#still a few hours to go for me but its good

[drgnflyteabox]

lament [1]

part one -> honey || part two -> tbd

pairing: john price x fem reader summary: as you recover from prolonged illness, you meet a man on a hike in the woods just as strange things begin happening around you. tags/warnings: creepy / horror vibes, slowburn, phone sex, masturbation, injuries, mention of hospitals, pneumonia, mobility aids, softdom!price (for now), dubcon due to intoxication, tags will update as the story does w.c: 5.9k

The woods are a peaceful, meditative thing. You’ve been spending your mornings there walking with Diva, meandering through the local trails and venturing off for pictures of red mushrooms or Diva in her little yellow raincoat, sniffing something or other.

The trails were scarcely used and took a couple of hours to finish, a longer trek in taller trees that closed off the sunlight and created peace through insulation, like an echo chamber of wet pitter patter from rain the night before and the gentle calls of birds, broken only by the sounds of your hiking shoes crunching gently through pebbles and leaves.

Quiet. It’s just what you need, slowly erasing memories of bright fluorescent lights and the smell of antiseptics. The trail isn’t elevated, it’s long, but not elevated. That’s important for your recovery, two months spent in a hospital bed attached to breathing apparatus.

Relief, freedom, as slow as your steps are and as beleaguered is your breathing, it’s pure relief. You’re no longer breathing through a straw, building strength walk by walk, spending time with Diva and watching her little tail wiggle under her coat. This time is good for her, too. You could sink to your knees and praise a higher being for the time off and sick pay policies your job has - so could Diva.

The shaking continues, your limbs still weak, muscles unused to standing and walking. You often find yourself sitting, on a log or a rock, and taking time to breathe and recover. Sometimes a granola bar makes its way into the mix, sometimes a handful of trail mix.

The last few times, there’s been a man. Tall, imposing, walking much quicker than you even with a brace around his knee. His posture tells you he takes himself pretty seriously, or he’s military, if there’s any difference.

Mutton chops, mustache, cargo pants. He’s been coming up behind you with sure steps, barely a limp even with his knee, and going by you so fast there's a breeze, makes you a little nervous to get mowed down.

Diva is weary of him. Her hackles raise, though she doesn’t bark, and she tucks close to you when he goes by. You don't feel unsafe, just a little surprised at the break in monotony no matter how tiny it is.

Doesn’t help that it’s pretty nice watching him go, that broad back and tight shirt, those well sculpted legs. Hey, you’re still sick and weak, still recovering. Sue me, you think, leaning on a tree when your lungs start burning again a little too much.

He stops, a few feet in front of you.

“You broken?” His voice is just as you imagined, rough maybe from smoking, maybe from overuse.

“What?” Broken?

“You alright?” He repeats, turning then. The quiet is a little oppressive now, with your struggle. You’re wheezing.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine-” you cough, dryly. “Just asthmatic.” It’s an easy explanation, you’re trying to get him to move on. You’ve never felt in danger, but it’s still the middle of the woods and he’s still a strange man.

“Need a hand?” He has to look down at you, even from a distance. His head is tilted down, arms folding across his chest, biceps calling to you like sirens.

You shake your head, squatting down as best you can, taking the breaths learned from your doctor and pulling out your steroid inhaler. One puff, two puff.

The man looks at you skeptically, eyes small and narrowed, flitting once to Diva who would fail as a service dog, but tries her best at guarding you despite being so small. Her gaze is pinpointed to him, as stiff as he is.

”Right, then,” is all he says before he’s back to his soldiers march.

You imagine him with horse blinders on and pulling a sled behind him, wheezing a laugh into the empty air.

Recovery is not linear. That’s what your doctor tells you, what you were told before you left the ICU, before you were discharged all together. There’ll be ups and downs, moments where you feel you’ve backslid to the point of having to start all over.

You get it, really. It’s a mantra. Recovery is not linear.

What they don't warn you is that it’s different when you’re actually feeling it, waking up weaker than ever and coughing, burning in your chest. It’s jarring, every cell in your body crying for oxygen and yet you aren’t low enough that you need to go back to the ER, just sit up in bed and stare out the window to the fortress of green that surrounds your house.

Recovery is not linear. You watch comfort shows - animated Halloween specials, a couple months too early. They fit the cooling temperatures, the slow yellowing of the trees.

Food is hard when you can’t stand for long periods of time, so you order in. Soup, and an extra chicken crunch treat for Diva on her dinner.

It’s only when you turn Charlie Brown off that you hear it.

Tap tap tap. Deliberate, timed taps, like a mini hammer on a mini nail. Quiet enough that your ears strain, and yet you can just barely catch the sound. It’s coming from the side of your house, opposite to your bedroom and closest to the living room you were just in.

Tap tap tap. Maybe it’s the vibe you put yourself in, but you shiver with apprehension. Could be an animal, you do live fairly far out, and by the woods. Your driveway is long, separated from the highway just outside of town.

Diva is usually a false alarm - she raises her hackles at the stove, she’s not trustworthy when it comes to alerting you. And yet you look, and find her standing straight up and staring at the wall the sound is coming from, lips peeling back.

Only there's nothing you can do. You aren’t gonna go check, not with your weak limbs and thin breath. Theres a landline in the kitchen with a long cord, and your cellphone. The best you can do is lock the windows and doors, which you do, shuffling so as to make the least amount of noise possible.

Next the lights and curtains, drawn and shut. You tuck a knife under your mattress, more for reassurance than anything, and close your bedroom door behind Diva.

The only reason you’re able to sleep is the bedroom door locks. The handle has one, and there’s a chain above that. You tuck into bed under the covers like a child hiding from their closet, straining to hear the tap tap tap. Sometime between you locking all the entries and exits, it stopped, but you’re still unmoored.

Your lungs fare better the next morning, eased by rest. You’re back in the woods by late morning, driving up to the trailhead through the canopy of trees. It really is beautiful, part of the reason you moved here, other than peace and quiet.

There's another car as you pull up, a reliable model in a dark colour, a surprise since you’re usually the first one there. 

You park away from it in an effort to not be creepy, but still sneak a peak while Diva does her post-car ride shakeout and pee.

It’s the man from before, sitting in the front seat, talking on a phone. He looks serious, frowning, talking in a measured way but you can still hear the volume as you pass by.

He waves, and you wave back, giving him a little smile.

Diva leads the way, prancing into the woods without fear even as the leaves start blocking out the sun. She inspires you - a little dog, brave, braver than you were last night.

God, it was probably a rabbit or a possum stuck somewhere. Maybe a mouse, and though you hope it isn’t it is the season for them. Cooler temperatures means creatures trying to enter your house. Means you have yet to drive down to town and pick up insulation supplies for your windows before fall really hits and you’re freezing.

Making a mental note of that, you lean heavily on your walking stick and pause. It’s one of those days, needing more aid than usual after yesterday and more breaks.

Crunch.

“Sorry, honey,” the army man holds his arms up, seeming sheepish as you flip around to face him. “Didn’t mean to scare ya.”

“Oh, no, it’s okay,” your cheeks burn in embarrassment. “Just jumpy today.”

“That’s alright,” his eyes crinkle at the corners, softening at the edges. He’s approachable today, not speed walking through the woods like there's a pot of gold at the end. “Mind if I join you?”

Unexpected, but with your eyes at pec-height it’s an easy yes. You deserve a handsome escort for the second half of the trail, and your emergency alarm is tucked in your front sweater pocket if you need it.

“Sure,” you nod. “I’m pretty slow, though, just to warn you. Recovering.”

“That’s fine, I should be taking it easier anyway. Make my physio happy for once,” he gestures to his knee with a chuckle. “John.”

You tell him your name. John. It suits him, the masculinity of it, the simpleness too. He gives the impression that he’s careful about how he presents himself, that outside of this sudden friendliness he’s very closed off - the way he was when you’d come across him before. Now he calls you honey, and touches his fingertips to your back as you navigate a patch of rough terrain warped by roots.

“I’m off until my knee is battle-ready, again,” he says it like it’s a joke, but there’s a steel edge beneath his words. You ask about his job: contract work, he says, not self-employed but with pockets of free time.

“Did you move here recently?” The wind shivers the trees, chillier than last week, as you meander.

“Ah, didn’t move here,” he scratches his thumb with his nose. “Staying with a friend. Needed the fresh air.”

“I get it,” your shoulder brushes his arm. “That’s why I moved here too.”

“Helps your asthma?”

You pause for a moment, confused. And then.

“Oh!” You’re a little embarrassed. “I don’t have asthma, actually. I mean I could have it, or develop it. But really I had pneumonia for a while, really wiped me out.”

“Ah, I see,” his voice says surprised, but his face stays the same. You wonder if he notices. “Terrible, that. My mum had a bad bout of it a couple years back, gave us a scare.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” you aren’t sure how old John is, but you can assume it was dangerous for his mother to have caught such a bad infection. “How’s she doing now?”

“Much better. Healthy as a goat.”

“A goat?” You’re laughing, then. A giggle that has him smiling back at you. “Haven’t heard that one before.”

John hums when he doesn’t reply verbally, and nods like you’re giving a university lecture. The attentiveness is nice, but it makes you self conscious, unused to having so much attention so focused on you. And he is so focused, like you’re discussing nuclear launch codes or what a quark is or something important. Honestly, it makes you hide your face in an embarrassingly shy way, avoiding eye contact.

He walks with you slowly, patiently down the path, arms crossed behind his back. Every once in a while either or the two of you laugh, which seems to bother Diva, whose been looking back at John suspiciously or trying to get between you the whole time.

“So sorry about that,” you really don’t know what’s gotten into her. Sure, she’s a pro at finding innocuous things suspicious, but you’ve been walking for a while now and she usually warms up when she realizes you’re okay with the offensive person or item.

“Don’t worry about it, honey,” honey again. He sure knows how to make a lady flustered. “She’s just looking out for her mama, right?”

If your pussy reacts to that, it’s no one’s business but your own.

The air chills, day by day. John has begun joining you on your walks every other day, and sometimes you catch him jogging to the trailhead from the road instead of driving it. It makes you wonder where he’s, whether it’s close or he’s really pushing his knee, and whether or not he’s flirting with you when he shows up all sweaty in a tight shirt.

Another anomaly is that the tapping has returned, nearly every night. You’re scared every time, won’t even let Diva out for a final pee and have stuck to walking up at the buttcrack of dawn to make sure she’s taken care of.

Tedious, is what it is. Ridiculous. And yet when those little taps come, in different places around the house now, different walls, you hide under the covers with Diva growling her little growl at the bedroom door and try to sleep.

When cabin fever starts to set in, anxiety and insane thoughts like, what if someone is trying to break into my house? You decide it’s past time for a visit to town.

The trip serves many purposes, anyways. Diva needs treats, kibble, and a new ball. You need groceries, tampons, new socks. Overall worth it outside of the fresh air and human interaction with more than just one person.

“Hey! Hey you!”

You’re in the bakery, weighing with your hands two loaves of artisanal bread. Just the one will do, since your freezer is small, but you want both. Pumpernickel or dark rye? Which will go better with the honey ham sandwich slices?

“Hello? Earth to-”

Your deliberation is interrupted by a waving in your face. You realize Jo, your only real friend in town, has run across the street to catch your attention.

“Oh gosh, my bad,” you look down at your shoes, then reach for a hug. She squeezes you.

“That’s okay, babe, off in your own world?” She’s dazzling, too cute for such a small town. Her ringlets bounce on her shoulders and her mouth, which is always smiling, is stretched wide with mirth. Makes you feel warm inside that she cares for you.

“Trying to make a hard decision. You know, end world hunger or stop all wars.” Stupid, but she laughs. You love making her laugh, and if you were lesbian you’d have made a move on her. Maybe you were, just a little.

“Why not both?” Her hands find your shoulders and squeeze. It’s then that you notice someone behind her, a much taller someone. At first the muscled chest and thick neck make you think it’s John, and a small squeeze of jealousy grips your stomach.

Then you see the mohawk, the difference in height. This man is looking at you with a similar intensity, though, all piercing blue eyes, thick furrowed brows, pin-straight posture.

“You’re right,” your laugh is more awkward, then, motioning with your eyes to the man.

“Oh, I’m so rude,” she turns to him. “This is Johnny, we met a few weeks ago.”

A wink. Ah, they met a few weeks ago. You picture them in the only bar in town, low lighting and Jo looking like Botticelli’s Venus, plump cheeks and red lips. And yeah, Johnny’s pretty good looking. You’d laugh about the mixup and the names if it wasn’t rude.

“Nice tae meet ya,” his accent is thick, palm warm and rough against yours. “Shall we, lass?”

He’s talking to Jo. They exchange glances, him looking at you once so fast you almost miss it. There’s something uncomfortably familiar about the look he gives you, but you shake it off. Nerves, you think. From the taps.

“Right,” Jo looks a little sheepish, then. “We’re off to the movies, but nice to see you!”

You raise a brow. You can’t help it, it’s 10am. Jo laughs and they leave.

You bake, sometimes. It’s a good hobby for someone on a leave of absence with nothing much else to do but read, walk and play with her dog.

The oven sometimes scares Diva, and she curls up in your room indignantly until you’re done using it. You’ve always wondered why, since she came to you as a puppy and hasn’t got a single reason to be upset with the appliance. 

Oh well.

You decide to bring brown butter chocolate chip cookies on your hike, hoping to see John and give him one. Your interactions haven’t progressed past leisurely chatting and walking together, but he’s a handsome man and you're still a little stir-crazy. At least with work, it wasn’t just hours on hours of uninterrupted alone time.

Funny how that works, isn’t it? You spend every day at work wishing not to be at work, and once you have the opportunity you have no idea what to do with yourself.

John loves the cookies. He takes two right out of the Tupperware, flattering you by groaning as he eats. The recipe is that good, but you think he might be putting it on a bit anyway.

It’s sweet.

“Fantastic,” he says, licking his fingers. You try not to look. “You bake often?”

“Just something to do, keeps me busy.” Diva has growled at John again, her second offense. She’s being a real heel today, rude and fussy. You elect to schedule a vet visit for a checkup soon.

“No one to keep you company in that house?” He stops when you need to stop, takes the opportunity to stretch his bad leg.

“What?” You take a puff of the inhaler, frowning a little.

“Are you lonely?” A weird question, but you chalk it up to small town weirdness.

“A little, but that one over there keeps me company,” as if she knows, she turns and yips. “What do you mean, that house?”

“You mentioned you live in your grandfather's house, no? Inherited it.” He chuckles at Diva.

“Did I? I don’t think…” you fully frown, thinking back to your conversations. Did you mention that? You haven’t even thought of it yourself for a while, not wanting to revisit painful memories. Your grandpa did pass you his house, but you’re usually more private than offering more than surface-level information to strangers.

“I believe so,” he looks deep in thought himself, squinting up at the umbrella of trees above you. That comforts you, the fact that he’s trying to recall. You’ve been so anxious lately.

“I must have forgotten, sorry. I’ve just been so scrambled lately.” John perks up at that, turning towards you as you finally continue walking.

“Scrambled?” His palm finds the back of your arm, the meat of it. He squeezes you, and it fills you with warmth. “How so?”

“Ah, well, just some animals around my house. I think,” you meet eyes, and he gets the best of you, so you elect to stare between his brows.

“Want me to take a look?” His tone is very serious. You shiver.

“I don’t think it’s necessary… I think there’s just some mice making a home for winter. I gotta call an expert,” He slides his hand down to your elbow, holding it gently. You’re nearing the end of the trail, the woods getting brighter around you. Diva marks her territory here more than anywhere else and yips at John again. 

“I could do it for free though, honey,” the air drops where you are, a gust of wind creating a symphony of sound all around you. A little romantic, you think. Ridiculous.

“Well,” far be it from you to pass up free help. “Only if you let me pay you back somehow.” 

“You have already,” he holds up the cookie Tupperware, shaking it gently. 

“Then let me make you dinner. Whatever you want!” The enthusiasm in which you say it has you cringing at yourself, but mentally you justify it; it’s completely normal to invite a friend over, especially to pay back a favour. You’re not being obvious that you’re attracted to him at all, no sir. Definitely not scared and in need of comfort, Mr John sir. 

“Sounds like a plan. I’m free after 7 o’clock.”

You elect to be cliche and make British food. Good British food, a proper roast. Something you’d had a few times with friends in pubs or that time you’d visited London as an exchange student. Hot, smothered in gravy, salty and perfect with a mug of beer British food. You really hope he likes it, that he doesn't think you’re weird or making fun of him for his accent.

John is a proper gentleman, so punctual that he knocks on your door the very second it turns to 7:30 on your oven timer.

Diva has to battle her hatred of the stove with her need to announce a guest, staying in hallway purgatory barking at both.

The smell of garlicky roast beef, rosemary and thyme, salt and boiling potatoes is rife in the air, no doubt spilling into the woods through your badly insulated windows.

The moment it hits John, you can see it. Your door opens, creaking, and his eyes fix to you so quickly it’s almost physical.

“Hey! Thanks for coming,” you open it, motioning for him to come in. “Don’t mind Diva, she’s not a fan of the oven being on.”

He toes his boots off, still staring, like you’re a prize heifer and he’s set on buying you at the farm auction. A little sexy, mostly nerve wracking. Diva peeks around the corner at him and the sound of her little nails on the hardwood breaks the tension.

“Smells like home,” he leans closer to you to put his coat up on the rack. “You really went through all this trouble?”

“It’s the least I can do for your help.” At that moment, he seems to remember.

“Right, the mice. Want to show me where you heard them, or can I not steal you away from the stove?” His voice deepens as he talks, intensifying, grating hot coals and growling like a bear. Blue, focused eyes find the half-apron you’re wearing. You swear his pupils dilate, but he shakes his head before you’re sure.

“I can show you, there’s still a few minutes left for everything.”

The air is biting outside, cold with the evening breeze and dark already. So dark you equip your biggest, brightest flashlight and walk around the house with him, explaining the taps all around.

“I figure it’s them trying to dig holes so they can get in,” you hand the flashlight to him, feeling your fingers brush, and shivering in response. “I’ve been too chicken to check, to be honest. I keep thinking it’s a person walking around, not some animal.”

John nods as you speak, squatting by your little tool shed, looking diligently and moving items as he needs to. Then, he looks up, smiling a little.

“Why don’t you head inside, darling? Let me take care of this.”

“Sure,” you squeak. Squeak. Your stomach makes a knot and you scurry like one of the mice he’s looking for back into the house to mash the potatoes and make the gravy.

You are quite proud of this meal, not a proper cook by a long shot but it looks and smells pretty good. The Yorkshire puddings are alright, too, and that was the hardest part. Plus, you think, it’s free food. He’s gotta be happy with the effort, even if he winds up not liking it, right? That’s something your mother always told you. Someone’s put in a lot of effort for this meal, she’d say, pointing at you with a long nail. Better eat it.

“Think I found the little buggers,” John startles you just a little as he comes in, toeing his boots off again. You’re plating his plate, huge portions of mash potato and roast carrot and brussel sprouts nestled to the beef. His eyes look at the plate, then to you, then down to your apron, and you pretend you can’t see him adjusting his pants.

This isn’t what you think it is, you remind yourself. Two friends, one lending a hand and the other paying them back. You don’t even know his last name.

“Oh god, how bad was it?” You ladle gravy over his portion, then yours, pretending to be unaffected when he walks into your kitchen and takes a huge sniff.

“Not too bad. I’ll have to come back with some traps, if that’s alright.” You want to say John, you can come back anytime, but you don’t.

“Glad to know it was mice at least,” that’s the truth. A feeling you didn’t totally realize you had turns from paranoia into relief. “I was really scared it was some creep walking around my house, trying to get in.”

“Here,” John takes his plate when you hand it to him, but puts his phone into your hands before you can get yours. “Put your number in there, honey. Call me if anything like that happens.”

Honey. You fucking love that, so much it renders you temporarily mute as you punch in your number. He doesn't let you bring your own plate to the table, picks it up while you’re busy and comes back to shepherd you there with a palm on your lower back.

“Thank you,” you say, struck timid by his casual and yet firm guidance of you.

Diva makes an appearance for supper, summoned by the smell of beef and the oven being turned off. Her little claws tip tap against the hardwood as she circles your chair, tucks herself under the table looking for scraps, and whines at John while he’s trying to eat.

You nudge her away from him with a socked foot, stuttering that she isn’t usually like this, honest, only for him to brush it off kindly.

After supper, when you’re full and you can’t handle him looking at you with those half-lidded, well-fed bear eyes anymore, you move to pick up the dishes and bring them to the kitchen.

“Ah ah,” John cuts in front of you, stealing the plates and cutlery. “You cooked, I’ll clean.”

Useless to argue - he’s built like a brick shithouse. You’re forced to pack up the leftovers, one container for you and one for him to take home. For no reason other than you’re feeling especially soft and gooey, you wrap up a few homemade fig and date granola bars for him to take too.

“Thank you,” he gruffs, rolling his sleeves to his elbows, flexing his forearm muscles, making you hot again.

“It’s really the least I can-”

Snap. Fuck, the day that creepy noises don’t happen near your house is the day you convert to whatever religion that’ll make it happen. Both your heads turn to the living room window, where the sound came from, a crack in the otherwise quiet night air.

Anxiety curls in your stomach, sharp and dreadful. You try to remind yourself that you live in the woods for gods sake, there’s gonna be sounds, but that awful sense of danger is back and if you were Diva your hackles would be raised.

John frowns, wiping his hands on a towel. He doesn't seem as phased as you are, probably because he’s not worried over boogeymen haunting the forest like you are, but when he looks back at you and sees your fright he leans in and murmurs that he’ll go take a look.

“It’s okay, it’s probably one of my furry friends,” you try, but he shakes his head, putting a palm on your hip for a brief moment as reassurance and then he’s out the door.

God, you’re so nervous you whip out a bottle of wine, desperate for a little courage. The feeling is so strange, you’re used to feeling safe and cushioned by your home, by the forest. Even your little dog whimpers, tapping her way into the kitchen, rubbing her face on your leg like a cat. She’s a comfort still, something about there being a more nervous person (or animal) that inspires bravery. Still, you won't peek out the window.

The wine is good. A little too dry, but still good. A housewarming gift from your mother, even though she knew you didn’t drink unless it was social.

Or unless you were nervously waiting for some man to come back, having dealt with your problems for you. She’d weep to see you, aproned and wringing your hands and sipping red wine too quickly. Whatever, you think. There’s nothing wrong with letting him help.

John comes back in, maybe a few minutes later or maybe a half hour, you can’t tell. Your wine is half empty, and you feel awkward about it so you pour him one without asking.

“Think you’ve got more than one furry friend,” John says, laughter in his voice. In his fingers he’s got tufts of light brown hair, which he holds up. “Dinner, if you hunt.”

“Ah, I don’t,” and you wouldn’t. You’re fine eating meat or even purchasing it from a local hunter to eat, but there’s something in you that’s deeply uncomfortable with the idea. Maybe it’s cowardice, unable to do the dirty work and yet enjoying the fruits of someone else’s labour. Maybe you’re putting stock in something that really isn’t worth stressing over. Either way, you’re overthinking, and only stop when John steps into your space.

“Hey- you alright, darling?” You like darling too, just as much as honey.

“Yeah, sorry,” your hands find the wine glass you poured for him, and you hand it over. One thing about abstaining is that it hits you quickly, even with the big meal. “Want to sit? I’ve got a fireplace.”

You cringe at yourself, not meaning to sound so suggestive. Oh well, he doesn’t seem to mind, just nods and takes you by the elbow again to your living room.

“This all the heading you’ve got?” John asks.

“Er, no. I have to get my windows insulated for winter, then I can turn the heating on without it all going to waste. For now, I make do with the fireplace,” when you sit, Diva runs to you both and demands to be swaddled in her blanket. It’s an old knitted one, a college project finished between essay assignments and readings. There’s sentimental value there, especially with your pup who doesn’t even let the presence of a strange man come between her and her cozying up.

“I can help with that,” John says. Briefly, Westley pops into your head shouting As you wish! and it makes you smile.

“That’s okay,” you sip, tasting spice. Would’ve been good with dinner. “I owe you double now for helping me again.”

“Not at all, sweetheart.” Oh, he’s full of names - and getting bolder. 

The conversation ebbs and flows naturally. Sometimes you both sit in silence, sipping, refilling glasses, staring at the fire. He’s easy to talk to, soothing, his confidence and sureness leaving you relaxed.

“I better get going,” he grunts as he stands, extending a palm to you.

“Are you okay to drive?” You’re half worried, half disappointed. There’s been a steadily building sense of heat between your legs the entire evening, brought on by his touches and his pet names and his taking care of you

“Don’t worry about me, sweetheart. I live close-by.” That’s one mystery solved.

“Well, okay. But will you call when you get home?” If you weren’t three glasses in, you might be embarrassed. John crinkles his eyes at you while he puts his boots on.

“John?” You’re in your pajamas, face hastily cleaned with a makeup wipe. Your door is double locked again, anxiety beaten down by the wine.

“I’m home,” he sounds distant. You can’t really hear anything, just his breathing, the sounds of him taking off his coat and his boots. “You tucked in bed, sweetheart?”

“I am,” you breathe, eyes slipping, drunker than you thought you were. “Did you drive okay?”

“I did,” he laughs. His keys jingle and make a clamor as he tosses them. You imagine him in a house that fits him, a log cabin or a house built by hand, before remembering he’s talking with someone. Disappointment dampens you a little.

“I guess I should let you get to bed then,” you try to keep it out of your voice, but you’re curled on your side with a hand pressed against your clothed pussy and it’s hard not to be sad at the fact that you have no idea if he’s actually been flirting with you, or just being friendly.

“You sound disappointed,” either he’s perceptive, or you’re more obvious than you’re trying to be. “Don’t worry, I won’t leave you without saying goodnight.”

A pulse, between your legs. You rub with all four fingers, moving the phone away from your mouth.

“That’s okay, I don’t want to keep you,” you scrunch your eyes shut, trying to stop, not being able to. You’re starved, really, haven’t been touched or talked to like you’re desirable in quite some time and he makes you feel safe. Taken care of.

“You touching that wet little cunt, sweetheart?” A shockwave, from your nipples tightening to your toes tingling, curling. You stop hiding, breathing whines into the phone.

“I’m so sorry,” you mumble, biting your lips. It feels like permission, and maybe it is or maybe it isn’t, but you stuff your hand into your pants and start focusing on your needy clit. “I’m so-”

“Shh, sh, sh,” you hear a mattress creak, a grunt, and imagine him laying back. Maybe palming his cock. “That’s okay, baby, I could tell how needy you were.”

Panting, you stuff two fingers in your soft hole, grinding your palm into your clit. You hear him making sounds, quieter than you, but you’re straining to hear them. He starts talking you through it, murmuring into your ear, calling you sweetheart and honey and baby, telling you to put three fingers in and to play with your tits.

“Go ahead and touch your nipples, sweetheart, go on,” his breath is growing laboured. “Needed to come so she could sleep, did she?”

For a moment, you think he’s talking about you.

“Poor little pussy needed some attention,” his voice gets rougher again, like when he walked in and saw that you had made him a roast. “Give it to her then, baby, go on, let her come.”

That’s all you need. You squeeze your nipples one last time, letting your tits out of your shirt and turning over to hump your hand unashamedly. Your clit drags against your palm still, hips desperately moving, listening to him grunting and groaning on the other side of the call, waiting to hear him come before you let go.

You shake, shiver, curl into yourself as your core tightens and explodes like an elastic band snapping. It’s great, just what you needed, and you’re half asleep by the end of it

“John..” you mumble into your pillow, just enough consciousness left to pull your hand out of your pajama pants.

“It’s alright, it’s time to sleep now, alright? Close your eyes.”

“Alright, John.”

“Good girl,” his voice is distant, sleep taking you, muscles more relaxed than they’ve been in so long.

You’ll deal with the rest in the morning.

[ladymarvel27]

Frazzle 🎀 Carlos Sainz

Carlos Sainz x Reader

Series Master List

Description: Can he return on time for the date?

f1 masterlist

“But why?” You almost shout out.

“This,” he opens his phone and shows you the message of details, “an event is today, and a meeting tomorrow.”

“I waited two weeks for this date!” You sat down on the edge of the bed, throwing your hands in the air frustrated. “TWO WEEKS!”

“Don’t worry. It’s just a small event. I will try to return by evening, okay?” He assures, placing his hand on your shoulder. You don’t say anything, your head hanging low. He lifts your chin and holds your gaze, “I promise you, I will be back on time.” You softly nod. “Now let’s get your dress before you leave for work, huh?” A small smile makes its way to your face.

The dress he got you hangs neatly in your wardrobe-Pink in colour. You lined up other accessories, a pair of earrings and a necklace to see how they look with it. Your phone dings.

Princess, how are you? He had messaged you.

Yeah, just returned, you? You replied.

Just attending this boring event.

Looks like you’re not enjoying.

Missing you so much me reina, he sends.

I am also missing you, my bear, you texted

Btw I have made dinner for you, check in the refrigerator.

Oh. You went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. You smiled when you saw an airtight container with a sticky note attached, ‘Dinner for you, Senorita’, and a kiss emoji next to it.

Thank you, Senor, you messaged him.

He sends a kiss emoji

Enjoy the dinner amor, going to dinner too, adios, He wrote.

Adios, my love, you replied and closed your phone.

After doing all your chores, you lay on the bed.

Going to sleep, you ate? He messaged.

Yeah, thanks for the dinner, I was too tired, the message was sent, received and read immediately. You smiled.

Few seconds later, he replies, Mention not mi amor

Btw, when will you return?

I have a meeting tomorrow, I will return by evening.

Good to hear.

It will be like the first date. I will pick you up from your home, bring you flowers, see the sunset together and couple dance to your favourite song.

So romantic, aha, you giggle as you write, remembering his old Renault interview. You send him a gif:

😂😂😂, he replies.

How was the event?

Ah, it was boring, but it was important for sponsorship. How was your day?

Yeah, fine, but I am exhausted.

You should go to sleep.

Yeah, I am in bed.

Good.

Goodnight, bear.

Goodnight, princess.

You closed your phone and placed it on the nightstand. You looked around the room, taking in everything. You smiled to yourself, excited for tomorrow's date. Your hand reached for the table lamp’s switch, you turned it off and went to sleep.

The next day, you returned in the early evening to get ready.

Got the flight, will reach by 7, he had texted you few minutes before.

Have a safe journey, you texted, but the message wasn't received by the other end. ‘He is in flight, it’s obvious’, you thought. Your stomach rumbles. You placed the phone on a charger and went to eat something.

You open the refrigerator to take out the face pack you will use. The water bottles were looking at you, but you ignored them. You didn’t want to go to the washroom in between. Leave them. Half an hour later, you come out of the shower and put on your dress. You put on some music while grooming yourself. You hummed to the music looking in the mirror. You weren’t a master, so you only put on a little so that it won’t ruin your look. You applied the finishing lipstick and pouted in front of the mirror. An hour later, you got ready. You decided to open your phone. The message was still not received. You looked at the clock. It was half past seven.

Carlos, where are you??? You messaged him. ‘What happened? Has he again gone missing like on Tuesday?’ You thought.

You sat on the couch and waited, but the message wasn't even reaching him. You tried calling him several times, but the bell wasn’t ringing. You put on your flats and went outside. Maybe he wanted to surprise you. But no signs of him. It was so hot, but you were still standing. Your throat felt dry. After it became intolerable, you went inside, to the balcony instead.

Your eyes roamed all over the neighbourhood, looking for his car if it was approaching. Your body was drying up, but you seemed to ignore it. You were already tense about Carlos. He wasn’t picking up calls, and your messages weren’t reaching him. You called his parents, but they seemed to come across the same problem. He wasn’t ignoring you. The calls weren’t reaching him.

The streetlights were suddenly turned on, blinding you. Your head felt heavy. You held the railing, trying to support yourself as you sat on the floor against the balcony. You tried getting up, but your steps staggered as you slumped on the floor.

Seperators credit: @saradika-graphics @saradika

Taglist: @faithshouseofchaos @itsjustvs4

[mixedupmojo]

Weird isekai idea that I had that I just wanted to realise into the wild.

Ok so you know how there are multiple stories out there about reader getting transported into the world of journey to the west and then ending up tagging along as the pilgrims make their way west. Here's the thing most of the time these story's take place once the group has already been assembled or the reader ends up meeting Tripitaka first.

So here's the thought what if reader meets Wukong before the group has a chance to get together. Let me explain.

So imagine reader has just arrived in a strange new world and they have absolutely no clue where they are or how they got there and are freaking out really badly. So they start calling out to see if there is anyone nearby that can help them and after a good few minutes of wandering around and shouting for help they suddenly get a reply. Relived they rush towards the voice, only to find that the person that was calling to them wasn't a person but a monkey that looks to be trapped within the rock of a mountain. And it only takes them a second to realise that this isn't just any monkey but thee monkey, the monkey king, Sun Wukong himself and somehow they've been transported into the story of journey to the west. Their internal crisis soon gets interrupted as Wukong starts asking if they wouldn't mind helping him out with his situation. Knowing the story not to mention what Wukong's capable of they immediately disagree much to Wukong's outrage. At Wukongs outburst they go to leave but that’s when they realise that they still have no clue where they are and what's worse no idea who could help them except for maybe Tripitaka so they resolve to wait for him much to Wukong confusion. Realising that it might not be a good idea to tell him that they are not exactly from this world they stick with the hopelessly lost excuse. which Wukong responds with that he would be happy to help them out if they let him out which is an obvious no so things quickly devolve into a stale mate.

Days go by and they end up talking a lot, with Wukong casually trying to convince them to take off the seal every now and then and them always refusing. But as the days go by the more anxious and worried reader gets after all they have no idea at what point in the story they are and it could very well be a hundred year before Tripitaka will eventually show up. Food and shelter are also a worry as they've managed to get by due to it being summer and there is plenty to forage and a small cave nearby that they've been using for shelter but they know it won't last forever. but most of all they really, really want to go home they miss their family their friends they miss their life. More time goes by and day by day reader and Wukong bond even more to the point where the monkey king has actually grow quite fond of them and cares quite a lot to the point that he starts helping them out in what little ways he can. He even stops constantly trying to get them to remove the seal on the mountain only occasionally asking every now and then and its usually only after he see them struggling, instead he's taking the time to ask them about themselves and find out more about them and in return he tell them about himself usually stories of his glory days. eventually they come clean about the fact that they are not from this world and how they have no idea how they got here or how to get home, breaking down a bit as Wukong resolves to help in any way he can. Then one day it happens completely unprompted reader suddenly get up and start walking away at first Wukong doesn't think anything of it as they often leave to look for food and other such things but as the hours go by and they've yet to come back Wukong starts to worry think that something bad might have happened to them before he gets the horrible thought that they might have just finally got sick of waiting and left him. Stewing in his thought the monkey king slowly growing more and more enrage and heartbroken at the potential betrayal. when suddenly he can feel it, he can feel the mountain shift and he realise what they have done. It's after another few hours pass that he hears them running down the mountain catching a quick sight of them as they run past him. it doesn't take him long to realise that they are getting a safe distance away and he waits a few more hours before he finally breaks free. Meanwhile your despriatly trying to catch your breath as you watch the entire mountain explode chunks of rock flying in all directions and your barely able to make out a reddish orange blur coming towards you before your enveloped in a bone crushing hug.

Thus beings their own journey to find a way to get reader home.

I dunno I just really like the idea of Guanyin or Tripitaka turning up and Wukong not being there and all of haven freaking out because the monkey king is on the loose and no one has any idea where he is.

[hellcifrogs]

Happy New Year Everyone!! I'm on a team 7 mood today it's them again <3

[loverofpiggies]

can we see more of your comic with Winter King being:

Hey! I do my best to update as often as I can, and thank you so much for reading it! I appreciate the heck outta all the reblogs and comments and all that!

Updates might have to slow down a bit though, I do all the writing, drawing, coloring- the whole process is me! And doing as much as I've done for the last month has been a bit insane so I'm trying to have a better comic/life balance. That, and work balance. Comics are my passion but they unfortunately do not pay my mortgage!

Don't you worry though! It'll update soon, I'm working on coloring page 4 of the chapter, but YEAH I definitely have to slow down from my insane pace a bit.

[arcanegifs]

[okitanoniisan]

ADKSBFKDKSLVJGH IT WORKS

[faaun]

ok let's catch up quickly

[tamagotchikgs]

my mom keeps listing off things i need to do and accusatorily asking why i never do anything like art anymore n i am just. so exhausted. ive never been more tired i just want to burrow myself in the earth n disappear in the cold dirt

[thedrotter]

there's been a goofy side effect of spending dozens of hours doing my re:kinder transcript in that I spent most of those listening to songs from 2010's latinoamerican preteen soap operas and it has ended up in having to catch myself singing them all the time ... they are taking over my life who decided to make them go this hard

[widevibratobitch]

omw to play emotional support for my mom disguised as ✨fun family bonding time✨ for the rest of the week <3333 there's something so deeply wrong with me uwu teehee

[curioscurio]

Have you ever read "I Want To Be Where The Normal People Are" by Rachel Bloom (of Fuck Me Ray Bradbury and Crazy Ex-Girlfriend fame)? It's mainly about OCD but really resonates with me as a story of growing up as That Weird Kid On The Spectrum

Oooh no but I'll put it on my to read list! I have been going to the library lately and just got a new card, so once I'm done with the ones I'm reading I'll check it out! I'm currently reading Autism in Heels by Jennifer Cook O'Tool to get a better idea of how autism can present in women and people raised as women! Liking it so far, though it's a bit of work to get through emotionally for me. Gotta read it in bursts haha!

[yamikawaii]

whats fun is looking at the thread youre hanging on by and seeing where it's about to snap. whats even more fun is deliberately cutting through that thread because you know it'll just snap anyways so why bother clinging to it as if youll make it somehow

[toastsnaffler]

wheres the "why is it so saaaad" image with the cat with big sopping watering eyes ouauauuugh how I feel is the embodiment of that

[todayisafridaynight]

grabbing the ichi plush by the neck and death gripping it like 'good things are to come its all going to be ok good things are to come' like its a lucky amulet

[lovsome]

i think im gonna ask my therapist to get me an appointment with the private psychiatrist she suggested