when you want something?” he asked. Stack stopped shy of touching you, his hands at his sides like he dared you to lean in first. The nerves in your body buzzed like a live wire. You were all too aware of how your desires practically had you ready to drop to your knees. But you kept your face unreadable, and it was your best defence. You’d been raised to survive men like Elias Stack Moore. The smooth talkers with heat behind their eyes and a storm tucked inside their smiles.

“Depends on what I want,” you finally said. “And whether it’s worth the noise.”

“Oh, I’m worth it,” he replied. Stack threw his hat on the dressing room counter to reveal his face. But I ain’t cheap.” You gave him a steady look up and down. His shirt was unbuttoned just enough to show a sliver of his skin. Everything he wore appeared nicely tailored to his physique, too.

“Neither am I,” you shot back.

Stack was now an inch away from your face, his warmth wrapped around you like steam off a kettle. His hand reached out, not to grasp nor to grope, but to tuck a stray curl behind your ear, rough fingers grazing your cheek like an invitation.

“Trust me, sugar, you keep carryin’ on as you do, and Chicago gon’ be hollerin’ your name louder than they ever did mine or my brother’s.”

“Well then,” you said, sliding your hand up his chest, fingers trailing the buttons of his shirt like you were counting sins, “guess it's a damn good thing I don't mind how my name sounds in another’s mouth.”

Shifting your hips just enough to make your intentions loud and clear without a single word more. Stack’s breath hitches just a little, but you caught it. You always did. You knew that taking it further would be a reckless mistake, but Lord, it’d feel like salvation. The end of a prolonged drought, giving in, would feel like the first rainfall. Wet, overwhelming, and too damn good to stop. Stack’s eyes told you he was ready to drown in it, and hell, you might just let him.

She didn't have to speak, just the slow roll of her hips were enough to knock the wind out of him. She knew how deep she could cut without drawing blood. His breath caught in his throat, bare and ragged. God help him. He wanted to ruin you in a way that leaves a mark and memory.

Stack knew better. He knew this would get messy. With a glance at your slicked thighs, Stack knew you'd provide no mercy.

Leaning in close, lips just shy of his ear. “Still quiet, Stack?” you whispered in a sweet and teasing voice. “I figured by now you'd know how to beg.” You loved turning his words and spinning them against him. His raw reactions were entertaining to see.

Stack’s jaw tightened, but his eyes didn't waver. “I don't beg, sugar,” his tone changed to a quiet and threatening one. “I take.”

You flashed him a wicked smile and hooked a finger around his belt buckle. “Then come take it.”

He didn't wait, with his hands on your waist, before you could exhale. His rough palms and fingers dug in as if he meant to claim something, or he already had.

“You sure about this?” He muttered against your neck, voice hoarse. Hot breath dragging over your skin. “Cause once I get started, I ain't stopping till I’ve wrung every drop outta yah.”

“Make good on allat talk,” you replied. That was all it took. Stack kissed you like he was desperate. Teeth and tongue felt like a little too much and not nearly enough. You moaned into his mouth as he pressed you up against the old brick wall, grinding against you with slow, punishing friction. His hands found the hem of your skirt, bunching it up, and slid a hand underneath with practiced ease.

“Fuck,” Stack groaned when he felt how soaked you already were. Two fingers slipped along your folds. “You tryna kill me, baby?”

“I ain't even started yet.”

He dropped to his knees like he'd been praying for the chance. Pulling your thighs apart and pushing your back against the cool wall. With a tongue hot and desperate, he licked up your pussy, groaning like you were his last meal. Your hand shot to his head, gripping tight, guiding him just as you liked it. He didn't need much. He was already lost in you. Every moan sounded like praise.

“That’s it,” you hissed, rocking yourself into his mouth. “Don’t fucking stop now.”

“I won’t,” Stack promised. Not until your legs were shaking, and his jaw was slick with you. Not until your pretty moans turned into curses and your body tried to escape, then pleasure only could chase you.

When he finally stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he looked at you, a man completely undone. Stack spun you around like it was second nature, pressing you into the wall with one hand, pinning your wrists above your head. His belt clinked open behind you, the soft grating of his zipper loud in the stillness.

"You sure you can take it, girl?" he muttered. Looking back, you could see Stack grip his thick length in his hand, pumping it up and down before lining his dick against your soaked entrance, teasing but firm. "Ain't no holding back tonight."

“Give it to me like you mean it,” you snapped.

Stack slammed into you in one cunning and possessive thrust. You gasped when your forehead hit the brick. He didn't give you a second to adjust, just wrapped an arm around your waist and started working his hips in a relentless tempo. The room echoed with sounds of skin meeting skin, moans, and his low curses. His other hand found your clit, and began rubbing small circles to make you fall apart all over again.

“You feel that?” he panted in your ear with pride. “This pussy is mine.”

You cried out, eyes fluttering shut from ecstasy. “Stack… fuck—” was all you managed to get out before he began grinding himself deeper inside.

Your orgasm was intense and all-consuming, tearing a high pitched outcry to escape your lips as you clenched your walls around him. Stack’s thrusts began to be uneven and passionate as he chased his own high. And just when he was on the edge, body trembling, and his muscles taut against yours…

“Well, goddam!”

Both of your heads snapped to the door. Stack froze inside of you, jaw clenched, with wide eyes at the sight of his twin brother.

Smoke stood there, curtly closing the door behind him and leaning against the doorframe like he walked in on a business deal instead of his brother balls deep in another’s soul.

“I come lookin’ for Stack and come to find this.” He gestured between the two of you with an amused look. “Y’all ain't even had the decency to lock the door?”

“Get the fuck out, Smoke,” Stack sounded feral.

Smoke smirked in return, kissing his teeth. “Don’t let me interrupt,” his fingers slipped behind him to turn the lock on the door. “Finish where you left off.”

Stack didn’t pull out. He didn’t even make a move as Smoke’s laughter faded. His grip on your hips tightened like he was claiming you harder now that he’d been seen. He was practically primal, yet there was a hesitation, a shift between the three of you.

“Good. Thought I might stick around this time.”

“You got one fuckin’ second to turn around,” Stack growled, still buried inside you, his chest rising and falling against your back.

“Relax,” Smoke said, voice smooth as whiskey and twice as dangerous. “Ain’t here to fight. I just figured if you were gonna fuck her like you mean it. You’d also let her choose who she wants.”

You turned your head slowly, pulse thrumming like a drum. Smoke leaned in the doorway again, one brow raised, hunger in his eyes like he already knew the answer. Stack’s jaw flexed. His hands never left your skin.

“This ain’t a game, Smoke.”

“Never said it was.” His gaze dropped to where your bodies were still joined. “But I seen the way she looks at me, too. Don’t play like you didn’t notice.”

It was the truth, they were identical twins after all. The thought had crossed your mind if they were also the same down there. Smoke had always been the smoother one. The devil that smiled back at you when you flirted with danger. And now, with Stack buried deep and your body still trembling from the last orgasm, part of you wanted to see what it’d be like to be stretched between both of them.

It’s up to her,” Smoke said, you could hear the smile in his voice. “Ain’t it?” Stack didn’t speak. His silence was a storm ready to break.

You turned to face them both, hips still pushed back. You looked at Smoke through your eyelashes, and said, “You better double check that the door is locked this time.”

Smoke jiggled the door handle before focusing his sights on you, bent forward as if committing the sight to memory.

“ Such a pretty little thing,” he murmured. “Didn’t expect you to be so generous.”

Stack remained silent. He just thrust into you once, hard enough to make you gasp and grip the wall again.

“She ain’t yours,” Stack burst, but his voice lacked conviction. He knew what this was. I knew it wasn’t just about possession.

“Ain’t tryin’ to take her,” Smoke replied, stepping near.

His hands were on you before you could think, one sliding up the nape of your neck, the other tilting your chin to face him. He kissed you softly at first until you deepened the kiss. You moaned into his mouth, feeling Stack start to move again behind you, his speed staggering with every second.

“And you’re just lettin’ him have all the fun?” he mumbled against your mouth.

Stack growled low in his throat. “You want a turn, Smoke? Take her mouth. But you better be sure she can handle both of us.”

“Oh, I can,” you whispered, drunk on the moment.

Smoke stepped out of his clothes, his dick already thick and ready. He guided you down to your knees with his hand. You opened your mouth, lips wrapping around him just as Stack banged back into you from behind.

The stretch of both was overwhelming, one in your mouth and one buried deep. Stack fucked you harder now, his hold bruising on your hips, while Smoke let you control the pace with your tongue until he lost his patience and started to thrust into your mouth.

“Look at you,” Smoke groaned. “Takin’ us both like it’s what you were made for.”

Tears pricked at your eyes, but you moaned around him, the vibrations making Smoke’s jaw clench. Stack was close, you could feel it in the way his rhythm stuttered and his breathing picked up.

“She’s squeezin’ me so fuckin’ tight,” Stack gasped. “She’s gonna make me—fuck—” He pulled out just in time to spill across your back, thick ropes of cum marking your skin while Smoke slid out of your mouth and lifted your chin again.

“Don’t think I’m done with you yet,” Smoke growled, hauling you into his arms like you weighed nothing. He laid you down flat on the velvet covered crates nearby, pushing your knees back and plunging into you with a groan. The angle was brutal and somehow filthier. His eyes locked on yours the whole time, making it impossible for you to look away.

Stack leaned nearby, watching, still catching his breath, chest slick with sweat.

“Don’t think she’s ever been full till tonight.” Smoke said between thrusts.

You cried out, the pressure building fast and hot, your nails scraping down Smoke’s back. He fucked you through it, didn’t stop even as your body shook and your thighs tried to close. You came again loudly and broken open for Smoke to finally bury himself and release inside you.

For a long moment, the only sound was your breath and heartbeat, all three of you covered in sweat and something that felt dangerously close to obsession. Then Stack muttered lowly, “This doesn't change shit.”

“Oh, it changes everything, brother.” Smoke chuckled, pulling out slowly, the evidence of what you had just done dripping down your thighs.

taglist: @marley1773 @iheartamora @childishgambinaax

➴ feel free to send me more thots

[audisive]

♪ WEST COAST. (💌) – next part

౨ৎ simon 'ghost' riley | reader

synopsis: soap accidentally finds out about simon's girl.

tags: fluff, romance, simon is a big baby !! let us all accept this fact, soap and his assumptions, uh bad jokes, very rushed fic, crack ?, reader can indeed fix simon

Soap isn't sure when his assumptions started, nor is he sure how it got to Gaz and Price himself. 

Maybe it was when he started to notice that Ghost left base whenever he could. (How come ye never leave base? It's a hassle havin' to go back and forth for nothin', Johnny.) Maybe it was the smudged color of red and pink on his balaclava, the lingering perfume on his hoodie, or his new wallet taking the place of one that was once worn out.

"Wha's yer favorite perfume, LT?" "My enemies' sweat and tears."

(It's well-known that despite the fact that Ghost does consider the 141 to be his family, he keeps his personal life very private and away from them. They respect that, in turn, but let's face it, Soap is nosy.)

Really, it was an accident. Soap swears it was!

He just happened to be passing by his lieutenant in the bar where the team had all gone to celebrate a wreck of a mission that they've managed to successfully finish. Truly, it was an accident when his eyes caught a glimpse of Ghost's new wallet, and he really, very much so did not mean to watch a little too long – long enough for it to open and reveal a hefty amount of cash and a small square of colors, barely noticeable. 

Soap's feet move before he could quietly search for more.

"Got a new wallet, aye?" He slides beside the taller man smoothly, just as the Brit had grunted out another order of Bourbon. Ghost hums in acknowledgement.

"Y'got a crush on me or somethin', Johnny?"

Soap chuckles even if the other does not. "A just happened tae see it. Fancy little thing."

It doesn't take long before Ghost disappears into the night, but the Scot swears his pace was a bit faster than usual when he left the awfully-smelling bar, and Gaz would be lying if he said he didn't see the little picture of a pretty bird tucked away in his scarily huge lieutenant's wallet.

It's not that Soap often makes bold assumptions about people and their personal lives, not when they're out of reach from him, but can you really blame him for thinking that the words 'Ghost' and 'girlfriend' do not sound right in the same sentence? Would it be considered an assumption this time if he'd seen the photo himself? Surely, his superior isn't some perverted freak who keeps an image of a breathtaking woman he randomly found in his private items. Uh, he hopes not, at least.

"Bullshit!" is what a drunken Soap yells when the Brit nonchalantly discloses to the team, without hesitation, that he is simply not interested in dating. He spills everything he's gathered in the past few months, from the smallest hints to the biggest; the unfamiliar strand of hair on Ghost's hoodie to the wallet from months ago.

"A'm no crazy!" Soap convinces no one as he's ushered back to the barracks for making such an insane assumption about the lieutenant in his unreliable state. Ghost's lips curl up into a smirk against the cold glass of Bourbon in his hand, sat back and relaxed with his legs spread wide.

Call him a big baby (he is) for making a fool out of his sergeant instead of just telling the truth and bragging about his angel to the others, but can you blame him? He just wants to keep you tucked away in his pocket, away from everyone else. What are you talking about, lovie? 'Course 'm not ashamed of you. You're just too pretty for them, is all. Gotta keep m' girl safe, yeah?

Besides, they don't have to know the way Simon melts into the nook of your neck when he gets home from deployment or know that he uses your lavender-scented shampoo. And no, it doesn't matter that Johnny knows. It's his word against the lieutenant's. He spares his LT and turns a blind eye this once.

When the time is right, Simon is sure to properly introduce his heart to his unspoken family. For the time being, he just wants to keep you his pretty little secret.

    divider by @cafekitsune !

[miajooz]

Bourbon & Butterflies

✮ Bartender!Ellie is a smoothhhh talker. Suggestive speaking, Alcohol use, Swearing.

WC ✮ 1.8k

The way you walked into that bar had heads turning and eyes riveted in your direction. You had the sort ambiance that was hypnotic in the way that felt like a buzz. Maybe it was the way you walked in those heels, or maybe it was the way you wore that dress like it was honored to be on your body. Either way—you could feel it, feel the way you shined.

You were in a group with your friends—probably the sexiest group to ever be seen in one place. Seriously, it was almost offensive the way you all complimented each other.

Though, you were oblivious to the attention you were receiving. your initial plan being to dance with your friends and drink. That wasn’t criminal, everybody was there for a good time. It was the kind of Friday where unwinding was all your fogged out brain could focus on. The kind of Friday you wanted to block out with the buzz of alcohol and a cigarette.

You were sober up until the moment your best friend abandoned you to go make out with some hot chick with a mullet, and eyes like a siren—but you couldn’t blame her. You watched her walk away, muttering to yourself in a way that was pure lesbian yearning. It looked so wrong to see such a gorgeous person as yourself all alone in the middle of the club.

Yeah, sobriety is not the way to go here.

With a sigh, you walked over to the bar and plopped down on the stool, trying your best to steer your attention away from the couple shamelessly making out next to you. You placed your hand on your cheek, waiting for the bartender.

You were glad your palm was keeping your jaw in place—otherwise it would’ve dropped to the damn floor.

The bartender had short, auburn hair, and the kind of freckles that made her look sun kissed in the sexiest way—a way you didn’t know was possible. Her green eyes told a story of their own, even if you couldn’t totally make them out from the club lights—you could feel them.

Her attire was nothing short of complimentary. She wore a white button down, the first two unbuttoned in an amorous way. Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, giving you a sickeningly hot view of her tatted arm. It seemed to be a moth in front of leaves, maybe she was a nature kind of girl?

She held a cigarette in one hand, her juniper eyes looking you up and down appreciatively. She took a small puff, blowing the smoke off to the side before pushing herself off of the back counter.

And oh, did she eye you.

Her eyes were trained to the way your hair framed your face, the way your eyelashes made your eyes look like a fucking crime, the way your lips were parted in the perfect way. But how could she ignore the attire?

The dress that made your body look as if it should be photographed and put in a magazine for models and anybody else in the world to gawk at. The heels that made you slightly taller but so much more charming. And the jewelry that adorned your skin, so bright and shiny—as if you were competing with the disco ball.

You could feel it, you could see it. You lifted your head off your palm and offered her a sweet smile.

She nearly choked on the smoke she had already blown out. That was probably the cutest, most contagious smile she had ever seen.

She quickly recovered, putting one hand against the counter in front of her as she looked at you, eyebrow raised and tongue in her cheek.

“What can I get you, sweetheart?” she questioned, her voice was raspy, but smooth in the way it spoke and affected you.

You simply smiled again, sitting up straighter. You’d be lying if you didn’t admit the pet name made you feel butterflies.

“Just a mimosa, please.” you request, trying your best not to not eye her in a way that was obvious.

She flashed you a smile, the kind of smirk that was lopsided but seemed so calculated.

“A mimosa, huh? Tryna match that citrusy fragrance you got going on?” she questioned, grabbing a clean glass off the side. “Not that I’m hating, of course. It suits you.”

You could already feel butterflies in your stomach, or maybe you were just so utterly charmed it was messing with you. You just laughed softly, your eyes darting between her toned hands and her unfairly gorgeous face. “Oh? And how would you know what suits me?”

She laughed at that, low and raspy. You couldn’t tell if she was paying more attention to the drink she was supposed to make or the customer who ordered it.

“Just a light assumption, pardon me. Thought you’d be charmed.” she said, her eyes going back down to the glass.

It was like she knew all the right things to say, this was all too much to handle. You needed that drink before you started acting like you were in heat.

“It would be hard not to be charmed, I’m glad you’re thinking about me.” you replied, smooth and calm. A stark contrast to the war your nervous system was going through.

She simply hummed in response, handing you your drink carefully. “For sure, baby.” she started—already dangerous. “Do you always order a mimosa?”

You laughed and cocked an eyebrow at her, taking a small sip out of your drink. You saw her eyes immediately snap towards them, and you became unfairly in love wot the way she bit her cheek.

“Why’re you asking? Does my order suit me too?” you asked curiously, trying to keep your demeanor calm and collected.

She shrugged, her free hand bringing her cigarette back up to her lips. She blew the smoke to the side again—not really wanting to lose sight of your gorgeous face.

“Something like that,” she started, clicking her tongue once, “You appreciate me thinking about you, yeah? Thought I’d take note of your favorite for the next time you come and see me.”

Damn. If you weren’t sitting your legs would’ve given out.

“For next time, you’re thoughtful. I’ll come see you again for sure—so you have some company.” you said, your hand shaking around your glass. “But yeah, this is what I usually order.” Unfortunately, she took notice to that and hummed, her eyes slightly narrowing at you.

“Is that right? Good to know.” she murmured, waving her cigarette around a bit as she spoke.

“Maybe I should get it tatted, you pick the spot.” she teased, finally bringing the cigarette up to her lips like it was a routine.

Your stomach tightened, a gasp lodged in your throat. The way she managed to smooth talk you so well was beyond you.

You laughed at her comment with an amused expression on your face, your fingers drumming against the glass. “That’s up to you, but there’s no need for that. Just remember the way you reacted when I smiled at you and ordered it.”

Now she was a bit speechless. Damn, you were good. She quickly recovered and eyed you up and down, practically fucking you with her eyes. the tension between you was palpable, everything else seemed to fade away.

“Yeah? I can think of a lot of other things I’d like to remember you showing me someday. ‘Could make you smile for different reasons.” she suggested, her voice low and sultry. The vulgarness behind her words made your stomach do flips.

Your eyes instinctively widened, fuck. You couldn’t look at her anymore, you reached for your lipgloss and looked away, using someone’s full glass of gin as a mirror—acting like you absolutely had to touch up your lipgloss. Then you managed to muster up the courage to look at her again.

“Already trying to start something when you don’t even know my name?” you asked, but there was no bite to your tone.

She laughed reaching to the side and taking a sip of a drink that looked as if it was refilled too many times. “How awful of me, I apologize. What’s your name, sweetheart?”

You offered her a small smile, your lips hovering over your own drink, “Y/N, and you?”

She smiled and muttered her name under her breath, commenting on how it ‘suited’ you. “Ellie, my name is Ellie.” she said, and now you were thinking about how her name suited her.

You nodded, sipping your drink and keeping eye contact with her. The tension was almost heavy, you could feel it weighing down on your lungs.

“So, Ellie. What do you usually order?”

Ellie laughed, shaking her head and holding up her glass. “Using that against me? You’re clever.” she praised, letting you soak in the smirk on her face, “Bourbon, old fashioned.” she replied, her voice still hypnotic.

You nodded again, glad to be obtaining information besides the fact she was unfairly sexy and that her name was Ellie. Now you were both eyeing each other up, as if you were communicating in the sense or alcohol, smoke, and lust.

The silence didn’t last long, though the tension stayed.

“What’re you doing tonight, hun? Any plans worth staying for?” she asked, her tone suggestive.

Your heart stuttered inside your chest, a familiar enamored feeling overwriting anything prior. “No important plans, unless you’re trying to make some.” you replied, a subtle smirk on your face.

Ellie hummed in response, putting her cigarette out and leaning forwards. “Is that right? I can take you home if you want, baby.”

Fuck. That name felt so perfect coming off her lips when it was directed at you.

“You wanna take me home? Are you talking my house or yours?” you asked, your voice also suggestive. All you knew was that this woman was doing something to you, something you craved to feel and see more of.

Ellie’s smirk doubled in size, one eyebrow slightly more raised than the other. This was definitely going where she wanted it to. “Up to you, I’ll take you anywhere, sweetheart.” she said, her eyes not leaving you for even a fraction of a second.

“You know, a house, heaven, another planet.”

“A place in the back of your head your eyes haven’t mapped out yet. It’s up to you.”

Why did she keep going? You bit your cheek and looked at your drink, quickly tossing the rest into the back of your throat. Maybe you were trying to tame the blood in your body rushing south. You wiped a stray drop from your lips, trying to casually smile. “Your house works fine. Wanna take me to your car?”

Ellie smiled and stood up straight, eying you in a way that felt so right.

“A motorcycle okay with you?”

TAGSSS!! <3 @valeisaslut @haithone @eriiwaiii2 @usuck @hyperbabes

A/N - I’m still working on the smut i promised, but i had to get this idea out of my system. 💔

[rippersz]

𝙏𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙚𝙨

☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

(Lilia Calderu x Fem!Reader) (NSFW; Thigh-riding; Titles) (~4.7k words)

☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

“I think this is my favouritest place in the entire universe,” you admitted softly, your words slurred and muffled against the sweet-smelling skin of your lover’s neck. 

“I thought your favourite place was your bed,” she huffed, lips twisted into a smirk. 

“It is. But this is my most favouritest.” You moved your head, pushed your nose further beneath the curve of her jaw, and nuzzled closer into the corner of her shoulder and neck with a dizzy blissful smile. 

The urge to sigh took over quickly and as you breathed deep, utterly content with your soft witchy pillow, the mixed smells of wildflowers, bourbon, jasmine, and gardenia filled your lungs. It was the most comforting combination, full of happy memories, a reminder of home, a staple of your Lilia, and when you breathed out, you caught the notes of the lemon shampoo clinging to her damp curls. Which, as beautiful as they were, were still incredibly unruly and slow to dry after a relaxing shower. They tickled your nose and chin, drawing damp streaks of water, and you reached up to tuck them away behind Lilia’s neck. 

“Quit it,” she nudged you gently, shifting you on her hip. 

“I’m not doing anything, your hair is getting in my way.” 

“Oh now she blames the hair,” your lover drawled, “What next? Is my lap not comfortable enough for you?” 

“It is. And it would be even more comfortable if you weren’t reading that stupid book.” 

She knew you weren’t being serious–you loved when Lilia got a moment to calm down and read peacefully–but she’d had her nose buried between the pages of the damn thing since the moment you settled. It was about flowers and sigils and ancient forms of casting and other things you didn’t care to remember because you were snuggled up on the right side of Lilia Calderu’s body and you would not move even if the Divine Mother herself had begged you to do so. She was simply too comfortable, simply too soft, simply too perfect. Braless, relaxed, matching your rare choice of pyjamas for the evening: Underwear and a T-shirt, the latter having been stolen from Lilia’s closet even though you had your own. It was flimsy, old, thin, and also the best thing you had ever worn as you’d straddled her thigh, wrapped your arms around her waist, and happily realised that you could still feel each warm part of her body through the two layers of cloth. 

That alone was a feat you had to accomplish together once upon a time—getting out of your comfort zones. It took a while before you were secure enough to open yourselves up intimately, to even think of getting undressed in the same room, to even kiss without skirting around each other first. You had your fair share of insecurities, but Lilia was a different story. She’d lived a life unlike any other, being a fugitive witch, skilled in divination, who travelled the waves of time as a skipping rock rather than a sailboat. Her upbringing wasn’t very liberal, much less accepting of homosexuals, and though she managed to get through life regardless, her preoccupied on-the-run mind steered her away from debauchery. All in all, that meant sex and intimacy simply was not as important to Ms. Lilia Calderu as it was to most of the population. She still felt the urge of course, she was a woman with such needs, but there was no time to desire a physical outlet - no time and no energy and no candidates. There was one girl in her youth, part of her original coven, and maybe a few flings in her mid-200’s, even something a little more long lasting toward the end of her 300’s, but the itch was never so persistent. It didn’t wait in the back of her head or lurk around right before going to bed, and it never came up in her thoughts when out in public. She was an adult woman with too many things to think about, focus on, and consider. She didn’t have time for desire. She didn’t have time to want.

And then you walked into her little shop on a rainy humid Wednesday afternoon, fuzzy-haired and wild-eyed, and the sight of you sent her careening into the future. She returned quickly, with an awed look, serious eyes, and the soft murmur of “The Wheel of Fortune”, and only after some time passed did you both realise that yes, change for the better was indeed in the cards. 

And Lilia found herself wanting that day. 

Then most of the days after it. 

For about three years, that was her normal. The sudden uproar of desire, not incredibly strong (for her subconscious would not let it get that far) but definitely noticeable. She found herself thinking about you often, about your skin, your hair, your hands, your fingertips, your legs, your smile. She found herself wanting to touch. To reach. To caress and to kiss and to bite. Once the two of you recognised your attraction, you quickly agreed that anything sexual or intimate would be postponed. It simply had to come at a time in which you were both ready, open, and uninhibited. And if it took a while, then it took a while.  

It took only two years, after which you finally gave yourself to Lilia and she gave herself to you. It was all very romantic; a dark evening, slow and desperate, wet and hot, quiet and needy. Completely unforgettable. It opened a gateway of sorts, a chance for you both to expand and explore, and after a lifetime of not being able to embrace sexual liberation, Lilia was finally given the opportunity. You encouraged her as best you could without overstepping boundaries, always willing to try what she wanted to try (even though she often found herself on the receiving end of your innovative thoughts instead of the other way around but nevertheless), always eager to do the necessary research if that’s what your time together required, never a complaint on your tongue whenever she admitted she wasn’t in the mood. No corners were ever cut when it came to the desire you had for your lover. 

Except when it came to book corners. Those were cut instantly. 

“What would you rather have me do, hm? Movie marathon? Bake a cake? Swim my way to Egypt? This is how I relax, now deal with it or get off,” Lilia snarked, moving her hand from the cover of her book down to your thigh to give you a small pinch. She was too quick for you to jump away. 

“Owch! Mean!” You flinched from the sting, dislodging yourself from your comfy drape over her shoulder to fix her with a playful glare. 

Lilia didn’t hesitate to meet you head on, taking her eyes away from her book to look up at you through dark lashes, right over the rims of her glasses. Glasses that she only wore when alone, when with you, with a little chain that held them in the place, with a shape that complimented her face so perfectly. They made her seem so… sophisticated. So… strict. A red candy-apple coloured body, slight cat eye details around the rims, and curved well enough to always be perched at a very specific angle on her nose at all times. You hated them. You really hated them. You wanted them gone. You wanted them away. You wanted them to stop being so tempting. She was already attractive enough - she didn’t need the fucking things setting your pants on fire every two seconds. And whether she knew about their effect or not, you weren’t sure, but it didn’t matter either way - her attention was excruciating, and to it you would never be immune. 

“Get rid of this book right now,” you started strong, straightening up in her lap with a haughty cross of your arms. 

“I’m busy with it,” she tightened her hold on her prized possession as if you were about to lunge forward and take it from her. 

“Yeah? Well I’m busy with you, so lose the book Calderu.” 

Her perfect lips pursed, displaying playful disdain, and you couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow - just to be bratty. You watched as she considered her options, as she glanced down at her book, then back at you, then back at her book. And when she looked up for the last time, you changed your tactics and shuffled closer, moving up from her thighs to the curve of her torso - right by her lower belly. You pressed yourself there, dropped your eyebrow, and gave her the sweetest eyes you could conjure. 

“I just want to cuddle, Lili. Is that too much to ask for?” You sighed, moved your hands, and placed them on top of the book. 

Without fail, as you’d hoped, Lilia conceded. She almost always did whenever you addressed her like that, being so unaccustomed to pet names and terms of endearment as she was. To hear it from your lips was a tantalising thing, a sign of worthiness and ongoing love, and you saved it for your more intimate moments - just to coax her into doing something you knew she wanted to do but was simply too stubborn to go through with. Like putting her book down and giving you all of her attention. 

“I guess not,” she grumbled a few seconds later, melting into your efforts, and you grinned as she moved to set her book down on the bedside table. 

“See?” You hummed as you reached forward to gently pull the glasses from her face, being careful to first slide the chain from around her neck. “I knew you’d come around.” They were placed next to the book a moment later and you didn’t even wait a passing second before you were pouncing into Lilia’s arms. 

Like an overexcited puppy, your body went squirming and pushing into your lover’s, wiggling playfully as you worked your arms around her waist. She accepted you happily, letting out a sigh and a big eye roll before you tucked your face into her shoulder again and finally let the stress of the day properly wash off of your body. As Lilia’s muscles relaxed, allowing herself to give into the comforting weight of your clinging, she placed her lips to your shoulder and gave it a small kiss. 

“You’re going soft on me,” you murmured into her ear, delighting in the low hum that rumbled from her chest. 

“That’s the point,” she whispered, lighthearted and gentle.

Lilia couldn’t see the smile that spread across your face, but it was most certainly all soppy, soft, and loving. Utterly gormless, completely bewitched. She had you wrapped around every one of her fingers, oh her delightfully nimble fingers, and you never wanted to be unravelled. Not when paradise existed in her arms, flashing itself behind your closed eyes as Lilia began rubbing your back and tracing mindless shapes through the fabric of your shirt. Circles, squares, stars, triangles, trapezoids, words and phrases, squiggles and lines, suns and moons. Eventually, her pattern changed and she began following the same familiar loops and curves you’d seen her do a million times. 

From the top of your left shoulder blade diagonally to the plush fold of your right hip. 

L

I

L

I

A

A pause.

From the top of your right shoulder blade diagonally to the curve of your left hip.

C

A

L

D

E

R

U

Jesus fucking Christ. 

Lilia retraced her writing with the lightest press of her fingernails, going back over the loops of her ‘L’, the hills and dips of each letter, until she reached the tail of her ‘u’ and lingered there. One second. Two seconds. Until your skin began to tingle, and then she started to draw little circles, going from small to big in a slow spiral, and your skin began to buzz. Her caresses made it sensitive, bringing it to life, forcing the expectant attentiveness only an eager body could have as you sat in her lap and started to squirm. The circles quickly faded into nothing before the pattern reset. Back up to your shoulder blade, again across her name. 

“L-Lilia,” you breathed, feeling your body grow hot beneath her attention. 

“What?” Came her whispered response, soft like satin against your ear as she closed her eyes and placed her chin on your shoulder. 

She didn’t seem to realise what she was doing. All the warmth that she spread through you, continuously, while her traces turned to touches and she started pressing her palms to your back. She felt so good and gentle, so caring and calm, and when you took a deep stuttering breath to try and grasp your bearings, to delay the inevitable downfall of desire, you were once again overcome by her scent. It blanketed your lungs, purred within your soul, and the wildflowers, bourbon, jasmine, gardenia, lemon, love… the smell of love… made you whine. It was just so Lilia. So nostalgic, gentle, light and intoxicating. 

She sparked a warmth—a stringy, viscous, thick warmth that settled in you. Like a pool in your abdomen, it burned and lapped. It called to her from the inside, reaching for the sweet kiss of her mouth, the gentle curl of her fingers, the way her tongue felt when it dragged along the inside of your thigh. You’d felt it before, yearned for it before, gone hours with and without the careful delicate heat Lilia always managed to coax from you. And it didn’t take much. It never did. All you needed was a thigh between your legs. Pressed up against a thin piece of cloth, the only thing separating your cunt from her skin. Hands on your back. Warm and grounding, the only thing keeping you from losing your mind. A mouth by your neck. Soft breaths fanning onto your shoulder, the only thing that broke your flimsy resolve.

“You’re making me horny.” It was blunt, soft, and said with such  tightness, you knew that it was obvious you were embarrassed.

You clenched your eyes shut. 

How pathetic was it, after all, to be incapable of lasting a few minutes on your lover’s lap, receiving all of her attention, without succumbing to an eager lust? How pathetic was it to be unable to focus when she felt so good beneath you? Was that how your mind worked? So one-tracked? Was that how your body worked? So easy and loose for Lilia Calderu? Like a slut?

Yes. Yes, exactly. 

You would do anything she asked of you. You’d be anything she wanted you to be. If Lilia woke up one morning and boldly decided that she always wanted you on top, that she wanted to stay in her pillow princess luxury and succumb to your tongue and hands until she couldn’t take it anymore, you’d do it. If Lilia decided that she never wanted you to touch her ever again, in history, and that she was the only one to harness any control in the bedroom, then you’d relinquish your own. If Lilia wanted you on a leash, if Lilia wanted you chained to a bed, if Lilia wanted you in a crate, on the floor, against a wall, against a table, against a ceiling, wearing nothing, wearing everything, wearing too much or too little, you wouldn’t stop her. You wouldn’t refute. Not because you couldn’t, but because you didn’t want to. She was a witch, a powerful witch, and a woman, a powerful woman, and the very second you looked into those neverending puppy dog eyes and saw the sadness and the strength, you were whipped. You were totally, absolutely hers. Lilia’s slut. No — Lilia’s girl. 

But even Lilia’s girl made mistakes sometimes. Even Lilia’s girl was, in certain moments, too greedy. And the moment the words were out of your mouth, your depraved confession, her touch stopped. 

It was excruciating. 

Your chest hit hers with every deep inhale you drew, growing deeper the longer you sat there, and it began to shudder as your heart crawled into your ears. She was so still, so rigid, that your mind descended into worry. Did you ruin it? Did you say the wrong thing? Should you have left it? Ignored it? Maybe she just wanted to cuddle. Maybe you should’ve kept it to yourself, tried controlling it better, and returned to it in the bathroom after she fell asleep. Maybe you screwed up the evening because you couldn’t cuddle with Lilia for one second without wanting to fuck her brains out. Maybe..

“Do you want me to stop?” 

You blinked. You didn’t really have a response. Of course the answer was God, no, but if Lilia wanted to stop, then you wouldn’t push her. You didn’t want her to feel obligated. 

Lilia breathed slowly through her nose, off put by your silence, and pressed her still hands harder into your back. 

“I- if-... if you want to,” you whispered quickly, terribly unsure with your wavering confidence but so desperate for her touch that you felt your mind grow hazy. Goodness, she was so close and she felt so warm. Your heart returned to your chest, eager to beat in sync with your lover’s as you felt her body slowly relax underneath you. 

She let out a steady breath, so quiet you could barely hear, and then shattered the peace a second later.

One of the lingering palms on your back shot up to your hair, wrapped a thick handful of it into the curl of a fist, and wrenched your head back. You squealed, eyes tearing up with the sudden sharp pain in your scalp, and your body went falling into Lilia’s other hand. She held you up with only a flex and kept you there, suspended, unable to move.

“Be assertive,” Lilia commanded, not even giving you a moment to recover. “Do you want me to stop?” Her whisper was gone, replaced with a quiet serious depth, and you shivered as you looked into her eyes. 

They were dark. Hypnotising. Swirling with chocolate desire, with the honour of love, and at the sight of her focus, her undivided attention, the knowledge that she knew — she knew you were dying for her – the flame in you soared into a blaze. It was a wicked sludgy sort of thing, intense and impulsive, and its hunger, its ache made you throb. Lilia’s hand twitched in your hair, feeling so much better the longer the sting settled, and the words were tumbling off of your tongue before you could catch them. 

“No, no please. Please don’t stop Lili…,” your chest heaved with breath, affected by the feverish way she handled you, and you could feel the sickening helplessness of your expression. Brows furrowed, eyes wide and glossy, lips licked and cheeks dark. Pure want for your lover. Pure desperation. 

“Please.” 

Lilia considered you, running her deep gaze over your face. She took in the look of you, the need, and you watched her perfect lips purse, her beautiful eyes narrow, her dark brows furrow - before she hummed, relaxed the hand holding your hair hostage, and went to cradle the back of your head. You let her do it all without worry, knowing she wouldn’t hurt you, and sighed with bliss as she put pressure behind her fingers and brought you forward. Your eyes closed as your body was returned to its previous position, propped up against her, forehead pressed to the curve of her shoulder. Your legs clenched at her gentleness, at the contrast of her touch, and you shuddered as you felt her thigh, thick and soft and heavenly, stop you from getting any friction. 

“Lilia-” you didn’t even know what you were going to say, if you were going to beg or if you were going to question or what you were going to do - but it didn’t matter. 

She cut you off like a knife through flesh as her hands moved to trail down your sides, from the swell of your breasts to the soft plush of your waist to the dip and bend of your hips. Her touch was sure, strong, certain, and your hands flailed to grip at the back of her shirt when she suddenly settled her fingers into the hinge of your thighs and slowly, slowly, pushed you back. Slightly, a few inches, enough to have your legs falling open, leaving you there for a quarter of a second……. and then forward, slowly, to erase the space she made, to close the distance, to drag your core along her thigh. Once. Twice. Until you got the memo and started moving with her, whimpering as the ache in your abdomen started to ebb and flow. 

Your forehead pressed further into her shoulder, lightly muffling the whimpers that dripped from your lips, and you moaned when she shifted herself forward to move her mouth up to your ear. It was velvet against your heated skin, teasing and sensitive, and Lilia took a soft breath in before she kissed the shell and whispered, quietly, like there were others in the room and she didn’t want any other soul on Earth to hear… 

“You look like a whore.”

Then she sped up the pace, grasping your hips with more strength, nearing the point of bruising, and began pushing and pulling with smooth, quick tugs. You couldn’t do anything but hold on and move with her, shifting your hips back and forth on her thigh, and shiver every time your clit caught the fabric of your underwear. Your body had no trouble reacting; throbbing for her, dripping for her, ruining your panties while you clutched at her back and eventually abandoned her shirt to run your hands up over her bare skin. She was smooth, perfect, she felt like a woman beneath your touch, a lover, and you squished your cheek into her shoulder as you moaned. Loud, desperate, and unashamed. 

“Lilia… oh god.” And she let out little pants for her efforts, lips parted and eyes hooded while she watched the way your hips moved for her, gliding with grace, slow like a dance, and the breaths quickly tumbled into soft groans as you shuffled closer and pressed your right knee up against her core. 

“You feel so good,” you turned your head to whisper hurriedly, raggedly, into her ear. “S-so good…” And Lilia shuddered, biting her lip to hold back a moan as you began lifting your hips every time you were dragged forward. 

Your sounds mixed so well, soft and loud and husky and whiny, twirling together in a lustful little symphony as your movements got faster and sloppier. And when your eyes fluttered closed and open in lazy blinks, you saw the tantalising skin of Lilia’s neck, shifting as she breathed, and you couldn’t resist. A strangled moan rumbled up from her throat at the feel of your tongue, wet and hot while you leaned in, closer, more, until your nose was also pressed to her neck and you could breathe her in. She tasted, smelled, felt like Lilia. Your Lilia. Sweet Lilia. Her head dipped as she pressed her nose to your neck, making you pant with desire at the closeness of her lips. You just needed them on you, painting you, opening up so she could be free to sink her teeth in and drink your life from your body if that’s what she wanted. 

“I love you,” she husked, her breath making her deep voice shaky, and you responded with a harder thrust of your hips against her thigh and an open-mouthed kiss against her throat. 

You were too far gone for words at that point, with her practically wrapped around you. Your mouth was open, your tongue was licking lazily, lolling like a dog’s, and your mind was fuzzy, dripping toward your cunt, only working to move you back and forth on your lover’s leg like a depraved little animal. A sickened beast. You couldn’t help it. Her thigh was the perfect surface, strong when she flexed, soft when she relaxed, thick and delicious, and shivers wracked your body as you followed the gestures of her hands. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. A heavenly friction against your clit, leaving the desperate weep of your hole to ache. It felt neglected, throbbing for Lilia’s fingers, but riding her thigh felt so good and you didn’t want to get up, you didn’t want to stop, even when your panties began sticking to your skin. You didn’t want to stop, even when your head got so fuzzy, your belly got so warm, your body got so hot that your grinding started to slow. It was hard to keep the pace as you felt your muscles burn, but Lilia wasn’t having it. 

“A little longer,” she huffed, finally kissing your skin, melting you from the inside out with her soft lips. “Just a little.” 

You nodded, choking on a whine as you started up again and forced all your strength into your grinding. 

“Good girl,” Lilia hummed, pushing the hem of your shirt away from your neck with her chin so she could have more room to kiss. “Good girl…” 

“L- Lili-a- I’m… hngg… I wanna- mmmnnn….” Cum. You wanted to cum. You wanted to cum on Lilia’s thigh, you wanted her to help, to encourage, and you nearly fell apart instantly when her teeth started pressing lightly, gently, into your shoulder and her tongue began to swirl around your skin.

“Come on,” she moved her mouth to your ear. “Come on, baby,” her tone was soft, coaxing, and you could sense the tease in her words. 

But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough. You were left on the burning edge, singing your fingers, whining to near tears in Lilia’s arms as you heaved, shuddered, whispered pleads and begs beneath your breath. The pool of desire only grew, glistening below you as you hung above, so close to falling, dangling by a thread, rutting your hips over and over like it would help. The friction was barely enough, pressing so deliciously against your swollen clit, but you were so wet that only the smallest thrusts, the littlest shifts, were all you could handle before the sensation slipped away. It was so frustrating, pulling a groan then a distressed whimper from your lips as your legs began to shake and your hands scratched at Lilia’s back. Not too hard, you didn’t want to hurt her, but the little red lines and the sting were enough to signal that you were having trouble. 

“Relax,” Lilia whispered, making you choke on a breathy whine. “Relax for me.” She spoke slowly, softly, and you breathed in deeply through your nose to calm your pounding heart. “Listen.”

You nodded and nuzzled into her shoulder, slowing the pace of your hips but pressing harder into her leg. It felt so good, so good, but not enough- not enough.

“You’re beautiful,” Lilia panted, making your thighs twitch, “My beautiful girl.” 

“Hmmpngg- Lilia- Lilia-,” you whimpered, letting out a little moan each time you moved. 

“I know. I know you need it,” she nodded, then pressed another kiss to your neck. “Can you let go for me?” Her voice was like warm honey drizzled over your bones and your skin. “Can you let go for Momma?” 

A thick, blinding bolt of heat flashed through your body, making you sweat and shiver against Lilia’s body. No no no- Momma’s body. You felt the desire bubbling, brimming, so close to falling into bliss that you could only close your eyes and go quiet.

“I know you can do it,” she spoke slowly, taking the reins back and using more force to speed up your thrusts. “Let go for me, sweetheart.” Her lips brushed your ear. “Be good and give in.” 

“M- Mo-” you were red-faced, vision blurred with tears, your lower lip quivering, and Lilia came to your rescue.

“Momma gives you permission.”

And just like that, saved by the same woman that tortured you, the thread was cut, the ledge crumbled, and you fell.

☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

BOO. - Rip x

☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

[saffusthings]

second chances

mob boss!lando norris x reader

part thirty-eight: trouble's calling

word count: 4.9k

warnings: this chapter contains themes of grief, alcohol abuse, and attempted suicide. reader discretion is advised.

if you or someone you love is struggling, please - reach out, and let someone help. you are never on your own.

thirty-seven | thirty-eight | thirty-nine

The car rolled to a gentle stop outside the Norris estate’s black iron gate. Max had already stepped out, the others trailing behind with the energy of soldiers after battle — relieved, sore, and very much exhausted.

The driver’s door didn't open. Lando was still sitting in the driver’s seat, his hands loose on the wheel, and his gaze somewhere far beyond the windshield. He certainly didn’t seem to be in any rush to get out of the car.

Max turned back, leaning into the open window of his passenger side door. “Mate, you comin’ in?” he asked, furrowing his brow.

“Nah,” he murmured. “I’ve got somewhere to be.”

Max frowned. “You good?”

There was a beat of hesitation. Then Lando nodded, a tired smile on his lips.

“Yeah.”

Max opened his mouth — maybe to say be careful, maybe to say you’ve done enough tonight — but before he could even begin to form the words, the car was already rolling away, taillights vanishing into the dark.

Fewtrell couldn’t help but worry, even if tonight had gone well. Usually they’d all celebrate together after a win like this – maybe not with cake and confetti, but they’d found some drinks and takeout did the trick just as well.

Max also knew how hard Lando had been taking everything. Everyone else still saw the ruthless leader that Lando showed them, but Max had known him for a lifetime. Something about him had been different lately, both for better and for worse. He’d disappear at odd times, sometimes not returning for days. 

Then there was the time Carlos had to call him because Lando was spiraling, obsessing over getting his revenge like a madman instead of the tactical leader they all knew him to be. There was also the night that none of them had talked about, the one everyone in the Circle would pretend never happened.

But Max could never forget it.

The first night Lando was back at the mansion after Daniel’s death, there was something hollower in his eyes. Everyone was grieving, of course. But there was something to be said about what it must’ve taken from Lando to be the one to sit by Daniel’s side the longest, talking and comforting and joking until it came time for final promises. It was Lando’s hand that blessed Daniel one final time as he gently closed the eyelids of one of his oldest friends, someone who’d been a mentor to him back when he was first starting to make a name for himself.

Everyone blamed themselves, at least a little bit. But no one blamed themselves as much as Lando Norris.

He’d come home that next night, his shoulders weighed down, his voice empty. Where everyone expected a moment of remembrance, or a rallying speech, or a battle cry or just something–

Lando Norris didn’t say a word.

Instead, he walked past everyone who tried to call out to him, and headed straight for his office. The door remained locked for hours.

None of them would forget the muffled sound of heaving sobs they heard that night. It was Carlos who had noticed when those pained cries finally dissipated into weaker whimpers–

Until there was abrupt silence.

Fewtrell had to break the door open, ramming his side against it with the full force of his weight behind him, over and over again until the weight finally gave out. The locking mechanism finally broke, and when Max entered, it felt like he did too.

He walked in, only to find Lando collapsed in a heap on the floor, an awkward mess of limbs in the center of his handcrafted rug. When he stepped closer, he saw that Lando was shaking, the trembling of his body sloshing around the bourbon of the glass in his hand.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong, mate? You don’t look well,” he tried gently, knowing that Lando was a bit like a cat in that often approaching him with kindness outright only made him scamper away.

But even Max Fewtrell had never seen him like this before.

Lando had attempted to say something in response, but it was too incomprehensible for Max to make it out.

“What is it, hm? Talk to me–”

“Leave me… alone,” Lando slurred, voice caught somewhere short of anger but still past sorrow. “Go away.”

It was only then that Max became close enough to notice the wet glassiness of his eyes, the flush of his cheeks.

Lando was crying.

“Lando, buddy, talk to me, yeah? I’m here–”

“It won’t work,” he cried, words blurring into one another. “Why won’t it work?”

Confused, Max was just about to ask what Lando was talking about when he saw it.

His heart dropped.

Its black metal glinting in the loose, barely-there grip of Lando’s right hand, was his gun.

It won’t work.

“I tried,” Lando laughed –a terribly weak, heartbreaking thing– but it comes out alot more sniffly than he intended. “Two times, I tried. Stupid thing keeps jammin’.”

Taking a shaky breath, Max put on his most believable smile. His hand carefully reached for the loaded gun, speaking only in gentle tones. “Don’t worry about that’, yeah?” Max coaxed, his voice not nearly as strong as he’d hoped. Still, he plucked the weapon out of Lando’s reach, using his fingers like a pair of forceps.

“No, no,” Lando shook his head, eyes wide and innocent. ”Tha’s mine, give it–” 

In his inebriated state, Lando’s efforts to reach the gun were futile, practically missing Max’s hand by a mile. Tucking the now locked weapon into the waistband of his pants, Max wrapped his arms around Lando’s shoulders, locking the younger man’s arms in place. Lando struggled futilely against the gentle yet firm grip for a few minutes, until the exhaustion of his efforts gave way to the real storm that had been brewing inside.

That night, Max sat there, holding Lando as he cried until he finally passed out in his hold, exhausted by the toll of his own emotions. That night, Max rambled on and on, saying all the nice things Lando would have never let him say if he wasn’t absolutely blackout drunk. 

Later, as he poured a spare blanket over Lando’s sleeping form, Max didn’t look at Lando and see the same man he did every day. Instead, he saw a boy, one whose heart was in unimaginable pain.

And when Lando woke the next day and said nothing about the events of the previous night, Max and Carlos exchanged a look, silently vowing to never speak a word of this to anyone.

Now, as Max watched the taillights of Lando’s car fade into the distant darkness, he was torn between hope and fear.

Hope – that Lando would find himself knocking on a familiar apartment door, instead of picking up the bottle. That Lando would leave his gun untouched tonight. That instead of locking himself alone somewhere, that maybe he’d find his way to the only arms he’d ever really allowed to hold him. That maybe when he’d return to the mansion in the morning that little bit more sated, something warm in his expression and lax muscles.

Hope, that Lando would find his way to the one that makes him better.

She must have fallen asleep waiting for him. 

Again.

The lights in her apartment were dim, just the amber glow of the kitchen under-cabinet lights, and her small figure curled up on the couch under a throw blanket — like she’d tried to stay up and just couldn’t quite make it.

The apartment was mostly dark when Lando arrived, save for the lamp Y/N always left on when she waited for him. Y/N hadn’t meant to fall asleep — that much was obvious from the blanket tugged halfway over her shoulders, a plate of untouched cookies sitting on the coffee table beside a mug of cocoa now gone cold. Beside that table, her figure was curled up on the couch in a quiet doze.

His chest ached, in an alarmingly familiar, fluttery way.

Lando stood in the doorway for a long moment, the night’s weight still pressing against his ribs. Then he stepped in and quietly locked the door behind him.

Without a word, he dropped his coat by the door and stepped inside. He carefully and painstakingly closed the door behind him, silent as a ghost. Then crossed the room in four slow strides and knelt beside her, fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek. When she stirred, her eyes fluttered open, and she blinked into the darkness until she found him.

“Liam?”

He didn’t answer. He just leaned in and, as gently as he could manage, wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into him  — not because she needed it, but because he did.

She was half asleep still, eyes half-lidded, but something in her just knew. Knew it was him, knew he had come home by touch alone, by smell. Even without really opening her eyes she knew it was him, simply by the way his breaths came and his feet made the floorboards creak in familiar tones. 

“Hey,” she mumbled, voice thick with sleep, “how was work?”

He didn’t answer, and just held her tighter.

“Come,” Y/N invited softly. “...Sit with me?”

They shifted together until they were both curled on the couch — him half-sprawled, her tucked against his chest, his arms still locked around her like he didn’t trust the world not to take her away if he let go for even a second. It was only after a few long beats had passed, that he finally spoke.

“Needed this,” he mumbled into her shoulder, barely above a breath.

Her heart stuttered.

“Yeah?” she asked.

He nodded again, but slower this time, his cheek brushing against her collarbone.

Her fingers kept stroking his hair. She felt the way he softened under her touch, tension slowly bleeding out of his shoulders.

“Long day, huh?”

“...How’d you know?” he muttered, voice rough with exhaustion

She laughed softly, then kissed the crown of his head. “Lucky guess, I s’pose. But sometimes you get all clingy like this after you’ve had a long day.”

A beat passed.

“M’not clingy.”

“You’re literally on top of me right now.”

He spoke against her, words muffled by the fabric of her sleeping shirt. “Shh, don’t move.”

She laughed softly, before shifting slightly. “Actually, that reminds me, lemme get up a sec—”

“Noooo,” he groaned, arms tightening.

“Oh, c’mon,” she said, smiling as she gently pried herself loose. She laughed again, breath warm in his hair. “I’m just getting your dinner plate. Food will make you feel better, I promise. I bet you haven’t eaten, huh?”

Lando rolled his eyes. 

Of course, she’s right.

Naturally, that only made him more annoyed.

A minute later, she returned with the plate she’d tucked away for him in the microwave — still warm, perfectly portioned. He stared at it like she’d handed him the world on a paper plate instead of just a burger and fries.

“Here,” she said, nudging it toward him. “Eat.”

He took the first bite of the burger without a word, and she watched the way his shoulders sank with each chew, like the weight of his day finally could finally evaporate.

“How’d you keep the fries, like, crunchy?”

“Magic,” she deadpanned.

“N’ you didn’t put the tomatoes by the bread,” he breathed, his tone filled with awe. “You made sure it wouldn’t be soggy?”

When she looked at him, the way his eyes were wide with wonder, like she’d performed a miracle instead of simply remembering how he liked his sandwiches, she couldn’t help but laugh.

“Duh,” she smiled. “Of course, stupid.”

She didn’t say anything else after that – just stayed close while he ate, her thigh pressed against his and her presence a steady heartbeat beside him.

And for the first time that day, Lando breathed easy.

It didn’t take him long to finish the food.

Not with her curled beside him, teasing him with those little glances and the occasional pleased hum when he actually paused to take the time to breathe and chew his food slowly instead of just wolfing it down. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until the food was right in front of him.

He wondered how she’d known.

Is it possible for someone to know you better than you know yourself?

Finally, once he was done, she nudged his arm. “Here, I’ll take it. I’ll only be a minute.”

She took the empty plate from his hands, letting her fingers brush his for a beat longer than necessary.

He made a sound between a groan and a sigh, lifting the plate with an unnecessary amount of effort, like even that motion exhausted him. Even if he looked a little foolish, maybe it was worth it if it made her smile at him like that.

He must’ve gotten lost in some unknown train of thought, however, because he found himself brought back to the present by the sound of her voice.

“You know,” she said lightly, “this might be the quietest you’ve ever been.”

Lando offered a lazy, sideways smirk, but didn’t reply. He seemed perfectly content to just watch her, the outline of her growing smaller as she walked over to the kitchen to take care of those dishes. 

“You feeling better now?” she asked as she disappeared down the hallway.

Lando only hummed in reply — noncommittal, eyes heavy-lidded, his body already leaning into the couch cushions like they were trying to swallow him whole.

She called something back over her shoulder after that —maybe another question, or perhaps she was teasing him again—  but by the time she rinsed the plate and returned to the living room…

He was already gone.

His body was splayed across her couch like a crooked painting, and with one arm behind his head, the other rested loosely on his chest. 

Just like that, he was fast asleep. All of him had gone completely still, save for the slow rise and fall of his breath. His curls were a mess and there was a tiny crease between his brows, like he was still thinking away, even in slumber.

She ran warm water into the sink, the clink of plates and the faint hum of the faucet oddly comforting. She easily rinsed the plate before tucking it into the dishwasher. “So, you wanna tell me about your day now?”

Drying her fingers with a dishcloth, the scent of soap mingled with the warm night air. There was a beat, then another, where there was only silence as she waited.

No answer.

She dried her hands and turned back toward the living room, tossing her question lightly over her shoulder. “Li?”

Still nothing.

When she re-entered the room, she found him completely gone — fast asleep, his arm draped over the back of the couch where she’d been sitting just moments before. His head lolled slightly to the side, curls flattened from her fingers, his breathing slow and steady. Out cold.

And somehow, even like this, he still looked vaguely annoyed — his brow furrowed like even his dreams required sharp angles and unfinished business.

Aww.

Once she was done admiring the sight, she hovered for a moment, unsure as she glanced at the clock. 

Midnight.

It wasn’t even worth trying to move him. And god knows he looked like he needed the sleep. She should’ve just grabbed a blanket and gone to her room.

But yet, her feet didn’t move.

She hesitated, chewing lightly on the inside of her cheek.

It’d been a long day. For both of them, maybe. She could go to bed, sure. Let him sleep it off here, leave a blanket and a note for when he woke.

But…

She hesitated.

She thought back to the way he’d curled around her earlier, holding her so easily like he needed it as much as she did. And she couldn’t shake the way it felt, lying in his arms, the unspoken comfort between them. No one had ever made her feel like this — like it was okay to not pretend, to just be… here.

Liam didn’t talk much. But sometimes, silence was better. And sometimes, she thought, she could almost feel the words he didn’t say, the weight of his world in the moments where everything just slowed.

What did it mean to let someone stay? To want them to stay?

She glanced back at him, his face now a little more relaxed, eyes closed in that deep sleep that made him look younger, vulnerable in ways he never allowed anyone to see. 

She always did sleep better with him. 

Not always beside him, even. Just… with him. In the room. In his orbit. 

There was something about the steady sound of his breath and the way his body went warm and boneless when he let himself relax – the kind of rest he never seemed to get alone.

So maybe she was selfish for it.

But Y/N was tired too, and if this was what they were, whatever this was…

Then maybe it was okay to let herself indulge in these comforts.

Just a little, she told herself.

Cautiously, Y/N lowered herself beside him, trying not to disturb the quiet. The couch wasn’t huge, but she tucked herself in — back to the cushions, knees bent — and before she could even settle properly, Lando shifted in his sleep.

It wasn’t weird. It wasn’t anything other than natural, even. By now, she knew how her body gravitated toward his. He’d made space for her countless times before, whether that be on the couch or the floor or that one time on her bed or even in her favorite armchair, all without having to say a word. And there was something comforting in that.

Her eyes dropped to the space beside him. 

It was certainly narrow. Probably cramped. Definitely not designed for two.

She crossed to the couch and knelt beside him, trying not to disturb the sleep he’d clearly been starved of. His face had smoothed out now — not a trace of his usual tension in his jaw. Whatever worries chased him in daylight had finally, at least for tonight, let go.

Carefully, slowly, she lowered herself into the space next to him.

As soon as she settled, Liam’s body shifted, like he was aware of her — even in sleep. His arm moved a fraction, just enough to make room for her, his torso inching closer as if they’d done this a thousand times, as if this was their natural rhythm.

Her body melted into the space he created, a perfect fit, and she exhaled a long, peaceful breath. The rhythm of his breathing matched her own, deep and steady, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she allowed herself to relax completely. There was nothing forced, nothing rushed.

It was as if he knew. As if his body recognized hers before his brain could catch up. The way his arm dropped over her waist like it belonged there, his chest pressed lightly against her back, the heat of him sinking into her like gravity.

There was just that intuitive way he had of molding to her shape like he’d been doing it forever — his arm finding her waist, palm flattening like memory, his leg hitching slightly over hers to make space. Still mostly asleep.

Her breath caught. She didn’t dare move.

Instead, she just tucked herself into the blanket she’d messily stretched over the both of them before she let her eyes slip shut and her breathing slow.

There was one last thought she remembered before the haze of drowsiness washed it away, the quietest of questions.

I wonder if soulmates are real.

Before she could find herself an answer, sleep wrapped her in its warm embrace, and Y/N finally slept like nothing was missing.

She woke to the distant, shrill sound of a phone ringing.

At first, she thought it was part of the dream—some strange, hollow melody echoing through a version of her apartment that wasn’t quite right. But then it kept going, a shrill, persistent ring, slicing through the fog of sleep like a blade. 

She groaned softly, her head buried into the back cushion of the couch. Her neck ached. Her arm was numb beneath the weight of his chest. Her face was buried in something warm and solid. Lando’s shirt, she realized after a moment, already rumpled from the night before. He was still out cold, one arm curled beneath her, the other across her hip like a weight he didn’t want to give up.

Raising her head, her eyes blinked blearily into the dim apartment as she noticed the light seeping faintly through the curtains. Her body was still cocooned in the warmth of Liam and his body heat, his limbs still wrapped around her like sleep had erased whatever boundary they might’ve once pretended existed.

Apparently it had been a long sleep, because her muscles felt like they’d melted and then reformed. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept that deeply.

Liam didn’t even twitch — somehow completely dead to the world, his jaw slack, his breath slow. It was almost like he’d had such a long day that even the adrenaline gave up. It was rare for him to sleep this long.

Hell, it was rare for her to sleep this long. But they must have slept for quite some time, judging by the fact that the light filtering through the blinds was far too sharp for early morning, and her mouth tasted like she hadn’t spoken in hours.

The phone rang again. She grumbled softly, squeezing her eyes shut tighter before cracking them open.

She blinked slowly, the air cool against her face. 

I should probably turn the heat up a bit.

Her back ached in that specific way the couch always promised after too many hours, but the weight across her waist was solid and warm. 

Still asleep, his breath warm against the back of her neck, his body curled around hers like he had no plans to move. He didn’t stir, didn’t even move an inch despite the incessant ringing noise. If it weren’t for the rise and fall of his chest against her spine, he could’ve passed for a corpse.

Dumbass, she thought fondly.

She groaned softly and peeled herself away, wincing as his arm that draped over her waist like a stubborn paperweight refused to let go for a beat too long before eventually sliding off.

“Liam,” she whispered half-heartedly, lazily nudging his shoulder. He didn’t even stir. “Liam, your phone’s goin off…”

Nothing.

Y/N didn’t know whether to be annoyed or impressed.

This man could survive a war and sleep through an earthquake, she thought wryly, rubbing the side of her neck as she reluctantly decided to actually get up. 

With a quiet sigh, she slipped off the couch, wrapping her arms around herself as she padded across the apartment in her socks, still half-asleep and squinting at the brightness of the morning light spilling in through the windows.

The phone was on the kitchen counter where he’d dropped it the night before. The stupid thing was still vibrating, still ringing.

She reached for it just as it lit up again.

Max Fewtrell.

She recognized him instantly — not just from Liam’s stories and the grainy pictures he’d show her every once in a while, but also of course from the one time he’d dropped a completely wasted Liam at her doorstep, mumbling something about how Liam could probably use her company.

Her thumb hesitated for half a second, but then she answered.

“He—”

But she didn’t even get the full word out.

“Lando, thank god— mate, where the fuck have you been?” Max’s voice was loud, frantic, all in one breath. “I’ve been calling you for hours. No one’s heard from you, we didn’t know where you were or whether you were alive. Do you even realize how much chaos that causes?”

She blinked. Her mouth opened, then closed again. 

She was frozen.

“I mean, I always tell you to check in. You said you would. Did you forget what happened last time you went dark after a job? I thought maybe something went wrong, or— Lando? Wait, are you there? Fucking say something—”

“…What?”

The word came out so quietly she might as well have not even said it. Then there was silence, for a beat too long.

She didn’t breathe.

“Lando?” Max again, his voice lowering, seeming to slow down a bit compared to the earlier spiralling. “Lando, are you there? Fuck, just say something, will you—”

She didn’t. She couldn’t.

Her thumb hovered over the button to end the call. Her heart spiked, throat dry, brain catching up to the name.

Lando.

Not Liam.

It wasn’t some nickname, wasn’t some casual slip of syllables.

The thoughts formed a tidal whirlpool, slamming into her so hard that it felt like her mind was blanking and she’d had the wind knocked out of her. 

So she hung up. It was immediate, instinctively – like the phone itself had burned her.

The silence that followed was deafening.

With slow fingers, she set the phone back down, as if moving too fast might trigger another hidden landmine. As if the very idea of being seen holding it might further implicate her in something she wasn’t prepared to carry.

With her heartbeat still hammering in her ears, she spared a glance back at the couch where he still lay, peacefully unaware. There, nothing looked out of place — his lashes casting soft shadows across his cheek, the blanket half-twisted around his waist, the corner of his mouth barely curved in his sleep.

She looked at the man still fast asleep on her couch. The same man who said he worked in “business.” The same man who came home that one night with bruises and blood on his knuckles. The same man who made her tea and called her “sweetheart” and fell asleep with his nose tucked into her hair like he’d always belonged there.

Her hands suddenly felt cold.

Who the hell had been in her home all this time?

Max’s voice still rang in her ears. 

Lando?

Lando.

Lando. Not Liam. Not the man on her couch. Not the man who’d just spent the night wrapped around her, holding her in a protective embrace like she was something precious.

She stared at the phone on the counter like it might explode.

Missed Call: Max Fewtrell.

Her breathing was too loud in the quiet. Her heart wouldn’t settle. Instead, her grip on the counter tightened. Her heart beat too fast. Something cracked inside her — not loudly, not all at once, but quiet. Like glass under pressure, fine and fragile.

Y/N was startled from her thoughts when behind her, she heard the soft scuff of movement.

She turned just as he walked in, sleepy and loose-limbed, dragging a hand through his curls. He looked like he was still warm from sleep, still him. 

There was a yawn then, soft and lazy, before his bare feet padded across the hardwood and stopped in the doorway of her kitchen. His voice was rough with sleep, still warm with leftover affection.

“Morning, Angel,” he mumbled, before grinning – a lopsided, dorky thing. “Do we have somewhere to be, or…?”

Once-familiar brown eyes sought hers, his whole expression immediately pausing when she didn’t smile back, when she didn’t say anything at all.

That was when he saw it, something foreign swirling and clouding those eyes he’d come to love.

Not surprise. Not confusion.

But fear.

It was a subtle, visceral kind of fear. It made her take a step back before she could stop herself. Her fingers curled into her palm like it’d somehow protect her, but at the same time her breathing was becoming too shallow.

His smile dropped.

“Hey,” he said more gently, his hands automatically reaching for her until she flinched back from him. Hurt flashed across his face, like it hurt him to be away from her, like he couldn’t possibly understand what the hell was going on right now.

All he knew was that she looked upset, that she looked afraid. His instinct was to reach out, to hold her, to comfort her. Confusion was written clearly across his face as his eyes searched hers, desperate to decipher why she wouldn’t let him soothe her.

“Hey, sweetheart. S’alright, it’s okay,” he tried, but she could still barely look at him. “What happened?”

Her eyes darted to the phone on the counter, then back to him. She looked like she wanted to ask a thousand things and none of them, all at once. But she really wanted was to go back to twenty minutes ago, where al she’d known was sweetness and warmth and safety instead of this fear that threatened to split her chest open.

Lando only grew more worried and more confused the longer she didn't answer him. In all the time he’d gotten to know her, she’d never looked like this. 

For once, he was at a loss, unsure of what to do.

Her voice came out quiet, uncertain. It took all the strength she could muster to keep the words from splintering halfway in her throat.

“…Who's Lando?”

a/n: i'm just gonna go ahead and leave this here...

[lavshaze]

❤️ | Beautiful thing

Continuation to terrible thing, but can be read as a stand-alone, I'm terribly sorry this took so long, I'm starting to think writing silco smut is my destiny and I should just drop out and do this 24/7

✧ contains ⤐ continuation of the wet dream shenanigans, so naturally also smut! finger sucking and fucking, oral (female receiving), missionary, a lot of feelings, like the yearning truly hits its climax (but so do both of them so it's alright), oh and lovely tween jinx is there at the beginning <3 w.c. ~ 7.7k (big boy)

It’s around 7:35 when you reach The Last Drop. 

You could blame it on the amount of time you spent in the shower, staring at the tiled floor and trying to get over the visions you had, but you weren’t going to tell Silco any of that. ‘I almost got robbed’ sounds a lot nicer and just as believable. 

You’re greeted with ear-splitting music the minute you walk through the door, a usual for the club, especially at this hour. It was only getting started and was probably going to be a lot worse by the time you leave. You pull your jacket tighter around yourself as you scan the crowd of faceless dancing bodies, looking for your possible silver line for tonight, a tall and strong woman who you’d actually pay to come up to Silco’s office and bully you just for this night. 

You visibly deflate when you don’t catch sight of her in her usual spots, not playing poker nor flirting at the bar. All you can see is a lot of sweaty people and a lot of shimmer being passed around. You do, however, spot Ran by the pool table, and you place her in your mind as your backup plan. 

Fortunately for Ran, your favorite blue haired devil is at your side the minute you open the door to his office. 

“Jinx!” 

You yelp out her name in equal parts excitement and surprise. Her hug attack nearly knocks you off your feet, if it weren’t for the door frame you’d managed to hold on to. You can’t help the grin that spreads on your face at the eagerness; the poor girl is stuck with a monologuing villain as a father all day, it’s probably a relief to see you, a normal human being who doesn’t glower and speak in riddles.

“Hello, Jinx.” You fondly run your fingers through the hair at the top of her head. She turns her head to look up at you, pearly whites exposed in a wide grin. “I missed you, sweet girl.”

She's grown taller over the past few months, now tall enough to reach your chest when she hugs you, but she's still as lanky as the day you found her. Or, well, the day Silco found her. She was smaller back then, but just as skinny. You look at the man who took her in, deeply immersed in whatever document is stressing him out tonight— looking just as malnourished as she does— and it all makes sense. 

“I've been waiting for you all day,” comes the squeaky whine from below, demanding your undivided attention. “Silco is so busy, he doesn't have the time to check out my new paintball gun, which is really lame, because this one has explosives!”

At the mention of his name, the man looks up from the troubling piece of paper. He stares at you for a minute, eye adjusting to the sight of another human being, then begrudgingly places the wretched document down on the desk and pushes the chair back to stand. 

“You're here.” 

You smile, absentmindedly petting the girl attached to your waist, “yes, I am. Did you not hear me talking just now?” 

He reaches for his glass of bourbon, three melting ice cubes in a nearly empty cup, “I did. I wasn't quite sure if you were a figment of my imagination or not.” 

Your smile almost slips into something sinister, all the nervousness from before suddenly escaping your body, “what, you have fantasies about me?” It’s so easy to slip back into the subtle flirtatious routine, the light comments that aren’t supposed to mean much to either of you. The earth-shattering dream almost seems like a silly thought now that you’re here, in his office, breathing in the air that’s tinted by him in every way. 

It’s Silco. Things didn’t have to change between the two of you, you could always just enjoy purgatory. 

He looks at you from atop the rim of his glass, a flicker of a smile on his face, “only when I'm at my wit's end.” 

The moment ends there, if only to protect Jinx. 

He makes his way around the desk to settle on the couch, leaning back and finishing up his drink. You observe the way his hands curl around the glass, how he crosses one slender leg over the other, and bite down on your lip like a voyeur— always watching through the glass, never having the chance to lay your hands on the merchandise. 

Jinx detaches from your waist and goes over to sit next to him, thankfully pulling you out of the slightly unpleasant thoughts you were having. He puts his arm out, and she automatically goes for a side hug. You smile to yourself, watching The Eye of Zaun growing softer around the edges at the hands of the blue haired menace never gets old. 

You sit beside her on the couch, and she draws you into countless conversations. Reminiscing the past week, telling you about the progress she's been making with the explosives/paintball gun, and how she's already tried it on Sevika a couple times— ‘Jinx, that's not nice’ ‘it's sevika, she doesn't deserve nice!’ — and retelling a particularly funny bar fight that she witnessed.

While she’s explaining the process she went through to implement the explosives into a harmless toy gun, your eyes flicker back to the man at her side. He’s leaning back, craning his neck to look at the ceiling, and you take the chance to admire his side profile. Enhanced by the dim light of his desk lamp, the curve of his nose is particularly alluring at the moment. From his nose to his charming overbite to the strands of hair that fall to the side as a result of a long exhausting day, you sneak subtle glances at him, as much as you can without getting caught. 

But you know, in your heart of hearts, that he must be aware of your burning gaze on the side of his face. And you know, when he turns his head slightly to lock eyes with you, that the look he gives you is just as loaded and dangerous as this little game you were playing.

“..anyways, I’d really like to show you the gun now.” 

Your attention falls back to the child nestled between the two of you, big blue eyes blinking innocently at you. You know she’s not clueless, and you know she’s probably sick of you playing eye games with her father when she’s right there. 

“Of course, honey. Silco?” 

He removes his arm from around her, adjusting his position so his body is drawn away from yours. Huh, funny. You hadn’t noticed how much it was angled towards you until now. 

Jinx sighs in relief the minute the two of you are out of the door and you can’t help but laugh.

“Jinx.” 

“Oh, c’mon, it’s impossible to be in the same room with the two of you without you making kissy eyes at each other!” 

Thankfully, you’re far enough down the hall to know Silco wouldn’t hear that. “We do not make kissy eyes at each other.” 

She stops, turns to give you an unamused look, then turns back around and continues walking. 

You follow her down to the basement, where she pulls out her magnificent invention. She shoots it far enough away so neither of you get impacted and you’re thankful to see that the explosions are more like fireworks than actual big booms. You’re proud of her and you tell her as much, she practically glows at the praise.

But then her smile drops and she sighs dramatically— the spitting image of her father when it comes to dramatics, how are they not blood related— “if only things could always be like this…” 

You frown, “like what?” 

“You and me, having fun, no Silco.” 

The statement is so jarring that it pulls a stunned laugh out of you, and Jinx grins, proud of herself. “Kidding! I like him too, I just wish you two would stop your secret messages.”

“Secret messages?” 

She nods, “the ones you communicate with your eyes. I wanna be in on those conversations too!” 

You smile. She definitely does not want to be in on those conversations, but you'd preserve what was left of her innocence. 

“So, Jinx,” you lean down to be on her level, “what do you wanna do next?” 

You watch as all thoughts of those secret conversations practically vanish from her head, replaced with much more important things, like visiting Jericho’s stall. 

When you make your way back to Silco’s office, it’s with a lot more food than you left with. Jinx is happily satisfied with the meal that she had at the stall, but she carries the extra food bags like ammo. She was nice enough to consider leaving some of it for her dear father. 

To your disappointment though, the office is empty. You think maybe something came up and he had to take care of it, as it often happens, and you feel a little relieved that maybe you’ll get to end the night here and postpone the sensual torture he puts you through to a later time, when you're not so hormonal. As you’re about to back up into the hallway to ask the standing guard of his whereabouts, you feel a pair of hands on your hips, holding you in place.

“Careful,” Silco leans forward to speak the words right into your ear, “it’s awfully rude to cause such an injury to your host.” He’s not even whispering, he just always uses that tone. 

His hands are gone from your hips as fast as they’d been placed there, and you almost mourn the loss. But the sight of Jinx’s knowing, bored expression diverts your attention back to the girl. 

Right, no kissy eyes. 

“Jericho’s?” He asks, one eyebrow raised. Jinx nods and rushes to place the remaining food on the coffee table, “we got some for you too!” 

“How nice of you, Jinx. Unfortunately, I’m rather full at the moment so I must postpone such an appetizing meal to a later time.” You note the smell of smoke in the air, he definitely had his meal of the night. “In the meantime, I think we should be getting you to bed.” 

Jinx groans, “already? But she just got here! I barely get to spend time with her.” 

You put an arm around her shoulder, “I’ll come by earlier on Monday if you go to bed on time right now.” She moves to wrap her arms around you for a final time, looking up at you with glossy blue eyes, “you promise?” 

“I do,” you plant a kiss on her forehead. 

Silco extends a hand and she takes it, small fingers engulfed in his much larger one. She waves at you as he guides her outside his office, down to her bedroom, you wave back as they slip out the door. This leaves you in the dim office alone. 

You saunter over to the couch and mindlessly drape yourself over the cushions, your head occupied with the inevitable decision you’re facing now. You either make up an excuse to leave early, one that he’d know better than to believe, or stay and put up with more hidden innuendos and dark, poorly masked looks. It’s not that you’re not used to it, or that it’s a new development, but rather the fact that you’ve come to the harrowing realization that whatever you felt for him ran deeper than you anticipated. It had been bubbling in your chest, threatening to overflow like a boiling kettle on a stove, and the final straw— the thing that truly pushed you over the edge— was that dream. 

And it's not the fact that it was dirty, you've had those about him before, and consequently, you’d learned to brush them off as wild fantasies. It happened once in a dream kind of deal, you weren’t going to get hung up over the possibilities of those thoughts ever coming to fruition. The problem with this particular dream was how romantic it was— the heated gaze in his reflection, the appreciative scan of your body, gods, just the feeling of him inside you. You weren’t fucking that man, you were making love to him. 

The thought is so cliche it makes you gag, but that look in his eyes when he was watching you in the mirror, your unconscious brain was endlessly cruel to make it look like he held such love for you. The longing, the monstrous yearning that dream instilled in you was dangerous. It planted a feeling inside your chest that now threatens to split it open if you're not careful. 

You're not blind to possibilities, there's a chance that Silco shares the sentiment and you're not in this mess entirely alone; but you're also aware that he's extremely mission oriented, and he probably wouldn't consider the prospect of something serious with you as long as Zaun wasn't free. It’s something you respect him for, never losing sight of his goals, you just wish it didn't make him nearly unattainable.

Because gods above, you'd love to attain him. 

It’s a thought that’s been brewing in the back of your mind since you first met. Three years ago, a much more distressed version of yourself was too tipsy to feel endangered by his presence at one of the less frequented bars. Back when Vander was in charge, you didn't know who Silco was or the implications of what had happened between them. All you knew was that this strange man had a sexy scar and his eye kinda glowed in the dark, and that made your alcohol-addled brain see stars.  

To this day, you aren’t quite sure what about your slurred conversation skills made him tolerate you enough to listen to you all night. You’ve suspected it was the loneliness he was dealing with at the time, and you were likely his least dangerous form of entertainment, or maybe he thought you were pretty and perhaps much more charming when sober. It’s probably the second one.

But that's how your unconventional friendship started, chance encounters in small bars. He was always able to find you alone and you were never sure how he did it but you didn't really mind. Where you found your curiosities being satisfied every time he shared something about himself, he found someone willing to share the burden with him. Eventually, you learned about Vander and what actually happened between them. The river, the betrayal, the blood; the respect you'd had for Vander soured into distaste, and turned into borderline hatred when you learned of the deal he had with the enforcers. 

Things were progressing quickly though, and it wasn't long before Vander was out of the picture. The Hound had been overpowered by The Eye, and that's when you met Jinx for the first time, hysterical and wailing in Silco’s arms. Powder, they used to call her, peculiarly fitting for the girl who had crumbled in your hold that night. You held her until the screaming ceased and the three of you fell asleep on the couch. 

That's when your relationship with Silco started changing, getting much more intimate. That night where Silco discovered just how useful you could be with Jinx, that was the first domino in a long line that led up to this moment, to the present where you were fighting tooth and nail against the feelings that were threatening to suffocate you. 

The sound of the door unlocking pulls you out of your thoughts, the object of your suffering walks in. 

“Drink?” He walks over to the bar cart.

You shake your head, “actually, Silco, I'm thinking of going home early today.” 

He pours himself some whiskey and doesn't look up at you, “oh, were you now?” He takes a slow, agonizing sip of his drink before he speaks again, “anything important?”  

You smile in spite of yourself, “not really, just tired.” 

He looks up from his drink, two mismatched eyes settling on your frame. His gaze travels down your body, assessing you as if you were one of the chembarons working under him. But under that scrutinizing gaze, you catch embers of something else, something dark and seductive, something that looks a lot like desire. 

Your face burns. 

“I guess I shall not keep you then.” He turns, walking over to his desk, “I wouldn't want to distract you from such important appointments.” 

He settles back in his chair and is almost immediately immersed in work again. You envy him for being so focused, knowing that if you go home now you'll just keep yourself awake thinking about him. You watch his fingers grasp the pen that he puts to paper and feel yourself grow light-headed, it wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that you had to go home and sit with your thoughts while all he touches is paperwork. You wanted him to touch you, put you out of your misery. 

You stand but make no move towards the door, instead making your way over to him. He doesn't look up when you pass by, walking over to the grand window that highlights the main wall of the office. You'd always been fascinated by it, the color was certainly a choice, and in daylight it looks mystifying. Right now, it's dark enough for you to catch your reflection, you pretend to adjust your hair. 

“You don't really want to leave, do you?” 

He doesn't move, doesn't turn in his chair. You know he can't see the gesture but you shake your head, “I don't know.” 

“Is there something you'd like to tell me?” 

Your body feels a tad too warm for comfort. 

“I don't know.” 

He discards his work with a sigh. Your lips curl in amusement, knowing that whenever you’re around, he’s too distracted to get any actual work done.

You watch as his reflection comes up behind yours, the heat in your body intensifies in response to the glowing glare of his dark eye. You know he's aware of the effect he has on you, and you know he does it on purpose. You wonder if he's ever haunted with thoughts of you the way you are of him, you wonder if he ever has dirty dreams about you. 

“Has something happened?” 

You shake your head. 

“Is someone threatening you?”

You shake your head again and laugh, of course that's what he would ask. 

“Look at me.” 

You don't have it in you to resist, especially when he's using that tone. You turn around, coming face to face with his narrowed eyes, sea green and charcoal eyes looking back at you. It’s difficult to miss the hint of concern that you’ve become accustomed to recognizing over the years. 

“What's on your mind, dove?” 

Your heart sings at the pet name and your lips curl bashfully, “I can't say it.” 

“Can't you?” His eyes trail down to your lips, “you can tell me anything.” 

In theory, you can. In theory, you have, ever since you first met and you'd spilled way too much about yourself to him, and that leap of faith is exactly how you ended up here. Standing in front of the man who holds your heart so firmly, unable to reach out and touch him, unable to have more than a small part of him. 

He draws closer, too close. 

“No, Sil. I'm afraid I can't this time,” your voice comes out soft, strained, “I'm afraid I have to leave before I do something stupid.” 

He pays no mind to your statement, hands reaching up to cup your face, rough fingertips contradicting the gentle nature of the act. Your eyes gloss over, the spark you've been feeling erupts into wild flames that threaten to consume your whole being. His thumb brushes over your cheekbone with such care that it makes your chest squeeze. Expression unreadable, he observes your face carefully; when his thumb skirts the outline of your lips, your breath catches in your throat.

You part your lips slightly and something inside him understands the silent communication. Something else throbs.

Experimentally, he brushes his thumb over your lips, appreciating the rough texture of the chewed skin. He watches as you open your mouth wider in invitation, assessing the situation before he pushes his thumb past your lips and right into the wetness of your oral cavity. Your mouth closes around him, careful not to bite, as you stare back into his observant eyes.

His breath hitches, pupil of the good eye blowing wider, as he watches you take his finger to the hilt. You think this must be another cruel trick from the gods, another wet dream that you're going to wake up from in frustration, but the feeling of his finger against your soft, wet tongue is unmistakable.

You’re not sure what this means, for you or your relationship with him, but you’re sure that it’s happening and you feel the need to savor what you can. Your hand comes up to wrap around his wrist, thumb caressing the inside of his hand as your eyelids grow heavier. 

For a moment, the world stops. For a moment, all you can think about is how he tastes in your mouth, and flashes of the wicked dream you had only a few hours before run through your mind. Weeks of filthy thoughts push at you to do more, to ask for more of him, but you’re insistent on taking it slow, on memorizing every little gesture, just in case you never experience it again. 

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” 

You hum around his finger. The tent in his pants may be a visual representation of the effect you have on him, but you’re feeling rather greedy. 

“Surely, you must, or else, you wouldn't walk into this office with such pride, so confident knowing that you've got me wrapped around your finger.” Your lips curl into a smile around his finger and he scoffs in amusement, “happy to know that you're my weakness, aren't you?” 

He removes his finger and you're left to think about the implications of a ‘weakness’. A soft spot, a passion, a sweetness, a hazard, an obstacle, a problem. Did Silco see you as a problem? And most importantly, as you look into hungry, lustful eyes, does he care about that right now? 

You can't help the hand that comes up to grasp at his vest in desperation, you can't help the frantic need to keep him close while you can, to touch him for as long as he deems himself touchable. You can't help the force that makes you pull him closer to press your lips against his in a bruising kiss, and you can't help the shiver that runs through your body when he kisses you back with just as much force. 

He tastes like the cigar that you knew he was having earlier, sweetened by the taste of whiskey still in his mouth. The contact overwhelms your senses, unable to process anything besides how he tastes, how he smells, how he feels. 

He backs you up against the window so your burning hot skin is pressed against the cold glass, tongue shoving into your mouth with admirable ferocity. You let him tilt your head for better access, place his arms around your waist, push you up against the glass, you'd let him do anything to you right now. 

Sharp teeth bite down on your lips and the metallic taste of blood fills your mouth, you find yourself unable to contain the small sounds of pleasure at his vicious probing. You can feel his arousal through his pants, poking at your thigh. Hungry for more, you reach down to give it a stroke over the clothes, to which he groans directly into your mouth.  

He draws back and you come face to face with the feral look in his eyes. 

“Needy little thing.” 

He reaches underneath your skirt and you gasp when his cool fingers make contact with the warm wetness of your underwear. He runs his finger back and forth in slow tortuous cycles. 

“So wet, so eager for my touch. Tell me, dove, how many times have you fantasized about this?” Your breath catches as he moves the offending fabric to the side and presses his finger to your bare cunt. “How many times have I made you this wet?” 

“Silco, please.” 

A devilish smile extends on his lips, “I know. Answer my question.” 

You throw your head back against the glass in frustration, breathing deeply. 

“More than I can count.”  

The fire that catches in his eyes is enough to burn down the greatest libraries in the world, mere embers of it manage to set your whole body aflame. It would be mortifying to witness if you weren’t the object of his affection, the recipient of what pleasure he has to offer. 

“You terrible little thing.”

Your answer rewards you with one, long finger easing its way past your lips and into your cunt. Your hips stutter at the contact and it elicits a sharp smile from your assailant as he curls the digit inside you. He watches your face contorting in pleasure, drawing out helpless needy moans from your sweet little mouth. He moves to swallow the gasps with his own, planting soft but relentless kisses on your lips. 

He's kind enough to insert a second finger in, working you on his hand as he angles his wrist to reach further inside. You break off from his mouth to peer down at the sight, watching his fingers disappear into your cunt; it’s endlessly obscene and it only feeds the fire burning inside you. You tighten around him when the pleasure gets too much and he grunts into your ear, the sound rolling down your spine. 

You force your head back up so he can kiss you again, shoving your head back against the glass. He claims your mouth once more, fingers relentlessly probing at your opening. His thumb moves to rub against your clitoris and your body twitches with pleasure, forcing you to draw back from his searing hot mouth. He observes you with the ravenousness of a predator observing its prey, appreciating the way your mouth helplessly hangs open. 

His thumb continues to rub against your clit as you approach the precipice at an alarming rate.

“I should like to see you speechless like this more often.” 

The smug smirk that stretches upon his kiss-bruised lips, the sinful tone of his voice, and the burning hot gaze he observes you with— it’s all too much. 

It takes a lot of control to keep your eyes open, but you don't strip him of the pleasure that comes from watching you crumble at his hand— on his hand. Those cursed, rough fingers that have committed atrocious crimes in the name of a greater cause, they continue to fuck the common sense out of you until you have no fight left in you.

When he pulls his fingers out, they’re coated with your wetness and you flush in embarrassment. Undeterred, he places the fingers in his mouth and licks them clean, before he leans forward and presses a soft kiss against your lips.

“Shall we continue this in the bedroom?” 

Gods above, thank you Janna. 

“Please.” 

When you're laid down on the silky bed sheets this time, it's miles better than you dreamt it to be. 

Silco wastes no time undressing you, having pulled your shirt off on the way to the bed, he figures out how to unhook your bra pretty quickly. You shouldn't be too surprised, those fingers are seriously skilled at everything they do. Once they're off, he dives to catch one of your breasts in his mouth, teeth grazing sensitive nipples. You take rapid deep breaths as you watch him devour your chest, creating bite marks that you'd definitely admire later. The wanting between your legs is overwhelming, but so is the one in your chest. You affectionately thread your fingers through his hair, pulling on it when he bites down on your sensitive skin. You think you could come from this alone. 

When he's satisfied with the assault on your chest, he moves lower. Your skirt is unzipped and removed at an alarming speed and his face is between your thighs before you have a chance to protest. 

Warm breath fans over your underwear, still wet from your first orgasm. He pauses, eyes peering up at you in such an uncharacteristically serene manner that you almost think something's wrong. 

“I've thought about this before.” 

You tilt your head, eyelids heavy as you smile down at him. “Have you?” 

“You have no idea, darling. I've thought about you in positions much worse.” 

You bite your lip, “I know. I've thought about you too.” There's a silent, unspoken implication in your statement that you hope the breathlessness and aching look you give him convey well enough, you're not sure that you'd be able to push out the confession otherwise. His eyes flicker from your face back to your clothed cunt, deep in thought. Almost mindlessly, he reaches up to lace his fingers through yours. He does it on his left, you reach for both his hands, rubbing gently at his knuckles. If it weren't for the position, you'd lean down and kiss them. 

“You must understand how badly I've wanted this,” and you do, “you must understand that this isn't a mindless act of the body.” Your breath hitches at what he's implying, and you're thankful that he doesn't declare it just yet, because you think you'd explode under the weight of the feeling bubbling in your chest.

“I do, Silco. I feel the same.” 

‘We can talk about it later’ is unspoken, but well understood between the two of you. For now, you focus on the way his body feels against yours, the way he noses at the inner side of your thigh in a slow absentminded motion. 

“Are you going to eat me out or should I get up and leave, Sil?” 

That catches his attention, eyes snapping to meet yours. His fingers leave yours to curl possessively around your thigh, digging hard enough to leave marks. 

“Leave? I would never let you, not when I have you in my hands like this.” 

And oh Janna, did he have you in his hands. 

The first contact of his tongue against your folds has you arching your back in fervor, eager to meet his mouth with your core. His eyes flicker in amusement as he pins you down by the hips.

“Patience.” 

You whine, the amount of need circulating your body overwhelming your senses. He presses his tongue flat against you and licks another experimental strip; your chest heaves, heart beating erratically against your ribcage. The frustration has you untangling your fingers from his to grip onto the sheets. He glances up at you, a dangerous look playing in his eyes, and goes for another lick. 

You sharply inhale, “Silco.” 

His lips curl in amusement, “good things come to those who wait, my love.” 

You throw your head back and release a sound that's a combination of pleasure and frustration. Teasing, evil bastard. 

“You've waited a long time for this, haven't you?” You nod, feeling too frustrated to answer. “Tell me, dove, what made you snap this time? What gave you the audacity to wrap your lips around my finger so desperately, looking at me like I hold the key to all your desires?” 

Your skin feels impossibly hot, his warm breath fans over your exposed core but he makes no move to relieve you of your suffering, looking at you expectantly instead.  

“I had a dream,” you push out through gritted teeth, “I had a dream about you.” 

He draws lazy circles on the inside of your thigh, “have you? Did it feature such promiscuous positions?”  

You shake your head, smiling down at him, “worse, you fucked me in front of your mirror.” 

His breath hitches, pupils going wide at the mental image. He speaks slowly, entranced, “is that what you like?” 

“Maybe for another time,” your smile drops, “right now, I'd like you to fucking eat me out, please.” 

He chuckles, planting a toothy kiss on the inside of your thigh, “so impatient.” 

When his tongue makes proper contact with your pussy, you let out a wanton moan. The relief it provides is inexplicable, allowing you to melt back into the covers, his grip on your thighs keeping them wide open. Your hands travel down to thread through his hair, and you get the wonderful vision of dream-disheveled Silco as a very real projection between your thighs. 

“I always knew you were good with your tongue, Sil.” You sigh in bliss. He hums against your core, “gave it a lot of thought, have you?” 

“You have no idea.” 

His wet tongue rubs against your soft walls, eliciting more needy sounds from your throat. He eats pussy like an experienced veteran, silver tongue curling inside you to reach the deepest spots. If only he could always put it to such good use. 

His sharp nose rubs against your clit and your body jolts in pleasure. 

“Right there, Sil. Don't stop,” he looks up at you with dark eyes as you continue to beg in the neediest tone known to man, “please, don't stop.” 

And he doesn't. True to his nature, he has the stamina of a fighter, and if this is how good he eats you out, you look forward to what comes after. 

He works you with his tongue until you approach your second orgasm of the night. Your back arches in anticipation, grip tightening around his hair, all you can manage in warning is a breathless close that he responds to with more vigorous probing. His hands around your hips pin you down, resisting the relentless twitching that's evoked by his tongue moving inside you. 

You call out his name in desperate pleas, hips stuttering with every deep plunge into your cunt. His eyes meet yours from between your legs, practically glowing in enjoyment; your heart stutters at the sight, you don't know if you'll ever witness anything like this in your lifetime. He mercifully continues to rub at your clit, providing you with the release you've been begging for.

The tight rope inside you continues to curl and tighten further until it snaps, reverberating through your body like an intense war cry. You come with a broken moan that has you squeezing your eyes under the intense weight of pleasure, unshed tears wetting your lashes.  

Silco squeezes your thighs, silently asking you to look at him, and you shakily comply, allowing him direct eye contact while he fucks you through your high. 

He detaches from you within a few seconds, and the affection swelling in your chest has you pulling at his vest to pull him up for a bruising kiss. You taste yourself on his tongue, the evidence of your orgasm mixing into your shared spit. When you pull back, you're met with his wonderfully disheveled and flushed face, and you notice— with great amusement— that you've rubbed some of his foundation off on your thighs. 

Your eyes trail down to his clothed chest, you realize that there's a great disequilibrium between your states of undress. Your hands rise to trace the gold in his clothes, all the way up to his collar. 

“Will you take this off?” You tug at his clothes, “please, I'd like to see you.” 

You're aware that it's a big request, that his bare body would put him in such a vulnerable position that he would never recover from if this doesn't go well; but you're not quite sure what ‘this’ is either, between the lust you feel in your core, and the love beating in your chest, the one feeling that courses through you is ‘want’. 

You want him naked, vulnerable, offering himself to you just as you have to him. 

He looks torn, hesitant.

Your hand creeps up further to brush at what little skin is exposed from his neck. Slow tentative movements over the sensitive area has him twitching in your hands, but he doesn't move away. Your hands creep higher to settle around his neck, feeling for the physical and emotional scar that was left there ages ago, but still burns as if recently instilled. 

Discussions about Vander have been few and far in-between, and you understand the wound still runs deep. For a minute, you're afraid that he's going to turn away from your touch when his breath catches in his throat at the incidental scratch of your nails, but he relaxes in your grip when you continue to rub soothing patterns over the sensitive skin. 

With what power you have, you trace mindless circles on his shoulders, leaning forward to plant soft kisses along his collarbones. “It’s okay.” You kiss upwards, drawing closer to the junction of his shoulder and neck. His breath hitches as you draw closer to the sensitive skin, but he tilts his head back and allows you unspoken access anyways. 

Trust is not easy to come by, especially with someone like him, but the sight of Silco practically melting in your hands while you trace over his most sensitive scar, it feels like a bond even deeper than trust. 

The need to be brave for him, to lay yourself bare— even more than being entirely naked under him— is imminent. You take a deep breath before your fingers hook together behind his neck and pull him down for another kiss, once more for courage. 

“I like you, Silco,” you speak against his lips, glistening with the proof of your kiss. “I like you a lot, and there's nothing you can say or do that will make me like you less.” Your eyes trail up to his own, the next words feeling much more serious than you intend, “I like you so much that nothing you can show me now will make me turn away.” 

It's a reckless promise, a heated confession that admittedly just follows the weight of the moment without much previous thought. Later, you'd have to enforce the idea of boundaries, the things that he isn't allowed to do, but something in your head tells you that you weren't lying. Regardless of what he does, you don't see yourself ever walking away. 

His gaze softens, the hesitant look from earlier replaced by a prominent ache, the aftermath of a healing wound. 

“Ever the sweet talker, dove.” 

You smile, “only for you, Sil. Only for you.” 

He draws back, moving to undo his vest before he halts, instead reaching for your hands. 

“Would you like to help?” 

Your eyes twinkle with mirth, “please.” 

Slender fingers wrap around yours, guiding you to undo his tie, take off his vest, push his shirt off his shoulder. You appreciate the sight of his bare, scarred chest, running your fingers across his torso. You lean forward to plant a few soft kisses on his shoulder while you attempt to undo his pants without looking. 

You’re forced to draw back with a laugh when you undeniably fail. 

“Your pants are killing me.” 

He huffs a light laugh, “it takes a moderate amount of skill, dearest,” something flickers in his eyes, “you'll gain experience in no time.”

Your heart squeezes at the implication. You watch as he illustrates how to undo those buttons, burning every movement to memory. Once the pants are off, you reach for his underwear eagerly, grunting out a finally that only amuses him further. 

Within a few seconds, he's back on top of you and you're both equal parts naked this time. You wrap your legs around his waist, secure him against you as you exchange more open mouthed kisses. He grows harder against you, rubbing against your thighs and wet, sensitive cunt. You groan into his mouth and he takes it as a sign to reach between your legs and position himself properly. 

Your arms squeeze around his shoulder when he slips in. His girth is impressive for someone of such stature and it has you gasping for air. He raises his head to look at your face as you take him in, allowing you the glorious vision of his ruined, flushed face— he's continuously coming undone under your touch. Janna, you could watch him like this forever. 

Your fingers dig crescent moons into his pale skin once he begins moving inside you. It starts out slow, he enters all the way until you're taking him to the hilt and then allows you the pleasure of slow thrusts. Needy moans bubble in your throat as your grip on his shoulders tighten so much that you think you're about to draw blood, giving him a more pleasurable sort of scar. 

“It's been hard holding back around you lately,” he whispers against your lips. “You're impossibly alluring when you want to be.” 

You kiss him once more, “how do you think I feel?” He chases your lips when you part but you speak again, “how long has it been for you?” 

“Since the day I took in Jinx.” He drops his head into the crook of your neck, almost like he's shy, “and for you?” 

You wrap your arms around his neck, “since the day we met.” 

He breathes a light laugh against your skin, you continue. “No seriously, I'd have fucked you back then if you initiated anything. Men with scars are lethally sexy.” 

“Aren't you lucky, then.” 

He bites into your neck, eliciting a soft moan from your mouth, and sucks until you're sure it forms a nice satisfactory bruise. He licks the sensitive skin and moves to other sites to plant more marks. “Always knew you were a biter,” you say breathlessly, throat constricting under his hot mouth.

Once he's done with his assault on your neck, he stands tall and you watch something shift in his expression. The soft, loving look is replaced with something hungry and dangerous, it has you squeezing around his cock. 

“You've waited so patiently,” he hooks your legs higher around his middle, “I have to make sure I live up to your expectations.” 

And then something is set off inside him, because his pace changes from soft and romantic to goddamn animalistic. His pace speeds up, drilling so deeply inside you that you think you feel him in your stomach. Your fingers dig into his back for some sort of grounding ritual but it only makes him groan right into your ear and the sound travels down to where you're connected. You can barely catch your breath. 

“You, oh my gods, you exceed expectations, Sil.” 

“Oh, I know, darling, the way your cunt squeezes around me is proof enough.” 

Every obscene word goes right to your core and you feel him tugging on every sensitive string in your body. It's much more than that dream— gods that stupid, wonderful dream that had started the cascade of events that lead to this. There was no need for dreams anymore, his cock inside you was very much real and it was throbbing with need, one that you matched in your own core. 

His arms are on either side of your face as he fucks the living daylight out of you, and you turn and burry your teeth in his left hand to feed some of the gnawing need in your core. You think it would be delightful if you could have more of him in your mouth, you consider if you should bite down until you draw blood but you choose to be kind this time. You can save it for the next few times, something he seems to be planning as well. 

You turn back to face him and find yourself grinning stupidly at the knowledge that you're going to get this sight again, and again, and again, until you are either satisfied or dead. And if you happen to die during it, that'd be even better. 

“Dirty girl, smiling to yourself while you take my cock. What are you thinking of?” 

“I'm thinking of how beautiful you are, and how you're going to fuck me over and over again until we're both satisfied.” 

He releases a low groan, hips stuttering momentarily before he picks up the pace again, slamming against your bare ass with newfound vigor. 

“You're going to be the death of me.” 

Then he leans down and catches your mouth in one last sloppy kiss, tongue assaulting yours in a similar fashion to his cock assaulting your cunt. You wrap your arms around his neck once more, whining pleas into his open mouth. The pleasure in your lower abdomen is overwhelming, overstimulated by his bruising kiss and arms coming around you. 

It accumulates, all the sensations and the continuous coiling in your pelvis, until it explodes. The ecstasy washes over your body in waves, making you gasp against Silco’s mouth as you come undone. It shakes your whole body and for a second you think you see stars in the glowing orb of his damaged eye. He's endlessly beautiful, even as he brings you to your ruin. 

He continues to fuck you through your orgasm and long enough to reach his own, too. He finishes inside, spilling himself deep within you, making you shudder at the sensation. He doesn't stop until he's completely soft inside you. 

It's severely disappointing when he pulls out, but you understand that you can't be joined at the hips forever without an unfortunate lab accident. Instead, you settle for his embrace when he puts an arm around your shoulder, cuddling into him— two sweaty heaving bodies and an uncertain future. 

When he traces invisible patterns into your bare skin and leans down to kiss your forehead though, it doesn't really matter. 

It especially doesn't matter when you look up at him with a smile that matches his own, and it doesn't matter even more when that smile of his turns into a smirk at his next words.  

“If that's what one dream can do, I look forward to the rest of them.”

Lovely illustration for silco being an #eater right here ♡

[mari-positas]

fall into temptation | one

Jackson! Joel Miller x Preacher’s Daughter Reader

series masterlist

summary: Of all the women to catch Joel Miller’s attention—it just had to be one of the goddamned preacher’s daughters.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. SLIGHT PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION OF READER, mentions of her hair which she can put up into braids as well as her style of clothing. despite the nickname Joel gives her, it does not speak to her body type or size. AGE GAP (reader is in her 20’s and Joel is 56, i know, i know but this is self indulgent because my birthday is next month idk just let me have this one) canon language, canon violence, several mentions of religion, terms pastor and preacher are used interchangeably here and there, mentions of the bible and religious symbols (cross), innocent/virgin reader, very brief scene of attempted sexual assault, no explicit smut (yet). asshole Joel, protective Joel, hints of softish dom Joel (if you squint). reader has two sisters, the only physical description for them is their hair, which they can also braid as well as their style of clothing.

MOODBOARD FOR AESTHETIC PURPOSES ONLY, NO MENTION OF RACE OR BODY TYPE.

word count: 8.4k

Jackson, Wyoming

Fall 2024

Joel had seen him around the community before. 

He’s an older man in his late sixties or possibly his early seventies with thinning, snow white hair and silver, wire rimmed glasses that always seemed to be perched on the tip of his pointed nose. He was a good, kind man from what Joel could gather—offering up warm smiles and friendly waves to anyone who happened to cross his path, stopping to greet and say hello to familiar faces. The hem of his starched white shirt is tucked into pressed black slacks and even from where he stood across the road near the horse stables, Joel noticed the book clutched in his right hand, old and bound in supple, worn black leather with the words Holy Bible etched into the cover in flaked gold lettering.

Jacob, he thinks his name is. Or was it Josiah?

Something biblical—a name fit for a man who was so fucking clearly devoted to the big man upstairs.

Joel knew his own name was a biblical one, but he was the furthest thing from a man of God. After all that he’d done in the past twenty years, there was only one place he was going and that place wasn’t exactly known for its pearly gates or sweet cherub angels playing harps.

Joseph? Was that it? 

He couldn’t be certain.

Not that Joel really even cared to know his name. 

It’d been a couple months since Joel arrived back in Jackson with Ellie after Salt Lake City and the truth of the matter was that he preferred to keep to himself whenever it was possible. Joel had zero interest in getting to know the people of this settlement, not unless he had to for the sake of patrol duties—and that’s only if he hadn’t been able to weasel his way out of getting assigned with a partner who wasn’t Tommy or Maria, the only two people in the whole fucking community Joel could stand being around. Minus his kid of course, but even he and Ellie could really only take each other in small doses lately. Perhaps it was their tense, strained relationship that was to blame for the fact that Joel Miller walked around this place with a standoffish attitude and a permanent scowl plastered on his face. 

Most people were smart enough to scamper off in the opposite direction when they saw him coming. He was never offended by it. It’s what he wanted. He wasn’t here to make friends.

In fact, the closest thing he had come to a friend outside of his brother’s wife was Esther, the woman Maria and Tommy had tried setting him up with when he first got back to Jackson. He wouldn’t go as far as calling her a friend, either. That’s a little too generous. Friend? No, more like a good fuck when he couldn’t drown his bitterness with Seth’s barrel aged bourbon and he was in need of a different kind of distraction.

But there was a reason this particular man piqued his curiosity. Actually, there were three reasons he managed to garner Joel’s attention and all three of those reasons were trailing behind him in an orderly, single file line, each one more fucking gorgeous than the last. He was positive he’d never seen them around before—because how could he possibly forget the faces of the most beautiful women in this town?

They’ve gotta be sisters, Joel thought to himself, his hand resting on the neck of the horse that he’d ridden out to patrol that morning, a dark, chestnut mare named Willow. Although he was supposed to be walking her inside the stables and back into her stall, he found himself far too distracted. While the three women weren’t identical to one another, the similarity in their traits such as hair color and their skin tone confirmed his suspicions that they were related. They all styled their hair in neat halo braids and wore slightly different color variations of the same getup—pressed, long sleeved blouses tucked into knee length floral printed skirts and worn, leather oxford shoes.

Clutching the brown leather strap of his rifle in his opposite hand, Joel leaned himself against Willow and squinted against the bright afternoon sunlight in an effort to get a better look at them. 

The first two were slightly on the older side. If Joel had to take a shot at their age, he would guess the women were in their thirties—a man of fifty six, he still had about two decades on them, easy. Joel let his gaze shift, his dark brown eyes flickering to the last one. His breath audibly hitched in his throat and part of him wondered just how fucking dumb he had to be to be drawn to the youngest one of the three. It couldn’t be fucking possible—you couldn’t be that much older than your mid twenties, if that. 

Joel’s grip on the strap of his rifle tightened. 

All three of you were beautiful beyond words—why the fuck did it have to be you who held over his interest?

“Take a picture,” Maria remarked with a tiny laugh. She dismounted her horse and peered at Joel over the black stallion’s back. “It’ll last longer.”

She’d led that morning’s patrol, her first time back on duty since she had given birth to her son in the spring. Joel had returned to Jackson right on time to meet his one month old nephew, Noah. 

He cleared his throat and shrugged. “Just tryin’ to figure out what their deal is, that’s all.” He paused, then remarked, “Didn’t know polygamy was a thing around here.”

His comment must have struck a nerve in his dear sister in law—fiercely protective of the people who were under her leadership, Maria hadn’t found the sister wives implication the slightest bit amusing. 

“Watch it, Joel,” she admonished, shooting him a warning glare. “He’s the town’s pastor and those girls happen to be his daughters. So let’s keep our wise ass cracks to ourselves, shall we?”

His daughters? He almost couldn’t believe it. Surely the girls must have taken after their mother because they sure as hell didn’t get their good looks from their old man. They hardly looked anything like him.

“Pastor,” Joel repeated with a small hum. He then remembered her pointing out an old church house back during the winter when she’d given him and Ellie the grand tour of the community. “So he ain’t got a real job like the rest of us?”

Maria rolled her eyes. “His job is a real job, Joel. It might be hard for you to believe, but there are still a lot of people of faith around here,” she explained to him. “He provides them with comfort and with hope—”

He snorted sharply through his nose. “Hope?”

“Yes, hope,” she snapped at him. 

“Hope for what, Maria? That things will go back to fuckin’ normal? That the end of the world is temporary?”

Maria crossed her arms over her chest, jutting her chin. “Some people never lose hope, Joel. There’s a lot of people who need this man and he serves a much bigger purpose than what you’re giving him credit for.”

“And what about the girls? They have it easy too? Do they just stand there lookin’ pretty on Sundays while their old man reads verses out loud from the most useless fuckin’ book known to man?”

“If you must know, they work in the schoolhouse,” she answered, tossing him another glare. “They’re teachers. The oldest one, she teaches Ellie’s class. The middle one, she teaches the primary school aged children and the youngest? She takes care of all of our little ones. She prepares our preschool kids for her sister’s class by teaching them numbers and basic literacy. Shows them how to start counting, reading and writing, things like that. She also helps run the commune’s daycare.”

“At least they have real jobs,” Joel mumbled under his breath. 

“What was that?”

He feigned innocence. “Nothin’. Nothin’ at all.”

“That’s exactly what I thought.” Maria pointed her finger at him. “Come on, let’s get these guys back into their stalls. It was a long ride this morning, I’m sure they could use some rest.” Taking her stallion by the reins, she started leading him over toward Logan, one of the stable hands who helped take in the horses coming back from patrol. 

Joel took Willow’s reins in his hands—but before he could even think of moving another muscle, he glanced up and saw the preacher leading his three daughters past the stables and right past Joel. His self control faltered. All that he could do was stare at you, his eyes fixed on you so blatantly that one of your sisters had taken notice. Grinning, she turned back towards you and lifted a hand to her mouth. She used her palm to shield her lips from Joel’s view and whispered something to you over her shoulder.

Shit. 

He’d been caught gawking.

He thought about making a beeline for the stables but it was too late. 

Perplexed by whatever it was that your older sister had just said to you, you gave her an odd look, but then followed the subtle nod of her head. 

Glimpsing over in his direction, your lips parted in complete surprise and you came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the dirt road when you found your gaze meeting that of the much older, rugged man standing there with a gun slung over his shoulder.

Unsure of what else to do, Joel simply offered you a polite nod of his head. The gesture was innocent enough but it startled you. He could tell by the way you let out a small gasp and turned away from him, your eyes falling to the ground as you scurried to catch up to your father and sisters like a spooked little mouse. 

Joel couldn’t help but shake his head and laugh.

“Is the preacher aware that his precious little daughters pay frequent visits to The Tipsy Bison at such late and ungodly hours?” Joel quipped. He gestured to a booth nestled over in a corner of the dimly lit bar with a subtle jerk of his chin. “S’gotta be the third or fourth time I’ve seen them here in the last couple of weeks.”

Tommy’s eyes followed his brother’s gesture. “Oh man, not again,” he said with an exasperated sigh. He shook his head. “Those girls, they ain’t got no fuckin’ business hangin’ around this place and much less at this fuckin’ hour. But the middle one, she’s a whole lot of trouble.” He paused, just long enough to nod at one of the three sisters, the one who was wearing her hair loose around her shoulders, twirling a lock of it around her finger as she made flirtatious fuck me eyes at the group of drunk patrolmen sitting a few tables away. “She’s somethin’ of a rebel, that one. Likes to drink a lot, get herself involved with things that she ain’t really supposed to be messin’ with. She’s the one who convinces the other two into sneakin’ out and comin’ to the bar when their old man goes to sleep.”

Joel chuckled in disbelief. “You fuckin’ serious?”

“As a heart attack. And then there’s the older one. I know she likes to drink too, but she’s a lot calmer than the other one. Ain’t gotta worry about her all too much, y’know? She tries to be the chaperone—it don’t always work out that way, though. Her halo ain’t exactly perfect either.”

“What ‘bout the youngest one?” Joel asked in the most nonchalant tone he could possibly muster. “Where does she fall on the scale between angel and devil?”

You’re carefully perched on the edge of the booth, your pretty features twisting in disgust with every sip of the rich, amber colored liquid in your glass. Unable to stomach the burning alcohol, you set it off to the side, abandoning it in favor of a glass of water instead.

“Her?” Tommy grinned, leaning back into his chair as stated, “Oh, she’s an absolute angel. She’s just ‘bout the sweetest fuckin’ thing you’ll ever see in your whole damn life, big brother. She’s gotta be the kinda girl who all the little birds and woodland critters sing to when there ain’t no one around,” he laughed. “She’s real good. Too good. Wouldn’t surprise me if the lord sent her down from heaven himself.”

Joel tossed him a skeptical look across the table.

“She really as innocent as she seems?” 

“I don’t think she even knows what it’s like to hold another man’s hand,” his younger brother laughed again and reached for his beer, taking a generous swig. 

Joel hummed softly and lifted his glass of whiskey to his lips. The mere thought of you being so pure and so innocent—untouched by anyone else—caused something to stir deep in his lower belly. 

“She’s the old man’s pride and joy,” Tommy continued, breaking into his train of thought. “Kind. Polite. Behaves. Doesn’t get herself into any kinda trouble—I mean look at her, she can’t even choke down a glass of whiskey. She’s just too good of a girl.”

Joel proceeded cautiously with his next question. “Any of them taken?” 

Surprised, Tommy raised his eyebrows. “Joel, don’t fuckin’ tell me—”

“No, I ain’t interested,” he interjected, rolling his eyes. “Just a curious motherfucker, that’s all.”

He didn’t seem too convinced by Joel’s answer. “They’re all single from what I know. To be honest, there ain’t a whole lot of men around here their old man would approve of,” he remarked. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s a nice man and all, but when it comes to his daughters, he’s real strict. Not that controllin’ has done him much good, though.” He lowered his voice as a fellow patrolman walked past their table. “The middle one’s fucked her way through this entire town and then back again. She even made a pass at me while Maria was pregnant with Noah, if you can fuckin’ believe that.”

Amused, Joel snorted into his drink. Ballsy. “How goddamn drunk was she?”

Tommy ran a hand through his jet black curls. “Wasted. Oldest one ain’t exactly the Virgin Mary, either.”

“And the old man doesn’t know?”

“Nope. Ain’t nobody gonna snitch on grown women in their thirties.” Noticing the amused expression on Joel’s face, he adds, “By the way, just in case you haven’t figured it out, this stays between us, Joel.”

He smirked. “Which part?”

“All of it. And take it from me, those girls? S’best you keep your distance from them,” he warned as he stood up from the table. He picked up the blue denim jacket draped over his chair, shrugging into it. “Don’t go gettin’ any dumbass ideas, alright?”

“Look, if the wild one makes a pass at me, I ain’t gonna turn her down. S’not like I’ve got a pregnant wife at home.”

“Joel, I fuckin’ swear. If you even think ‘bout it—”

He held up his hands to stop him. “Relax. Was just a joke.”

“Right. M’sure it was.” Tommy snorted. “Listen, I gotta get back home. Don’t wanna leave Maria on her own with the baby for too long.”

“How’s she been holdin’ up?”

“She’s been so tired. Jugglin’ motherhood, runnin’ this place, and bein’ back on patrol duty. I keep on tryin’ to tell her to slow it down, but she just won’t listen to me.” He let out a small sigh and waved a dismissive hand. “But anyway. If you’re all good to head out, I can walk you back to your place since it’s on the way to mine?”

Joel looked down at his glass, still half full. “I think I’m gonna hang back for a while longer. I’m on the roster for evenin’ patrol tomorrow, s’not like I’ve gotta be up at the ass crack of dawn.”

“Suit yourself.” Clapping him on the back, Tommy bid him goodnight and started towards the door. 

As soon as he was gone, Joel looked over towards your booth. He watched as you whispered into the ear of your eldest sister who nodded her head in understanding. You stood up and said something else to her, then spun around on your heel, long skirt flowing along with the movement. Head down, you hastily made your way across the bar, being careful so as not to bump into anyone along the way.

You were leaving. Alone. 

In the middle of the fucking night? While drunk morons poured in and out of the bar?

She’ll be just fine, he tried to convince himself. 

Joel frowned to himself, gripping his drink tightly in his hand as he scanned the room.

Sitting at a nearby table was Kent, some idiot he’d been stuck with a time or two for patrol. He clocks the smirk that crossed the younger man’s face, his eyes following you all the way to the door. Leaning forward over the table, he whispered something to his buddies, his smirk widening. His comrades, all who looked and behaved more like teenagers rather than grown men, lifted their beers to him, nodding in encouragement. Drunk off his ass, Kent drained the rest of his own beer, slamming the glass bottle down onto the table before clumsily stumbling to his feet. 

Joel momentarily froze as soon as he realized what was happening. 

Kent was going after you. 

Joel’s lips pressed together into a tight, thin line.

Setting his drink down, he stood up from his table and slipped on his jacket before following suit.

Joel stepped out of the bar and into the night, the chilly evening air nipping at his face. He took a look around. 

You were nowhere to be seen. Neither was Kent. 

That couldn’t fucking be good. 

“Where the fuck did you two go,” he muttered to himself under his breath.

That’s when he heard it. 

The sound of muffled screaming coming from the side of the building. Joel didn’t hesitate. Following your smothered cries for help, he whipped around into the dimly lit alley nestled in between the bar and the commune’s mess hall. You’re pinned underneath Kent with your skirt bunched up around your waist. One of his hands was covering your mouth while his other hand clawed its way up your bare thigh. 

“Aw, c’mon now, sugar,” Kent slurred his words together. “It’d be a fucking shame to let someone as cute as you stay a fucking virgin. Don’t be coy—I know you’re just like your stupid slut of a sister. She’s got no trouble spreading her fucking legs for me, y’know.”

Red.

It was the color that flashed in Joel’s mind. It was all he could see as he went up behind Kent, letting his hands reach for fistfuls of his leather jacket. He lifted him off of you with ease, slamming him hard against the brick wall of the mess hall. Pulling him forward, Joel slammed his body into the wall once more, knocking all the wind out of his lungs. 

“Miller, what the fuck are you doing!” Kent gasped out, frantically pawing at the older man’s hands in an effort to break free. “Get the fuck off me!”

“Takin’ advantage of an innocent girl?” Joel hissed at him, tightening his grasp on the collar of Kent’s jacket. “Think that makes you a fuckin’ man?”

Though he was still intoxicated, the sheer terror of being caught in Joel Miller’s hands sobered him just enough that he started sputtering an explanation. “I wasn’t fucking taking advantage of her! Her and her whore sisters were making eyes at me and the guys all fucking night! She fucking wanted it! She asked me for it, couldn’t even wait long enough to get back to my place—”

The lie came straight through his chattering teeth. The same teeth he would be picking up off the ground in the next minute or two. 

Joel knew he didn’t need to ask. Still, he turned to you, his rage only intensifying when he took in the sight of you lying there on the ground, the hem of your light blue floral skirt hiked around your waist. 

“That true?” He questioned you. “You wanted it?”

You stared at him with wide and fearful eyes.

A single tear slipped down the side of your face.

“Answer me, darlin’,” he prompted. “You wanted this?”

“No. I didn’t.” Your voice was small, barely audible.

But he’d heard it loud and clear. 

“She’s lying!” Kent tried to tell him. “She’s—”

Joel delivered the first punch, a blow so hard he’d felt the younger man’s nose crack underneath his curled fist. He struck him again and again, the blows coming in harder and harder, turning Kent’s face into a bloodied pulp.

If Joel didn’t get a grip, he would kill him. Part of him wanted to fucking kill Kent for putting his hands you—and more so for accusing of you wanting it. Pathetic fucking bastard. 

Holding Kent up by the throat with one hand, Joel pulled his switchblade from the back pocket of his jeans with the other. Fingers curled tightly around the hilt, Joel held up the knife into Kent’s view. He had left his eyes purple and swollen, but judging by the pitiful little pleas for mercy, it was clear that he could still somehow see the sharp blade being held an inch or so away from his face. 

“If I ever catch you anywhere near her again, I ain’t gonna be so fuckin’ generous,” Joel growled warningly. “I ain’t gonna let you walk away next time, boy. That understood?”

He nodded. “Un—Understood.”

“Good.” Joel released him, stepping backwards as he fell to the ground. “Get the fuck outta my face. Now.”

Kent managed to scramble to his feet and staggered off, disappearing from the alley. 

Chest heaving, Joel inhaled a deep breath through his nose, then exhaled it through his mouth before turning to you once more. 

Petrified, you still hadn’t moved a single muscle.

You looked fucking terrified. Whether it was from Kent’s assault or the way Joel had nearly beaten him to death right in front of you, it was hard to tell.

Crouching down beside you, Joel caught your subtle flinch. He proceeded to move slowly as he reached for the hem of your skirt. Delicately, he gripped the soft, flowing fabric and pulled it down into place. Joel then held his hand out to you. 

You hesitated for a split second, but accepted his hand and allowed him to help you up to your feet. 

“You alright, little dove?” The nickname had fallen from his lips before he could even think to stop it. 

“I think so,” you replied, nodding your head. You’d started to tremble and even though it had nothing to do with being cold, Joel took notice of it and he shrugged out of his camel colored jacket. He gave it to you, draping it over your shoulders. The scent of him instantly enveloped you—a mouth watering masculine mixture of clean soap, woodiness, and musk. It was far more intoxicating than the scotch you had tried back inside the bar. He didn’t utter a word to you as he wrapped his jacket around your body, both of his hands pulling gently at the lapels to bring them together in front of your chest. That was when you glanced down and saw he’d injured his hand. You gasped lightly. “Are you okay?”

Maybe it was the adrenaline, but Joel hadn’t even noticed that he’d split his knuckles wide open. Giving it a light shake, he assured you gruffly, “M’fine.”

Without thinking it through, you gingerly grabbed Joel’s hand, holding it in both of yours. “It doesn’t look like nothing,” you countered. You inspected it as best as you could in such poor lighting. “You’re bleeding.”

“Trust me, I’ve had a whole lot worse,” he deadpanned.

Ignoring his remark, you asked, “Can you move all your fingers for me? Just to make sure that it isn’t broken?”

Joel felt a strange warmth radiate in his chest. 

Fucking hell, Tommy had been right about you. 

You really were too good.

“Darlin’ I already told you m’fine—”

“Please?”

That word, and the way you’d said it, sent a shiver up the length of his spine.

Joel started wiggling his fingers in your palms. He winced slightly at the soreness. More than that, he knew his cuts and bruises would be all the fucking proof Tommy and Maria would need to know that he had been the one who rearranged Kent’s face. 

“See?” He spoke after a minute as he continued to move his fingers up and down. “Ain’t broken.”

“Let me clean you up,” you offered. Looking up at him, you cradled his hand as if it were a fragile baby bird you wanted to take home and nurse back to health.

“That really ain’t necessary.”

“You just saved me from—it’s the least I can do for you,” you insisted. Seeing him open his mouth just to protest again, you cut him off. “Please?”

There it was again.

Christ. That word sounded too good coming from those plush, pretty lips of yours. 

Joel sighed out in defeat. “Alright then,” he relented. “I s’ppose there ain’t no harm in lettin’ you clean me up a bit, little dove.”

Pleased that he had finally accepted, you carefully let go of his hand and took a step back, beckoning for him to follow you. “Come with me,” you said to him. “I know somewhere private we can go.”

When you came to a stop at the old church house, Joel shook his head and took a step backwards. 

Puzzled, your brows knitted together. “What is it? What’s the matter?”

He backed away further. “I ain’t goin’ in there.” 

You tossed him an amused glance. “It’s a church.”

“Yeah, I know that. I ain’t exactly a man of God.” 

You couldn’t help but giggle. “So? What does that have to do with me taking you inside to clean your hand up for you?”

Shuffling his weight from boot to boot, Joel shrugged. “Just don’t think I belong in there, that’s all.”

“Do you think you’re going to melt if you step foot inside?” you teased him. After a minute, it became apparent that he was being serious about it. Joel’s discomfort about going inside the church wasn’t some kind of joke on his part, it was real. “Don’t be silly. It doesn’t matter that you’re not a man of God. That doesn’t mean that you’re going to explode or burn into a pile of ashes for going inside, you know.”

“After all the terrible shit I’ve done?” He looked up at the building, shaking his head again. “I just might burn, little dove.”

You bit back a small smile. You’d already grown to be quite fond of his sweet nickname for you. 

“There’s a first aid kit inside I can use to patch you up,” you told him. “It won’t take long, I promise.”

His lower lip rolled in between teeth as he thought it over. “I ain’t too sure about this—”

“It’s only going to take me five minutes to get your hand cleaned up and then you can leave. Okay?”

You were as stubborn as you were sweet. How the fuck was he supposed to say no to you?

Reluctantly, Joel finally agreed to it. “Okay.” He followed you up the creaking, wooden porch steps towards the double doors. He’d just started to wonder how the two of you were even supposed to get into the building after hours when you leaned down, lifting the old mat on the floor to reveal a set of keys. Unable to help himself, he scoffed, “Serious?”

“Doesn’t everyone keep a key under their mat?” 

“Yeah at their fuckin’ house. Not their church.” 

“Well to be fair, this is kind of like a second home. I spend quite a bit of time here,” you confessed.

Joel raised an eyebrow at you. “So much time that you’ve decided to keep a set of keys under the mat?”

Sheepishly, you nodded. “Sometimes when I can’t sleep at night, I’ll come here alone and sit with my thoughts for a while.” You shrugged. “Maria let me have the spare set of keys. She knows I come here and so does the rest of the council. I trespass with their full permission,” you kidded with a small grin. 

Unlocking one of the two doors, you stepped over the threshold and waited expectantly for Joel. But he stood there, making no move to join you on the other side. 

“This place gives me the fuckin’ creeps,” he admitted. 

You laughed. “It’s only the outside that’s creepy, I promise.”

Grimacing, Joel finally walked inside, his back and shoulders stiff with tension as he stepped into the place of worship. 

You closed the door and flipped on the lights, then opened a second set of double doors with another key from the ring. 

“Whoa.” He was pleasantly surprised. For as old as this place was, the interior of the church was quite nice. He could tell that it had been well cared for in its lifetime—the former contractor in him had little choice but to appreciate the high ceiling, the large windows, and the satin finish of the white paint on the rustic, wooden panel walls. 

There were a total of twelve pews, six on each side of the church. There was an older, antique piano in pristine condition nestled over in one corner of the room and in another, there was a large chalkboard propped up on a wooden easel, biblical verses that had been the focus of the congregation’s previous gathering still scribbled across it in white chalk. 

“See?” You nudged his arm with your elbow. “This isn’t so awful, right?”

“S’ppose it ain’t all that bad,” he muttered. 

Your eyes twinkled with pure amusement, adding, “And you didn’t burn into a pile of ashes.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Joel grumbled out in response. “Can we just get this over with so I can get outta here?”

You tossed him a playful little eye roll then nodded towards the pews. “Go ahead and just have a seat anywhere,” you instructed him. “I’ll be right back.”

You disappeared down a short, dimly lit corridor.

Letting out a heavy sigh, Joel slowly made his way down the aisle holding his injured hand against his chest. Now that the adrenaline had started wearing off, it’d started throbbing with pain.

There was an altar at the front of the church—if he could even call it an altar. 

It was a plain oakwood table with a white fair linen cloth draped over it and nothing else. 

Above it, bolted onto the wall, was a wooden cross.

He averted his eyes, turning away from it. 

Of all the shit to be intimidated by in this world. 

A fucking slab of carved wood. 

Joel’s attention shifted over to the chalkboard. He squinted at it, silently reading the verse to himself.

God is faithful, and he will not let you be tempted beyond your ability. 1 Corinthians 10:13

“But with the temptation, he will also provide the way of escape, that you may be able to endure it,” you recited the rest of the verse from behind him.

“No offense darlin’, but it sounds like nothin’ but a whole lotta gibberish to me,” he remarked to you over his shoulder. 

“No offense taken, Joel.”

Whirling around on the heel of his worn boot, Joel blurted, “How did you know my name?”

“You’re Tommy Miller’s brother. Everybody in this town knows your name.” You held up the white tin box in your hands. A big, red cross had been spray painted onto the lid. You sat down in the first pew and patted the seat right beside you. “Come sit.”

He sauntered over and dropped down next to you, watching as you opened up the box and started digging through its contents. “You know my name,” he stated after a few seconds of silence. “Sure would be nice for me to know yours.”

Smiling politely, you told him your name.

Joel repeated it. It rolled almost too sweetly off his tongue.

“S’real pretty, little dove. Just like you.”

His compliment nearly knocked all of the air out of your lungs and for a split second, you have to remind yourself to breathe.

Cheeks burning, you murmured a small thank you and plucked a bottle of saline solution from the kit along with a piece of clean cotton. You tried not to think about the way his eyes were fixed intently on you as you unscrewed the cap and poured a bit of the liquid onto the cotton. “It shouldn’t sting,” you reassured him, reaching for Joel’s injured hand. It was rough and calloused, a stark contrast against your own soft and smooth. You set his hand down on your knee, a strange sensation fluttering in the depths of your lower belly when the warmth of his skin seeped right through the fabric of your skirt. 

Comfortable silence fell over the both of you like a curtain as you started cleaning the blood off of his knuckles and his long, thick fingers. 

“You really believe in all this stuff?” Joel spoke, his question echoing off the bare walls of the church. 

You continued dabbing at his cuts, thinking it over in your head for a moment.

“I honestly don’t know,” you admitted.

Your answer took him by complete surprise.

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I have always been taught to believe in God, Joel. It’s all that I’ve ever known. I grew up in a religious community,” you explained to him, making sure to keep your eyes focused on his hand. Tossing aside the bloodied wad of cotton, you picked up another piece adding more saline to it. “After the outbreak, things changed, of course. I couldn’t imagine how He could let something like this happen. When we lost our mother to infection about five years ago, I stopped praying. I finally stopped holding onto the ounce of hope I had that He would make the world right again. I refused to believe in God. Sometimes I still do,” you confessed quietly.

“You said you spend a lot of time here. Why come to church if you’re not even sure you believe in any of this shit anymore?”

“I’m always here because there’s still a part of me that thinks there’s a chance for me to believe again. When I told you I come here when I can’t sleep at night, it’s true. It’s my time to be here completely alone, the time that I use to mend my broken relationship with God. Or at least, I’ve been trying to mend it.” Taking a little glass pot of homemade antibiotic ointment one of the women in the town made and traded, you took off the lid and scooped out some of the salve with the tip of your finger. You applied it carefully to his cuts and continued, “But lately, the more that I try to pray and talk to Him, the more foolish I feel. It’s just not working. It hasn’t been working for a long, long time.”

“Then why keep tryin’ if it ain’t workin’ anymore?”

“Because I don’t really have much of a choice.”

“Your old man?” Joel guessed, wincing slightly as you went over a particularly sore spot on his hand, right over the torn up knuckle of his index finger. 

“Mhm.” You nodded. “My father never lost faith in Him. He knows how I feel, but he refuses to let me give up on God. He won’t ever let me miss church or go to bed without reciting my nightly prayer. He won’t let me abandon our faith. Not until the day he is cold and buried in his grave.”

“So what I’m gettin’ is that he forces you?”

You finished applying the ointment and wiped the remnants lingering on your finger off on your skirt.

“Force is such a harsh word. I wouldn’t say that—”

“He’s forcin’ you,” Joel said, flatly. 

“Joel—”

“You can twist it however the hell you want, sweet girl,” he cut you off. “But if you’re tryin’ this fuckin’ hard to make yourself believe in somethin’ just for the sake of appeasin’ your dad because he can’t or won’t accept how you really feel ‘bout all this, well I hate to break it to you, but you’re bein’ forced.”

Your eyes widened ever so slightly at his words. 

You had never thought about it like that before.

Placing the lid back onto the pot of ointment, you put it back into the first aid kit and then set the tin box down onto the floor. You sat back and clasped your hands together in your lap, not knowing what else to say to him. 

He was right, after all. 

Joel’s fingers lightly squeezed your knee. “Hey.”

You brought your gaze over to meet his. “Hm?”

“Can I ask you somethin’ ‘bout your dad?”

“What is it?” 

Joel chose his words carefully. “Has he ever—he ain’t ever done anythin’ to hurt you, has he?” he asked you, earning himself a perplexed stare. He continued to elaborate. “What I mean is, he ever put his hands on you or anythin’ like that?”

Oh. That’s what he meant.

“Never,” you assured him quickly. “He would never lay a single finger on me or my two sisters.”

He gave your knee another squeeze. “Just needed to make sure of it, sweetheart. Back in the day, I used to hear and see awful things on the news ‘bout—”

You were quick to cut him off. “Look, my father isn’t perfect, but he’s not like that. He’s a good man who only wants what is best for us. He’s strict and he can be tough, but it’s only because he cares. He just doesn’t want us running down the wrong path.”

“The wrong path?”

You shrugged. “Life here in Jackson is decent, but there’s a lot of temptations he doesn’t want any of us falling into. He wants to protect us.”

“By controllin’ you.” 

It had been a statement, not a question. 

Giving him a wry smile, you assured him, “Joel, it’s really not as bad as you’re making it sound. I could be a whole lot worse off than this, you know.”

There was another short bout of silence.

Joel’s dark eyes fell to your blouse, noticing how a couple of the top buttons had come undone. 

He caught the slightest glimpse of the soft curves of your breasts—all it had taken was just a peek at them for his cock to twitch against the zipper of his jeans.

Don’t you get hard in a fuckin’ church, Miller.

His gaze wandered down a little further and that’s when he caught sight of the cross hanging from a delicate gold chain clasped around your neck.

Joel expected the sight of it to calm the straining in his jeans. Somehow, it only made it worse. 

“Earlier, when we were standing outside,” you had started to say, “You said you might burn if you came inside the church because of all the terrible shi—things that you’ve done.”

“S’right.”

You peered at him with curiosity. “So what exactly have you done, Joel?”

Joel leaned back into the pew, shaking his head at you as he finally pulled his hand from your knee. 

“You really don’t wanna know, little dove.”

“Why not?”

His answer was honest.  “Don’t want you to be scared of me.”

Angling your body towards him, you placed one of your hands on his thigh. Your fingers burned right through the dark blue denim of his jeans.

Joel’s lips parted slightly, taken aback by the bold move and the sudden shift in your demeanor.

Were you the same girl who’d nearly had a fucking heart attack a couple of weeks ago when Joel had nodded at you back at the stables? 

“I’m not scared of you,” you murmured, softly. You gave his leg a squeeze, pulling your plump bottom lip between your teeth. Between that and the wide innocent doe eyes that you were giving him, it was taking every last ounce of strength Joel had inside him to keep a straight face, to pretend you weren’t driving him absolutely wild with desire.

He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d felt such an incredible need to have someone. 

Want, sure. 

He had wanted Tess. He had wanted Esther. 

But Joel didn’t just want you. 

He fucking needed you. 

And he didn’t know why.

“I’m not scared of you,” you repeated, trailing your hand further up his thigh, setting a fire neither one of you would soon be able to contain. 

Joel leaned forward, bringing his face dangerously close towards yours. His warm breath fanned over your lips. It was still laced with bourbon. “You sure ‘bout that, darlin’ girl?” 

You tried to answer him in the steadiest voice that you could muster, but it was impossible for you to hide the effect this man had on you. 

You breathed out a shaky, “I’m sure.”

Lifting his uninjured hand, he reached up to tuck a loose lock of hair that had fallen out of your braids behind your ear. As his hand fell away, the palm of it grazed against the silkiness of your cheek. 

Though brief, the contact sent an electric current through each and every last single nerve ending in your entire body. 

Exhaling sharply, your eyelids fluttered closed. You nearly whimpered out his name. “Joel?”

“What is it, babygirl? What do you want?”

“I—I want you to kiss me.” 

Joel leaned in even closer, stopping only when his mouth was less than an inch away from yours. 

You heard him chuckle softly. 

“Y’know, I’d expect better manners from a good girl like you,” he tsked lightly, his nose skimming near the corner of your mouth. Closer. “What’s the magic word, little dove?”

“Please.”

“S’much better.”

Your heart pounded with anticipation.

It was almost too much for you to handle. 

Joel closed the remaining gap of space, capturing your lips with his own. He remembered his brother talking about you at the bar—how he had told Joel that you had never even held a man’s hand before.

It occurred to him that he was giving you your first kiss. Him. Joel Miller. The town’s resident asshole and a man who was well over twice your own age. He was the one giving you your very first kiss. 

The guilt suddenly started to creep in, sinking into his bones.

What the fuck had he been thinking? 

And what about you? 

Where the fuck had your common sense gone?

Probably ran off together with Joel’s.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, pulling away slightly in an attempt to stop it from going any further. He tried again, mumbling against your lips, “We gotta stop. This ain’t right—”

You were having none of it. 

None. 

Clutching fistfuls of Joel’s denim shirt, you swung your leg over his thighs and straddled his lap. Your knees rested on either side of him on the bench. 

“Please,” you nearly pleaded. “Just kiss me. I want it—I want this. I promise you that I do.” You placed both of your hands on his broad shoulders, sliding them around him as you slowly sank down further onto his lap. “I want this, Joel.”

Suddenly, he realized that you were asking him for more than just his kiss. 

Now he knew for sure that all common sense had left that pretty little head of yours. 

“Baby, y’need to think real hard ‘bout this—”

Desperate, you uttered one final, “Please.”

Joel bit back a groan. How could he deny you? 

He couldn’t. Simple as that. 

“You sure ‘bout this?”

Your fingers toyed with the curls at the nape of his neck. “Yes. I’m sure.”

“C’mere then, darlin’ girl.”

Joel cupped the side of your face in his large palm and tilted his head up towards yours. Your mouths fused together and although he tried to be gentle, it was proving to be much too difficult—how could he be gentle when you were practically clinging to him? Holding onto him with fervor as if you’d been holding onto dear fucking life itself? 

Temperatures rising, you quickly shrugged out of his jacket, letting it fall to the floor behind you with a soft thud before wrapping your arms around him once again. You melted against him as your mouth molded to his in a perfect fit. 

His teeth nipped at your bottom lip, silently asking for permission to explore the cavern even further. 

Eagerly, your lips parted, granting him access. His tongue slipped past them, meeting yours in a slow and sensual heated dance. 

You breathed him deeply into your lungs, a little moan vibrating at the back of your throat. 

Joel’s hands went to your waist and he yanked the hem of your blouse free from your skirt. 

“Can I feel you, baby?” he asked, breathlessly. His mouth abandoned yours and he began to trail hot, open mouthed kisses underneath your jawline. 

Dazed, all you could do was nod in reply and utter, “Mhm.”

Joel’s hands slipped under your blouse and he slid them up the length of your sides. “Fuck, you gotta be the softest fuckin’ thing,” he cursed against the delicate, tender flesh of your neck. His lips latched onto your pulse point, suckling at the skin there as his fingertips dug into your hips. He needed to feel more, but he forced himself to wait. The last thing he wanted to do was make a wrong move or move too fast and scare you off.

“Joel,” you mewled his name. “Joel, I need—”

You trailed off, moaning when his mouth released your skin with a loud, wet popping noise. 

“Tell me, sweet girl. Tell me what you need and I’ll give it to you,” he promised. “Anythin’ you need or want, I’ll give it to you. Just say the fuckin’ word.”

“You, Joel. I need you.”

His hips involuntarily bucked upwards and you let out a startled gasp the moment you felt his bulge, hard as a rock, brush against your clothed cunt. 

Tearing away from him, it suddenly hit you. You’re in a church, straddling a much, much older man in a pew—and if that wasn’t sinful enough, the warm and slick arousal pooling between your thighs only proved that you were ready to fall into temptation, give into the lust and give your body to Joel. But it was none of those things that worried you. It was something else. 

You pulled yourself out of his arms and jumped up off his lap, nearly tripping over your own two feet.

“Darlin’ are you—?”

You didn’t even hear the rest of his question.

Knees trembling, you somehow managed to make your way up to the altar. Heart pounding and head spinning, you planted both of your hands firmly on the table and steadied yourself. Part of you hoped that Joel would just get up and leave. But a bigger part of you hoped he wouldn’t. 

Joel rose to his feet. “Listen, ain’t nothin’ wrong if you changed your mind, alright?”

“I didn’t,” you choked out. “That’s—that’s not it at all.”

“Then what’s the matter?”

Embarrassed, you tried to explain yourself. “I have never done anything like this before. I’m a—”

You couldn’t even bring yourself to say the word out loud. 

“You’re a what?”

Blazing heat flooded your face. “Joel, please don’t make me say it,” you groaned. “For the sake of my sanity, don’t make me say it.” You heard the sound of his brown leather boots as he walked up behind you, one heavy footstep after the other.

“Turn around, sweet girl.” 

Joel’s command was firm but still gentle. 

Swallowing dryly, you obeyed and did as you were told. He stood close and you found yourself at eye level with his chest. 

“Look at me.”

You tried, but couldn’t. 

“I said, look at me.” Joel gingerly took your chin in between his thumb and index finger. He lifted your face, forcing your gaze to meet his own, timid and submissive meeting bold and dominant in a sweet and tender exchange. “Never known the lovin’ of a man, have you little dove?”

He backed you up against the table, pinning you in between it and himself. Planting both of his hands on either side of you, he caged you in and brought his chest flush against yours, pressing your bodies together.

Close, but somehow not close enough.

Joel lifted his hand to your cheek, cradling it in his palm. His thumb swept over your quivering bottom lip.

You reached behind you, clutching at the fair linen as you tried with every fiber of your entire being to remind yourself that you were standing at the altar where your father preached and delivered all of his sermons to the faithful people of Jackson. 

The very same altar where your father encouraged you to kneel and pray in effort to mend the broken relationship you had with God. 

You couldn’t help but to think if you were to get on your knees tonight, it wouldn’t be for prayer.

“I asked you a question, darlin’.” Joel’s voice broke into your train of thought. “Need you to be a good girl and give me an answer, alright?”

“My father loves me,” you stammered out in reply. “He loves me and my sisters—”

“C’mon, babygirl.” He chuckled and shook his head at you, lightly pinching your cheek. “That ain’t what I mean and you damn well know it.”

Sighing softly, you finally answered, “No, Joel.”

“No, what?”

“No, I’ve never known the loving of a man.”

Joel slipped the tip of his thumb between your lips and leaned into you, his hardness pressing against your upper thigh. Even through all the clothes, you could feel every inch of him. “Do you wanna know how it feels, baby? What it feels like when a man makes you his own?” 

You nearly moaned around his finger. “Yes.”

“Yes, what?” he prompted, pulling his hand away.

“Yes, please.”

“I can show you.” Joel paused. “But not tonight.”

You stared at him in disbelief. Both of you were so clearly riled up and he was going to take a pass?

He almost laughed at your expression. 

“C’mon, don’t give me that face.”

“But Joel—”

“Just don’t wanna rush it, not with you,” Joel said in a tone so soft it nearly threw you for a loop. “M’gonna need you to be real patient for me, just for a little while, alright? You think you can do that, little dove? Think you can be patient for me?”

Your answer came without an ounce of hesitation.

“Of course,” you breathed.

You would wait an eternity for Joel Miller.

[diejager]

omegaverse anon here, could you do the cod group with a beta reader? Like, they stay really out of the way, not really used to getting any attention from alphas or omegas

Unusual Attraction Cw: omegaverse, awkward!reader, ell me if I missed any.

You were an oddity of a beta, your stronger nose made interacting with people harder than other betas, it made you stand out from your peers, they deemed you a beta stronger than the usual beta and that made you feel isolated and alone. You were used to alphas ordering you around and moving you from team to team for your nose and clear mind, you were a asset to have on certain teams where they needed a buffer that wasn’t an heat-prone omega. And despite your constant entourage of omegas and alphas, you never stopped flinching or wincing when someone’s scent became too strong, the musk burning your nose in an enclosed area like the mess hall, the training areas, or even public spaces. 

You preferred keeping to yourself, to alleviate the growing headache pounding at your head, to find a calmer corner of the base you were permanently moved to. You knew the people you worked with from prior assignments, a few times on month long covert operation and others on week long clandestine missions offshore, but you liked your silence when you could afford to find it. Even outside, their scents clung to your clothes, the strong smell of Price’s smoke and Ghost’s bourbon, the distinct notes of strength and dominance that screamed Alpha, Soap’s sweeter and softer citrus that you could pick up despite the scent blockers and Gaz’s gentle vanilla, a soothing calmness that reminded you that you weren’t the only buffer to the team, that you were the only beta.

“Found ye, Hound!” You liked the way Soap said your callsign, his accent coming into play to make it sound different —special. 

He swung his arm over your shoulder, pulling you to his side, your nose twitching from how close you were to his scent glands. You felt like he did it with intention, always finding a way to have you smelling like him and filling your mind with his scent, it was near addictive —so much so that you would’ve succumbed to it if you were an alpha, mind shutting off and body acting on it’s own volition. You wouldn’t blame anyone for it, Soap smelled so good, a sinful delight that people were deprived of, and when he wasn’t using the patches, it numbed your mind, made you slow and sloppy with your thoughts and acts. He knew the effect he had on you and he loved it from his constant hazing, flashing his gland in your face and drowning you in it whenever he could. Perhaps it was his claim on you, you never truly understood the whole dynamic, you were a buffer with a better nose, nothing more and nothing less.

“We were lookin’ fer ye,” he walked back in, still holding you in his grasp, “We’re going tae the pub. Thought ah’d come and get ye.”

They, on multiple occasions, had invited you to go drink with them, extending that olive branch your way with smiles and encouraging nods. You were tempted to accept, but you didn’t do well in enclosed and crowed spaces, so you declined over and over, but they never stopped asking you. It got to a point where you were waiting for them to stop asking, to tire themselves of befriended you, and yet, they never did, going so far as to pull you along despite your grumbling and exhaustion, promising a night of rest and relaxation at the pub. 

And fortunately, their words rang true, it was a blessing to your nose that the owners burned an overpowering but gentle incense that blocked all types of scents, a relief you rarely got. The only thing you could smell was the comforting scents of your new pack, the oil-packed burgers and fries, and the strong burn of alcohol, all thing that you didn’t mind as long as it came in moderation to your nose. After your first drunken and giggling visit to the pub with them, basking in their attention, Soap throwing himself over Ghost’s lap and grinning at you cheekily, Gaz leaning against your side, nuzzling the crook of your shoulder, Ghost’s big and warm hand grasping your thigh and Price looking on with so much pride. 

“The occasion?” You followed him blindly, blinking lazily at him.

“Yer third month with us,” he smiled widely, something carnal and wild, befitting more an alpha than the omega he was. Maybe that’s why he could easily pass as an alpha, with all his bravado and broadness, either way, he was a dangerous man alone, but as a Task Force, they were a menace.

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @danielle143 @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @petwifed @randominstake @cassiecasluciluce @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @infpt-zylith @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts @evolutionarry

[onlinedolly]

cw: incest, non con, alcoholism, mean awful leon per usual

alcoholic!dad leon who blames everything on his drinking. yelled at you? he’s so sorry angel, it’s the whiskey. grabbed your arm hard? it’s just the alcohol, it ain’t him, honest. and if he holds you down, face shoved into a pillow, as he works his cock into you? well he doesn’t really remember it to be honest, but let’s blame it on the bottle of bourbon he downs a night. he’d never take responsibility, never voice that he thinks his daughter is pretty in a way he shouldn’t. it’s just so much easier to pull you down on his cock and blame it on the copious amounts of alcohol. the few sober minutes from when he wakes up, to walking to the fridge to fuel his addiction, he’s patting you on the head asking if he ‘did anything bad last night?’ and you just shake your pretty little head with a sore cunt.

[boltwrites]

I haven’t recently thought about Hugh Jackman but this Movie has recently given me hunger™️

Reader/Logan fic hurt/comfort where Logan knew reader in his world (but reader never met Logan in their world) and tries to ignore them out of guilt but reader is persistently trying to be friends w him. Eventually Logan opens up about what happened in his world with reader…

A/N: so uh. i originally wrote this as headcanons in bullet point format but tumblr didn't like it so i had to redo some shit and uh. anyway. it's not my normal fic quality so i'm sorry for that.

in other author's note news - lmk if you want the recipe.

You smiled at Logan across the table as Wade rambled on about something or other. You didn't know him - well, other than what Wade had spouted off about him before inviting you to this make-birthday party after the first one went to shit - but you wanted to.

You didn't exactly know why you wanted that. Maybe just curiosity? Wade did say he'd be living with him for the foreseeable future, and as his neighbor, you should introduce yourself and be friendly, right?

But it was kind of more than that. He was hot. definitely, very hot. Maybe not your usual type - you weren't typically into older men. But there was just something about him. Something magnetic.

Either way, he'd definitely avoided you at that party. spent most of his time sulking in the corner, talking to Al or sometimes Colossus.

You'd walked up to him, smile on your face, and introduced yourself. He'd barely looked at you.

"Nice to meet you," he'd replied, his tone gruff and dismissive. By the way he spoke it sounded less like it was nice to meet you and more like you were inconveniencing him with your mere existence. Like he'd been dreading the idea of you coming over and introducing yourself.

"Wade says you helped stop the time ripper," you tried, willing yourself to ignore how shitty he was treating you. Wade had mentioned that this man - Logan - was a little rough around the edges. rude. A drunk, even. Maybe he just wasn't good with people in general.

"Yep," he replied, shooting you a glare over the glass of - was that pure fucking bourbon? - he was sipping out of. You tried your best not to let it get to you - but you also knew how to take a hint. He wasn't interested in talking. That shot straight to your stomach like a bullet made of embarrassment and guilt, but whatever.

It's fine. you were younger than him by a decent margin. He could probably tell just by the look in your eyes that you were interested in him as more than just a friend. He probably just wanted to shut that shit down as quickly and efficiently as possible. You weren't gonna blame him for that. You've done the same for several weird men in the past - including Wade, before he got the hint and the two of you became fast friends. You weren't necessarily interested in being his post-Vanessa rebound, and he respected that.

So, that's fine, you'd just be nice to Logan. He could be your friend, too. He was rooming with Wade and Al, after all. It would be good to make friends with him.

"Hey!" You smiled when he opened the door a few days after the party. You stood there, hands currently occupied by a tin foil-wrapped package.

"What do you want?" Logan asked, looking you up and down with more paranoia than you'd expected. You thought that maybe he was just uncomfortable with your advances, but this time, it was like he was searching for something. What, you didn't know.

"I just wanted to give you this," you replied, thrusting your gift into his hands - the smooth glass of the pie mold contrasting with the brief brush of his calloused hands. You tried not to shiver.

"It's a pie," you continued on, even as Logan stared off into the distance, at something you couldn't see. "When I saw what you were drinking at the party, I thought you might like it. It's a family recipe. Pumpkin pie with a shitload of bourbon. As a welcome to the neighborhood kind of thing."

You offered him an awkward sort of smile, a little shrug. He blinked, snapping himself out of his thousand yard stare only to glare at you like you'd just offered him a dead animal instead of a home-baked pie. Your blood briefly turned to ice as you wondered if maybe this man was actually sober and you'd mistake the iced tea in his glass as pure liquor. As if Wade ever had that sort of shit in his apartment.

"I-" he looked down at the pie, then up at you, taking a breath as if he wanted to say more, but instead shaking his head, like he was knocking some bit of cobwebs or old dust loose. "Thanks."

He nodded at you in acknowledgement, then slammed the door in your face. Great.

Wade wasn't much help either. He'd returned the pie dish and you'd wrung your hands and asked him if you'd done something that made Logan hate you. The dish was empty, but your stomach churned at the thought of the man just taking a knife and scraping the whole thing into the trash. You'd even made the crust by hand, too.

"Oh, fuck no!" Wade scoffed, shaking his head. "Are you kidding me? Listen, if there's anything I know about our not-so-furry friend, it's that he can put up with a metric fuckton of asinine shit. I mean - he's living with me! Do you know how many times he's used his little clawsies to hole-punch my organs? Like - so many!" Wade waved his arms for emphasis. "If he really hated you, he wouldn't just sulk around about it like a teenager - no! He'd hurt you! Like the kind of teenager that would shoot up their local high school!"

You rolled your eyes at Wade, but you knew that's just how he was. No filter, all idiocy. "Did he - did he at least try the pie," you asked, voice a little more hopeful than you'd meant for it to sound.

"Try it - fuck! That man has full-tilt sprinted at me on all fours and I've never seen him so animalistic. He was eating that pie like it would crawl inside his dick itself and pull out an orgasm. I swear - and may Thor strike me dead and then mourn my fried corpse - that he actually growled when I asked for a slice."

You didn't believe Wade for a second, but fuck. at least that made you feel better. You offered him your thanks and a sweet smile as you received your dish and promised to make him something "Wolvie" wouldn't hoard when you brought something over next. You promised to try your best.

Really, what you'd try your best at was winning this shy Wolverine over to your good side. You didn't want to force him to be your friend, obviously - but if you had made a bad impression, even if that impression was solely based on the fact that you were also friends with Wade - you wanted to make it right.

So you did everything you could. Baked and cooked and offered the results up whenever you could afford the extra ingredients. Made sure to snatch up any packages bound for Wade's apartment so your notorious Amazon thief didn't have the chance to. You even dog-sat that nasty looking creature Wade had adopted - she was very sweet, but you had nightmares about that tongue.

It all came to a head, one day. One day when you almost brained yourself walking up the stairs.

You'd been holding grocery bags - supplies to make your perfected mac and cheese recipe - head down as you ascended the steps. That was, until you ran into what felt like a brick wall. Or, an iron one. Your shoulder smacked whatever it was and you jolted backwards, gasping as you dropped the bag you were holding to cling to the railing-

Only to catch and grip tight at thin fabric as a firm, steel-strong arm wrapped around your waist. You finally caught your breath, lungs filling and then immediately vacating as you locked eyes with none other than Logan.

"Fuck."

Both of you said it. But you gasped, it, breathless and dreamy. Meanwhile he spat it, like he knew something like this would happen, and he'd been planning his whole day to avoid it.

As soon as you found your footing again, he threw his arm away from you like you'd burned him. Like your very existence was offensive to him, somehow. He manages to spin you around as he let go of your waist, disorient you as you sputtered, glancing after him.

The stairs were littered with groceries - blocks of cream cheese, butter, cookies for the crust - fresh fruit for the filling. A bag of sugar had exploded, its contents dusting the next landing like snow. All of this - ingredients you'd bought, with money you'd worked your ass off to afford - and the man you'd been trying to impress stepped in that puddle of sugar, granules crackling under his boot.

You damn near saw red.

"Logan!" you snapped, your voice harsh, crisp as it echoed through the stairwell. Fuck. You hated using that voice - but it made him freeze on the spot.

He turned to look at you - eyes wide, as if he was some child who'd been caught in a lie. But also - that gaze was knowing, somehow. Like he knew what you used that voice for. What it meant for him.

You sighed, tried to regain your composure. It was fine. You were fine. When you opened your eyes, you addressed him with even, annunciated words:

"Why do you hate me?"

Even as you tried your best to dull your voice of emotion, it slipped through. A waved of your throat, the hint of water in your eyes. You hated it - this man didn't hold that power over you. You just - you were used to being liked. That's all.

Logan looked at you like you'd shot him.

"What?" he asked, just as breathless as you felt. You thought you detected just a hint of hurt in that syllable.

"It-it's just-" you tried not to let yourself waver, but you stuttered as you spoke. "I've been trying to just - to be your friend, to be a good neighbor. Like I am to Wade, like we - we hang out, sometimes. But you- you're just - I feel like you've been kind of rude to me."

You sounded like a child.

Logan took a breath. A deep one, as if this were a confrontation that had been a long time coming (which it was) and that he was prepared to have a conversation he'd dreaded (which was really what got you - if he really just disliked you, why would he care enough to prepare something? What was going on?)

He turned around - gathered up all your dropped groceries - and started walking up the stairs, passing you and continuing his way to your shared floor. He'd previously been on his way out, so you didn't do much except stare at him until he was nearly half a flight ahead of you and your brain finally switched on again.

He led you to the apartment he shared with Wade, nodded as he held the door open for you. It felt strange - you hadn't been inside the apartment since the party. You'd always felt too nervous to ask Wade if he wanted to continue your usual game nights. Too intimidated by Logan.

He set the groceries on the counter, and practically sank into the couch. You perched on the chair opposite it, still not quite believing that he had let you in. That you were going to talk. He breathed in deeply, steadying himself before he spoke, eyes still glued to the floor.

"I'm not from here. 'M sure Wade told you that much," he glanced up, only to nod in your direction. You nodded back.

"My world - timeline, whatever the fuck - I killed it. Everyone I loved, everyone I cared about - they all died. Because of me."

You sat in rapt attention as his shoulders tensed, his jaw flexed. This was a lot, for him. You didn't really understand why he was telling you about it, but it was important to him. So you listened.

"Every timeline is different. At least, that's what the science says. Ones that are closer together - might have the same people show up at around the same time. Might be - people I knew. People I - cared about."

Logan glanced up, again. Caught your eyes with his and swallowed harshly.

"You're - one of them. One of the people I lost."

"Oh," you breathed, because now it all made sense. The strange looks, the curt conversations - even the thousand yard stare. You were triggering his memories of a horrible time of his life with every step you took in his direction. And you didn't even know it.

"I'm so sorry," You whispered, trying your best to quell any tears that might form sympathetically. No wonder he kept pushing you away. You were a walking PTSD trigger.

"No-" he gasped, shaking his head as he stood up, like he'd been shocked upright. "No, it's not -"

He cleared his throat, shook his head like he was trying to find the right words.

"I know I was pushing you away. And it is - hard, to see you again. But - I want to see you. I want to get to know you, again," if you didn't know any better, you'd think that there were tears forming at the corner of his eyes.

"You made the pie, you know. The pumpkin pie. I was only there for the one Thanksgiving, but I remember it. You swore you'd cooked off all the liquor, but Xavier made you promise only the adults would get a slice."

He grinned at you, then - wide, real. It was pretty, that smile. You could imagine recognizing it, in another life.

"None of the kids got any. Too good for them, anyway," he took a step towards you, and you rose from your seat, legs only a little wobbly.

"That's good," you breathed, voice as shaky as your knees. "I use vodka in the crust, too."

"I know," Logan grinned, a hand grasping yours, his smile somehow wider than before.

You wondered, as you strode forward into a crushing hug against his chest, if it felt so right in every universe.

[abusivegymrat]

fuck me (pumps) p1

hey so this is the horny soap i promised(???), this was going to be a longer thing butt i realized i havent been posting anything in terms of writing so i just copied half of it from my google docs haha

the second part will be down if i can sit my ass down and write the smut

feel free on giving me tips on how to write it in fact i might not ever finish it if i don't get any so HELP ME

you know what they say, no trick, no treat. feed me with your wisdom and I will gift you a submissive soap. how bout that?

wc: 1350

Your body slowly slips forward on the faux leather, creating a squeaking noise when your soaked clothes cling to it. Your legs part in a wide manspread as exhaustion wears over your slumping form heavily like a hefty cloak, but you’re relaxed, glad that you can let yourself go after hours of physical and mental strain. You know that you will probably wake up with the worst backache known to man with this stupid decision, but you also know that you don’t fucking care about that right now. The captain jammed dirt into your brain with his foolish barking, then proceeded to water it like it was some beautiful spring flower. 

Turned it to mushy mud instead.

Your face is pale like bleach, your eyes are as empty as your brain, your hair is dripping like a damn faucet, your mind is foggy– uneven, only there in some parts. It’s patchy and fuzzy and swirling. You’re tossed around the truck each time Price drives over a bump and your forehead gets a good beating from the window. 

Swirling around like that one glass of bourbon you’d fucking kill for right now. You can see it behind your closed eyelids: looks like the late afternoon daylight peeking from your curtains, smells like the fucking sun, tastes like–

Fuck. 

You let out a groan mentally, throwing your head back in delight covered up as fatigue, pathetically daydreaming of what seems like luxury at the moment. You try to blow a lock of hair from your face, but it doesn't move, weighed down by water. You’re fighting sleep in a crude duel, with a spear and a damn leaf around your arse when Simon’s voice worms you out of your cave. 

“Y’dreamin’o’bourbon too?” He croaks out lazily, the sound stuck between his vocal cords like it was too much effort to blurt that out. 

You hum in an affirmative response, then take a deep breath, lips parting to accommodate your lungs as they fill. You expect (and hope) that you’ll find your lips wrapped around the neck of a bottle when you close them.

You don’t. 

Instead they’re chapped and dry and they fucking hurt. 

You cling your teeth to your bottom lip, chewing on it to calm your nerves and ease the shuddering the cold gives you. 

“You lot be good, and I’ll take you out for a drink.” You see Gaz’s eyes practically shimmer when Price grumbles in his usual deep voice rumbling from his chest. Then suddenly, the entire vehicle is bustling with energy again as their rambling about the place evolves into white noise: you drift into deep slumber.

From what Simon told you, Price wanted to go to his usual pub, but Gaz swore he knew a place. Either way, you’re seated on a wooden stool that is dangerously high and was quite difficult to get up to, eager to switch to a more reasonable and comfortable seat. You’re woolgathering still, staring into nothingness and taking a sip of your drink here and there, depending on it like it would stop your shivering. 

The longer you stay there, though, the more warmth spreads through your body like wildfire. You blame your drink, or rather, drinks for it, since you couldn’t keep up with the counting part when that bitch has her hands all over Johnny. Your brain is fuzzy, but this time, it’s the alcohol, and you couldn’t be more grateful. You’d rather forget this or whatever the hell is going on. Especially when Gaz touches your shoulder with a smug grin, telling you to ease your jaw. Something about grinding your teeth to dust. You huff through your nose like a bull, though now you know why the muscles in your face were squeezing a bit too hard. 

Your breathing becomes more shallow when your eyes lock on their figure a little more, your heart might beat its way out of your ass. Simon could smack you into consciousness with a rifle in your face, and you’d thank him. Pitch black is better than whatever this is.

Your blood is boiling like a hot pot, and you wish you could dip Johnny’s meat in it to cook it. Ironic when you visualize it, but not so when you imagine his pained screams just the way he deserves them. 

“I thought he was grabbing drinks.” You snit, earning no response whatsoever. Instead, when you look around, it’s the guys grinning at you like a pack of mutts. “Oh fuck off…” you groan into your hands. “You’re not helping.”

“Jealous, aren’t you?” Simon observes, and you wish you could deny. Instead, you sit there and swallow it like a good fucking girl instead of trying to deny it and look stupid. It’s true, he’s right, you’re jealous. 

How can you not be jealous when she’s running her hands all over his chest and caressing his chin like he’s some good fucking pussy? You’re expected to stay neutral when her hands roam his thick thighs like that? Might as well jerk him off in front of his girlfriend. Don’t miss out on that, yeah? 

Logically, you have no reason to be jealous. You’re pretty, smart, violent when you need to be, and Johnny is head over heels for you. Besides, you could pull any man you wanted. But fuck it if you didn’t want to rip her teeth out. You don’t blame Johnny though– okay, you do, but look at her, I mean… Her tits are almost spilling out of that shirt, that makeup would drive any man crazy. And you don’t blame the woman for being attracted to Johnny either: his baby blues, arms as big as your quads, and that stupid mohawk, you see the vision, to say the least. 

And your nerves start to ease, because at the end of the day, you are the one that will drag tears of pain and pleasure out of his eyes, and run your fingers through his hair and smother him with your cunt. 

Only if you knew that the only reason your nerves were easing was because you were already up on your feet, moving towards the two as Garrick whistled behind you, and you could imagine Price’s weird, triangle-shaped, sly smile. Though their expressions faltered, instead twisting into pure horror when they realized Johnny’s bottle of beer was about to be used as a murder weapon. Next thing you know, Simon is pulling your arms around your body and pulling you back towards the table as you thrash in his grip, murmuring in your ear about how he’ll be back and he still loves you, how you have no reason to be jealous, just shit that you told yourself minutes ago. 

“Look at ‘er, Simon! Practically wavin’ her fuck me pumps a’ me!” 

“Calm down–”

“I can’t even tell who he’s lookin’ to–”

“Calm down–”

“Can’t even sit right ‘cause her jeans are too fuckin’ tight–”

“Calm. The fuck. Down–” 

“Jesus fucking christ Simon! Look at him!” You snap, shoving him away from the chest. 

“I know, come ‘ere.” He pulls a chair for you, and you sink, fury adorning your face. 

The piece of shit finally meets your eyes at the commotion, swallowing harshly, awkwardly clutching the drinks and making his way towards you. You click your tongue, not wanting to look at him in the face. He lowers himself onto the seat in front of you (the audacity of him) so naturally (also reasonably) you ignore him. 

All night long. 

You don’t dare look into the eyes you’d usually get lost in, laughing, joking, but never looking at him. Never answering a question, never laughing at his jokes. You’re acting like he doesn’t exist. And he doesn’t to you, not right now. Not when the night is over and you’re on base. Never. Not today. Or tomorrow. Or the day after that, and after that, and after that–

Until he’s banging his fists on your door like a madman, and you’re trying equally stubbornly to ignore. But it’s loud, and it’s annoying, and it’s Johnny.

So you open the door.

[cece693]

Bet Pt. 2 (Klaus Mikaelson x M! Reader)

If you haven't read the first part, here's the link. But to catch up, basically male reader is confused about who Klaus really is—evil hybrid vs. sweet, caring man. However, when Klaus is willing to show you where the cure is, are you willing to leave whatever you have with Klaus behind?

tags: reader makes a choice, happy ending, Klaus is a sweet boy, the Salvatore brothers are pissed

You hadn’t stepped foot in the Mikaelson mansion since Klaus had revealed his feelings. Every time you tried, something stopped you. The weight of his confession—his unexpected vulnerability—left you feeling more confused than ever. You couldn’t keep pretending everything was fine, not when your mind was torn between the life you had before and the life Klaus was offering you.

It wasn’t him you were angry at. In fact, you couldn’t blame Klaus for being honest, for laying his cards on the table and letting you see a side of him that few others did. No, all your frustration, all the pent-up anger, was directed at yourself. Because if Klaus had made his offer before you truly got to know him—if he had mentioned the cure before you saw the man behind the hybrid—you wouldn’t have hesitated to take it. You would’ve agreed to anything just to be human again. But now things weren’t so simple.

If you chose the cure, you would be giving up everything. Your brothers, your friends, Klaus. And the thought of leaving him behind, of never knowing what could have been, filled you with a sense of dread you hadn’t expected. When you were with him, you felt more like yourself than you had in centuries. He made you feel alive in ways that weren’t tied to your vampiric instincts. He challenged you, but he also supported you. He saw you for who you were, not just the person you used to be or the vampire you had become. And that was terrifying yet exhilarating.

After another night of pacing and weighing your options, you knew you had to confront the reality of your choice. You needed to speak to your brothers, to make them understand where you stood. You found Damon and Stefan in the parlor, just as you had anticipated. They were both quiet, sipping on their bourbon, when you stepped inside. Damon glanced up first, his gaze sharpening as he saw the determined expression on your face.

“So, have you finally made up your mind?” Damon asked, raising an eyebrow.

You took a breath and nodded. “I have,” you said, and the words came out steadier than you felt. “I’m not taking the cure. I’ve decided to stay as I am.”

A flicker of relief passed over Stefan’s face, though Damon’s reaction was less encouraging. “Good,” Damon replied dryly, “glad you’ve come to your senses and aren’t throwing everything away for some idiotic human fantasy. I guess that means you’re done with the whole Klaus thing, too, right?”

“No. I’m staying a vampire, but I’m also choosing to be with Klaus.”

The room seemed to grow colder, the silence stretching taut as a bowstring. Stefan’s relief evaporated, his brow furrowing with concern. Damon’s expression hardened, his eyes narrowing as if you had just confessed to the most unforgivable sin.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Damon spat, standing up so quickly the couch scraped against the floor. “You’re really choosing that monster over your own family? Do you even hear yourself?”

“It’s not like that,” you argued, feeling a surge of defensiveness rising in your chest. “This isn’t about choosing him over you—it’s about choosing the life I want. I’m not going to keep living the way I have, pretending things are fine between us. We haven’t been a real family for a long time.”

“So you think the answer is running into the arms of a psychopath?” Damon shot back, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Newsflash, little brother: Klaus doesn’t know how to love. He’s a manipulative bastard who will use you until there’s nothing left. He's incapable of it.”

A bitter laugh escaped you as you met his gaze head-on. “And who are you to lecture me about love, Damon?” you shot back, anger seeping into your tone. “The man who fell for Katherine—twice? Or maybe it’s Stefan, the one who has been tangled up in an endless cycle with Elena for years, pretending that it’s love instead of just addiction?”

Stefan recoiled at your words, and Damon’s jaw tightened. The room was thick with tension, the brothers struggling to form a response. "I'm not some pawn in his game, Damon. Nor does he have me under a spell. Klaus has been honest with me, more than you have! When was the last time any of us truly cared about each other without some kind of ulterior motive?”

Stefan stepped forward. “We’re not saying you can’t choose your own path,” he said softly, “but Klaus is dangerous. You can’t deny that. You know what he’s capable of.”

“And we aren’t?” you shot back, your gaze moving between your brothers. “Let’s not act like we’re saints. We’ve all done terrible things, and we’ve all hurt people. Just because we did it for reasons we thought were justified doesn’t make us any better than him.”

Damon clenched his jaw, his expression dark with frustration. “You’re going to regret this,” he warned, his tone low and threatening. “You’re choosing him over us, and when it all falls apart, don’t expect us to come running.”

The weight of his words hit you harder than you’d expected, but you refused to show it. “If that’s the way you see it,�� you replied quietly, “then maybe we were never truly brothers to begin with.”

The walk to the Mikaelson mansion felt like shedding an old skin, leaving behind a life that no longer fit. When you arrived, Klaus was there waiting, as if he had sensed the moment you had made up your mind. His expression softened the instant he saw you, a mixture of hope and relief glimmering in his eyes.

“So, you’ve come to a decision?” he asked, his voice steady but with a hint of vulnerability underneath.

You took a step closer, meeting his gaze with determination. “I have,” you said. “I’m staying.”

Klaus’s breath seemed to catch in his throat, his eyes darkening with an emotion that you had rarely seen before—something close to joy, but tempered by the shadow of all the years he had lived without it. He reached out, cupping your face in his hands with a tenderness that defied his reputation.

“Then you’ve made the right choice,” he murmured, his thumb gently tracing the line of your jaw. “And I promise, you won’t ever regret it, love.”

[rippersz]

𝘍𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘞𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・✩・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・✩・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

(Lilia Calderu x Fem!Witchy!Reader) (NSFW Themes; Mostly fluff) (~9.1k words)

You are Lilia Calderu's roommate. You celebrate Christmas. Also, you are so undeniably, completely, totally, hopelessly, unbelievably (but also very believably) in love with her. Poor you.

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・✩・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

You wanted her. 

You wanted her so bad. 

Since the very day you met her, you wanted her. 

You wanted to hold her hand. You wanted to kiss her. You wanted to wake up next to her. 

Was that a crazy thing to say? A crazy thing to think? To want your boss/roommate like you wanted your boss/roommate? Maybe. Probably. But no one ever said matters of the heart led down a road of sanity—so how on Earth could you be blamed? 

Short answer: You couldn’t.

Not when the woman you wanted was as wise, as intelligent, as kooky, as beautiful, as charming as Lilia Murgo Calderu. An interpreter of the divine - and to you, all divine within herself. 

Even when she’d just woken up, dreams still swimming behind her eyes, orange slippers on her feet as she shuffled around the kitchen. Even when she took her time brewing tea, fixing her hair, humming quietly to herself. Even when she looked up to acknowledge you with a good morning and a lazy wave of her hand, to which you always responded with a smile and a chuckle because honestly you found her early-morning demeanour to be quite endearing. Even with the bags under her hazel eyes and the exhaustion of a terrible night weighing on her shoulders. Even when she rarely slept peacefully and then spent the entire next day getting lost within her thoughts. Even when she screamed in her sleep, cried out for help, yelped from a phantom pain. You ran to her on those nights, practically flying out of your room to find her tossing and turning in her bed, and always stumbled in the dark over to her side. Even when she was overtaken by nightmares, by visions and ‘possessions’, by people speaking through her and people speaking to her. Even then, when she was at her most volatile, with golden wicks of magic sparking along her knuckles and her fingertips, still harnessing power in her dreams, you scrambled to take her hands. To hold them gently. To pry them from their fists and smooth them with your touches.

“Lilia,” you’d whisper, heart pounding and touch soft, “Lilia you have to wake up now, you’re going to hurt yourself sweetheart.” And by then, she’d already be mid-gasp, shooting up in bed, looking around the room wildly before settling on you. 

Always you. Always at her side. Always willing to help. Her assistant, her roommate, the young woman everyone saw her around town with. The one who, perhaps, understood her more than anyone ever had before. 

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・✩・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

“Oooo,” you smiled, led by your nose through the door that separated the front of the shop from the back of the flat, whisked along easily by the smell of food. “This looks amazing..” 

The spoon poised to the right of the stove, already dirty with the tomato and meat from the cooking pasta, was quickly picked up by your hand and dipped back into the pot. 

“Lilia you are a godsend,” you whispered to yourself, bringing the spoon (heaped with bolognese) up to your mouth, already closing your eyes before anything could land on your tongue. 

“Aht!” A sharp voice cut through your bliss, followed by a small smack and sting on the back of your knuckles as the devil herself walked up to your side and hip-bumped you away from the stove. “No tasting before it’s ready!” She scolded, taking the spoon right out of your hold and pushing it back into the pasta to stir.

“Hey!” You protested instantly, lightly shoving her back as you pressed yourself to her side and looked over the pot. She was warm, soft, and you felt your heart jump at the scent of her bourbon and wildflower perfume. “Gimme some now,” you teased, reaching over her for the spoon. 

“Can’t you wait for five minutes!?” Lilia said loudly, shooting you a glare out of the corner of her eye as she moved her body and elbowed you away again. 

“Ow- that hurt!” You cradled your belly. It didn’t, not at all, but you loved to add fuel to the fire. 

Unfortunately, the fire had all the fuel she needed. “Good!” Lilia quipped, putting the spoon back into place in its holder, “I’m glad!” 

You tried hard to hide the smile on your lips and the desperate giggles that wanted to fly out, but you couldn’t help yourself. 

“So mean to me…,” came your laughter-laden lament as you moved to the table in the centre of the room. “Making me set the table, too.” You shook your head and let out a sigh that was much too loud, exaggerating the mope in your shoulders and the dragging of your feet while you moved around the room to get bowls and cutlery. “This is illegal, I think.” 

A snort came from the stove, making you glance up just in time to see the smirk on red lips before she turned her head away to the spice cabinet. “Oh yeah? Who you gonna call? Ghostbusters?” 

“The police.” You set the bowls down quietly and gave her a scoffing ‘duh’ to follow up. 

“Oh please.” Lilia shook her head, sending grey and silver curls swishing around her neck, “The police will take one look at you and give you back.” 

You paused at the drawer, a fork already in your hand, and whipped around with a gasp. “Did you just call me ugly?” You looked quite affronted, mouth agape, eyebrows furrowed, one foot already pointed out to tap rapidly on the floor. 

“Is that what I said?” She shot back, spinning in her place to give you a look in return. Eyebrows raised, tone sarcastic, casting beautiful coffee eyes over the length of your body to prove her point. In the face of that gaze, intense in all its flawless effort, you had to control the sudden hot feeling that spread across your cheeks.

“That’s what I gathered,” you pointed out, sheepish beneath the weight of her full attention, and ducked your head to rifle through the drawer, “And you like to imply things.” You bumped it shut when you found another fork. 

“Oh yeah?” Lilia huffed. “Well you like to accuse. So put that in your pipe.”

“And smoke it.” You spat, smiling.

“Exactly!” 

The two of you laughed, creating a joyful harmony as you finished setting up the table and went to turn down some of the lights. Lilia, in the meanwhile, added the finishing touches to the pasta and donned tarot-themed oven mitts (which you gifted her last year for Christmas after her others were accidentally set on fire) to carry the pot to its trivet. 

“Careful,” came your soft call as you double-checked the lock on the flat door. 

“Hmm,” Lilia hummed, slipping the mitts off and throwing them on the countertop. “Come sit, I’m starving.” 

“Shoulda cooked earlier then,” you teased, practically skipping over to the table to pull out her chair. 

“Shoulda, coulda, woulda,” she waved her hand and rolled her eyes before taking her seat, falling into your familiar routine.

It was your pleasure, above anything and everything else in life, to make Lilia Calderu’s days as smooth and bright as possible. You made breakfast, you helped clean up, you always pulled out her chair for her and always beat her to the dishes, and at night, you turned down the lights before heading off to your own room. It was small, decorated to suit you, and totally unnecessary. You’d insisted in the beginning of your stay that Lilia have it instead, because it had a door and was less open-spacey, but she brushed it off and said that she was already comfortable in her little pull-out bed. You didn’t enjoy the thought of it, not with the way her back hurt sometimes, but it was nothing a good spot of healing tea couldn’t fix—or so she claimed. You also learned early on that Lilia was neat, careful, and entirely against rushing. She did not like to rush. Nor did she like to argue, or raise her voice when angry, or get angry in the first place. And she didn’t like sleeping in too much and she didn’t like cold showers and she didn’t like when you didn’t respond to her texts (which happened maybe two times and both times you got an earful). But you never minded the things she didn’t like. You made sure to work on time-management, to avoid rushing, and you never got angry with her, only frustrated, and you never yelled at her (because you were quite sure that you’d rather be stabbed then ever do so), and you woke her up before her late alarm and only let her sleep in if she had a rough night, and you never used too much of the hot water, and you kept your phone ringer on whenever you left the shop, and all of the things she needed you to make space for, you did. You gave her privacy, you gave her an ear, a shoulder, you gave her gifts and you gave her attention and you gave her banter and jokes and stability and routine and beneath it all, every time you smiled at her, every time you both sat down in the armchairs to read your books, every time you stayed up late to listen to her rant about the world’s offences against witches, you were also giving her your heart. 

Happily, gladly, giving her your heart. 

“My compliments to the chef,” you grinned as you took your spot opposite her, putting your napkin on your lap as though you were in a fancy restaurant. 

“Mm, let me know if it’s too salty,” she ran her tongue over her teeth before grabbing your bowl, sliding it closer, and starting to dish up. 

You couldn’t help the way you looked at her, keeping one elbow on the table, holding your chin with the cup of your hand, admiring the way she moved. There was a specialness to it, a gracefulness found only in someone like Lilia. Even the way she put homemade pasta into your bowl, even the way she gave you a hefty helping, to make sure you ate properly, and even the way she slid it back to you with a small smile. The way the dim lights darkened her eyes, the way she focused on her own food, the way she shifted to get comfortable. 

Your heart felt just about ready to burst from your chest. 

“It’s perfect,” was the only thing you could say after you had your first bite; a common phrase in your combined household because Lilia was a fantastic cook. 

“Eh. Not bad,” she shrugged, but after her first bowl was finished, you smirked as you watched her grab another helping. 

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・✩・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

At first, living together was a bit awkward. 

You were still a juvenile witch, having learned as much as you could from your previous mentor before she suggested Lilia as a continued source of help; and the last thing you expected when stumbling into Madame Calderu’s for the first time was the key to a future filled with the best of fortunes. You never got your palm read, never had her look into a crystal ball for you and pretend to know dead relatives, but still you were certain—your future was the best future one could have. There was a roof over your head, food at your table, books at your fingertips, and Lilia Calderu at your side. There was nothing more to want. 

Though in the beginning, that wasn’t the case. 

You tiptoed around her as though you were scared she was going to smite you down with all the power of the Divine Mother if you stepped out of line. You were the quietest, kindest, most endearing soul you could ever be—all in an effort to avoid being thrown out on your ass. But when you recognised Lilia’s way of living, how some larger part of her didn’t seem to really mind your presence at all, you began to settle. You lingered in shared spaces, you asked both the boring and exciting questions, and the tension in your shoulders faded. Sleeping came easier, smiling was instinct, and when you heard Lilia laugh at one of your jokes for the first time, you knew there was nothing in the world that could take you away from her home. 

Her home which eventually became yours, but which would always be hers no matter what she claimed. 

It was Lilia’s flat, your presence. 

It was Lilia’s life, you tagging along. 

It was Lilia’s heart, you left at the outskirts, mingling with the other acquaintances and friends (not that there were many, but still. Not in the inner circle of Lilia’s Inferno.) 

And in your life, in your heart, she was at the very centre, embedded in everything you did. 

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・✩・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

“Merry Christmas!!” Your excited yell bounced off the walls, obnoxiously loud and announcing your entrance before you skated into the living room in fuzzy socks and holiday-themed pyjamas. 

The only answer that greeted you was a low gravelly groan, muffled by the press of Lilia’s face into her sheets. And on top of her head, squishing her beloved curls? A pillow. 

“Wake up now, Madame Calderu! It’s time to celebrate!” You sang, taking in the air of your shared flat. 

It was decorated beautifully, with lights along the cabinets, a fake purple tree in the corner, and other little festive trinkets you found in thrift shops, dotted around any flat surface there was. Dancing snowmen, a penguin with an ‘I love you’ sign (a symbol of your devotion, as subtle as you could make it), two stockings hung on the wall beside the tree, each of your initials sewn into the fabric. And on the tree itself? Colour-changing lights, baubles and plastic decor, some in the shapes of stars, others in the shapes of the moon’s phases, a few depicting typical witchy symbols (a hat, a little witch on a broom, two that were painted like tarot cards. The Lovers and The World.) Beneath it, there was a red and white tree skirt, fuzzy and dotted with little purple faux-pines, and on top of that, forming a little neat pile, were a few gift-wrapped presents. It was the most wonderful, heart-warming, heart-wrenching thing you had ever seen. You could spot the ones you picked out for Lilia, the gifts you spent so long thinking about, and noticed a few days before Christmas morning that she had matched each one with a wrapped present of her own. The contrast couldn’t have been more obvious; hers were all clad in some shimmery blue iridescent paper you’d never seen before in your life and yours were dressed up in a matte red and brown pattern that repeated the scene of a little bear in a Santa hat reading a book. 

You didn’t expect the presents to be there, in fact you didn’t really expect anything from her at all, and yet there they sat, adding to your pile of four. Four gifts for her and then, because she really was the softest person at heart, four gifts for you. As a thank you that evening, you’d made dinner - sweet potato chilli and slices of fresh bread. She loved it, but still you felt that a simple meal wasn’t a big enough show of gratitude. 

Christmas morning pancakes, however, would make a stunning addition to the ‘thank you’ list, especially as they were Lilia’s favourite. Two with chocolate chips and two with blueberries (though you always made at least one extra of each just in case). And beside that, a mug of herbal tea and beside that, a mug of hot chocolate. You were dead silent as you worked, trying hard to give the resident witch at least a few more minutes of peaceful sleep before you woke her up for a proper celebration. It was hard to contain the excitement, the lightning in your veins as you anticipated the rest of the day. The company, the warmth, the movies you’d watch, the books you’d read. The shop was closed, partly because the roads were full of unpaved snow, but also because you were not going to be waiting for customers on Christmas Day. You wouldn’t allow it, and eventually Lilia agreed. It was unlikely anyone would go looking for a palm reading anyway, not in that chill. Plus they all had other things to do as well, like spend time with family and cuddle up with their kids and their lovers and hold their wives and drink wine with their lovers and their wives and eat biscuits with their wives and kiss their wives and open gifts with their beautiful wives and ugh! Well. 

There were still gifts to open, gifts that you’d cherish no matter what they were. Even if Lilia got you the most basic things, like socks or a new body lotion or a water bottle, you’d wear them every day, you’d put it all over your hands, you’d never drink from anything else ever again. To even be in her busy head enough to receive a gift felt like an honour, and that was such a strange sentiment for someone you loved, putting her on a pedestal, but you were past the point of caring. Lilia Calderu was no perfect woman, you knew that more than anyone, but she wasn’t trying to be. Her kindness was taught, learned, maintained, and you weren’t sure which Gods you pleased enough to deserve it, but not a day went by where her care was overlooked. So all you could do was return the favour. 

“Merry Christmas indeed,” came a sudden rumbling purr over your shoulder, husky with sleep and tinged with amusement as Lilia shuffled her way up to the counter. 

You gave her a glance, taking in the robe around her shoulders, the colourful pattern of her nightgown, the slippers on her feet, and the sweet smirk on her lips, and could only smile when the heavy weight of her head leaned itself against your shoulder. Her curls tickled your neck a little, tied up as they were, but you had no complaints. She was warm, comforting, and still a bit tired. You would always be her headrest if that’s what she needed.

“Did you sleep well?” It was compulsory for you to ask, a habit you fell into as soon as you felt comfortable in the flat. Checking on Lilia was a common occurrence, though you only asked about sleep after she went through the night without waking up in a fit. The evening before had been quiet, so you had high hopes.

“Like a babe. What about you?” And that was the typical response, bringing a soft smile to your lips as you slid the mug of tea over to her. 

“Likewise, though I fell asleep to a delightful little playlist called Lilia’s snoring.” 

She gasped. “How dare you? I do not snore.” Wide coffee eyes looked at you, shocked, and one hand, devoid of decorative rings, playfully swiped at your arm. “Maybe you were hearing your own.” Lilia sassed before she hid her growing smirk behind her mug.

“Oh yeah right,” you rolled your eyes, moving away to shimmy the last pancake onto the small stack. “Let’s just go with that.” 

Lilia snorted and took her chance then to dip into the bathroom, still intent on completing her morning routine before eating. You got to setting the table, putting the pancakes on each plate and the rest on a separate one off to the side, placing Lilia’s favourite fork and knife beside her dish (they were made for her a while ago, complete with engraved gems and smoothed symbols, the only surviving two out of a full set), and completed the table with your mugs. It looked a bit romantic, as it always did when it was just the two of you sitting at your little kitchen table, but over the course of your time together, neither of you mentioned it. Once, in the beginning of your routine, you lit a candle and placed it in the centre of the table arrangement, and promptly promised yourself never to do so again. For as soon as Lilia sat down, embraced by the flame’s flickering light and short warmth, you felt your cheeks grow hot. She looked unbelievably handsome that evening, meeting smouldering eyes over the candlelight, showing off the shadows of her wizened face, and you were overcome with the distinct desire to lunge across the table and kiss her senseless. 

Fortunately for your friendship, you never did. And unfortunately for your friendship, the urge to do so only got worse. From kissing to holding, from holding to loving, from loving to fucking. You couldn’t help yourself, couldn’t control the flutter of your heart, but there was nothing to be done. Lilia was your roommate, your mentor, the woman who laughed with you and cried with you and consoled you when you were on your period and needed a shoulder. She wasn’t the woman you kissed or the woman you held or the woman you fucked and in all seriousness, you knew that she probably never would be. And although that thought came with its own sense of pain, its own sorrow and bone-breaking ache, it was also followed by relief. If you weren’t close enough for that, then you weren’t close enough to break each other’s hearts. So there was no need to fear, no need to worry, and if ever there came a day where Lilia found someone to be with her for good, then you would be happy. You would be happy. For her, for the woman you found yourself loving, you would be happy.

And speak of the witch, the sound of the bathroom door creaking open, followed by soft footsteps, broke you out of your staring contest with the counter. 

“Thank you for breakfast,” she said airily, fresh-faced with a small bit of makeup, a spritz of perfume, and a better style for her unruly curls. You nodded, almost in a bow, as you slid her seat out for her and gently pushed her back in. 

“It’s always my pleasure. Especially today.” You knew your eyes were shining, pouring with Christmas glee, but Lilia didn’t seem to mind the excitement. 

Ever since the beginning of December rolled around, she’d been happy to help you decorate. She took the time to hang lights with you, standing on the tips of her toes to give you the string as you circled it around the tree, then she spent the second evening of her December dotting it with decorations, inspecting the ornaments and baubles as she went, and she even bought a wreath to hang from the inside of the front door. You felt as though your heart was going to crawl out of your chest, it was so full of light and love. And at the end of the evening, when she affixed the Triple Goddess’ symbol to the top of your purple tree instead of an angel, and whispered a quick, happy, “Four of Wands” to you when she settled back on her feet, you couldn’t help but wrap her up in a hug. If that’s what her heart told her, if that’s what the divine whispered, an upright Four of Wands, then who were you to dictate? The higher powers were more right that evening than they had ever been before: in that moment, everything was Four of Wands. 

And while you ate a silent breakfast across from Lilia Calderu, enjoying the warmth and taste of your meal, taking in the slight chill of the morning and the beautiful image of her lounging in her nightie and robe, everything felt like Four of Wands all over again.

“You know I didn’t expect you to get me anything,” you finally murmured, hiding your eyes as you sipped from your mug. “It wasn’t supposed to be an eye for an eye sort of thing.” 

Lilia finished her bite, licked the side of her mouth, and raised an eyebrow. “So you expected me to be the only one opening gifts on Christmas morning? I don’t even celebrate Christmas. Why would I leave you empty handed?” 

You shrugged, already feeling the beginnings of warmth taking over your cheeks. You knew she didn’t celebrate - and technically you weren’t inclined to do so either, but the holiday cheer always got to you. And she had been so patient, going along with your joy. “I just assumed- I dunno…. We didn’t do it for each other the past two years, and exactly. You don’t celebrate. So I hope you know that just because I got you things-”

“Wait wait wait wait, stop right there.” Lilia cut you off, waving her hands a little bit, forcing your avoidant eyes from your plate up to her face. Her expression was strange, serious mixed with a distinct shadow of outrage, brick-red lips set into a frown; but behind her chocolate eyes? All you could see was warmth. “Before you even go any further, I’ll have you know that I did not feel obligated to get you Christmas presents just because you got some for me, and I certainly didn’t do it because I felt sympathetic.” 

You opened your mouth, ready to interrupt, but were quickly shut down by a held-up palm and a stern look. Your jaw clicked shut.

“I did it because I wanted to.” She held your eyes. “I did it because I didn’t want you to be celebrating alone and although it has been a long time since I last celebrated the holidays, I have to tell you that this has been very nice.” Lilia nodded at you, her lips tilting up into a smile, and she watched with delight as you couldn’t help but mirror it. “It’s been nice, right?” 

“Yeah,” you nodded, resisting the urge to shyly duck away, “yeah it’s been nice.” 

“And that is precisely why I did it. Because this is the kind of atmosphere every home should have,” she spread her hands out, breaking away to look around your living room with pride and care, taking in the purposefully mis-coloured tree, the lights and ornaments, the gifts, the holiday trinkets, the stockings, the sight of your books mixed with her books in the shelf, your shoes next to her shoes by the front door, your notes stuck to the fridge, your handwriting on the wall calendar, the TV you bought a little while ago, the paintings you hung up, the food that you made for her and dished for her and placed beside her favourite knife and fork, the drinks you prepared, the look in your eyes… And when she brought her attention back to you then, you almost cracked right in half when she leaned forward as though she were going to tell you a secret and said, in a playful whisper with a smirk on her face, “And there is no other person I would rather celebrate with.” 

You were so thankful she couldn’t read minds. 

“Okay?” She nodded as a reassurance and you returned it without hesitation. 

“Okay. Thank you…,” you breathed, shuddery and annoying, so out of tune, but when she looked at you in the way she did, when she spoke so gently, so firmly, you simply weren’t sure how you could’ve regained your footing sooner. “I- I appreciate it.” 

“I know you do,” Lilia was smug as she leaned back in her seat and crossed one leg over the other while she finished her breakfast.

“Shut up.” 

The response you got was a near-silent huff of laughter. 

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・✩・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

“Okay! Stocking first or presents?” 

You stood in the middle of the room and Lilia sat in the blue armchair, nursing another brewed mug of hot chocolate. You hadn’t taken the chance to change, insisting that Christmas morning gifts were always unwrapped while still in your pyjamas, and Lilia had inclined her head to tell you that the reins were yours before she got cuddled into her seat.

“Let’s start with the big guns. Presents.” 

You nodded, still managing to somehow follow orders, and swiftly crouched beneath the tree, then carefully picked up all four gifts for Lilia and shuffled back to her on your knees. 

“Your gifts, m’lady.” 

“Why thank you,” she smiled, looked down at you with those heavy-lidded eyes, stroking the fire in your heart, and put her mug off to the side before holding her hands out and taking the wrapped presents into her lap. They weren’t very big, one of them wasn’t even a box, so she had no trouble balancing as you quickly turned around to grab your own. 

“Right,” once you were settled at her feet on the floor, cross-legged and acutely aware of how close you were, you set the boxes down in front of you and clapped your hands. “You go first, then me, then you, then me. Deal?” 

“What if I want you to go first?” One dark eyebrow raised, adding to the wicked pleasure of a dark-lipped smirk, and you instantly tried playing off your fluster with a shrug. 

“Then I will. Is that what you’d like, Madame Calderu?” Only used in moments of teasing, you enjoyed seeing the slight pink that went to Lilia’s cheeks as she heard you use her unofficial official title. Despite it being the name of her shop, it was rare that a customer addressed her as so. In time then, she only came to associate it with you. 

“Yeah, why not,” Lilia shrugged, and you instantly picked up the first gift nearest to you. 

“Can I shake it?” You grinned.

“If you’re interested in breaking things, be my guest.” 

“Mmm, no thank you,” came your little murmur as you carefully (trying to hide your eagerness) undid the wrapping. It was a long box, thin, and as the gift was revealed and the paper fell off to the floor, you felt your heart stutter. Clearly, it was jewellery. And clearly, you had to open it. But the front caught your eye, stalling you, and you took in the small golden cursive L. with interest. “Did you make this?” You whispered, shifting the box to hold it like precious gems. 

“Open it first, ask questions later,” you didn’t have to look up to know she was smiling, so you did what was desired. 

The top came off with little resistance and suddenly you were looking down at a necklace. A familiar necklace. Familiar and yet different. Made of smaller beads with similar colours, more delicate and fitting to your less loud aesthetic, but with the same rectangular shaped pendant in the centre. You nearly folded yourself in half looking closer, feeling your heart in your throat when you recognized that yes, it was like Lilia’s, but it wasn’t meant to be a replica - it was meant to match. Two hands against a white background hovered above and below a sun with an open eye, fitting the same mould, but Lilia’s hands were an iridescent blue-green, the top one pointing down from the right and the bottom pointing palm-up from the left. Yours was in complete contrast. A deep blue background, opal coloured hands, the top one pointing down from the left, the bottom pointing up from the right, and the sun in the middle was not a sun at all but a full moon, painted white, the eye’s iris a dark midnight blue. It was perfect in a way you could not even voice, hand-crafted with so much care, and you looked up at Lilia as though she herself had the bright idea to create the sun and moon and hang them both in the sky. 

“I- this is- Lilia…,” you swallowed, glancing at the necklace resting against her chest before looking down at its partner in your hands. “Holy shit, Lilia.” 

“Here, let me help you put it on.” She flapped her hands to gesture you forward and forward you went, placing the box aside and taking the necklace out with the gentlest touch. When you turned and she slung it around your neck, the jewellery was cold, but her hands were warm, and in seconds you were suddenly matching with the woman you loved. 

“...I feel like I’m part of your coven now,” you whispered while looking down, stroking it with reverence. 

“Ha!” Lilia cackled, her smile brighter than fresh snow in the sun. “You don’t want to be part of my coven, kiddo,” she took a sip of her tea. 

A very mean, insecure voice in the pit of your mind hissed at the sound of that nickname. It always incited a wild, twisting fire inside you. You hated to be reminded of your age, of the differences between you, because it always served as a symbol of what could never be. Coming to terms with unrequited love was one thing, but having the reason why it was unrequited spoken to your face so boldly, even without intent to do so, was a different beast entirely. You could handle the sadness when not reminded of its roots, but a quick ‘kiddo’ or ‘kid’ or reference to age spoken from Lilia’s lips had you instantly defensive. Of course you never showed it, never in front of her, but that didn’t mean the punch to your psyche didn’t hurt like a bitch. 

“Yes, I do.” You insisted, moving the opened box and wrapping paper out of the way. “Of course I do. Lilia Calderu’s coven? Sign me the fuck up right now.” 

She huffed, put her mug down, and turned back to her own gifts. “Shall I?” 

“You shall.” 

The first one she picked up was the squishy one, soft and medium sized, and you delighted in the way her brows furrowed as she pressed it between her fingers. Three seconds later, when the paper was torn off (just as gently as you did it, you noted), a small gasp, followed by a rich laugh, filled the air. 

“Oh, you shouldn’t have,” Lilia grinned as she picked up the oven mitts and slipped them onto her hands. It was a cute addition to your running joke. Only a few months before that moment, Lilia had somehow accidentally set her old oven mitts on fire. Bright flame and all. It was a miracle how you got there just before the smoke detectors went off and managed to throw the things outside before dousing them in water. They were still on her hands too! You’d nearly had a heart attack, staring at her with eyes so wide it gave you a headache as you ignored the half-charred mitts and held her palms. Lilia insisted she was okay as you inspected them, but she never pulled away and she didn’t protest when you asked her to please run them under cold water for a few minutes. Since then, the only ‘oven mitts’ she had were dish towels and every time you meant to buy replacements, you procrastinated or you forgot. That simply wouldn’t do—thus, the tarot card themed oven mitts she had on her hands, waving them around and pinching her thumb to her fingers with satisfaction. 

“These are lovely. Thank you,” her voice was liquid gold with gratitude as she finally slipped them off and gently set them on the table, giving them a pat for good measure. 

“Yeah, I thought you might have needed some,” you smirked and gladly accepted the small playful slipper-covered kick you got to the knee. “Now my turn again.” 

The next gift was softer than a box, but shaped like one, with a weird hard lump on the front, and once you got the wrapping paper off, your face almost split in half with the width of your smile. 

“This looks so beautiful, oh my god,” your left hand stroked and fiddled with the pendant at your neck, holding it as a newfound comfort while your right hand explored the leather-bound notebook you found in your lap. The lump you felt on the front was a sewn-in gem, coloured gold and orange, and you felt warm with the thought that it reminded you so much of Lilia’s magical tint. “Thank you Lilia.. I promise you it won’t go to waste.” 

Her eyes were shining proudly when you looked up at her, and you noticed the quick glance away from your collarbone to the book in your lap. She must have thought the necklace was just as beautiful as you did. 

“It better not, or I’ll take it back,” she teased, humming a soft sound of agreement as you marvelled at the fraying, fabric pages. 

“No chance. Now open your next one, please.” The notebook was gently set aside after you re-clasped the metal hinge. 

As Lilia picked up one of the smaller boxes, harder than the oven mitts, and began unwrapping, you briefly wondered about what you were going to put in the new journal. There were no lines, so it was perfect for sketching, but at the same time you hadn’t kept a diary in so long and it was the perfect opportunity, accompanied by the most perfect feeling. Making use of something a loved one had given you. And you would make use of it, without a doubt you would. 

“Is this a book of spells?” Lilia asked, turning the little brown book over in her hands with a furrowed brow and a confused smile. 

You straightened up and shuffled closer to her knees, practically putting your chin in her lap when you excitedly reached up to hold it open for her. “That’s exactly what it is, yes. I had to get a bit of help from Elise, but…,” you bit your lip, suddenly shy at all the effort you’d put into contacting your mentor. She agreed to help because she loved you, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t teased, and as you looked up at Lilia then, staring into dark enchanting eyes, you felt a blush roll over your cheeks. “...It’s um- it’s little obscure spells. For like cleaning and mending and things. I think there’s one in there for even stitching stars? Just stars? And a few others. Shining copper, cleaning lipstick off of glass…,” you trailed off, watching as Lilia hummed and took the book from you again. 

She took a moment to flip through the pages and read the small descriptions, taking the time to react to each one in kind. And when she got to the end, going a bit faster in her perusing, she suddenly stopped. You paused just as she paused and watched, with confusion, as her eyebrows promptly shot up.

“You think I need an.. ‘overstimulating orgasm’?” 

….

“Excuse me?” 

You went still. 

Lilia’s eyes bounced from you to the page and back again before she turned it around on her lap, nonverbally forcing you to read it. 

And there, in your mentor’s handwriting, were the cursive words, “Spell for a Very Special Feeling”. 

And beneath it, in smaller print:

‘Do your wrists ever get tired? Your hands? Are you eager for a satisfying night in? A chance to really release your frustrations without doing the work yourself? I know just the spell.

Completing the steps below will result in a release like no other. It will burn, it will feel painful, but the pleasure will override the ache and in no time at all, you will find yourself feeling delightfully… overstimulated. No tiring hours of doing it yourself! No chickening out! Give it a try maybe once. Or twice. As many times as your body can take.’ 

And a diagram showing hand movements, followed by a chant to go along with it. 

That motherfucker!

“Judging by your expression, I’m guessing you didn’t look through this thoroughly before you wrapped it for me?” Lilia smirked, cheeks growing pinker the longer you stared at the writing in complete and utter shock. 

It took you a good second to react and then another two seconds to respond. You were quick to reach out and grab the book, wanting to look through it properly to avoid any other utterly embarrassing miscommunications, but Lilia yanked it back before you could. 

“Too late,” she shook her head, and you floundered. 

“N-no! That is not supposed to say that, I swear. I would never- that- Elise wrote them all! I approved them! I don’t even know how- why-” 

Lilia raised one of her palms, cutting your sentence right in half, and you fell quiet as she smiled. 

“She must’ve slipped it in. I think she’s trying to tell me something,” the book went flipping back and forth between her palms and you sighed. 

“I’m really sorry about that, oh my god. It was just supposed to be a cute little gift.” 

“And it is,” Lilia insisted, snapping the book shut with a smirk. “Don’t feel embarrassed. It’s only natural.” You felt something in you shiver when she winked and desperately tried pulling yourself together when she turned to put the little book on the side table. 

Dwelling on the moment, now matter how enticing the idea sounded, was not a very good decision to make. You couldn’t afford to get distracted or blush too hard, but dear lord it seemed to be an impossible feat - especially with the image of Lilia in your head. Panting, blushing, hands gripping her sheets… the same hands, soft hands, with delicate wrinkles and perfect nails, just the right length and just the right width and so deceptively strong, no matter how feminine they seemed… the same hands she used to do her sewing, her cooking, her readings, her hair… the same hands she used to thread two fingers through the curve of her mug’s handle… oh in much the same way you wished they could curve into- no. 

No. 

You wrenched your eyes away, declining the draw of lust, and picked up the next gift on autopilot. As you tried emptying your head, the wrapping paper fell apart under your wandering hands, and soon you were staring down at what seemed to be a box of tarot cards. A very unique box of tarot cards with unique drawings, sequences, and detailing - art nouveau inspired. One of your favourites. 

“I don’t have this set yet…,” you breathed, drifting your fingertips over the glossy cover of the box like it was your Bible. 

“I know.” She hummed, still drinking from her hot chocolate, watching you with curiosity.  

Tarot set collecting somehow became your combined hobby over the years, although your preferences differed so as to not have any duplicates. Lilia had a set she used only for the shop, one that didn’t hold the same sentimental value as the few others she had, and you displayed your decks on the empty surface of your dresser. Lilia rarely got new ones, she was quite connected to the five that she already had, they all held different meanings, and you only enjoyed splurging when you saw ones that were really incredible. Your next gift was a surprise for Lilia, it would bump her deck number up to six, and you smiled softly as you slid the top off of the decorative box and swiftly counted the cards as the tenth addition to your collection. 

“These are gorgeous. Where did you get them?” You couldn’t tear your eyes away. 

“A witch never tells,” Lilia put two fingers to her pursed lips and though you didn’t look up to see it, you still huffed at her words. 

“Well can a witch accept a thank you?” 

“She can,” your roommate acquiesced, giving you a heartfelt “You’re welcome” when you thanked her on the spot. 

“I will say I think you and I had the same idea,” you admitted when Lilia got around to opening her next gift. She raised quizzical eyebrows as she looked down at the box in her hands, and you watched with glee as her lips parted in surprise. “We know each other so well.” 

“It appears we do…,” she murmured low beneath her breath before she tossed the wrapping paper down to you and gave the box a proper look.

It was medium sized, wooden, hand painted, and carved. On the front, there was a rather uncanny all-black cameo of Lilia’s side profile. It was perfect, from the shelf of her brow to the distinct curve of her nose down to the gentle slope of her neck, and it was front and centre in the painted format of a tarot card. At the bottom were two words written in your pen, ‘The Divine’. And at all four corners, little details of the sun, moon, Saturn, and stars. Lilia was quiet as she opened the hinged lid, and then she gasped as she came face to face with The Empress. It took her less than a second to realise what you’d done. Her gaze shifted quickly, from every individual stroke to every mark and design, from every corner signature to every line. With slow movements, pouring with awe, The Empress was quickly pushed to the back as Lilia slipped the entire stack out of the box and began fanning them with her fingertips. Her touch was delicate, hovering as she traced outlines and ran her thumb along the curves of the cards. 

“Hand painted,” she said softly and you looked from her to the deck and back again with a nod and a smile. 

“Do you like them?” You didn’t really have to ask, you knew she did, but some part of you was always nervous whenever you did something nice for your roommate. You had to toe the line carefully, balancing being platonic and being romantic, and gifts were, at times, a difficult thing to interpret. You wanted her to enjoy them, to find use in them, to keep them for the rest of her long life just as she had with a bunch of her other souvenirs. If ever she had to leave, flee, or travel somewhere without you, you hoped that she would stop to pack them in with her things first. Or better yet, use them for special occasions. Times where she could tell people that she got that deck of tarot cards from a young woman she once knew, a woman she thought of often with fondness. Maybe a woman who could become her wife one day, though it was such a silly thought you could only shake it out of your head.

“Yes, I like them,” Lilia breathed, eyes still hungrily devouring the details. She looked quite impressed. “These are beautifully done. Thank you.” Her smile felt like a hug around your shoulders when she peered down at you. 

“Oh I- of course…,” you said shyly, resisting the urge to bow your head or look away, and her smile only grew as she turned back to her new deck and began realigning them. You watched her for a moment, seeing her care and appreciation in the way she handled them like fine china, and it was only when the box made a light clink against the side table that you finally snapped out of it.

“Why don’t we open the last ones together?” You suggested, perking up with a renewed sense of interest. The last gift was your personal favourite as it contained the most magic, and since you had yet to find your own physical form of the craft, like Lilia’s golden whisps, it was also the most time consuming. Laborious magic was a true pain in the ass, but you had a little help from your mentor and in only a few days, the gift was complete. You prayed the witch in front of you enjoyed it. 

“Good idea,” she put the wooden box to the side and picked up the last gift.

You mirrored her, then watched as both of you worked at the wrapping paper and revealed your last gifts. 

In your hand, a small unassuming brown box. In Lilia’s, a long Tiffany-blue box. You shared a look and in unison, slid the tops off.

Inside the box, nestled in a soft foam mould, was a simple, smooth, shining Black Tourmaline. It was about the size of the dip in your palm and when you picked it up, your hand dropped just a bit with the weight. You glanced up at Lilia, meeting her eyes over the ledge of her knees, and smiled in confusion. 

“This is gorgeous, but why is it so heavy?” You laughed, holding the gemstone like gold as you slid it between your palms and ran your fingers over the smooth surface. 

“Turn it around,” she responded as she looked down at her own gift and hummed, moving to gently take it out of its own foam mould as though it was made of glass. 

“Oh… woah…” On the other side was an engraving. A symbol. Seven points to a complex star. You’d seen glimpses of it in various books over the years, but it wasn’t among the most common signs in witchcraft, so you never paid it any proper attention. Clearly, to Lilia, you should’ve. 

“It’s a Heptagram. In many religions, its existence is overwhelmingly positive,” Lilia said offhandedly, eyes still glued to her own gift, “and this…,” she twirled it in her fingers, face glimmering with the way the sun shone through the kitchen curtains and caught the light off of one of the shining little bunches, “is a bouquet of hemlock stuck in stasis.” Her vision readjusted, moving past the green of the stems to you, sitting in direct view behind them. You watched as the film of magic made the bunch glow. From certain angles, it seemed as though it stood beneath shining stained glass, casting reds, oranges, yellows, blues, purples, greens, pinks, and whites all in various shades.

“I knew it was a bit on the nose, but it can’t hurt you unless you decide to eat it,” you explained, “Elise helped me cast the spell. It will be like that forever, I’m pretty sure. That’s why it’s shimmering. Pretty, isn’t it?” You smiled, running your fingers over your new stone aimlessly. 

“It’s perfect,” Lilia said warmly, tilting her head with a sweet smile on her face. “Thank you.”

“Of course!” You rushed out, chest almost heaving with the weight of her affection “Now are you going to tell me the meaning behind this stone?” You asked and held it up before your eye, symbol facing her. 

“It’s a protective ward. Throughout the ages, it has come to mean different things to different believers, but I focused my energy into divine protection. As long as it’s with you, anyone with bad intentions will turn the other way,” she explained in her teacher voice, speaking matter-of-factly.

You blinked at her. 

She looked entirely unbothered, maybe a little bit proud, as if it was just another one of her lessons. As if she did something like that for everyone, everyday. 

“Or that’s what it’s supposed to do,” Lilia rolled her eyes and swung her head to the side as she picked up her mug again, “but I’m certain I got it right.” 

Oh. Right. Of course. As if it was just another one of her lessons. Like a Christmas Day lesson. Like perhaps it was no big deal. Like maybe it wasn’t a true feat of magic, no matter how small the gem. Like protection wasn’t that hard. Like it wasn’t genuinely the kindest thing anyone had ever done for you. Ever. And like you wouldn’t think about it for the rest of your life, which you would, of course, cuz you’d hold the thing in your pocket, in your hand, you’d sew it into your skin, if it meant you wouldn’t lose it. 

Not that you could, you decided. No. You’d have it forever. You’d keep it until death, considering that’s what Lilia wanted. Your safety. Your protection. She went as far as to pick out a gem for you, went through the time of making it compact enough, smooth enough, and spent lord knows how long carving the symbol into its surface. Then continued to cast on it, doubling the chance of success, tripling the strength. For your protection. For your survival. Because she cared. Lilia Calderu cared. And you knew she did, so you weren’t sure why tears started to prick at your eyes, but it wasn’t like she noticed anyway.

She was too focused on her hemlock, admiring it still with a pleasant smile on her lips, and you watched her lick the hot chocolate from her mouth and put her mug down before you sprang into action. 

You hadn’t even realised that’s what you’d been waiting for, why you hesitated, but the second her hands were empty and you felt the warmth of her body press into your own, it made sense. That’s what you craved. That’s what you always missed. The subtle buzz in your body, calling as if it were without something, begging for a concept you knew nothing off, went quiet. Like a switch being turned off. Your hands tucked themselves beneath her arms and went winding up to her back, splaying out with the stone squished gently in between your left hand and her pyjamas. Of course that’s what you wanted. Lilia. Always Lilia. She still smelled so lovely, like the sweet perfume of your home and the lemon of her shampoo, and you shuddered as you felt a soft puff of breath along your neck. Jesus, you melted for her. Like ice in the sun. Like butter in a pan. Warm with love, with sunlight, and you felt as though you could soak her up forever. You could stay there, nearly collapsing at the feel of her arms running up to curl along the curve of your back, forever.

“Thank you Lilia,” you whispered into her ear, sounding shuddery and frail as those sweet hands patted you once, twice, so warm and so calming. Her arms squeezed gently, nonverbally returning the sentiment, and you felt weak. “Thank you…” 

A minute passed, then she shifted and pulled you a bit closer. 

“Merry Christmas, honey,” Lilia murmured, red lips so close to your skin you swore you could feel the brush of them. The pull of them. Like maybe she wanted them to be there. 

What a silly thought. 

“Merry Christmas, Madame Calderu,” you replied, just as softly, and grinned with joy as her shoulders began to jump with happy quiet laughter.

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・✩・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

The witch came back the very next day oh the witch came back...

Hi! Hello! Hi! Let me know what you all think? Did I get the characterization right? I have another part in mind for this, so if you like it and you show your love, you may have more Lilia Calderu coming your way. I really hope you're all doing well. - Yours, Ripley x

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・✩・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・