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angelisverba · 1 year

Text

kryptonite

in which y/n smokes weed (sometimes) and she thinks her dealer is super cute, and harry always gives her a little extra because she’s sweet

word count: 8.2k

pairing: plug!h and y/n

warning: if you are uncomfortable with the use of drugs, please do not continue reading!! i DO NOT want to see any messages in my inbox that talk of ‘glamourizing’ this drug. if you don’t like it-> don’t read it. mentions of bullying, peer pressure,

author’s notes: the second and final part to this fic will be posted next week, feb. 02 at 8am pst.

* * * * * * *

Harry hated parties.

Admittedly, they were a third of his source of income, but unless it wasn’t a gathering exclusively composed of his close circle, he didn’t want anything to do with it. They were too loud and sticky, messy and smelly. Red solo-cups littered at every available corner, half filled with Coca-cola, vodka, and the occasional sad, cigarette butt. Scantily clad girls and ‘discreet’ boys that didn’t know how to read body language that clearly screamed ‘I’M NOT INTERESTED!’. It just all got his nerves because half the time he knew they were only using him to get reduced prices on the marijuana he spent ample time on growing.

He tried, as a general rule, to limit his reluctant, brooding attendance to parties he knew would only consist of Mitch, Sarah, Adam, and the handful of other friends that just wanted to have a good time and a nice snuggle on a cramped couch that rumbled with intoxicated laughter. He liked being in a crowd he knew, it was much more intimate, less pressure-filled. He didn’t have to maintain that ‘polite’ air that was socially required in an atmosphere of people he didn’t know. No niceties or complimentary. When it was just him and his friends, all of that ‘quiet’ and ‘please, thank you’ shit wasn’t necessary. He could jump straight to his affectionate, giggly, sprawling-all-over-everyone’s-lap self, and no one would question it because they know it’s what he preferred.

But, at a big house party like the one where he was at, where everyone knew him as The One Guy Who Sells The Good Shit, Harry had to pretend to be polite and quiet and small, and adopt an overall stiff persona that made him prickly and cold. This wasn’t him. He didn’t like this, and wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for his very convincing friend Mitch, who noticed that business was slow and assured him that he was bound to 1) ‘sell a shit-ton’ and 2) gather a handful of new clients once they realized that what he had to dispense was pretty good quality for a subjectively cheap price.

Mitch had been right, of course.

The small black backpack of goodies that Harry had brought to this inconspicuous function had been empty in less than two hours, and he’d repeated his number enough times that it started to feel forgein on his tongue. Once or twice, a few girls had flashed him what could be called ‘bedroom eyes’, but he wasn’t in the mood to get his rocks off. When he came with a purpose to sell, any need, want, or hope for sex flew out of the window because then he ran the risk of girls thinking their ‘connection’ entitled them to some sort of discount on weed, and he didn’t particularly fancy ruining his post-coitous bliss with the awkward exchange of rejection that followed their questions.

Plus, it made him feel used.

A good three hours have passed, and he’s about to tell Mitch he’s ready to leave when his line of sight is snagged on the diamond image- no, a beautifully deceiving mirage, because there’s no way this girl is real. Not when she looks like a ditzy sprite, a walking mermaid, a glimmering fairy, a heart-wrenching siren, and any other bewitching, ethereal creatures that stole men’s souls upon the first breath they took in their presence. She looked like one of his psychedelic hallucinations that whispered sweet things to him and played with the ends of his hair when he’s in the lull of shrooms, brought to life. Grounded, real, and three-dimensional, not just in the airy, green-leafed recesses of his muddled mind.

This pretty little enchantment that caught his eye had floated into the room on two clumsy, shoddy-sneaker covered feet that extended from bambi-like legs with knees that were almost comically knocking against one another. She walked slanted, her shoulder pressed against her friend’s, whom Harry might have been able to recognize as Sarah if he spared his gaze, but that was impossible. So, he thought to himself, this is how magnets work? Even if he wanted to, he knew he wouldn’t be able to dislocate his line of sight from the socket it had carved itself into. Her cheeks, rounded with laughter and smiles, were dusted with the telling, glimmering sheen created by alcohol, and her eyes were bright, shiny, and starry from the handful of lamps that lit the living room. The slope of her waist, semi-shrouded deliciously from the billowy fabric of her powder blue summer dress (he couldn’t fucking believe she was wearing a dress when it was windy outside. Did she not care for her health?) and it made him think of the marvelous illusions created from marble. He was fond of going to museums and staring- for hours, at times- at statues of women draped in silk that were replicated with such precision, it was almost as if the wind was right there, rippling against the tantalizing figure of the unidentified female, so much so that an man was inspired to share his tortured vision. In solid form, nonetheless.

It made him wonder what the artist could see in real life. What they envisioned the model to be like underneath the heavenly fibers that twisted and turned restlessly with running air, preventing a clear grasp on the body underneath. Spurred to the point of such desolation, left with a hunger to resurrect what their mind’s eye consumed in physical format to live on forever and torment anyone else who looked.

He understood then. Understood that hunger and want for more.

She spun prettily like one of those ceramic ballerinas in a golden music box owned by children of important people, and that damn dress was both too loose and too free, moving around her with a protective fluidity from hungry, lovelorn wolves like him. He can’t hear her clearly because he’s too far away, but the snippets of her laugh that his ears manage to funnel down to his eardrums sound like a fairy’s tinkle.

She is a dream. Head thrown back before she replies with such enthusiasm and a strange half-lucidity that it has him leaning in to try and hear the drunken words that escape her soundless lips. He’s stuck in a moment of frozen time with her and only her. There’s a pinch behind his sternum when her head moves in his direction, and a strong titanic-worthy sink when she stops before even reaching his gaze. The words of some pop song from the early 2000’s skim cheesily through the background of his brain like a lonesome draft. Where have you been all my life?

Tunnel vision, he believes it might be called.

Next to him, Mitch bumps his shoulder, shattering his dangerously sharp focus with mumbled words that Harry doesn’t quite register with complete comprehension because they sound warped, as if they were spoken through a thick layer of glass or from underwater.

“What?” He blinks, his eyes stuck on her but his head rotated enough to the side that his friend knows he’s listening. He’s afraid that if he stops looking, or even blinks, she'll evaporate into thin air and he’ll spend the rest of his life wondering if she really was a mythical being conjured from his second-hand high.

Mitch clears his throat and hides a knowing twitch of his mouth beneath the rim of his drink, “I said her name is y/n.”

Harry, distracted and oblivious, is unaware that Mitch caught on to the focus of his attention, asks, “Who?”

This time, he can’t help but huff a chuckle, “This girl, H. Her name is y/n. She just started working with Sarah. Sarah says she keeps to herself, but there’s been a bit of… bullying, so she invited her out for a good time.”

“Bullying?” A faucet of anger opens in his major arteries and replaces his blood with a river of internalized rage. Bullying? Bullying her? His head whips around with enough speed to crack the vertebrae in his neck, and his thick brows furrowed with a fierce expression that would scare anyone that looked at him then (Mitch being exempt because he knew there would be no harm coming from that look). “What do y’mean bullying?” He spits the word out like it tastes foul.

Mitch takes another sip from the red solo cup, taking time to compose his face before continuing casually, “yeah. Y/n’s new, sweet, and quiet. Sarah says the others at work think that she’s their personal coffee runner or something. She tries to help her when she can, but she's not always around ‘cause of meetings or whatever.”

Harry sucks on his teeth and shakes his head, twisting again to observe y/n with mooney eyes, bitterness still simmering within him at the treatment she receives at her workplace. Especially when the smile he was so fortunate to witness made him taste caramel and honey and peach nectar and all of the sweet treats that traversed through his esophagus when the munchies hit. It warmed him to finally have a lovely name to attach to a lovely name.

Y/n. It settled nicely in his inner monologue, and he wanted to speak it. Test it on his tongue to see if it molded his lips as nicely as he imagined it would. It fit her, he thought. Y/n. Weirdly, Harry itched to throw it casually in a conversation with her. An exclamation. A wheezed whisper in the middle of a breathless laugh. In a greeting. In a goodbye. To grab her attention. To console. It was ridiculous! He didn’t even know her but he wanted, badly, for this party to transform into one of the more comfortable ones he had with his friends. For her to sit next to him on the couch his arm around the space behind her as she leaned into him unconsciously as the conversation continued. To grab her bicep in a nervous giggle when he stumbled after one too many. To share a bowl of chips with her (lime was his favorite, but he would eat barbecue flavored ones- his least favorite- if they were hers).

“Whose-”a burp, “motorcycle is blocking the driveway?!”

A clearly drunk male slurred from the front of the house, an arm raised as he swayed in a half-assed attempt to grab everyone’s attention, the drink in his hand sloshing onto the carpet and Harry winced, half from being startled and half from the suddenly stiffness that came with several pairs of eyes landing his way.

“Sorry, mate. That would be me.” He raised a finger in the air and bent at the waist to deposit his unfinished drink on a low black coffee table by his knees. He shrugged, rolling his lips into his mouth and turning to Mitch with his shoulders lifting with the beginnings of a hug, “‘was just gonna leave, anyway.”

“Early night, H?” Mitch mumbled, pressing a quick kiss on his cheek while embracing his friend, the ghost of a laugh lingering in his nasal passage. Harry’s cheeks turned a light pink and his nostrils flared in his attempt to hide his smile.

“Yup.” Harry returned the kiss, his nose digging onto the scruff of Mitch’s cheek, tickling him. Stepping back from their show of affection, he patted his palms against his thigh to make sure he had his phone and keys, and tugged the strap of the small backpack on his shoulder to verify it’s presence.

Mitch resumed his leaning position against the door frame, hand in his pocket, “alright. Text me when you get home.”

“‘Course.” Sparing one last glance in the charming sprite’s direction as he said his final goodbye, he was devastated to find that she had, in fact, disappeared, just as he’d feared.

He almost stayed to find her and watch over y/n like some sort of guardian angel, but he didn’t have the guts to go up to her. He hadn’t even finished one drink, so liquid courage wasn’t there to help him, not when he had to ride his motorcycle home. He almost asked Mitch to keep an eye on her for him, but it wasn’t necessary. Sarah was with her, and therefore he’s already watching her.

And from the comforting, yet teasing, twinkle in his friend’s eyes told Harry everything he needed to know. He knew that he was well on his way to cracking his head open over his heels.

Their friendship had always been one of little words.

******

Harry’s been delivering weed for a while now.

What started as a side hustle to obtain much needed income when times were tough developed into an interesting near full-time job with amazing results and benefits (he got to smoke weed for free now, since he grew it himself, but there was always that whole ‘don’t get high off your own supply’ rule, so he did limit himself). He had thought that he would have trouble attaining customers, but word spread like wildfire amongst his close circle of friends, which all happened to be free spirited individuals that harnessed the powers of nature, and then their friends, trusted friends, and so on and so forth.

It got to a point where he needed a separate phone for dealing alone because the ‘rush hour’ would meddle with his personal texts, leading to frequent ‘wrong person’ texts, and he traded his crappy car for a decent motorcycle so he could get to drop-off locations quicker. The added ‘badass’ effect also stroked his ego, so it was a wonderful bonus.

But the annoyance of being interrupted in the middle of something like, let’s say… an episode of Hannibal with a warm bowl of buttered popcorn in his lap always came in the same frustrating amounts.

Like now.

The Netflix screen pauses on Mads Mikkelsen’s face, spouting some bullshit about a tea cup, when his phone dings with a new notification. The sound is a specifically selected ‘ding!’ that is different from his personal phone so it’s easier to differentiate the purpose of the incoming message, and a rumbling groan vibrates from the back of his throat. Throwing his head back against his beat up, brown leather couch, Harry slams his hand around him until his ringed fingers click against the sleek device, and it automatically lights up as he brings it up to his face.

Unknown Number: Hi! Mitch gave me this number and said I’d be able to buy some pre-rolls?

Fucking Mitch. He often passes the number off to his buddies at the record store he works at. The dude started typing again, and the grey bubble with three dots wiggles at the bottom corner of the new text chat. Harry waited.

Unknown Number: If it’s too late for you, I understand.

It was, in fact, too late for him. But, money was money. He technically wasn’t doing anything important, so he would go and deliver to this-

Unknown Number: My name is y/n, by the way :D

Not a dude.

Fuck.

Not a dude.

The popcorn went flying off his chest and spilled all over the floor as he jumped up from his seat. Fuck. Y/n? Y/n with a smiley face. The girl from the party? His heart came to a stuttering stop, screeching like tired on asphalt breaking at a high speed as he came to the realization. The girl has haunted him like a stubborn will ‘o wisp for the past week was texting him. Albeit, it is for a service, but it was still something. The marijuana aspect of his situation didn’t bother him. He sold and consumed, it would be hypocritical of him if it did. Besides, she was an adult. She could do what she liked.

His jaw is on the floor, his eyes popping out of his head and he can’t believe what’s happening to him at that moment. He’d kiss Mitch on the mouth next time he saw him. It’s not until he sees the grey bubbles appear and disappear quickly again that he remembers the normal, usual response to this kind of situation is to type back. With trembling fingers, he pressed on keys, tapped on the backspace button, and repeated those motions several times because he had no idea what he was supposed to say- no, what was right to say to her. He had a standard response when it came to people who wanted to buy from him, but sending her prewritten message in his notes app that consisted of a short, perfunctory greeting followed by a menu-structured list of what he had available that day and their prices. There was no way in hell he’d send that to her.

Harry: Hello! It’s not too late for me to deliver. What can I help you with?

Unknown Number: Mitch mentioned that you offered a 2 for $35 deal?

Unknown Number: Is that still available?

Harry did offer a two-joint for thirty five bucks deal. Pre-rolled joints in cherry rolling paper about as long as his middle finger to the halfway point of his palm, semi-thickly packed with a hybrid blend of the two Mary-Jane plants (Sativa and Indica, none of that Maui Wowie, Blue Dream, or other strains; he liked to keep it simple) he had in a specially insulated box in the garage attached to the house he rented. It was his most popular sell; decent amount, excellent high, excellent trip. But… two? Was she smoking with someone else? Or was she saving one for a later time? He didn’t think she was the type to smoke two at once, but then again he didn’t know her, so her reasons were unclear to him.

However, if he arrived at her location and she was with someone (a male, specifically) his night would be ruined, because then that would mean that any marginal chance that he had with her was out of the question. And he couldn’t ask her right away because they hadn’t even properly met yet, and that would be weird and rude. That didn’t help his overthinking tendencies, and in a matter of seconds, Harry was sitting at the edge of his couch, popcorn crunching underneath his butt as a frown settled on his handsome features. Jaw set, lips puckered in contemplation with a pinch between his drawn eyebrows that casted shadows over his emerald eyes. He looked menacing, and his smattering collection of tattoos didn’t help either.

Or his motorcycle.

Or the intimidating stigma that came with his title of ‘plug’.

Stubborn as he was, this look of ‘don’t fucking talk to me’ would stay with him for the rest of the night, all because he couldn’t restrain himself from coming to incorrect conclusions. He didn’t know if y/n had a boyfriend, if she was with a friend, or if she would even be interest in him, but the sour thoughts that she did have a boyfriend and wouldn’t be interested in a ‘lowlife’ drug dealer loomed over him like a murky, stormy, thundering clouds.

He sent his response and changed her contact name.

Harry: I do!

Harry: Did you want to see the rest of the menu or are you set?

He knew he was being short with her. His messages were missing their customary smiley faces, the extra exclamation marks, the occasional x’s and o’s. He didn’t even type with capitalized letters, but in order to refrain from diving even further into this hole of hope, he decided that the change in his style of grammar would help him become emotionally distant. He just couldn’t bring himself to add them while he was in a stubborn, self-induced slump. While he looked angry, glittery butterflies beat their cellophane wings inside his ribcage and shook magical glitter onto his intestines, making them warm and queasy.

Y/n: I think that’ll be all for tonight

The causal mention of ‘for tonight’ gives him hope. That implied there would be other nights, and even though he’s currently grumpy because relationships are fucking complicated, he wanted to see her again and again.

Harry: Send your address, please.

She sends her location.

Harry: I’ll be there in 15 minutes.

Since he’s already half dressed in black jeans and a white Fruit of the Loom t-shirt from his earlier afternoon deliveries, he only has to part the crystal bead curtain in the doorframe of his living room to grab the leather jacket hanging from a bright yellow coat rack besides his door, and the backpack that he left in a slump besides his shoes (already packed with goods). He doesn’t think twice about the popcorn that’s scattered all over his floor and couch or that the Netflix “are you still there?” screen blinks black when he picks up his keys from the hook next to his door.

The garage opened when he pressed the button inside the kitchen hall, and he stepped out through the side door leading to the space where he kept his motorcycle. The owners before him had left a shit-load of junk that had taken up most of the space, and with their permission, he sold and threw most of it away. For the most part, it was empty. A bench, some boxes, and the white-refrigerator like rectangular box underneath the worktable along with his ride were the only things in there.

Grumbling and pouting like a petulant child, Harry clipped on his black helmet, flipped the visor down with two slender fingers, and dropped the backpack into the compartment attached to the backseat. A button on his keys closed the garage door behind him as he kicked aside the stand and swerved with a screech onto the road, the night air wrapping around bare throat as he cut through at a higher velocity than was surely legal on a residential street, but he didn’t see it as a crime when the heart was involved. He could picture himself explaining to the officer that pulled hi over in a hypothetical situation, that he was on his way to deliver drugs to the prettiest girl he’s ever seen, and the officer nodding solemnly at his noble cause.

Totally realistic.

Cars honked when he cut them off abruptly, and he gathered stares from the handful of people that were still wandering along the streets, spilling out at random intervals from bars. He had to cut through bits of the city to get to where she lived, and the three red lights that stalled his perusal were lucky that they were government property or else he would have damaged them in a severe fit of impatient rage. He tapped the tips of his shit-colored vans against the road and clenched his ringed fingers around the handlebars, engine roaring with pending release. He should have grabbed leather gloves, he thinks, if not to impress her, then at least to keep his fingers warm because it was an especially chilly night.

Harry’s pulling up to a brick building in exactly fifteen minutes. There’s fire escape ladders trickling down the side, and cement stairs leading up to a brown oak door with a thin window pane slightly left ajar while a burning yellow light seeps in a long bar across the steps like a satin ribbon. Several windows are bright with light from the inside, and the spare streetlamps that cast a spotlight on the sidewalk make the street unsettling, like someone is hiding in the shadows extending from tree trunks. Harry doesn’t like it one bit, and he hopes y/n isn’t walking these streets by herself at night.

He’s simultaneously taking his helmet off and reaching for his phone in his back pocket when he hears her small peep coming from the door.

“Hi!”

And then, she’s all he can see, hear, think. She’s just as absorbing and hypnotizing as the first time he saw her, even though she’s standing in what is clearly pajamas. A long, sage knitted sweater that ends at the tips of her fingers and just above her knees, making her look like a leafy blob. Black sweatpants that are just as loose and baggy shadow the faint silhouette of her legs. Y/n is fiddling with her fingers, picking whatever color nail polish paints her nails (Harry can’t see because he’s too far away) and it makes him want to soothe her hands with his own. She’s tugging her bottom lip between her teeth and she probably doesn’t even realize that her eyebrows are furrowed and the bunch on her brow-bone casts comic-like shadows across her pretty little face.

Stupidly, because he can’t think of anything else to say other than ‘hello’ but he thinks that’s lame, he clears his throat and says, “how’d you know I was here?”

“Your… uhm- your motorcycle,” she points with a finger to the machinery beneath his bum. He’s leaning against it, not wanting to intimidate her by crowding her space in a dark-ish place but he doesn’t realize it actually makes him look very intimidating and ‘bad-boy’ looking. Especially with the leather jacket, “was kinda loud.”

“Mmm,” he hums his acknowledgement, because at that last corner he had purposefully revved the engine more than necessary. To impress her or to sate his devilish tendencies, was unclear. The space between his collarbones feels like it’s inflating and deflating with every rapid pulse of his heartbeat, and for the first time in a while, he doesn’t know where his ‘game’ is. He feels lame, at a loss for how to act around an angel when he was nowhere near her level. Hell, did this count as corruption of her innocence? He was selling her drugs for fuck’s sake.

At this realization, a heavy, sticky, nasty weight slathers itself all over his back and it can only be described as guilt. Should he be selling her weed? Should he even be morally conscious at this point? He sells weed to teenagers when he’s sure they aren’t narcs, but this wasn’t some zit-faced twerp.

This was y/n.

A few seconds of silence pass and she’s just staring at him, her lips rolling like there are words she's holding in and Harry staring at her with a closed-off expression, thick chocolate eyebrows furrowed deep in concentration because he’s memorizing every curve of her face to look back on when she wasn’t with him anymore. It’s after her first intake of breath with her mouth open that he snaps out of it and twists hurriedly to yank out the pink baggie with shiny red cherries printed on them. His current special, though he saved the decorated packaging for his closer group of friends because he knew it made them happy and he loved seeing that smile on their faces, but he wasn’t going to tell her that (and secretly he hopes it might put a dent on his irrational guilt).

“Here are y’cherry joints,” he holds it out, pinched between two fingers and his lips are a hard line as his heart beats out of his chest because- oh, god} she’s stepping closer and she smells really good and-

“‘Kay, uhm…” She takes the bag from him and mentally, Harry curses because she chooses to cup the underside of the bag and that wipes all chances of their fingers accidentally touching. She won’t meet his eyes, she’s shifty on her feet, and he doesn’t know how to tell her not to be nervous without sounding like a creep, “I’ve n-never done this before, and Mitch didn’t say if you took cash or Venmo so I brought my phone and wallet because I wasn’t sure which one you preferred.”

His heart goes through the life cycle of a dandelion. It blooms, yellow with happiness and new life breathed into his seedling soul by the sound of her voice, and transforms into the wispy tufts that fly away, ditzy and twirling from her sweet breath. All the while she holds him in her hand, smiling.

But all of these feelings are hidden away under his mask of self-preservation, writhing and squirming like worms. He gives away nothing, his eyes looking a little dead even though the in-between space where his head meets with the nape of his neck is damp with nervous sweat and he remains stiff and lazily posed against his motorcycle because he’s sure if he didn’t have that support his knees would knock together and sound like the cue ball hitting a winning shot in an empty pool hall.

Carding his hand through his unruly curls, he realizes that he should’ve styles his hair before leaving the house or foregone the helmet entirely, not caring about dying because first official impressions should be killer, and the extra harsh cut in his British drawl when he rasps, “cash is fine,” has to do with his own annoyance.

Y/n is flustered, evidence of that clearly sprawled all over her cheeks and base of her throat which he can see even in the darkness. She lifts the front end of her sweater with a paw-hand and Harry’s insides explode. Her phone and folded dollar bills are squeezed between the band of her bottoms and bare skin of her stomach. For just a second, the beautiful second in which she plucks the money from her body, he catches sight of a white, lacy bra-band that looks glorious while backdropped by the plane of her abdomen. He discovers the meaning of life and death, and wishes for a bit of both because this is torture.

The back of his mouth is drier than the sahara desert. Two tender fingers give him Holy ten and five dollar bills, and her angelic voice sings, “thank you,” when he takes it from her like a beggar.

Harry is an asshole because he can’t even respond with words only a hum of ‘mhm’ before swinging his leg over his ride and muttering a half-hearted, choked, ‘see you’ before roaring away.

****

He tries to invalidate his rapidly growing crush. Truly. He wants to brush it off his shoulder like dust because it’s annoying and distracting to constantly think about her, but nothing works.

In retrospect, he was even psychologically rude about it, trying- and failing- to find negative qualities about her or flaws in her appearance, but his fawning heart wouldn’t allow such disrespect to the receiver of it’s pesky little affections. The worst he could come up with was that her eyes looked as if some snot-nosed, uncoordinated, messy little kid had shaken an entire bottle of glitter onto a piece of copy paper and called it a day. And that her voice was soothing enough to coax that same child into comfortable, cow-jumping-over-moons dreams.

He wishes he were that hypothetical child rocked to sleep by her lulling voice because by the way things were going, he’s having a pretty hard time getting a wink of sleep because every time his phone vibrates he snaps straight up like his spine is locked and obsessively searched his phone for her name. And he’s tried putting his phone on ‘Do Not Disturb’ but it only makes it worse because what if he texts her and he doesn’t see it because he’s sleeping?

All of the customers that came after her, during his period of constant surveillance over his ‘trap phone’ received the best delivery times and the snarkiest attitude he’s ever had to offer. The morning sun isn’t as bright as it used to be and the moon is dimmer than usual because nothing can compare to her. He misses her terribly and it’s stupid because he doesn’t even know her and she probably thinks he’s a jerk because he acts like such a dick.

Mitch thinks it's funny that he’s so twisted about a girl. ‘A’ girl because even though he was high when he spilled his secret to his friend, he doesn’t think he could stand a potential breach of his privacy in the case that Sarah found out.

“I haven’t heard from her in a while,” Harry said.

“Do something about it,” Mitch said.

And well, what the fuck was he supposed to do? It’s not like he can reach out to her to ask her if she wants to buy more weed. That would seem greedy and insensitive on his part; a money hungry dealer. He’s already in a limbo of moral dilemmas that shouldn’t exist in the first place and he doesn’t want to complicate it by any form of shady communication.

His dilemma, however, was solved by whatever divine being that dared to bear witness to his nonsensical pleas to the ether. It seemed as though she favored the night and dark for her ‘picking up’, because the delightful ding! came at the thirty minute mark of his tossing and turning.

With the sheets rumpled around his waist and his templed damp with faint beads of perspiration, Harry straightened in the same way he has for the past month, only the tedious exhaustion of it not being her was begging to gnaw at him. Was this what it felt like to be paranoid? Snapping alert at every single indication of a phone because you think it’s the IRS- or the girl who infects your mind, in his case- calling to demand a service?

Preparing for disappointment again, Harry picked up the phone and squinted as his pupils adjusted to the sudden change in light.

Y/n: Hello, Harry! This is y/n. You delivered to me last month? Are you available for delivery at the moment?

There is a muted thud as his phone slips out of his shocked hands and lands on the rumpled duvet. A thundering set of drums replaces his beating heart and his jaw remains slack because it has lost the ability to close. The perspiration on his hairline transfers to the cave of his hands. For weeks he’s been in a constant state of glum, waiting for her next text, and now that he has it the only thing going through his mind is oh my god, oh my god.

Still, through his haze he manages to reply with,

Harry: Hi!

Harry: Yes, I remember, and yes, I’m available

What he really wanted to say, and what he should have sent was, how could anyone forget you? You haunt me day and night. But that was a little obsessive, and probably would have scared her off before they even got anywhere.

Harry: Would you like to see what I have available?

Y/n: Please :D !

The pre-written list of items he has available changed this week. He’s added some chocolate edibles, brownies, and gummy bears that he picked up for a cheaper, wholesale price at the dispensary he frequents, and it makes him wonder if she’ll dare to buy them. He had one a few days ago at Mitch’s place with Sarah and has a smashing time. He couldn’t stop petting their cat, Texas, because the feel of her brown fur between his fingers was heavenly.

Grey bubbles appear and disappear several times along with his intake of oxygen before a long text appears, listing everything she wants from his makeshift ‘menu’ and… it’s a lot. The last time he received an order like this it was for a frat party that one of Mitch’s coworker’s friend’s brother referred him to, and it took him an entire week of rolling and baking to get his inventory back up. His kitchen smelled like weed-butter for a solid month.

Harry: Give me a moment to make sure I can sell you everything. Pretty large order…

The chipped black paint on his nails became a dark blur as his fingers typed, deleted, and typed uncertain words over and over again before finally settling on a sentence that was… neutral and didn’t send the wrong meaning. Usually, with his customers he was a mixture of blunt and friendly, but y/n wasn’t just a customer, and it made everything ten times harder.

Y/n: I’ll take whatever you have, please! Take your time, I don’t mean to stress you out

If she said please one more time, Harry was sure that he would become a liquid, coagulated version of himself among the mess of his blankets.

Jerking his ankles free of the fabric snake that snared him to a useless bed, he clambered off, knuckling at his tired eyes and shivering as the cool, still air of his room wrapped itself around the warmth of his body. Reaching into his closet for the first things he finds, a dark green hoodie and grey sweatpants, Harry yawns and dramatically stretched with his arms way above his head, hoping that the movement would push out the feeling of loneliness that was beginning to take purchase between his ribs, right underneath his heart.

Another late night, another delivery. He wished there was someone in his bed to call him back. Please don’t go, they’d say, the bed is cold without you in it. A warm hand trailing like a ghost against his thigh as he walked away, and a sleepy smile or groan of displeasure as his goodbye. He might not stay in the bed, but he would be happy- no, elated, to know that he would be coming back to someone.

The grow light of his makeshift greenhouse tinted his skin purple as he rummaged through all of his pre-rolled and pre-packaged items, his phone at his side as he checked off everything she has asked for.

9 of the Cherry Deals

6 of the citrus-infused pre-rolls

4 lavender-infused

10 brownies

And 2 8ths

In total, it came out to 28 joints.

Which is… well, a lot for just one person, or two, or three (unless you’re Snoop Dog or something). Packing everything up into four separate paper bags, and then a larger white bag so that she isn't filling with all of the smaller ones, he types out another cold text.

Harry: Okay I have everything.

Harry: Send the address, please.

She sends the address, and Harry follows the same routine as the last time, nearly eating shit as he flew out into his garage. Excitement bubbles in his guts at the same increment and volume of his motorcycle’s initial purr. Flipping open the back compartment he usually stores things in, he realizes that there is no way it’s all going to fit inside, so he turns on his heels to grab a backpack from inside and then he realizes that he’s not wearing any shoes. The smooth, grey floor is cold against the arches of his bare feet, and his brows furrow at his own insolence. Had he been so wrapped up in… everything that he didn’t put on shoes?

Rolling his eyes at his own actions- and feeling a little embarrassed that he’d let it happen- Harry returned to his home and snatched up the first pair of fashionable compatible shoes within his reach (green converse the same shade of his sweater) and the backpack to place the white bag in ( a little redundant, but he didn’t think holding it while he rode would be a good idea). Rushing back to the garage, he hoped that he wouldn’t come up empty with words like he had the time before.

The last thing he wanted to do was scare her away.

***

He was right about it being a party.

At least three minutes before he was flipping down his kickstand, the thundering bass of some rap song (he thinks he can hear ASAP Rocky, but he’s not too sure) shakes the streets and the trees. It’s a house party in a building that was too big to fit into the word ‘house’, but yet too small to fit in ‘mansion’. Toilet paper and trash litters the front yard while couples make out and loners smoke cigarettes, or maybe joints, out on the generous porch. Sports cars and beat up rides pack the driveway and most of the street in front of the house, so it makes it really difficult to station his motorcycle in an area where he has a clear view of who’s coming in and out of the house, and therefore, really hard to spot y/n.

That is until-

“Hi, Harry!”

She’s sitting down on the curb with her arms around her legs and her chin on top of her legs, looking… scared. Her eyes were blown open like a newborn doe, and the sprawl of her limbs as she unravels from her sitting position to a wobbly stand mimics the shaky, knocking knees of a filly that is learning how to walk for the first time. Her voice is even headier than it was the last time he heard it, like windchimes in the spring chill.

Harry’s eyes roam over her with no attempt to conceal his blatant appreciation for the fuzzy sweater falling down to her mid-thigh. They seem to have become a pattern with her. This time, it’s a baby blue crew neck and a pair of jeans, and y/n’s has tried to tie her hair up into a bun at the back of her hair but spiky pieces stick out the back and tendrils swap her ears, making her look like a soft, smudge-y dream.

“Hello,” he says softly, not needing to clear his throat this time. He steps forward a bit, so he can hear her better (or at least that’s what he tells himself), “s’good to see you again.” Harry’s words are louder and more amicable than the last time he greeted her, and his lips part in a crooked friendly smile which she returned with the same tentativeness. There’s something off about her this time around. She’s pulling at her sleeves and shifting her feet, glancing over her shoulder as soon as she’s standing straight and her eyes won’t stand still on Harry’s figure for more than a few, burning seconds.

“It’s good to see you, too! I hope I’m not waking you up every time I text, though,” an exhaled laugh left her lips, and she dropped her gaze down to her shoes. Y/n rocked on her feet, once and then twice. “I think I’ve… I’ve made a habit of texting you late at night.”

And he blushes, “I- uhm… I was having a hard time sleeping, so you didn’t wake me. It’s fine.”

If only she knew that he was having a hard time sleeping because his subconscious was a bothered brat over not seeing her again. Pleading words of requests to ask her never to stop texting him were dancing on the tip of his tongue, banging against his barricaded lips and begging to come out. However, he didn’t think such daring words were fitting with their barely budding relationship. They were pitiful and needy, like a puppy, and frankly, Harry didn’t want to present that image.

“Oh,” she stilled her movements, checked over her shoulder again and then looked him in the eyes and said, “are you okay?”

“M’fine, yeah. Just got a lot of you on my mind at the moment,” he says. It makes y/n furrow her brows and tilt her head at him like a little cat, only then that he realize what he has said, “Things! Got a lot of things on my mind. Sorry,” he clears his throat, looks away while hanging his helmet on the handle of his ride. “Haven’t been sleepin’ much.”

“Aw, I’m sorry. That sucks,” y/n pouts. Pouts at him. And he just blinks. Doesn’t smile or laugh.

“S’alrigh’. Y’got quite a large order this time. Havin’ a party?” As soon as the words left his mouth he wanted to slap his palm against his forehead. He probably sounded stupid, given there was clearly a raging party going on in the house behind her. Of course she was having a party, what he should’ve said what ‘what are y’celebrating?’ or ‘are you here alone?’. Like the ‘do you have a date?’ kind of alone.

“You got it right? Thank you. And… something like that, I guess. I’m a bit nervous, honestly, because I’ve never…” She shrugs, looking away from him and back to the house.

“Never been to a party like this?” He’s confused. Surely he can’t mean that she’s never smoked before? Right? Because if that were the case, then what did she do with the weed he gave her last time? And what was she doing at a party were they were on this much drugs.

“No! No, no, I’ve never… smoked before.” She’s adamant in shaking her head. Her hands too, splayed wide like jazz hands.

“Y’never smoked before? What about last time?” Harry hates how it sounds as though he’s accusing her, but he can’t seem to control the way his words are coming out of his mouth, not around her, and it’s making him look like a dick. What he wants to do is smile and tease her, to find some way to ask her if she would like to share a joint with him without sounding too sleazy.

Shaking her head, “those were for my roommate and his boyfriend.”

“Oh.” Harry’s heart pitter-patters in his chest, his mouth in a straight line, and although there’s an abundance of emotions elbowing against the other in his chest, he shows none of them.

“Yeah,” awkwardly, she shifts her weight from heel to heel, arms crossed before reaching into her pocket and bringing out a folded wad of cash. “$540, right?”

“That’s right, but…” C’mon man, he scolds himself, pull it fucking together. This is a concerning situation. Surely she can’t be buying this much this time and not plan on participating. “Are you gonna be a’right?”

Worrying her lips between her teeth, she lets out a deep breath before answering. Smiling and nodding as she answers as if she wants to convince herself, “I think so. How hard can it be?”

“Pretty hard if it’s y’first time, sweetheart,” Harry forces himself to smile a little, but instead it looks as though he’s grimacing. “Will y’friends walk y’through it?”

Y/n looks back at the house again, and shuffles her feet. She’s got a sad little look in her eye, droopy and shy. Great. He was making her uncomfortable. “They’re n-not really my friends,” she says, “but I guess so.”

What? “What?” The word is sharp in his mouth. What the fuck was she doing, then? Hanging with people that she didn’t look all that enthused to be with, buying their weed, standing out here all alone?

“They’re not-”

A male comes out of the house, red solo cup in hand, and he’s not wearing a fucking shirt. He’s waving a hand in the air, trying to flag y/n down Harry assumes, and he’s offended for her. Harry’s brows furrow and his hands curl into fists behind his back. Why isn’t he wearing a shirt? What the fuck is he drinking and why is he being so disrespectful interrupting their conversation this way? All for some weed?

Now on the last step, the guy shouts, “Y/n, what’s taking so long?”

The poor girl jumps, startled, and her eyes go wide. “Sorry, I’ll be in soon!” Y/n shoves the money at him, frazzled, and takes the paper bag from his hands. “Here's $560, Harry. The rest is a tip. You can count it if you’d like!”

“It’s alright, here you-” she’s already bounding away from him, but he doesn’t want her to go, and somehow, he finds the will to call her back. He just wanted her to look at him once more, because she wasn’t even inside yet, but he missed her gaze. “Y/n!”

She stops, and he gets exactly what he wants. Her attention. “Yes?”

Harry swings a leg over his motorcycle and gets ready to leave before he does anything stupid like… like trying to hold her hand or something. Who knows, he lost his ability to act his age around her. “Have a water bottle at your side,” he’s mumbling almost, “and don’t take too much in on your first try. Exhale and don’t freak out when y’start coughing. Or embarrassed. It’ll be okay. And… and do y’best to relax.”

“Thank you, Harry.”

And y/n smiles at him.

It’s small, and it’s meek the way a feral kitten approaches a human with food. Scared, and rightfully so, because Harry wants to scoop her up and take her home.

“Of course. Have a safe night.”

She nods and walks away with another piece of his heart in her hands.

#harry styles fanfiction #harry styles one shot #harry styles blurb #harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #harry styles fluff oneshot #harry styles fic #harry styles angst #harry styles smut #harry styles smut imagine #harry styles fanfic

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justpoliteconversations · 20 days

Text

Soft Morning [Husband!Four x Reader]

Domestic bliss is quiet. And soft.

Been a rough week. So I'm taking it easy coming back into the writing scene and just basking quietly in some self indulgent nonsense. Also, I have fallen deeper into Four Simp Hell. Send help.

Masterlist

TW: None.

Disclaimer: Don't own The Legend of Zelda franchise. Linked Universe is the fan creation of jojo56830.

---

You come to the brink of awareness when you feel the movement of your favored pillow trying to escape from under you. Of course your sleepy self refuses this distasteful notion, tightening your sleep weakened fingers into the soft give of your traitorous pillow's sides. For your efforts, you get the soft vibrations of fond chuckles and rough, calloused fingers soothing over your exposed cheek and over your fluttering eyelids.

The feeling of dry, tacky lips pressing into the curve of your hairline eases your disgruntled mumbles, pulling a smile to your own dry lips. You tiredly turn your grimy face just enough to press a sleepy kiss into your (pillow's. traitor's. abandoner's) husband's collarbone, dozing off right after. Your forehead pressing ever harder into the firm muscles and softened flesh of his robust chest as you lose the battle to stay conscious.

You were unaware of when Link finally managed to escape from under you, readjusting you into a proper sleeping position with practiced ease. Tucking the blankets in around you to keep out the crisp morning chill threatening to nip at your exposed, sleep-warmed skin. And forcing his abandoned pillow into your lax arms, smiling as you curled yourself around it slowly (seeking comfort).

A soft, lingering kiss was placed right between your brows. A roughened finger gently wiping away the build-up at the corner of your eyes and the dryness at the corners of your mouth. Pulling a slightly pinched expression to your face as he worked out a stubborn layer of it with a nail.

Eventually, Link ran out of reasons to procrastinate the inevitable and he sighed (soul deep and aching). Tired from the early morning (so early the rooster hadn't even awaken yet. the sun had yet to peek over the horizon) and reluctant to leave the comfort of this tiny haven. But he gritted his teeth and straightened himself out. Pulled his smooth, blonde hair into a ponytail, and forced the cobwebs of sleep from his bones with a few long stretches.

He arched his back (ignoring the bite of early morning- nearly night- air on his goosebumped skin), cracked his shoulders, his hips, his elbows and knees. He loosened his joints and eased his tired muscles into his pre-morning morning routine by the power of his will alone. Occasionally looking over at your sleeping face, hidden partially in his pillow, your lashes fluttering gently as you reentered a shallow dream.

The sight of you (soft and safe and his forever more. his to hold. his to keep. his to provide for and to cherish and to love), gave Link the strength he needed to finish off his exercises and begin another day.

You awoke nearly 3 hours later, just as the first streams of sunlight peeked through the curtains of your bedroom window. Slow and aching, with your eyes still glued shut.

You almost dozed off again as the drag of sleep called to you, strong as a siren's call. But you reminded yourself that your husband would be in the workshop already. Working hard and laboring over the heat of the forge, hair pulled back from his sweat-slicked face and undoubtedly hungry (because he refused to eat without you. and as much as you loathed him going hungry, your heart fluttered at the notion that he was waiting for you).

That knowledge, more than anything, gave you the strength to pull yourself out of bed (graceless though the effort was) and begin another day.

The air was stinging cold this early in the morning, prickling your skin and nearly painful to the touch. But you pushed passed the discomfort, entering the hallway and making your way to the workshop at the other end of the house.

(Link had moved the bedroom there after you finally agreed to move in with him. Because he was loathed to disturb your slumber when the urge to craft and give shape became too strong and he inevitably started in on his newest fixation. No matter the time of day or night.)

Halfway down the hall, you heard the first rings of metal being struck. It was a familiar sound by now, and it never failed to put a pip in your steps (the thought of seeing your husband, your Link, always did. even now, when you saw him so often the shape and expressions of his face was more familiar than your own). And you smiled tiredly as you got closer.

Sunlight was streaming through the open windows of the workshop, bathing the place in the soft shine of morning's first light. Honestly, it was damned annoying (gleaming far too brightly off metal scraps. the intensity of it hurting your still sleep strained eyes).

But the way it touched the beautiful (scarred. discolored. perfect) curve of your husband's skin and labor-hardened physique made you forget all that. Because sitting before you (with stray hairs framing his concentrated face. salty sweat and grime coating every inch of his skin), was the most stunning (most divine) creature you had ever had the pleasure to set your eyes upon (and always would be, no matter how many years passed).

Fine, blonde hair pulled into a high ponytail, unruly bangs escaping their confines to stick wetly to his forehead and jawline. Eyes a collage of glossy red and bright green and cool violet and steel blue, shifting and gleaming from one strike to the next. Thin lips pulled down in intense focus, reddened and dry from the heat of the forge. As were his cheeks, ears and forehead.

His work apron tied and pinched at the slim clench of his waist, straining at the width of his wide chest and broad shoulders. His work shirt's oil stained sleeves rolled up to the elbow, tight at the curved muscles of his upper arms. And his Minish tail earring, a delicate contrast to it all shimmering in the dim light of the forge's red glow.

Absolutely stunning. Like poetry in motion. Art at it's finest.

Another strike of metal, and you catch a glimpse of movement as Link's multi-colored eyes took you in for a brief moment before returning to his work. Another strike. And another.

And you waited it out patiently. Knowing that once he finished up whatever he needed to to find a good stopping point, he would properly address you.

Knowing that he would put the half-finished pieces his current project down. That he'd pull off his thick forging gloves and push the sweat-soaked hairs from his face, sighing deeply (as though coming up for breath after a long, hard dive into cold, mountain waters). He'd stretch his back in a chest bearing arch (shoulders pulled back, hands curled into fists at his shoulders). Then, put his hands on his thighs and leverage himself up like a crumpled old man (but he wasn't. you knew better than anyone just how spry and lively he could be when properly enticed).

With one last look around the shop, he'll turn to you and smile. Soft and warm and a little lopsided at the corner of his lips. Eyes beloved, soft blue, shimmering with the promise of others.

For sometimes his eyes would be heart-seeping red. Or sometimes it would be heart-fluttering green.

Or he'll kick his stool under the table and you'll be met with intense, unwavering blue taking you in from the tips of your toes to your cold-reddened ears. All with a grin bearing far too many teeth and maybe a little flex. Just enough to draw heat to your cheeks.

Or sometimes, when the clouds are heavy in the sky or the promise of rain is dark on the horizon. You'll find the calm, smooth gleam of lavender-blue set upon you with the faintest of smirks resting on his lips. The soft sigh of relief as he works the tightness out of his hands.

And then (no matter the color that sometimes seeps into his eyes. no matter the shift and turn and quirk of his lips) Link will come to you, take your hands into his and press his lips to your own. Brief and chaste, but for the gentle inhale as he pulls away and bids you good morning. Open and sincere, always. No matter his mood, no matter his temperament.

And you'll lean back in and give him a kiss of your own. You'll lift your joined hands and kiss his work worn (battle worn) knuckles, before looking back up to meet his tender, love-struck gaze.

Just like every morning before. And every morning that will come after.

But for now, you lean against the doorway of the workroom and let your eyes linger tiredly (dreamily) upon your husband. Letting a smile slip wider across your lips as you thank whatever deity will listen for bringing you to this man. And for bringing him to you.

And you promise yourself that no matter what may come. That no matter what the future may hold. That this moment. This place. This life. Will never slip away from you. And that you will fight for it, with every ounce of strength you possess.

Bathed in the heat of forge fire and the sweat of his labors, Link had made a promise to himself too (many years ago, before the ring he would one day put upon your finger had even blessed his hands). That he would never let this go. Not until death itself came to reap his soul. This life he had built for himself, and for you, with his own two hands.

That he would fight for it. With every drop of blood in his body, and every thread of courage woven into his spirit.

That he would win. As he always has.

And as he always will.

---

Back to the shadows to rest.

#linked universe #linked universe x reader #linked universe four

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anemptypuddingcup · 7 months

Text

Soaking your skin.

Siren!Nami x Female Reader.

Smut short.

Contains: Can be either OPLA or Anime Nami. This one isn’t spooky. Siren!Nami. Reader is afraid of the water. Reader is very nervous in this one. Fear play. Fingering in water. Fingering. Nami holding you in the water. Mommy kink. Begging to cum- Huehue, sloppy kisses. Nami being the pretty lesbian she is.

Nami adored how pretty you were. She also adored your cute little reactions to everything, it was like watching an angel in heaven. You were so sweet and adorable, she couldn’t help it once she had gotten your attention. You came to the beach everyday but she could never gain the courage to speak to you. She had noticed you sitting there alone on the beach, sulking while the grains of sand sticked to skin of your thighs.

Taking a deep breathe, Nami swims over to shore and over to you, her body halfway into the salty sea water while she focused her attention onto you. “Hey! Hey!” She calls out to you and tries to catch your attention, but you continue to sit there and sulk, making Nami pout.

She hums before she begins to sing, the sound waves of her voice traveling over into your ears and causing you to raise your head. You look over at her and scoot back from the shore, a nervous gasp leaving you while she stared at you. “Hey there pretty~ You seem so lonely. Is everything alright?” She asked, propping her head against her hand while her tail begins to flap with excitement.

You hesitate and look around before looking back to her. With a nervous yet reluctant sigh leaving your lips, you crawl on all fours across the sand and over to her. You were even prettier in person, your pretty glistening eyes staring into hers with nervousness yet slight interest. “W-Who’re you? Were you watching me?” You ask her, blinking to her.

Nami nods to your question before smiling, her eyes giving quick glances to your breasts while your eyes fluttered nervously. “I was, I have been for a very long time. You always look so lonely and sad, so I decided to speak to you~” Nami says sweetly, her arms pulling her body up higher onto shore. She reveals her beautiful yet shimmery orange tail to you, flapping it against the waves while your eyes widens from shock.

You quickly pull away from her and she giggles. “It’s okay cutie, I don’t bite~” She says to you, letting out a sweet laugh. “Y-You’re- You’re-“ You say, your voice trembling through your words. “I’m a siren sweetheart, but I’m not here to hurt you. In fact, I just want to spend time with a pretty girl like you.” Nami says to you. You blink blankly before moving in closer, your eyes more focused on her pretty tail.

“Would you like to swim with me? The water’s a bit warmer today.” Nami asks, you, lifting her head up to you. You shake your head in sudden response before speaking any words. “Oh no no no, I-I can’t swim. Actually, I’m more afraid of going out far into sea.” You admit, pulling away once again. Nami holds her hand out to you before smiling sweetly.

“Do you trust me?” She asks you, quirking a brow to you. You stared at her hand for a moment. You had nothing better to do, plus it was better than sitting there moping around on the beach. You reluctantly take her hand and she pulls yours softly, wanting you to get into the water with her. Standing up on your feet, you follow her, the further you went the tighter Nami held your hand.

As you walked farther into the sea shore, the water began to rise higher, to the point where the water began to reach above your neck. Panic begins to settle in and you being to flail around in the water and gasp out. “H-Hey! Hey! H-Help me please!” You yell out, reaching to Nami. Nami giggles before wrapped her arms around your tummy, her large breasts pressing up against your back while a dark blush dusts your cheeks.

You feel Nami pull you up from the soaking sandy ground, her arms holding you close to her while she helps you both float.

She pulls you in closer before whispering to you, making you jolt from her sudden whisper against your ear. “Is that better for you sweetheart?” She asks you. You turn back to her and look around before nodding slightly. She chuckles and you feel her hands rub up along your tummy, making you mewl.

“Such soft skin you have…” She says to you, pressing her face against your shoulder. You stayed quiet for a moment as your face begins to burn up from her touch and slight affection.

“So what’s your name? My name’s Nami~ It’s such a pleasure to meet you…” Nami says, finally introducing herself.

“_-________.” You whisper shakily to her. She pulls you in closer before giggling, pressing a smooch against your pretty shoulder.

“What a pretty name, it suits a cutie pie like you~” She compliments to you. “T-Thank you, Nami…” You say out, looking back at her again. Nami pulls you in, pressing smooches against your skin which causes you to mewl out.

“Ahhh, you’re so adorable aren’t you sweetness?~” She hums to you, pressing a smooch to your cheek while she held on tight to your body. Her long tail flapped beneath the water while she made sure you didn’t sink beneath her arms.

You turn back to her once again and blush deeply, your eyes softening as the landed onto her pretty eyes. You could see all of the precious and pretty details in her face as she gave you a heartwarming smile. She smelled sweet of citrus, and her lush apricot hair made the sight even more mesmerizing.

You felt her hand play with your bikini top, trailing her hands against the softness of your breasts intentionally in the process. You gasp out as you felt one of her fingers graze your nipple and you begin to thrash around for a second before breathing heavily.

“N-Nami…P-Please…Hold me tighter..” You whisper to her, your hangs gripping her forearms tightly as the sudden panic began to sink in once again.

Nami’s arms tightens around you and she smiles before pressing a smooch to your ear. “I promise, you’re not gonna sink…okay love?” She tells you, her lashes fluttering to you while she stared with love deep in her eyes. You bit your bottom lip and sigh heavily as you stare into her pretty auburn eyes.

“Do you want to get out? We can if we need to okay?”

“No…It’s fine.”

“Are you sure? You look nervous…like you’re close to a breakdown.”

You look down at the crystal clear water before looking back at Nami. “It’s…fine.” You sighed heavily, trying your hardest to relax for Nami. Nami slides a hand down between your legs, and your body shudders from the sudden touch.

“N-Nami-“ You gasp out to her, your body growing warmer against the cold cold waters.

“Shh…Just relax okay?” She whispers to you, sliding her hands farther past your bathing suit. You gasp out as you felt Nami slide her fingers past your bikini and against your clit, swirling and circling her fingertips softly around your sensitive pearl.

“N-Nami~” You moan out Nami’s name and begin to arch your back, another gasp leaving you as you felt her slide her fingers down your slit.

Nami teases your entrance, pressing smooches and hickeys against your neck and ear while she circled your entrance to your sweet hole. “You want them? Do you want my fingers inside of you?” She asks you, pressing a smooch to your jaw. You sigh out to her and nod shamefully, a little giggle leaving her as she runs her fingers up and down, and along your slit.

“P-Please Nami~” You moan out to her, opening your legs a bit more beneath the water. Nami smirks before slowly sliding two digits into your pussy, a little whine leaving you as she stretches your cute little pussy with her fingers. A sudden touch against your g-spot makes you gasp out suddenly and jolt against Nami, the water creating ripples with your every movement.

You feel Nami pump her digits into you, thrusting her fingertips into your g-spot with ease and ferocity. You whine and gasp out against you, laying your head against her shoulder while she pleasured you.

Feeling your cunt tighten around her fingers, she gives you a little giggle before moving her hand faster. Your feet were practically above water and the sight of your toes curling made Nami chuckle with excitement. “Ah!~ Ah N-Nami!~” You moan out her as she fucks your sweet cunt with her fingers, making your body melt against hers. You hear Nami giggle behind you as she relished in your whines and moans, her tail flapping with excitement.

“Does that feel good hm? Is mommy Nami making you feel so good?~” Nami cooed, teasing you as she nudges her fingertips against your g-spot. You clench your teeth and let out a shaky moan, shutting your eyes softly while you began to buck your hips a bit against her fingers. “Y-Yes!~ M-Mmgh! F-Fuck yes!~” You moan out, your eyes fluttering as you threw your head back. You feel Nami stuff her other hand beneath your bikini top, her hand groping your breast and her fingers pinching and teasing your hardens bud.

You breathe heavily against her while you looked at the water, your heart beginning to pound from fear and arousal. “N-Namiiii!~” You whine out Nami’s name as the fear begins to sink in more, the pleasure close to clouding your mind while the fear clouded your body and its senses.

“Oh fuck!~ H-Hah!~ N-Nami!~” You moan out Nami’s name shakily as you felt the warmth brewing in your tummy. Nami’s feels your body tense, and she knew that you were close to an orgasm. “Hm? What’s wrong baby? You wanna cum?” Nami asked, looking into your eyes. Your eyes began to cross as you nodded profusely, your gasps growing louder yet heavier. “Y-Yes!~ I-I’m gonna cum! F-Fuck I’m gonna cum Nami!~” You gasp out to her, arching your back as you felt her fingers thrust in and out of your cunt faster.

Nami suddenly pulls her fingers from you, making you gasp before whining out in displeasure. “If you want to cum, you’ll have to beg mommy Nami for it~ You can beg for me can’t you?” Nami asks, looking into your eyes with lust. You whined and sighed out before biting your lower lip and closing your eyes.

“P-Please Nami-“

“Ah ah, that’s mommy Nami baby.”

“P-Please mommy…Can I cum? I wanna cum on your fingers so badly mommy~”

Your whimpers and begging caused Nami to shiver and tremble with arousal and she sighs out lovingly. “Oh god you’re so adorable…Yes you can cum now. Mommy’s giving you the permission to cum now~” Nami moans to you, now shoving her fingers back into your needy hole.

You gasped and whine out as your feet begins flail around in the water. Nami thrusts her fingers hard and fast inside of you, watching your pretty face twist while she felt your wall flutter around her fingers. “M-Mommy!~ O-Oh god! I-I’m gonna!-“ You gasp out loudly and arch your back against Nami before cumming, your juices squirting out into the salty sea water while you let out a beautiful and angelic moan.

Nami moans in delight as she felt your body shiver against hers, feeling you climax in her fingers. “That’s it, let it all out for mommy~” She whispers to you, relaxing her head against your shoulder. You breathe heavily against her before a whimper left your lips, her fingers circling your clit to ride out your high.

“Mmh~ Nami~” You gasp before turning your body around fully, your hands gripping her shoulders tightly to prevent yourself from falling out of her grasp. Nami pulls her fingers from your cunt and holds your body tight and close to hers, your breasts practically squishing against each others. You press a smooch to her lips and her eyes widens in surprise from the sudden attack. She moans past your lips and her eyes begins to roll up while she keeps your lips against hers.

You feel her slide her tongue past your lips and you moan out as she dominates your mouth, yearning for a long, sweet and delicious kiss after so long. You hear Nami moan into your lips and she pulls away, gasping out as a string of saliva spills from both of your sweet lips. “Ahh~ Y-Your lips feel so fucking wonderful~” Nami moans out to you before kissing you once again.

You giggle against her lips and mewl out before pulling back once again.

“Yours do too Nami~” You moan, wrapping your arms around her body and hugging her tight. Nami lays her head against your shoulder and sighs out happily, rubbing her soft fingers along your back. “You’re so adorable ________…I don’t want to take you back to shore…” Nami pouts to you, staring you deep in your eyes. You giggle to her before pressing a smooch to her lips one more time.

“I promise I’ll come by everyday…” You whisper to her before giggling. Nami smiles and sighs out lovingly before pulling your body along with hers, dragging you back to shore. You’re felt around for the sandy grains beneath your feet, pressing your feet against the sand before slowly walking up to shore. You walk up to shore, your feet digging into the sand while the grains began to stick to your soaking skin.

Your turn back to see Nami, giving her a smile before waving back to her. She waves and smiles back at you, her face softening as she grew upset from your departure. “I love you!” She yells out to you, waving her hand as blush begins to dust her cheeks. You give her a look of shock before smiling wider to her.

“I love you too Nami! See you again tomorrow!”

From then on you made sure to visit her everyday, with her waiting and yearning for your arrival with each passing moment.

My lesbianism was quaking so- here’s mommy Nami. I was personally thinking of opla Nami during this- I adore how Emily Rudd brought out Nami’s character.

#puddingspookyseries #one piece #one piece smut #one piece fluff #op smut #op fluff #one piece x female reader #one piece nami #op nami #opla nami #nami smut #nami fluff #nami x reader #cat burglar nami #nami

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darkenamour · 2 months

Text

Platonic Daddy! Yandere! Wilson Fisk x Little! Willing! Reader x Reluctant! Platonic Mommy! Vanessa Fisk

This was messily written. I wrote as it came to me. I will edit this.

Warnings: Kidnapping, Gun Violence, Violence, Human Trafficking, Yandere Behavior, Forced Relationships, Forced Breastfeeding.

KingPin (DareDevil series/comics) inspired.

Summary: You started working in a shady restaurant and met a scary regular. Somehow you ended up kidnapped and with a new set of "parents"

You were just a waiter at a restaurant, nobody really. All you did was wait tables all day at some restaurant that never had a full house since you've worked there. One man was a regular, he would come in four times a week for dinner. He wasn't the only regular, but he was the most memorable regular. With his enormous height, heavyset body, complete bald head, stark white suit, and bright blue eyes, he was utterly noticeable.

The only other waiter, the first time he came, was intimidated by his physique so you had to be the one to take his order. The man looked so tired, as if he just woken up, and it compelled you to give him a cup of coffee on the house. He ordered two different plates and a fountain drink, of which he had three refills. You waited on him like any other person, cracked a few jokes, and wished him a good day. Before he left, his plates and cup empty, he personally gave you a tip and thanked you for the coffee. The tip was a fifty dollar bill.

It wasn't completely unknown to you that more unsavory people would come into the restaurant. Ranging from small-time thugs to ring leaders of criminal organizations. It was a blessing and a curse for the restaurant and its employees. Everyone actually paid for their meals, some would leave big tips like the man, and it kept the business going. There would be times someone would get too much and create a ruckus, once there was a shoot out once, which you thankfully didn't witness. Because of the danger you were able to easily get a job, a job you desperately needed.

Ever since you graduated, you haven't been able to land a job due to inexperience. As the years went by you were desperate to find a way to no longer be a burden on your family. So you decided to walk around the more dangerous parts of the city and found a help wanted sign in the window. Your coworkers were great, the chefs were friendly enough, and your boss, the owner, gave you a decent wage. It was truly a blessing even if the environment was dangerous.

It had been six months of working, two months of knowing your memorable regular ("Call me Wilson."), when you witnessed your first shooting. A customer was complaining about their food, a street thug, and gave your coworker a hard time. Your regular, the large man, was just about to tell you his order when a shot rang out. The thug had just shot your coworker, your friend, and your fight or flight response came in. You were in fight mode.

Grabbing the first empty chair in arms reach, you slammed the chair on the back of the fleeing thug's head. They went down hard, dropping their gun, and cursing you. Their two friends got out their own guns and pointed at you, before they could shoot, a large shadow towered over you.

"Now, that's no way to treat a lovely lady." Wilson, your regular, said in a gravelly voice. The others paled and lowered their guns.

"Lovely lady my ass, she busted my skull open." The thug on the ground shouted, still turning around holding his head. "I'm gonna fucking kill the bitch." As he turned around and saw Wilson, he also paled. "Mr. Fisk, sir, I didn't see you there." He stammered.

Your friend groaned, holding their side, you dropped the chair and went to their side. It looked like they were shot in the leg, you took off your apron and put pressure on the wound.

"Look, I didn't know you came to this joint." The thug continued to stammer. Ambulance and police sirens could be heard outside. "Listen, I'll never come back to this place, I promise."

"That's a promise you can keep behind bars." You heard the guy scramble, a loud wet crunch, and a scream. You looked up to see Wilson stepping the thug's hand, that was reaching for his gun. His friends ran out in a panic, the police came in to take the thug and question everyone. Your friend was taken to the hospital.

When your family heard what happened, they begged you to quit, find another job. You compromised with them, sending your resume to different job openings, only quitting when somewhere else hires you. Wilson still stayed a regular, still giving you large tips, and your coworker came back a month later. Everything went back to normal, but you never received a call back from the places you applied.

When it was your anniversary of working at the restaurant, your coworkers set up a small party after closing. It was dark when everyone started to go home. As you approached your car someone behind you covered your face with a cloth and your world went dark.

Voices shouted around you as you woke up.

"I'm just saying this is a bad idea."

"Please, that Chinese bitch asked for girls, she didn't say from where."

"But, the Kingpin's rules."

"I don't give a shit about his rules. He broke my fucking hand and almost sent me to prison. All over some fat bitch in a shitty joint."

You noticed you were tied up and your mouth was taped shut. You were in the back of a van with two other girls in the same position. One girl started to panic and screamed behind her closed mouth.

"Shut them the fuck up." You look up and notice the thug that shot your coworker and his friends.

The one sitting in the back took out a needle syringe and injected the screaming girl with it. After a while the girl went limp.

"Shot them all up, we're almost there and I don't want any of them struggling." After a sharp pinch the world was no more.

The next time you woke up, you were naked and in a room with other girls. They were either naked like you, or wore plain lingerie that barely covered anything. After a while someone threw a bag filled with plain lingerie, and you noticed you, and other bigger girls, were the only one left without clothes. Later water bottles were thrown in, only enough for half of the girls. Some girls were selfish and hogged a whole bottle, others shared. What felt like a whole day, a few buffer men came in and took a few girls by force. The next day more men came in to take more girls. It kept repeating, after the fifth time you and the other bigger girls got lingerie. More girls were brought in.

After what felt like two weeks, you were nibbling on some stale bread when they took all the bigger girls. You were terrified, wondering what will happen to you. You and girls were lined up in front of a group of people, a girl squeezed your hand and you squeezed back. When you looked around, you were surprised to see Wilson in the group. He also seemed surprised when his eyes landed on you.

"As you can see Mr. Fisk, we in fact respect your wishes." An Asian man in front of an elderly woman said. She was sitting in a chair and said something in her native tongue. "I always make sure to leave your territory alone, never picking from your fields."

"Is that so?" Wilson said. He stepped forward and took out his hand. "Come here, y/n." He called out. You clutched onto the other girl. "It's all right, sweetheart, I'm here to take you home."

The old woman shouted. "I'm sorry, but I think you're mistaking the merchandise for someone else." The man then tried soothing the old woman in their native tongue.

You felt your eyes water at being called merchandise, you were a human, not a thing. Wilson called out your name again. You let go of the girl. He said he would take you home and you wanted to go home.

When you reached him, you threw your arms around his middle and cried into his chest. He patted your head and rubbed your back. "It's alright, it's alright. Now tell me, who brought you here?"

"The guy that shot my friend and his friends." You said between sobs.

"My poor little sunshine, you must have been so scared." He kissed the top of your hair. "Don't worry, everything will be alright now." He used his strength to leave you in his arms. You buried your face in his shoulder, clutching the front of his suit. "You broke our deal."

The woman shouted. "We had no idea she was one of yours. Whoever brought her to us is at fault." The man translated.

"Whoever brought her here was under your orders. " He started to walk away. "I expect compensation for the kidnapping of my daughter." There was a sharp inhale. Daughter, why did he call you his daughter?

He brought you to his limo and settled you in his lap, covering you with his jacket. "It's alright, princess. Once we get home you'll have a nice bath, a warm meal, and I'll tuck you in bed. Doesn't that sound nice?"

Your body felt numb, but nodded. Finally getting clean, real food, and a bed sounded like a dream. You pressed close to him to get warm.

When he carried you out of the limo, you didn't recognize your surroundings. He took you to what looked like a luxury apartment complex. Taking the elevator, he pressed the top floor button. It looked like his private condo took up the whole floor.

He finally sat you down in a chair in the bathroom. He filled the overly large tub with warm water and bubbles. When the tub was full you expected him to leave, but instead he started to take off the lingerie you wore. You shrieked and scooted away from him.

"It's alright, sweetie. I know you're scared, but you should let daddy take care of you." He said.

"I can wash myself." You stammered back.

"I know you're my big girl, but daddy hasn't seen you in days." He grabbed your arm, preventing you from moving away. Taking off the last bit of article that covered you, he picked you up and placed you in the tub. Grabbing a washcloth he started to scrub your body. You jumped at that.

"Please, I can wash myself." You cried.

"No, no," he shook his head, "I said I was going to take care of you. Daddy will make everything better and you'll get to see your friends tomorrow. Doesn't that sound fun?"

It scared you, having a large man handle you. You had no idea why he kept calling himself "daddy", or why he was insistent on treating you like a child. He was just a regular at the restaurant you work at. You decided to comply. If a man could easily carry someone like you around, who knows what else he could do.

When he finished giving you a bath he picked you up from the tub, wrapped in a large towel, and carried you to a bedroom. He placed you on a bed and dressed you in childish looking underwear and soft pajamas with your favorite childhood characters. Not only was it embarrassing, but it had you questioning why the man had such clothing in your exact size. He picked you back up and sat you at a dinner table.

"You sit there while daddy gets you your favorite soup." When he left for the kitchen, you debated on whether or not to try to leave. You decided against it, you had no clue where you were and he did say you were going to see your friends tomorrow. Maybe he wasn't that bad of a man, maybe this was his strange way comforting you.

As promised, he came back with a bowl of your favorite soup and a juice box. Before you could grab the spoon yourself, he lifted the spoon to your face. "Open wide." He looked at you expectantly.

"I can feed myself." You stuttered, feeling your cheeks blush. You looked at the ground embarrassed at the situation even more.

He placed a hand on your chin, forcing you to look at him. Looking up, you felt smaller than you ever had, especially with his large stature. "Just let daddy spoil you, ok?" Once again, you wordlessly nodded, afraid of what might happen if you said no.

He fed you like a baby, wiping your face after each spoonful, and occasionally held up the juice box for you to drink from. When the bowl was completely empty, he picked you up again. "It's time for bed."

He took you to the same bedroom as before. You finally looked around and saw what looked like a child's bedroom. Your favorite color painted the walls, shelves filled with children's books, a desk covered in coloring books and crayons, a toy box, childish furniture, and a bed with sheets covered in your favorite childhood characters. It made you bewildered why the man had such a room in the first place.

As he tucked you in bed, he gave your forehead a kiss. "Sleep tight my little princess. Daddy has to take care of business, but if you need anything the nanny will be just outside, ok?"

"Ok." You said automatically.Nanny? So he's keeping a guard on you? There goes your ability to escape and go back home to your family.

Finally laying on a soft bed after days of barely sleeping on the floor, you eventually feel asleep. By morning Wilson was waking you up. He took you to the bathroom to do your business, without leaving, and gave you a brightly colored toothbrush. Today's saving grace was that he allowed you to walk, but held onto your hand. He still changed your clothes, putting on something that you would normally wear. You ate breakfast without help and he took you to work via a chauffeur.

Before you could jump out of the car, Wilson asked for a kiss. So close to freedom, you gave him a kiss on the cheek. He finally let you go after he gave his own kiss and wished you a good day.

When you walked into the restaurant, you were ambushed by your coworkers once they saw you. Apparently Wilson told them he would bring you back, but they didn't believe it. The owner asked if you actually wanted to work today. You told them that you wanted to go home, since you hadn't seen your family yet. They took you home.

Your family was overwhelmed when they saw you, you all cried. They called the police to inform them you returned and they came to question you. You gave them the descriptions of the three men that took you and two people that were behind it. You didn't mention Wilson picking you up, only saying you managed to escape and run into someone who helped you.

After winding down, you had a celebratory lunch with your family for your safe return. No one went to work that day and held onto you tight. When it was a little past your working shift, a knock came from the door. When a knock came from the door, you were surprised to see Wilson at the door when a family member opened it. When he asked for you, your family was suspicious of him. You blurted out that he was the one that helped you, that made the family welcome him in open arms. They insisted he stay for dinner, to show their appreciation.

The women, and few of the men, were in the kitchen preparing traditional dishes for an army. Wilson sat with you on the couch, your family treated him like he was a part of the family. When he placed an arm over your shoulder, some of your family members gave a teasing glance. They were the ones insistenting you should have been married already. If only they knew he didn't see you as a lover, but as a daughter.

You couldn't help but cuddle into his side, enjoying the feeling of being small. You haven't felt small in years, you usually were the biggest person in the room. When dinner was ready, you began insisting that your favorite food was the best. You plated most of the food for Wilson, almost forgetting his strange nature from yesterday. When the day winded down, only your closest family members stayed over. Wilson left as well, you gave him a hug goodbye.

It took two days for you to return to work, you were grateful that you even still had a job. Wilson came in that day for lunch. When no one was looking, you gave him a kiss on the cheek. He seemed surprised by that. When he finished, he gave you your usual tip and a note that asked you to come home with him during the weekend.

You felt nervous and questioned your sanity for actually going to his place. He babies you the whole weekend, treating you like a toddler. You enjoyed cuddling with him on the couch while watching children's movies and shows, when he fed you, when he changed you, when he carried you around, and when he would call you nicknames. Your "nanny" was someone called Hildy, a nonsense woman that treated you like a child without asking questions. It made you feel carefree, like you had nothing to worry about for about two and a half days.

It was a routine for about a year, your family thought you were dating, your coworkers never questioned Wilson's behavior towards you. You never once imagined that you would be in the situation you found yourself in. One morning, when Wilson left for "business," you groggily got out of bed to ask Hildy for a glass of water. A woman was in the living room with her, demanding where Wilson was. When she looked at you, with your bed hair, she assumed you were sleeping with him. You made a face at that. "Gross, he's my daddy." You told her. Later you were properly introduced to Vanessa.

Vanessa did not accept the type of relationship you had with her boyfriend. Well, not at first. After your third week, she saw everything that Wilson did with you. She was still hesitant, but you guess Wilson told her something because she started to join him for lunch at your workplace. You treated them like normal customers and she seemed nervous the whole time. The next weekend, Wilson had her feed you and read you a bedtime story. The next week he had her change your clothes and cuddle you while watching tv. Then it escalated to her bathing you. She tried to touch you in a sexual manner while bathing you, you screeched and cried like a child. Wilson was angry at her and kicked her out. You didn't see her for two weeks.

The next time you saw her, she apologized and promised to never do that again, you were weary of her. You clung to Wilson whenever she was around, hiding behind him, hiding behind daddy. He kept you safe. But he wanted Vanessa to be your mommy. When it seemed like you weren't getting used to her, something happened.

When you entered the condo after being picked up from work, you noticed Vanessa waiting on the couch. She was wearing a loose button up, and gestured you to her lap. Daddy didn't let you hide behind him, he picked you up and sat you on her lap. You started to cry, wondering what was happening. "She's just being fussy, aren't you princess?" Daddy cooed. "Our poor baby must be hungry. Don't you think so, honey?"

"Yes." Vanessa stammered.

"Well, aren't you going to feed her?" Vanessa started to clumsy unbutton her shirt. You wanted to panic, to pull away from her, but daddy kept you in place. Vanessa exposed one of her breasts.

"Here, eat." She tried to push her breast into your force. Daddy stopped her and scowled.

"Don't force it, let her latch naturally." He patted your head and adjusted you so your head was next to her breast. "Come on sweetheart, aren't you hungry?" He encouraged. "Has daddy ever let you astray?" No, daddy has never let anything, or anyone, hurt you.

Shyly, you latched onto her nipple, she gasped and daddy praised you. As you sucked, you tasted something sweet and warm. You sucked harder and more of the sweet nectar came rushing into your mouth. Vanessa was lactating! "That's a good girl, eating without a fuss." Daddy praised. "And mommy is being so good at feeding our precious baby."

You could hear Vanessa cry, but you didn't let it bother you. You were hungry and she was feeding you yummy milk. When her breast was empty, you whined for more. Daddy took out her other breast since Vanessa was still crying. You drank until you sucked her dry. Happily humming with a full stomach, you nuzzled into your new mommy. She gave you nice warm milk and daddy said she was mommy. Your weekends now included drinking milk from mommy, who cried from happiness at being able to feed her baby.

#yandere x reader #messy writing #yandere fic #little reader #tw kidnapping #tw noncon #Willing reader #Willing darling #platonic yandere

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siren-serenity · 4 months

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hi siren!! can i request a reader that spoils deuce whenever he enters the cafe? like as soon as he comes yuu is giving him heavily discounted food or "complementary snacks"!! just a reader whos incredibly sweet and nice but just to deuce?

↳ *TITLE: PERSONAL BIAS FOR YOU!* ༉‧₊˚✧

↳ *READER X DEUCE SPACE!* ༉‧₊˚✧

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ omg this is so cute alkjlkjdsjldfsa. i just love the idea of the first year gang staring/gasping at deuce as the reader gives him so much obvious bias LMAO

↳ *𝘛𝘈𝘎𝘚!* ༉‧₊˚✧

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ Taglist: @krenenbaker, @moonlitnyx, @azulashengrottospiano. @eynnwwyjth, @parad-ice-lostandfound, @officialdaydreamer00, @leonistic, @plutosring, @starsilluminateourgalaxy, @aceofsweets, @rav--en, @dowdos, @deathkat657, @escha-evenstar, @toffeeeez, @dearest-siblingtwst, @biromanticboba, @savanaclaw1996, @candlewitch-cryptic, @lowenergyallday

please reblog or dm if you wish to be tagged!!

"Come on, Deuce!" Ace whined, dragging his best friend to Cafe Amor. Deuce Spade rolled his eyes but trudged behind him for the nth time. Their other friends, including Jack, Ortho, Epel, and a slightly reluctant Sebek, followed behind.

Deuce let a small swear tear from his throat as he stumbled. "Shit!"

"No swearing!" Ortho's cute voice piped up. Epel snickered.

"Oh my Sevens- can you hurry up, Juice?" Ace laughed as Deuce flipped him a sneaky middle finger. "I wanna get free stuff from Cafe Amor! Or should I say...from Y/N?"

Deuce's cheeks flushed bright red as he attempted to form coherent sentences but failed. The 'First Year Gang' watched with amusement as splutters and half-formed excuses made their way out of his mouth only for him to choke on his words. The paleness of his skin made his blush stand out more obviously.

"W-What? Come on Ace, what are you talking about now?" Deuce scoffed but the stutter in his sentence gave way to his flustered feelings immediately.

Ortho spoke up and his blunt way of speaking was enough to rouse laughter.

"You have a blush! According to science, this indicates the person has feelings for the mentioned person! You have a crush on Y/N, Deuce."

The bell chimed over their heads as they walked into Cafe Amor. Deuce's loud stutters drew a couple of students' attention.

"Ortho, can you please say that softer so Y/N can't hear?!" He whisper-shouted, gesturing wildly. Ace slung an arm over his shoulder, practically cackling.

"Aww is Juicy-Deucey getting shy?" He teased, narrowly dodging a punch to his face. "Sevens- not the face!"

"Shut up!"

"Erm- hi?" You spoke, waving your hand awkwardly. Deuce and Ace froze comically; the spade-eyed boy had Ace's shirt bundled up in his fist while Ace's arm was frozen over Deuce's head. "Are you all ready to order?"

"I'll have the apple pie," Epel piped up. "Sebek and Jack wanna try the mango smoothie and Ortho..."

He trailed off, staring at Ortho with a questioning look in his eyes. "Uhh, Ortho, how do you eat?"

The robot boy shrugged. "I don't eat, I analyze the food to understand it's flavor! I'll just see what everyone eats."

Epel nodded. Deuce and Ace let go of one another, clearing their throats, although a bright blush remained on Deuce's face. Sevens- how could he let himself be all wild-like and feral in front of Y/N? Who knows what they might think of him after this...

"I'll have a cherry tart and Deuce wants the egg tart," Ace spoke before leaning in with a glint in his eyes. "But....can the tarts be free? You know, asking from one friend to another."

You laughed as your fingers typed in their orders. "Can't do that, and you know it, Ace."

"Come on! We all know that you always give Deuce an extra tart or two, even though he didn't order it!" Ace whined. "Please, Y/N? We're your best friends, right?"

Deuce smacked Ace's head. "No means no, Ace! Good Sevens..."

Melody took over the counter as Y/N left to go get ready their food. She chuckled at the sight of them, red and blue eyes twinkling.

"Flustering Deuce again?" She shook her head in mock disapproval although anybody could see the glee in her eyes. "For shame guys, for shame."

"And done!" Your cheery voice piped up as you set down their take-away bag. The scent was delicious and the first years were practically drooling. "Thank you for choosing to eat at Cafe Amor!"

"Thanks, Y/N," Deuce gave you a smile as he took the heavy bag from you. Your fingers brushed against each other and he could feel a spark down his spine from just milliseconds of contact. From the blush on your face, it seems that you felt it too. "F-For the food!"

You covered your face with one hand before using the other to shoo them away. "B-Bye guys! See you in class!"

Before Deuce could make a further fool of himself, Jack took pity and dragged him out of Cafe Amor.

"Goodbye Y/N!"

"See you in History, Y/N!"

"GOODBYE HUMAN! THANK YOU FOR THE FOOD!!"

"Bye!"

"Damn Deuce!" Ace threw an arm over Deuce's shoulders, poking his blush with a Cheshire grin on his face. "You're down bad for them!"

Ortho's voice made his blush grow even darker.

"I sense there's more than one egg tart in the bag! It seems that Y/N has given us another free treat!"

Ace and Epel exchanged a grin. "Yeah I wonder why..."

"ALRIGHT, THAT'S IT! ACE, YOU HAVE FIVE SECONDS TO RUN!"

"SHIT!"

#twisted wonderland #disney twisted wonderland #battle of the restaurants #twisted wonderland x reader #x reader #twst x reader #deuce spade #deuce spade x reader

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undiscovered-horizon · 1 year

Text

Returning customer - Morpheus x Witch!Reader

Continuation to [Welcome to Moon Siren Horticulture!]

SUMMARY: That strange, brooding customer is back and, just as you wished, no children or curses are involved. Your new neighbours make themselves known.

WORDCOUNT: ~ 1.4k

“Sir, unless you provide me with proper documents, I can’t sell you a Liverstone. That’s the law,” you explain slowly. There is hardly a simpler way to get your point across. Nevertheless, the man seems to miss it entirely. In turn, his lack of understanding makes you miss the bright ringing of the doorbell as someone has just walked into the store.

“Come on, lady.” Here comes another pitiful shot at haggling. “Do I look like a maniac? I’m not going to do anything stupid or illegal with it.” Interesting that he would suggest such a course of events when you haven’t even pointed to a suspicion of this kind. People often say that it is the thief who is most afraid of being robbed. Perhaps folk wisdom isn’t always wrong.

“It’s not a matter of belief, sir,” you answer sternly. Somewhere behind him, you can see a head of black, dishevelled hair but the enigmatic visitor seems to exist only when you’re directly paying attention to him. The moment you look back at the discoloured face and bloodshot eyes belonging to the cultist, the existence of the yet unknown client immediately disappears from your thoughts. “Until I receive a signed confirmation from your High Priestess, I’m lawfully prohibited from selling you this.”

The man puts his clasped, shaking hands on the counter in front of you as if he’s about to say something off-record. It’s hard to say whether the trembling is brought by nervousness or withdrawals. “Look, Lady Helena is swamped lately. She asked me to get a Liverstone, while she’s busy preparing for the festival. You know Lady Helena, she’s going to be very upset if she hears you pawned me off.” The cultist gives you a meaningful look, although all of its reasonability or seriousness is long forgotten because of the clearly deranged gloss covering his eyes. Some part of you doubts Lady Helena even knows he’s here. Does she have any idea how far gone his addiction is?

“And Lady Helena knows me.” You’re not giving up, both for his and your own’s sake. “I’m sure she’ll understand that I can’t sell it without proper documentation.”

For some reason, it is at this moment that the other customer decides to step in. In the black dishevelled hair and a heavy coat, you recognize the mysterious man that had visited your shop a while ago. He puts his hand on the red-eyed man’s shoulder. The cultist furrows his eyebrows and slowly turns around. His eyes mindlessly search the other man’s face as though it’s taking him a significant amount of time to recognize him as a human or at least a humanoid.

When the excruciatingly slow process comes to an end, the cultist opens his eyes wide. Clearly, the enigmatic man in a coat is not unfamiliar to him. Suddenly rejuvenated, the addict takes off his top hat.

“My good lord Morpheus!” he exclaims in disbelief.

‘Morpheus?’ you repeat in your head. ‘Could it be…?’

The cultist reaches for the man’s other hand, shaking it vigorously in an overly-excited show of politeness. Although Morpheus appears to be reluctant about the gesture, he doesn’t withdraw his arm.

“As I live and breath!” the man says as he continues his obnoxious pleasantries. “This is such an honour! I will be much obliged to tell my fellow professionals about it.”

“You really shouldn’t, Theodore Hearson,” Morpheus speaks patiently in a low voice. “Go home, soon you’ll feel better.”

The cultist immediately drops his vigorous hand-shaking. He ponders for a moment, staring blankly into space. “Yes… yes, I should go. Good day to you.” Then, he puts his hat back on, tips it to Morpheus and leaves the store, Liverstone long forgotten. You have befriended either an exceptional diplomat or a top-notch sorcerer, it seems.

Not wanting to seem shaken up with the miraculous persuasion, you welcome Morpheus as you would a regular client: “Welcome back. How can I help you?”

“I’m in need of your help once more. My friend is looking for a plant that might have killed someone.” As his low voice makes the marrow in your bones vibrate, he pulls out a folded note from his pocket and hands it to you.

Before you can even take in the information hastily scribbled on the torn piece of paper, you notice the striking familiarity of the style in which the letters are written - you’ve seen it countless times before. “Hey, I know this handwriting. It’s Johanna Constantine’s.”

His eyebrows raise unnoticeably. “You know her?”

“She does regular ‘pest control’ for me.”

“What interest could demons have in a plant shop?”

“It’s not really interest per se,” you explain. “The soil of more delicate plants should be fertilised with crushed soul stones and although they’re shards, demons still can reside in them. Selling a haunted flower gets the license revoked, so I’m not risking it.”

You’re about to look down on the note again, this time focused on putting together the information Johanna could give you, when a booming thud resounded above your head. Again. The sound is followed by heavy footsteps and something like a muffled growl.

“Speaking of risk…” you say under your breath. As though you could see through the walls, you look at the ceiling expectantly.

“Something’s troubling you?”

“Hard to say, really.” You look at Morpheus again. “There’s a new store opening up there, The Blind Gorgon. They sell cryptids mainly. Arcane Weekly wrote about them some time ago. People and cattle were getting strangled in some village in Russia and when the Emissaries of Ilharin went to investigate, it turned out that the owner of the store had a wild bukavac in the cellar. Before the Russian bureau of Emissaries could pin the guy as a suspect, he closed the shop and disappeared. Go figure.” You give him a dismissive shrug but a creature of his sort is far too smart to be deceived by something like that.

A heavy sigh leaves your lips. You shake your head but it’s more of a way to shake off the sudden disturbance rather than a show of your dissatisfaction with new neighbours.

“Anyway.” You look at the note properly this time. “Red flower, pine aroma, growing out of a corpse?” you read. Although the amount of information is scarce, it’s enough for you to immediately know the answer to the charades. “It’s Devil’s Nightcap. Nasty way to go. The thing is, the victim had to ingest the seed for the plant to grow and kill them but you can’t buy them. Whoever did this, owns a Devil’s Nightcap, which, no surprise, is a heavily restricted plant. A warlock, a sorcerer, an alchemist, maybe a healer,” you count all the possibilities. “Or a horticulturist, of course.” In a vague motion, you point to yourself.

Morpheus takes the note back from you. Deliberately or not, his fingers linger on yours for a strangely long period of time. “In what currency does Johanna usually pay you?” He wastes no time getting straight to the point.

“We barter,” you answer flustered. Nervously, you rub your hands against your gardening apron. Maybe you’re reading a bit too much into his gesture? “I do favours for her pro bono and she gives me a discount for her service. Besides, it’s bad luck to take money from exorcists.”

He loiters for a moment as though he’s considering saying or doing something more. Whatever calculation he made in his head, Morpheus apparently decided against continuing the tense interaction. He’s about to turn around, leave your store, when you stop him:

“I wanted to thank you again for getting rid of the nightmares brought by Widow’s Woe. The day you came here I had my first restful sleep in years.”

Morpheus’s face lights up. A faint smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “What did you dream of?”

“It was quite strange, actually.” You scrunch your nose remembering the vision. “I found myself in a meadow where flowers I’d never seen before grew. I think there was also a black cat.”

“That’s a nice dream,” he says in an uncharacteristic, soft voice.

You’re not sure what it is about his sudden tenderness that makes you blush. “Yes, I think so, too.”

Morpheus leaves the store and the quietness of the plants is unbearable for the first time in decades.

#morpheus imagine #morpheus sandman #morpehus #lord morpheus #morpheus #morpheus x reader #dream x reader #dream the endless #dream of the endless #dream #dream of the endless x reader #sandman fanfiction #the sandman fanfiction #the sandman #the sandman netflix

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2kmps · 7 months

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IN A SLEEPY TOWN - CHAPTER ONE

headless horseman x reader | 5,249 words

story synopsis; “the horseman who rides atop his alabaster steed, cloaked in crimson without a head.”

in the sleepy town of Moorwick, you are drawn into the legend of the horseman when you learn it is associated with your father’s disappearance twenty years ago. when the local ghost story turns to be anything but that, and a bargain goes awry, you delve into moorwick’s dark history with hopes of saving more than just yourself.

chapter synopsis; you travel to the sleepy town of moorwick in search of your missing father. with little more than some luggage and your car, you're immediately steeped in the mysterious ways of the residents and of their local boogeyman— the headless horseman.

thank you for proofreading, @ceruleansol

for more chapters: masterlist

The town of Moorwick was in rapturous applause that day on October 27. With their claps hard and strong, it became impossible to distinguish between them and the drizzle pattering atop clusters of colorful coats lining the streets outside of the town hall. There, a number of officials of the town council found agitation that the ceremony should be held today in the rain rather than break decades-old tradition and host it in the thickness of morning fog tomorrow or next week.

In the four-day span of your stay in Moorwick as of current, you became well acquainted with the region’s autumnal weather, which seemed to entail invigorating, crisp air at night in companionship with the type of rainfall that managed to seep through your clothes, flesh, and left you cold to the marrow. During the day, there seemed to be no shortage of police at work with their shrill sirens and flipping lights to block off landslides on the main roads from overnight.

Three of those landslides had thwarted your passage into Moorwick for a solid three days, leaving you to the mercy of cruddy motels overcharging for beds with stains a tad too dark to be anything auspicious and water with the faintest tinge of yellow.

During checkout at the final detour of your trip, the man at the desk went on a tangent about the old days as a fisherman on the coastline right up until his eye was plucked out by a crab and had to retire. You managed sounds from your throat that quivered from your discomfort, attention floating from the adjacent hallways hoping to reel another patron in alongside you.

“By the way there, you ain’t heading towards Moorwick by any chance, are ya?”

When you turned forward again, the man was nearly bent all the way across the counter, elbows just nearly reaching the end of the desk. In his one eye that didn’t catch an unnatural sheen from the dim, orange light overhead, you thought you saw traces of lunacy in it, the stare of a man with the anxiety and burden of stories to share.

You honestly didn’t want to know.

“Yeah,” you offered with a withering voice. “Going there for family stuff and whatnot. The town has a website. It looks nice enough. But they always do, right?”

The man shrunk back from the counter to his own side, digging his heels back down onto the floor. He regarded you with such a pitying look and a frown that it spurred a rush of shame to creep up your neck and across your face. “I see. Well, best do ya business and leave. Take my word for it when I say don’t go below the surface. Sometimes, taking things as they appear is better.”

He pulled a receipt from the register under his desk, fumbled with it in his knobby hands and bulbous knuckles to smooth out the wrinkles before handing it over to you. There for a moment, the slip of white paper hovered aloft in the man’s hand, unable to find yourself willing to reach for it.

Quick to take your reluctance in stride, he gave a hearty laugh that broke into hoarse cracks of coughs that he smothered behind a fist. “I only say—I only say that because ya giving me the feel of one of those folks who just doesn’t let things be.”

You slipped the receipt from his fingers quickly, crushing it into a wad against your palm with a taut smile pressing lines into your face. “Won’t say you’re wrong. Take care.”

His words stayed with you for days afterward, staved only by the static of the radio as your only friend on the stretch of road alongside the forest. The trees had tantalized you into a lull, unassuming, yet you often found your eyes veering from the road toward them as though noticing a stare from across the room. It was a sensation that ensnared you all the same even after your arrival in Moorwick.

The day of the ceremony at present wasn’t an exception to this. By that point, the rain had tapered into a fine mist that dampened your skin as you shucked the hood from your raincoat behind your head, face pointed purposefully ahead.

Standing front and center now on the lowest steps of polished, slick stone was the mayor of Moorwick, a man barely a decade older than your own, though even that was a generous assumption. As he reached toward his face, a single finger erect to move aside a piece of dark hair that had fallen out of place, a silver medal hanging by a thick ribbon of deep blue rattled in his hand. The other held a simple plaque inscribed with gold in the black facing.

He surveyed the crowd slowly, undoubtedly recognizing all of the faces present there in the crowd until you felt his gaze settle on you. It had to be that you were still paranoid from the car ride there, you thought; the mayor and yourself had never once crossed paths, not once. You were certain of that.

And yet, you were familiar with the chill that gripped you when you were being watched, observed. It was different this time around; it wasn’t some intangible entity that haunted the foot of your bed at night, but rather a man of flesh and bone with a stare that seared into you. Your heart plunged into your stomach, forcing your legs to shuffle around in place, feeling the men on either side jostle you with their elbows as they clapped along with the rest.

Just as you thought to yank the hood up to conceal yourself, his head snapped to the side while a smile fit for a dashing gentleman carved into his lips, teeth a glistening white. He took several paces to the side, arm extended to mold against an elderly woman’s back as she ambled out from the crowd, holding a hand against her hip as she went.

“Hard to believe it’s been twenty-three years since we began doing this, right?” he spoke mirthfully, his voice humming from a pair of speakers located on adjacent sides of the sprawling crowd. “Once again, for the twenty-third year in a row, I would like to present this, uh, award to Moorwick’s very own Asta Lang! One hundred forty-five, can you believe it?”

The commotion grew louder by the second; the buoyant shouts and cheers, whistles and clapping had begun to warp together into a single cacophony of noise so grating it struck you between the eyes. Although the clouds held their dismal tone, expanded over the town like an ominous specter, and the ruckus was head-splitting, you willed your feet to stay anchored to the front row.

You clapped along with everyone as Asta, a rather short and frail-seeming woman with gray hair situated in intricate braids, bowed her neck toward the mayor to accept the medal and plaque. Once adjusting the ribbon at her neck, he cuffed an arm around her again and ducked his head near her ear.

Asta found you then, undoubtedly with the help of the mayor, and her thin lips pulled high close to her wrinkled cheeks dabbed in roughly blended fuschia. She turned her hand toward you, waving far more vigorously than she had for anyone else, keeping her smile long enough to tempt one of your own.

“Asta Lang, everyone! Asta Lang! Give her a good round of applause.” His words won him that response, rousing yet another wave of cheer through streets that quickly ebbed like a tide receding from shore when he shook a hand above his head. “So, just a reminder, good folk! The parade is only four days away! Four! Make sure to submit your booth tickets and finalize paperwork with the town council. We want this year’s parade to be the best yet! Don’t forget the contest in unmasking this year’s Headless Horseman. Who will it be?”

You were relieved to find your opportunity to shoulder your way through the sea of bright raincoats to the opposite end where you had seen Asta depart just moments ago. The mayor had such an air about him that it was hard not to find yourself captivated by what he had to say, yet strangely, all he had to say was nothing of consequence to miss.

Either way, you seized your escape and trotted across the grass, sinking underfoot with a trail nipping at your heels whilst shoe prints gushed with brown rainwater. You found Asta some ways off from town hall at that point, heading toward the main road with her husband in tow and the shiny new medal still hanging low against her chest.

“One hundred forty-five. Even I can’t believe it. I’ll fix all of that moaning and groaning from those youngsters wanting my spot by downing a whole bottle of prosecco and cheese.” Asta gave a huff as you eased yourself into a slower stride alongside them. “But look here. Isn’t it beautiful? It will look wonderful on the mantle, won’t it, Winston?”

She pinched the thick silver coin between her fingers near his face, an older man himself of 120 with the looks of one barely challenging his seventies. He adjusted the rim of his tweed hat with a crooked finger, nudging at his wrinkled brow with a thumb as he leaned in to get a better look at the medal.

“Quite nice it is, ah, but,” he stuttered, flicking the medal a few times. “Will it fetch a nice price, I wonder?”

Asta swatted his hand away hastily, tucking the medal under the protective layers of her coat, offering her husband a final admonitory glance before finally turning toward you. Four days into knowing this woman did not lessen your astonishment that she was truly 145; the wrinkles in her face did not align with your imagery of a human to have reached that age. You complimented her upon your first meeting, saying she couldn’t have been older than eighty. She seemed moved to tears.

“This fool doesn’t know anything. Just ignore him.” Asta gestured with her head toward him, receiving a dismissive wave in return. “Oh, yes, dear, won’t you join us for dinner? Before we left for the ceremony, I put in just the loveliest roast. Winston and I haven’t had guests over in a long time. It would be nice to have that company again, won’t it?”

Winston gave an affirmative grumble, reaching toward his neck to stroke the loose skin hanging low. “I would say so. Could give us a good excuse to pull out the red wine from the cellar. It’s a fantastic age now.”

“Oh, Winny.” Asta sidled closer to him, fussing with the hat on his head. “You know what the doctor said. Don’t you dare. I may do my morning walks, but I don’t have the energy to haul your ass to the cemetery.”

Their exchange was an oddly endearing thing, urging you to smother a laugh in your throat that radiated out into your voice. “Are you sure you wouldn’t mind the company? I haven’t had roast since I was a kid.”

Asta shuffled closer to you again, carefully winding her arms around one of yours, holding onto you in a manner you felt was almost protective. “Yes, yes, my dear. We’d love that. I’d rather you spent time with us rather than… sitting in that empty old house.”

“Been empty for twenty-some years now, hasn’t it, Asta?” Winston said, ruminating on this as he curled his fingers inward to rotate the gold wedding band clearly too small for the swelling in his hands. “Hard to believe it’s been over that already. When you get to a certain age, you just stop counting. You become a little less pressed on time you’ve lost and focus more on what you can still be doing.”

“Mmm, that is true. Getting old has its perks.” Asta jutted her lips, dark eyes flicked heavenwards in momentary thought, tightening her arms against yours more. “That aside, I would also like to talk to you about, well, your father as well. That’s why you’re even here in Moorwick to begin with.”

The mention of him jerked your head toward her sharply, curiosity piqued. Meanwhile, the thick letter resting in the knapsack on your back felt a great deal heavier than it did before. It’s unlikely you would have ever found your way to Moorwick had it not been for the letter, being that it was a town days from any significant metropolitan area. It wasn’t exactly the most accessible location.

You dug your heels into the soggy ground, pulling Asta to a sudden halt that teetered her a bit too much. “Asta, what can you tell me about—”

“Oh, good, good! I didn’t miss you all just yet!” called the voice of the mayor from a distance. He approached with careful strides through the grass, hiking his pants above his ankles so as to not sully them with rainwater or mud. He had yet to come to a full stop before he had his hand extended toward your waist, straight and rigid, and clad in black wool.

You took a step away, disarmed by just about everything about him. From a distance, he was rather attractive, but up close, he was unarguably handsome with eyes that you likened to amber and a warm complexion. His hair was far more disheveled than it had been previously, making you ponder on whether his townsfolk turned into an angry mob, or he ran all the way here.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” He clicked his tongue, flinching as though to reprimand himself. “Colson Sinclair, Mayor of Moorwick. It’s always a pleasure to see new faces.”

Edging a smile to your lips, you took his hand and gave a strong shake, a slight nod, and offered your name to him as well. “Nice to meet you as well, Mayor Colson.”

“Just Colson is fine. No need for the formalities.” He flashed you a radiant smile, dwelling on the handshake for a moment longer before slowly releasing your hand. “I heard you’ve moved into your old man’s house. About time someone occupied it. It’s just been sitting empty all this time. Your father, though, I’m so sorry to have been the one to—to, well, break you that news.”

You stared him in the face, matching the intensity of his own stare. “Do you know much about my dad, Mayor Colson? I’m trying to learn everything I can. Come to terms with it, y’know?”

Colson made a noise under his breath, tilting his head against a bent finger scratching his cheek. “He and I were colleagues for a while, worked as a notary in town hall for a handful of years. Actually, he may have been there before I even became mayor. It’s been twenty years. Stuff gets fuzzy.”

Your eyebrows jumped up, yet you were careful with your words. They spun in your mind and danced like fire on the tip of your tongue. Nothing he said made sense. Perhaps it amounted to nothing more than the stress of his responsibilities, though.

The silence that permeated the air was disrupted by Asta as she gave a noisy sigh that hissed through her teeth. “Children, if you will, my feet are wet, and I am cold. I would like to go home and enjoy my roast. Colson, you come along as well. There’s enough for everyone.”

Colson patted a hand against his chest. His laughter was airy and smooth. “Always looking out for me, Asta. I’ll have to take a rain check on that, I’m sorry. Don’t make that face. Another time.”

With that left said, Colson was quick to toe his way across the drenched ground to the sidewalk, smoothing out his pants and giving a swipe across his peacoat and hands. He left for an unfamiliar part of town to you, toward the harbor if you had any recollection of the layout.

Tall sheets of fog waited ahead for him there, yet just as in his greeting to you earlier, he was dauntless and ventured toward it without so much as a falter in his step.

“Really strange guy.” you said, passing a furtive look toward the older couple.

Asta flicked her fingers with a scoff. “He isn’t a half-bad kid when you get to know him.”

“He’s a punk who’s never worked a day in his life,” was what Winston had to say, removing himself from Asta’s side to mosey on the path toward home. “I’d like to get home before dark, if you don’t mind.”

By the time you reached their home, the slithers of light through the bloated clouds had all but been swallowed by the curtain of nightfall. You thought that the night in Moorwick was darker than in the city, darker than anywhere you had ever been for that matter. There was a stillness in the air accompanied by a silence that felt loud in your ears.

It came to a great relief to you once you were settled at their dining room table, a quaint little round table fixed with a beige tablecloth that glistened beneath the light with accents of lace. With a single look around, you knew their home was a treasure trove of precious memories collected over nearly a century. A number of trophies and medals were lined meticulously along shelving on the walls, undoubtedly untouched for decades and a delightful home to some crawlies.

“In my youth, I was an athlete,” Asta explained at your side with her carving knife and tongs as she pulled apart the succulent roast from the bone and nestled a good portion onto your plate. The warmth of the morsel wafted around your head and in your nose; it was a comforting embrace from the bite of the autumn night and your unease. “I once tried out for the Olympics, you know.”

You rested your hands atop your thighs, drumming your fingers there to sate your impatience. “Oh, really? What for?”

She continued to gingerly load your plate with sauteed vegetables and the stewed potatoes and carrots that had marinated in the roast broth all day, reminiscing meanwhile on the better part of her life spent as a gymnast. Losing her chance at the Olympics did something to her, she told you, still harboring some weight of dismay in her tired voice.

“You’ve always done your best, Asta.” Winston flicked out a handkerchief to lay it flat across his thighs. “Ever since I’ve known you, you’ve never done less than that.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s true.” she replied, wiping her hands clean before taking her seat at the table.

Dinner passed pleasantly with Asta and Winston as they recalled times during their youth, particularly of their adventures getting hitched and gallivanting from country to country for a time, typically stowing away on boats to get to where they were headed. Their retelling of those stories meant something to them. You noticed it in the way their faces were aglow, their smiles just a little wider, and the softness that touched their eyes when they gazed at one another.

For a time, it was enough to deter your thoughts from the inevitable until it wasn’t. The tip of your fork lightly skimmed across the embossed veins throughout the plate in front of you, emitting a shrill scratch on occasion.

It was enough of an indication that the time had come. Winston was the one to collect the dishware and take it from the table while Asta led you toward the front of the house into the sitting room. There, the ceiling seemed to move away from you, and the room expanded wider at all sides. It was filled with the very same kind of novelties that gave the rest of their home its charm, and a pair of armchairs far too exquisite for you to sit in, but where Asta led you anyway.

“Take a seat, take a seat.” She gestured to your chair, chest rising and falling sharply with a sigh. “There is a lot for us to talk about. Some of it is better to sit to hear.”

The purple seat groaned beneath your weight when you dropped into it unceremoniously, knapsack pulled in front of you like a child’s toy while you rummaged it for a moment. Your fingers skimmed across a textured envelope, sturdier and far thicker in design than anything you had received before.

Asta’s jaw tightened at the sight of it, her chin tilting higher while her thumbs danced across each other atop a crossed knee. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen that. I’m glad it ended up in your hands.”

You nodded your agreement, dropping the stout envelope on the glass table positioned between your chairs. “I wouldn’t have found out anything otherwise. I’m still confused that I had to find out everything through a couple of letters instead of a phone call.”

“Would you have believed a phone call?” she challenged. “After all, we spoke a few times before you found your way here. I stay true to what I said before. I won’t guarantee the information I have on your father is what you want to hear.”

With a thin smile, you shifted to the edge of your seat and twisted your fingers together between your legs. “Asta, I packed two suitcases and barely gave my job notice that I’d be gone. I drove across the country for nearly a week, got caught up in three landslides, and now I’m here in an empty house that used to belong to my dad. I’ll be fine.”

“Yes.” She choked a laugh, a grin. “Yes, I think you will be as well.”

Just as Asta’s laughter settled into jumps in her chest, Winston shuffled into the room with a silver tray nestling an ornate teapot with a tall spout and a pair of cups similarly crafted. His hands trembled with the weight of the teapot, nearly missing the cups as he poured. “It’s a special blend, my own special blend at that. Never met a person who disliked it. Don’t be the first.”

You took the saucer and cup from him as he handed it to you shakily. “I wouldn’t imagine it.”

“Good, good,” he chimed, dropping a cube of sugar and then two more into the other cup, likewise offering it to his wife afterward. “Three cubes of sugar, tablespoon of honey. Just the way you like it.”

Asta craned her neck back to plant a kiss on his cheek, sending him off from the room then so you were alone with her. The first sip she took, she swallowed and blew out a breath; the second sip loosened her shoulders and molded her into the chair.

“As you know from the letter, your father is legally acknowledged as having passed. As you are the next of kin—his only kin—his belongings and property are now yours, should you choose to have them.” Asta began, lowering her cup to the table below. “It’s all a very complicated situation. My, how to begin…”

You didn’t drink from your tea but rather moved it to the table similarly. “He wasn’t present for most of my life. He upped and just disappeared one day. No explanation. No phone calls. No birthday cards, Christmas gifts. And then twenty-something years later, I get a letter with an official seal saying he’s passed, but you wrote me one, too.”

“Yes, yes, I did,” Asta replied, collectedly. “I asked Colson to have my letter included to you as well. Colson wrote to you all of the legal information, but I wasn’t satisfied with that. I wanted you to have a better understanding of the circumstances.”

Your eyes dropped towards the letter atop the glass table, recalling the pain that gripped your heart like a vise and opened a void in your gut. “Colson says dad is dead. You say he disappeared.”

“He disappeared twenty years ago on a rainy day in November. I remember it well.” Asta bobbed her head slowly, much like in a motion of a mechanical doll. “I will admit, no one truly knows anything about the circumstances around his disappearance. There was nothing left behind, there was never a culprit, nothing to collect. Only a fascination.”

She was egging on your curiosity, coaxing you to want to delve deeper into it. Whether it was by the uncertainties already surrounding this situation or the innate sensation to recoil—trepidation of an unalterable outcome—you hesitated to push the words from your lips.

“Fascination… of what kind, exactly?”

“Of a kind that I wonder whether you’ll be able to understand.” Asta eased closer to the end of her seat, reaching for the spoon in her teacup to swirl the black drink inside. “Moorwick has been my home for a very long time, and with my age, I have learned that the world is far more complicated than we give it credit for. Your father disappeared somewhere on the outskirts of the forest.”

You stared at her. “Was it searched?”

“The forest? Oh, dear, the Atticus Forest takes weeks to thoroughly search, and even then, it would be easy to miss something. For a time, it was, by daylight at any rate.” She continued, “You see, your father was fascinated by the forest and what may be hidden there.”

The way she spun her story to you sent your mind down a path you weren’t sure you wanted to hear. There in the sanctuary of her beautiful sitting room, you felt the cold grip of something at the back of your neck, bristling the hairs there and bumps high across your arms. Although the room bathed in a soft light, leaving no shadow to the vividity of the mind, you still sat there exposed to this room and town with a large chip in your armor.

With some dubiety to her, and the thoughts that swarmed in your head, you spoke at last without knowing what would tumble out in the tones of your voice, “So, you’re basically telling me that a ghost took him.”

There was something in the way that Asta withered back into her chair, taking glimpses from the corner of her eye as though looking for someone else there. You tightened your arms around the bag against your chest, occupying your fingers with the slim beads hanging from one of the pocket tassels. “What? Is there something else I should know, too? Just throw it out there to me, might as well at this point.”

Asta smacked her lips together and drew her hands together firmly. “As I’ve—as I’ve said, there are things that I wonder if you’ll be able to understand. Your father was no fool to what dwells in that forest. I believe he actually went deep into the heart of it with an intention, and he was noticed.”

“Noticed?” you urged her on. “Noticed by what? A hunter? A ghost? What?”

“The Headless Horseman, my dear.” Asta swallowed an exasperated laugh at bewilderment on your face, having expected that much of a reaction from you. “Moorwick, this wonderful town I love, has a very dark history and an even darker legend. The Headless Horseman who rides atop his alabaster steed, cloaked in crimson without a head.”

She spoke the latter like a nursery rhyme, trailing the tip of her tongue across her lower lip. “He is said to be the warden of the forest, though in life he was a ruthless man—a disgraced prince turned mercenary who lost his life twice. Twice.”

You weren’t sure how to interject to this ludicrous story; this old woman was actually trying to tell you that your father had been stolen by a headless horseman in the woods. For you to deplete so much of your time and funds just to hear this—what the hell were you even doing in this town?

Chasing ghosts now, apparently.

Asta didn’t balk at your disbelief. Rather, she pushed forward with her story. “The first time the horseman lost his life, he was felled and rose again to slaughter the town of Moorwick. The second time, he was decapitated by a sword and buried in a deep grave without his head. And again, he rose from the dead and has waited in the Atticus Forest ever since.”

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.” Finally, the thoughts in your head aligned with your words. “My dad is dead—dead at worst, missing at best, and you’re telling me a ghost story! A ghost story! Asta, what the hell?!”

She remained seated in her lush chair, unperturbed, posture impeccable yet stiff as you sprung up from your own and circled the room, tousling your hair with a hand to quell your nerves—better yet, to keep from agitating a fight with Winston should he overhear the ruckus.

“I told you that what I had to say may not be what you wanted to hear.” she reminded with an edge that stung you with the realization you had an outburst as a guest in someone’s home, and it flooded your face with hot shame. “Please sit down, and drink some tea.”

You didn’t for a long while. Instead, you dug a path in the high pile of her carpet, never once straying from the sitting room. When your nerves settled enough to speak without a bite of snark, you returned to your chair with a hard flop. “Okay. So, the Headless Horseman took my dad. Where would he have been taken?”

Asta blinked once, twice, opening her mouth to cracks and croaks snagging in her throat. She hadn’t anticipated for you to entertain the idea that there was something to what she said. “I—well, yes, he—I suppose he would have been taken into the heart of the forest to the Horseman’s grave. At least, that’s what the legend has us believe.”

You juggled her response with a subtle nodding of your head. Clearly, this woman was out of her mind, but it was the only lead you had to go on at this point. Searching a forest was unquestionably stupid, especially without a map or understanding the layout of the land, but yet there lingered a halo of light, a flicker of hope that somewhere in her contrived story, some truth rang to it.

“Moorwick has a library, right?” you asked.

She turned her head with a sidelong stare. “Yes. Three branches. The main branch is near town hall.”

Again, the room was plunged into silence while you considered your options from this point forward. You could easily pack your belongings from your father’s home, take everything you saw and hightail it straight out of this shitstain of a town. You could go back to work at the beginning of next week, block Asta’s phone number, and be done with this entire mess.

"Will I assume you’ll be at the library for sometime tomorrow, then?” Asta piped up, leaning forward with a far too curious glimmer in her sunken eyes.

You would have to leave your things as they were in your father’s home for a while. Hopefully, they didn’t gather dust with how much still lay there undisturbed in gray blankets.

“Yeah, I’ll be there most of the day.”

You wanted answers, and you weren’t going to leave without them.

divider @/anlian-aishang

repost from my deleted blog officiallytheduchess/cardeneiv

if you enjoyed reading, please reblog!

#headless horseman x y/n #headless horseman x you #headless horseman x reader #headless horseman #dullahan x y/n #dullahan x you #dullahan x reader #dullahan #.02 #monster fiction #monster fic #monster x human #monster fucker #monster story #2k writes #original fiction #original story #original writing

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hypnogogyc · 6 months

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Terminal Velocity but Oliver is a siren and Mike is a harpy

Hmm i see ur vision but i raise you pirate mike and reluctant siren oliver. I think i had a sketch of that au somewhere a while back but i cant find it so i give you a sketch from disgraced fey prince Mike and fey hunter with ulterior motives Oliver

#tma #my art #technically #terminal velocity #???#interrogation #this was done on a phone if anyone makes fun of me #ik the anatomy is fucked here

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valeriianz · 1 year

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Pirate AU, they've been rivals for a while, but when one of them almost gets hanged, the other rescues them and well, the ship is so small, guess we have to share my bunk 🤷‍♀️ one humble drabble suggestion from me.

“--Three shots to the wind, ya are. I can smell it on your breath.”

Hob is this close to just knocking Dream out with the butt of his gun, the man had been chatty and reluctant throughout this entire rescue.

“Yeah, well–” Hob peers left and right, crouched low in the orlop, finding ground after climbing the ladder and hauling them both onto the ship Hob helped crew. “Needed a bit of rum to convince myself to save your skinny ass.”

Dream scowls, but still manages to keep his voice low in the darkness.

“I will not be spoken to this way.”

Hob turns around, shoving Dream against the wall and leaning in close, brushing his lips against the man’s ear. “You’re a pirate,” he snarls. “I’ll speak to you anyway I goddamn well please.”

He leans back, studying Dream’s agitated visage before taking him by the wrist and pulling him along once more. Hob can hear the crew above deck, shouting orders and readying the ship for sail. They had managed to sneak by as the ropes holding the ship to the dock were untethered and the sails lowered, obviously far enough away from the public execution where the crew were sure to not be caught… until all hell broke loose with Hob’s little escape mission.

With a great sigh of relief, Hob locates his cabin and shoves Dream inside first before closing and locking the door.

“I had it under control,” Dream growls, voice a tad louder in the privacy of Hob’s tiny setup.

Hob huffs a breath of derision. “Oh, did you now?”

Dream had been scheduled to hang at the execution square in Thames. He seemed ready for it, his face impassive as his list of crimes went on and on, giving Hob plenty of time to stalk the crowd, finding an entrypoint and exit strategy. It was a spontaneous, rum infused decision to cause a distraction and shoot the rope that held Dream by the neck, snagging the other pirate and hauling ass back to Hob’s ship nearly on the other side of the island.

He almost fought with Hob, face crumpling into something unsatisfactory, like biting into a lemon upon seeing his rescuer. Hob wasn’t sure why he was doing this either. Hob and Dream’s ship had met on the water once in the past year, cannon fire that turned into plunder missions where Hob had met Dream for the first time, high off the adrenaline of a proper attack, on the deck of his own ship.

They’re dueled with swords, well matched with a blade, amongst the chaos around them. Hob would be lying if he said he’d given it his all… mighty distracted by Dream’s pale skin and blue eyes, like the clear waters of a coral reef.

The fight had ended in a parley, their captains coming to an agreement, but promising one another that if they’d see each other again, there’d be no mercy.

And indeed, months later, Hob had run into Dream at a port, finding him in a dark corner of a pub, not engaging with his crewmates and holding onto a tankard without drinking it.

Hob had approached him, unsure what to make of the unexpected excitement in his belly, his chest, at seeing the pirate again. All he knew was the sea and booty and blood, so as he caught Dream’s attention, Hob drew his sword and challenged him to a fight.

It had been magnificent. Dueling Dream was like crossing blades with a nobleman. Dream was all fluidity and composure, while Hob was brute strength and honed skill. Years and years of learning how to fight by trial and error, no proper training, and with the scars to prove it.

Hob had lost that fight, falling to his knees in front of spectators jeering and throwing booze. He looked up at Dream, panting hard and pointing the tip of his blade at Hob’s jugular.

“Any last words?” Dream had said, his voice low and cool, musical, like a siren out of water, come to test Hob’s resolve.

Hob cracked his most roguish smirk.

“Give me a chance to fight again.” Hob licked his lips, utterly smitten. “Let me prove myself worthy of such artistry-- to lucubrate your mastery and that I may step with equal footing.”

Dream cocked one elegant brow, his blade lowering.

“Well spoken. Scallywag.”

Hob had seen Dream here and there, as the months went on, but found himself unable to fight him again. He’d gotten lucky, Hob knows, earning Dream’s mercy. But that didn’t make them friends. On the contrary, if Hob’s fellow crewmates caught him sneaking Dream aboard, they’d both be tossed into the sea.

“Why did you even bother?” Dream’s deep timbre interrupts Hob’s wandering thoughts. “Now that you’ve aligned yourself with me, we’re both doomed.”

“Shut it, I haven’t ‘aligned’ myself with nobody.”

Dream stands there, in the middle of the room, casting his eyes up and down Hob’s tattered clothes and sweat soaked skin. “Certainly seems like you have.”

“Your crew left you for dead, mate,” Hob crosses the scant space between them, causing Dream to step back warily. “I don’t think I have an enemy anymore. You got nowhere else to go.”

Dream glared, but Hob could see the admission in his eyes, the truth. That he was truly alone now. What did it mean, to be captured– nay, saved by your adversary?

“And what do you plan to do with me now, Gadling?” Dream’s arms came out wide at his sides. “You’ve brought an enemy onto your ship. If the captain finds out–”

“He won't.”

Dream levels him with a look.

“And even worse,” Dream continues like Hob said nothing. “Your crewmates will give me no quarter upon discovery. They would see me back at the gallows.”

“I should’ve left you to hang, ungrateful prick.”

“And now you’re hiding me,” Dream ignored the jab, his brows narrowed, suspicious. “Like some little boy who’s picked up a stray pet.”

“You said ‘pet.’” Hob grinned.

The room gave a sudden lurch and sway, indicating the ship was finally off. Dream tumbled back onto the small bed while Hob propped a hand on the wall, smiling down at the inelegant tangle of limbs Dream made on the mussed cot.

As the ship began to gentle in a rocking motion, Hob stepped up the Dream, who clambered up against the wall, long legs dangling over the edge, which Hob stood between now, leaning down and pressing his palms against either side of Dream’s head, caging him.

“I’ll admit I’m making this up as I go,” he said, privately pleased in the way Dream’s neck stretched back to look up at him, hatred burning in those crystal blue eyes. Hob wondered if he could make that fire burn for a whole different reason. Could soften those lines along Dream’s brow. Hob could almost imagine it, Dream with a darkened gaze, jaw slack, lips parted, body open and relaxed– for him.

“But in the meantime, you’ll do as I say, and keep quiet,” Hob took Dream’s chin in his hand, fingers curling around his jaw, sharp as a blade, and definitely didn’t imagine the soft gasp that snuck through Dream’s lips. “Savvy?”

Dream swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing with it.

“Aye.”

#dreamling #dream x hob #from a request i posted that has since been deleted #ahhh this was extremely fun to write #thank you for sending this in cara!#i forgot to get to them sharing the bunk whoops #next time...#my writing #pirate au

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paddockbunny · 1 year

Text

Two

Summary: Aria Armund is hired by Alpine as an "image guardian" for a reluctant Pierre Gasly - AKA she is hired to be his "babysitter". What happens as the season progresses and both of them have their buttons pressed by the other? And what happens when one of them suggests making a rather interesting bet? Rating: 18+. Pairing : Pierre Gasly x Aria Armund (OC) Word Count : 3, 116 Trigger Warnings : 18+, NSFW, language, nudes being sent and received, slight female masturbation mention, I think that’s all… 💞Authors Note : Aria’s POV 🥰 thank you for the support on the last chapter folks! It means a lot!! If you want to be added to a tag list then please comment on the newest chapter not the one prior or anywhere else because it’s too hard to keep up with if it’s not all in the one place.

Aria

Fuck this day!

As soon as my shoes were kicked off I practically rushed toward the kitchen and hurriedly ripped open the tape that held closed one of the boxes sitting on the kitchen worktop, desperately trying to find a wine glass for the bottle of wine I purchased on my way home. God, this day needed to be over like, right now. The second a glass touched my fingertips I couldn’t have been anymore thankful that I got a twist cap wine so didn’t have to struggle trying to find a bottle opener. I watched as the gorgeous, beautiful ruby red liquid flowed easily from the thin neck of the bottle into the clear glass. A subconscious sigh left my lips at that moment. If I had thought this new job was going to be easy then boy was I wrong.

Pierre fucking Gasly. What a prick. He was so full of himself. Arrogance practically oozed out of him. It would have been laughable if he wasn’t so bloody misogynistic. My teeth ground together when I remembered how several times throughout the meeting he thought he was so sly but I caught him, each and every time he glanced at my boobs. Quickly, I swiped my large glass of wine off the counter and headed straight toward the sofa. I need to relax. Tension had been wracking my body all day. Even now, I could feel it in my shoulders, my neck, everywhere. As my head tipped back and I took another large swig of the alcoholic crimson merlot I spied my bag. It was laying on the floor with things practically bursting out of it. I really needed to get a larger one for all the shit I had to carry around with me now but shopping was low down on my priority list. However, the bag itself was not what caught my attention. My eyes honed straight in on the top of my new shiny work phone poking out of the inside pocket. A large part of my brain said fuck work while the other was already grasping hold of it after taking no more than a second to lunge for the object like it was giving out some weird siren call before I knew I was doing it. The recollection of Pierre’s resistance to give me his fucking passwords today played on my mind. Then it mixed with the memory of him smiling at his phone and asking if I’d “rather make it a threesome” as he left the shitty office they put me in - for the few weeks I needed it for before being stuck with the fucker for the whole year.

I took out the notepad Pierre had reluctantly wrote his passwords down in and opened up the freshly downloaded Instagram and Twitter apps ready to punch his details into. I had expected to eye roll when I read his passwords but actually they were just simple names and numbers which made very little sense to me.

Instagram:

Username : PierreGasly

Password : Pascale22/9/1996**PSG

Twitter:

Username : PierreGASLY

Password : 10Anthoine_Cate*7

I guessed they were probably family members and whatnot so it wasn’t really surprising. And I sipped more of my wine because I had a feeling I was going to need to brace myself for what I was going to read (and see). The moment I clicked on the little paper airplane arrow icon it suddenly dawned on me that if I had been asked to hand over my own passwords I would have immediately combed through everything and repeatedly hit delete, delete fucking delete. But this was Pierre Gasly. He wouldn’t have even considered deleting anything. He would be proud of all the conquests, one night stands and random faceless nudes he no doubt received and probably jerked off too because well, he was just that sort of person, wasn’t he? He presumably had them going back years and quite possibly enjoyed flicking through them sometimes just to get a kick from the girls that would physically throw themselves at him online in a desperate bid to get his attention. Perhaps sometimes it may have worked and he would have used his social media to arrange a hook-up where he would most likely forget the girls name by the following morning. That was the type of guy I was dealing with here.

Nothing particularly salacious could be found on his Twitter. There were a few suggestive comments here and there, which seemed to get some of his fans all hot and bothered. The one he had referred too today - the doggy comment that I really had to attempt not to pretend to vomit at - popped up and several more referring to things of a sexual nature most guys would have grown out of by 27. So I made a note to discuss keeping things a bit more respectable and PC in future. Digging a little deeper he had liked several racy, risqué tweets from other people (including fans) and again I had to jot down to tell him to reign his hormones in a little bit more than he was currently doing. Although, it wasn’t just the smutty natured comments Pierre had gone through and flung likes at freely. I managed to find tones of comments from journalists, insiders and general fans that were unsavoury toward Ocon (and a few aimed at the team) last season which was in no way going to be allowed now I had to keep an eye on him. It was exactly the type of stuff Alpine had an issue with and Pierre really needed to play ball before things became irreparable. I swigged another large sip from my glass as I finally went into his following list. Unsurprisingly, a couple of pornstars could be found amongst the hordes of sports personalities, brand sponsors and general celebrities. I ground my teeth a little and couldn’t help but note the type of adult actresses he was following - an insight into the type of girls he went for perhaps? Almost all were brunettes with big doe eyes, big lips and of course big boobs. They all seemed to be on younger side, y’know the type that could fake teenage babysitters and naughty neighbours next door. It was exactly what I would expect of Pierre. EXACTLY what I would expect. They were swiftly unfollowed and I felt like there was no way I could be prepared for switching to Instagram without a refill of my wine.

Pierre was most, prolific, shall we say on Instagram. His time spent scrolling on the app was very well known. His trigger happy thumb that fired out likes like hot dinners span a whole meme. “Liked by Pierre Gasly” was even on the back of t-shirts now. I didn’t need to deep dive on my research prior to meeting him to find out how addicted he was to the social media platform. It was one of the first things that popped up when I googled him. Initially I couldn’t help but laugh at this 27-year-old man being hooked to a silly little app but now after having met him, I could see why his juvenile brain would become dependant on the thoughtless validation. I went to the kitchen and refilled my quickly emptying glass with haste. The memory of Pierre being so guarded about his passwords sprung into my brain and so now I desperately wanted to know what he was hiding. I clicked on the bright coloured button with my thumb and smirked knowing how much he would hate this. But as I sat down, he was so conceited he actually wouldn’t hate it at all.

I flicked quickly down the interface. It was full of mostly drivers and brands. I raised my glass to my lips and took a swift drink when I reached a bikini clad model which was followed by another one. Both had been “liked by Pierre Gasly” and I found myself eye rolling, yet again. But this wouldn’t be what he was trying to stop me from gaining access too. After-all they probably all followed scantily clad women who frolicked around in hotel beds and beaches to pay their rent. My thumb hovered over the DM icon and sure it was fucking pathetic, but I felt a little bit of a rush finally allowing myself to tap it.

And I was certainly not disappointed. It was full of exactly what I knew it would be. Girls. There was the “you replied to “x”‘s story” amongst plenty “reacted to your story” & of course the “sent a photo”’s littered his DMs. Starting at the top, I decided to go through the most recent one first. It was from a @Jocelyn_S_Silva and the wine really didn’t prepare me. Jesus! That’s a lot of ass! I saw the little heart emoji at the side of it meaning Pierre clearly liked it and I let out a little bit of a sigh subconsciously. Girls really did send guys this type of stuff very openly and freely and honestly, it was going to be tough keeping him out of trouble if these were the kinds of DM’s he was happy to revcieve. Then the time it was sent caught my eye. Today at 1:33pm. He was with me at 1:33pm. He was in our meeting being a brat, a big headed idiot, a total chauvinist. I scrolled to the messages before and realised that was where he had come from and why he had been late. He had spent the night with this girl.

Jocelyn_S_Silva: 💋 last night was fun Papi, let’s do it again sometime?xxx

I couldn’t help but feel a slight disgust wash over me so I tried to settle it with the carmine coloured liquid in my glass. Who was this girl anyway? I went back to view her profile. A Spanish influencer it seems. 200,000 followers, probably mostly male by the millions of bikini pictures she was posting. I mean if that was how she earned her money good for her, she had an amazing body and she would be best to use it before she loses it but she wasn’t good for Pierre’s image so there was a swift unfollowing and blocking of the bikini influencer (I mean, what the hell is a bikini influencer anyway?)

Then following on from her there was another bikini model from Italy who was clearly someone Pierre had taken on a date and hooked up with after seeing as the message was quite similar to Miss Jocelyn Silva’s. Pierre hadn’t replied to her so I deleted conversation before proceeding to unfollow and block. Next was some girl who had been a paddock guest but had a fairly slim IG if you discount all of the shopping pics. She had sent Pierre various shots of herself in various states of undress and I didn’t need to see much more. Delete, unfollow and block. There were a few conversations with guys I could gather were friends and other racing drivers like Charles Leclerc and Max Verstappen. Then a few more conversations with girls that were extremely entertaining to read. Most were almost comically cringey and stereotypical moves all guys stuffed up their sleeves when talking to women. But one or two of his conversations were enough to make me raise my eyebrows. He was a natural flirt and some of these girls (the ones he seemed to like the most) he gave extra effort too. As I read “…I know you’ll shiver when I kiss down that beautiful neck” I could hear his confidence laced voice practically purring it. And then another girl got “God! I can’t wait to be between your thighs, making you cum all over my tongue” and that was when I had to devour all the remainder of my wine.

Listen, as much as Pierre Gasly was a monumental dick today - acting like he was king of the castle and as if I should fall on my knees for him upon sight alone - I couldn’t deny that the man was good looking. His slate grey, moody eyes sort of smouldered in a way most men would be jealous of. His penchant for smirking was so God damn infuriating that it was hard to conceal the fact that it did in fact work on me and I had to disguise how it actually managed to raise my temperature a little. And besides all else, the man oozed confidence like no one else I have ever met before. It exuded from him. Every single pore in his skin permeated an almost magnetic certitude that was hard not to get drunk off. Having now spent a few hours in his presence could almost understand why women found him utterly irresistible. Pierre had this seductive, alluring appeal that not many guys could mimic. It was so unbelievably natural to the man that several times today you had been amazed that he hadn’t been snapped up yet and found the right woman. After all, he seemed to be able to sleep with them no problem judging by his DMs.

For a brief moment, I really considered putting the phone down, running myself a bath and forgetting all about what my new job was. A glance toward the unpacked boxes and semi furnished flat reminded me of that. Fuck! This was all a step in the right direction but still not one I thought I would be taking. I glanced down at my fading tan and let out a long, laboured sigh. I miss the heat on my skin. The warmth of a beautiful November day back in Aus. My eyes flickered tightly shut and I was right back there. On the porch of the house overlooking the lush greenery and crystal clear swimming pool and right as I almost allowed myself to daydream one day I would be back there, I opened my eyes and the moment was over. The phone was still on in my hand when I looked back and allowed my eyes to focus on it. There’s no good thinking of the past. I click on the next conversation Pierre had been having with a girl and practically choked on the last drop of wine I had slowly tipped out of the glass.

It was a sent photo. From Pierre. Of PIERRE!

From the angle it was evident Pierre was lying down. The tanned, flexed muscles of his abdomen were right there on full display and a shaky, uncertain breath escaped passed my parted shocked lips. His chest hair was a light shade of brown that at this angle looked practically golden. And it continued down to cover the valley of his tight, taught stomach. I felt my mouth water slightly as it was very apparent Pierre liked feeling like a man if the defined “happy trail” was anything to go by. But it wasn’t his sculpted chest that had shock reverberating through my body.

Pierre was clad in a pair of very tight, possibly expensive, black boxers with a VERY obvious erection. The thin fabric was stretched almost to breaking to contain the hard on beneath and suddenly, it dawned on me why he was so unwilling to give me his passwords. But the fact he had hours to have deleted any of these dirty photographs made me wonder if he actually wanted me to see them. Now, that was very Pierre of him!

It was hard to look away from and even harder to will myself to click off. I could tell why Pierre was so smug all the time now. There was no denying he had to be well-endowed and he was clearly girthy. And fuck, he was so confident in his sexuality there wasn’t a chance he didn’t know how to use it. There had to be a reason all of these girls wanted more. This is so fucked! It’s Pierre for fucks sake! It’s Pierre! He’s the arrogant asshole I’ve only known a few hours. Get a fucking grip, Aria!

Then just as I caught the sound of my own trembling, unsteady breathing I felt a dull pulse like beating between my thighs that was unmistakable and I sighed. After all these months? Now? And Pierre?! This was a fucking shocker. Seriously? I thought I was broken. I thought I had turned this particular part of myself off like a leaky tap after, well after what, happened. But evidently the sight of Pierre Gasly’s hard on was all it took to turn it back on. For a minute I simply sat there and had to at least take this in. It wasn’t right. I had to be professional. I had to “look after” him. But it wasn’t like I was about to fuck him and probably a lot of other girls would feel this after finding a photo like that.

Fuck it!

I went with it. I allowed myself to use the moment. Utilise the feeling that was now coursing through my veins. I lay back on the sofa and placed the work phone down so I could use both of my hands to get my tight as hell work trousers undone. Guys did this all the time. They got off to their work colleagues and all that didn’t they? I lifted my leg up a little so I could get a good angle. Just go with it. And a long, steady breath flowed from my lips as I trailed the tips of my fingers down my body. I felt the hot air leaving my lungs against my fingertips as I started there. Then they passed down my throat, my neck, my collarbone and down my silk blouse covered breast caged in my lace bra underneath. My eyes closed slowly while my hand travelled down further. It brushed down my stomach and the little bare skin that had become exposed when I undone the trousers moments ago. With one inner push my fingers continued and pushed down into the elastic of the white cotton panties and I let myself think of the picture. Of Pierre’s picture. Of Pierre. And then the tips of my fingers brushed across where the darkening throbbing pulsing was coming from. God, Pierre’s mouth trailing down my neck would feel so good right now. His fingers could do this better.

Suddenly, I sit up straight. My hand retreating from my waist band instantly.

Fuck no!

No! Not happening! Absolutely not! No way in hell!

No matter how bad I need it, I will never get off on the thought of Pierre fucking Gasly! EVER!

TAG LIST!

@f1-futurewag-16-3-4-63 @queenofshinigamis @kovalcin @genevieve-blr @mcmuppet @themockingjayreader

Thank-you too @the-lazy-leprechaun for helping develop the plot 🥰

#pierre gasly #pierre gasly fanfiction #pierre gasly fanfic #pierre gasly fic #pierre gasly series #pierre gasly x oc #pierre gasly imagine #pierre gasly imagines #pierre gasly multi chapter #f1 smut #f1 fanfiction #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1 imagines #f1 imagine #f1 series #f1 x oc #bet trope #grumpy sunshine trope

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