#but it’s ironic that she cares about this divide
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aardvaark · 1 year ago
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every time brennan says psychology is a "soft science" i’m like. bestie. beloved. i’m so sorry but i have to tell you something about anthropology
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sceletaflores · 4 months ago
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well, all right i’m bad, but then you’re no prize either…
pair: joel miller x fem!reader
wc: 8.6k
contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, no ellie, general violence (only referenced), age gap (56/26), swearing, so many spacers lmao, not quite friends to lovers and not quite enemies to lovers but a weird other thing, kinda mean!joel for a good sec, dressing wounds, joel miller TUMMY, loss of virginity (reader is a virgin but she's not completely oblivious and weirdly infantile about it lmao), fingering (fem!receiving), p in v, unprotected sex whoops, size kink, belly bulging, pussy pronouns, porn with a tiny plot, no use of y/n.
nat’s note: well, i finally caved y’all. baby’s first tlou fic! this literally took me forever to write and even longer to post cause i was so terrified LMAO so please give me some grace if it’s shit and he’s ooc and timelines are a little fuzzy cause i barely know what i’m doing. thank you chickens love you mwah mwah mwah. kisses!
dividers by lovely @saradika-graphics!
joel found a lodge house…
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You don’t know what you did to make Joel Miller hate you so much.
He's never outright said it, but you know it’s there—in every sharp glance, every clipped word, every deliberate avoidance.
Besides, his silence is worse than anything he could say. A quiet condemnation that settles in your chest like stone.
You tell yourself it doesn’t matter, that you don’t care what he thinks, but the truth is harder to swallow.
You do care—more than you want to admit. His approval, his respect, hell, even a sliver of kindness from him feels like an impossible prize you’ll never win.
And you hate yourself for wanting it. For needing it.
It's not just the weight of his disdain that eats at you, it's the not knowing why. God, do you wish you could ask him why.
What did you do to make him look at you like you’re some necessary evil he has to tolerate. Why does he hold some unspoken grudge that's manifested itself into something you couldn't dream of ever comprehending.
But the thought of confronting Joel feels like standing on the edge of a cliff, staring down into a void that might swallow you whole.
So instead, you do what you've always done. You keep your distance, try to match his indifference with your own, and tell yourself it’s better this way.
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You were young when the outbreak hit, six years old.
You’re sure that’s part of it. That that’s how Joel sees you, as some bumbling, naive child who’s more of a hassle than anything else.
Another mouth to feed, another back to watch, baggage.
You've been with him for almost seven months now, traveling side by side when you may have well been miles apart. Trekking through abandoned cities, overgrown highways, and every godforsaken patch of wilderness in between.
In the beginning, you did everything you could to prove him wrong.
You pushed yourself past your limits, hunted, scavenged, fought, kept up. You did everything that needed to be done without hesitation.
All to show that you were more than what he made you out to be. It never seemed to matter much.
After you lost your parents in the early days of the outbreak, it was just you and your sister. She taught you everything you know, taught you how to survive.
It's because of her that you know how to shoot a rifle, how to skin a rabbit, how to start a fire with nothing but sticks and dried moss, how to snap bones and locate which vital arteries bleed out the quickest.
It's because of her that you've been able to hone some sick skill in the maiming of clickers.
A skill you never thought you'd need to use on her.
You were supposed to be safe in the QZ. You weren't supposed to be fifteen years old, aiming a gun at the one person you had left.
Your own flesh and blood wasn't supposed to be the very first in a long list of red tallies under your belt.
It’s been years and you’ve still never forgotten that day. December 19th, 2012, the date burned into your brain like someone took a branding iron to the tissue.
You can’t count the amount of times you’ve been ripped from your sleep drenched in a cold sweat with the tail end of a scream tearing at the skin of your throat.
The image of what was left of your sister, slumped on the ground lifeless as her blood painted the wall behind her flashing behind your closed eyelids. The sound of her last labored breath ringing in your ears louder than any shotgun blast.
You ran that same night, with the weight of her death on your shoulders.
Your entire world spinning out around you as you clawed through barbed wire fencing, not caring where you were going or what would happen to you—just needing to escape.
There was nothing left for you to do after that but survive. And that’s what you did, for years, scraping by in a world that had already chewed you up and spit you out a mangled mess.
You learned how to be ruthless because of it.
How to harden yourself against the loss, the pain, the brutality. But there were cracks, too. Cracks you hid well, buried deep beneath layers of stubbornness and distance.
The endless days blurred into each other. Empty houses, hollow streets. A life reduced to scavenging, hiding, and the occasional, fleeting moment of human connection that inevitably ended in loss. 
And then you found yourself with Joel.
You hadn’t exactly found him, though. More like crashed into his orbit by accident.
A few desperate days spent scavenging through the ruins of a small town, a chance encounter that left you both wary and unwilling to turn your backs.
But, inexplicably, you somehow became part of his traveling routine.
He wasn’t like any of the others you’d met before. At first, you thought he might be different. A man who seemed broken, but different nonetheless.
As the days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, you began to see the truth. Joel Miller wasn’t concerned with you. He didn’t need you. And, more than that, he didn’t want you around. 
You didn’t know what to do with that.
It’s a bitter kind of irony. You’ve survived all this time completely on your own, fought tooth and nail to stay alive, but with him, you might just crumble.
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Joel found a lodge house. It's a small, weathered place tucked away in the dense trees of the wood surrounding it.
He only deemed it suitable after an extensive perimeter check and a thorough sweep of the interior.
It's not much—just another run-down place in the middle of nowhere—but for the first time in what feels like forever, it’s a roof over your head for the night.
The walls are sturdy, though the windows are cracked and half of the floorboards creak like they're about to give out at any moment.
You explored the second floor alone, creeping through the desolate rooms and taking in all that was left behind.
Old family photographs covered in thick layers of dust, worn clothes riddled with holes still hung in the few closets you stumble across.
The oddest of all was an old jewelry box tucked away in a dresser draw, tarnished silver dull and muddy.
The sound of familiar footsteps comes from somewhere behind you. The door creaks open slowly.
Joel. Of course.
He clears his throat, the sound abrasive in the quiet of the house.  
“Fire’s low,” he says, voice rough from its lack of use today.
You don’t turn around, not yet. You take the box in your gloved hand, running your fingers across the intricate design of the lid, touch trailing over winding vines and small roses.
“Okay,” you mutter, your voice coming out quieter than you intended. “I’ll grab some more wood later.”
Another beat of silence. Then, “It’s gettin’ cold out, I’ll go.”
Your fingers pause their ministrations, moving to flip the lid open. Empty.
“Suit yourself,” you reply after a moment, your tone just as neutral as his.
Joel doesn’t leave right away. You hear the floorboards groan beneath his weight, his presence lingering in the doorway. 
You wonder what he’s waiting for, or if he’s waiting at all.
Finally, he speaks. “Don’t touch anything.”
With that he turns and leaves the room, you wait until you can’t hear his footsteps trailing down the stairs anymore to let out the scoff festering in your chest.
You snap the jewelry lid shut with a little more force than necessary. “Asshole.”
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Joel's been gone for a while now. Longer than it takes to chop a few logs for firewood.
You came down from the upstairs a few minutes after hearing the tell-tale sound of the heavy door opening and closing. The main room is quiet, save for the soft crackle of the dwindling fire.
You're perched on an old armchair near the entrance, peering out the dirty window that has the best view of the treeline as you nervously pick the skin around your nails.
You tell yourself not to worry. He’s probably fine, he’s been doing this a lot longer than you. And if Joel is anything, it’s annoyingly competent.
Still, a nagging doubt itches at the back of your mind. It's been at least half an hour, maybe more.
You’re just about to grab your own pack and go looking for him when the front door creaks open.
Joel stumbles inside, the frigid evening air rushing in behind him before he slams the door shut. At first glance, he looks fine—no more haggard than usual. 
But then you notice the way he favors his left side, the way his free hand is pressed against his ribs, blood seeping through his fingers and staining his torn undershirt.
You’re on your feet in an instant.
“Fuck,” you say, voice sharper than you expected. “What the hell happened?”
“Raiders.” Is the only explanation you get as he tries to brush past you like it’s nothing. The stiff way he moves and the tightens of his jaw betray him. “S’just a scratch.”
“Bullshit,” you snap, stepping in front of him and blocking his path to the fire. “Sit. Now.”
He gives you a look, one of those deep, withering glares you’ve seen him use to intimidate countless others into submission. But you stand your ground, chin raised and jaw set–defiant. 
His stubbornness finally meeting its match in your own. 
Finally, with a low growl of frustration, he drops onto the couch. “Happy now?”
"Not until you let me take care of that." You motion toward his side, where the blood is still spreading.
“I’m fine,” he mutters, lolling his head back to rest more heavily on the couch.
“Sure you are,” you snap, crossing the room to rifle through your bag. “And I’m the fucking Queen of England.”
"Said I’m fine," he bites through gritted teeth, but you’re already moving, heading back to him with the first aid kit from your pack.
"You want to bleed out on this ugly-ass couch? Be my guest," you shoot back, dropping to your knees in front of him. "Otherwise, shut up and let me help."
Joel surprisingly doesn’t argue any further, just sighs heavily and reluctantly sinks further into the couch cushions.
You push the front of his jacket open to slide it off his shoulders as gently as you can, peeling back the layer of his flannel next.
The smell of blood hits you immediately.
The gash is about five inches long, trailing the span of his ribcage. It’s deep—but not fatal—just an angry red and oozing blood.
Definitely not the simple 'scratch' he made it out to be.
Your stomach churns at the sight, but you push it down. No time for that.
“Jesus, Joel,” you mutter under your breath, reaching for the alcohol in your kit. “You really know how to underplay a situation, huh?”
He doesn’t respond, just watches you with those dark, calculating eyes of his. Always watching, always assessing.
It’s unnerving, but you focus on the task at hand, grabbing a clean cloth and soaking it with alcohol.
“This is gonna hurt,” you warn, though there’s a part of you that doesn’t mind the idea of causing him a little discomfort.
A petty, vindictive part that still stings from all the scorn he’s thrown your way.
“Just get it over with,” Joel grits out, his voice low and gravelly.
You don’t give him any more warnings as you wipe the soaked cloth over the wound. He flinches, a harsh curse slipping through clenched teeth, but he doesn’t pull away.
You work as quickly as you can, wiping away the blood and dirt with steady hands, your movements as gentle as possible given the situation.
You let out an annoyed huff when the torn fabric of his shirt gets in the way of your hands for a second time.
You lean back on your heels, glancing up at Joel. “You need to take your shirt off.”
Joel raises a brow at you, his lips pressing into a thin line. “That really necessary?”
“Yes, it’s necessary, Joel,” you huff, already losing patience. “Unless you want me to sit here and cut around every thread of this ratty thing while you bleed out, then by all means—”
He sighs heavily, cutting you off as he shifts forward and grabs the hem of his shirt. He tugs at the fabric, grunting in pain each time it strains his ribs.
You roll your eyes at how slow he’s moving, and your patience—already worn thin by the day's events—snaps.
“Jesus Christ, let me help,” you huff, reaching forward and grabbing the fabric.
Joel jerks back slightly, his hand shooting up to stop yours mid-motion. “I got it,” he growls, a sharp edge in his voice.
You glare at him, your hand still caught in his grip. His palm is calloused, his hold firm enough to make your pulse jump unexpectedly. 
For a moment, the two of you just sit there, locked in a silent standoff.
Then he releases your hand and pulls the shirt over his head himself, wincing as the movement pulls at his side.
You wait with your arms crossed, trying to ignore the awkward flutter of nerves in your stomach as the fabric peels away to reveal his chest.
Joel’s broad, solid frame isn’t new to you. You’ve seen him shirtless before—brief glimpses when bathing in rivers or changing in run down houses between stops.
But this time feels different, more intimate somehow.
You’re staring, and you know it.
The firelight cast shadows over his skin, illuminating old scars, faint lines of muscle, the barely there jut of his stomach over the hem of his jeans.
You had been getting more game kills recently, two hunters are always better than one.
Joel clears his throat, dragging your focus back to the present. “You gonna gawk all night, or can we move this along?”
You snap out of it, scowling to cover your embarrassment. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”
You finish cleaning the gash and grab the small needle and thread lying next to you.
“This’ll hurt worse than the alcohol,” you say, threading the needle easily.
Joel snorts, a rare sound. “Figures.”
The needle pierces his skin, and this time, you catch the smallest hitch in his breath. He doesn’t make a sound, but his jaw tightens, the veins in his neck standing out like cords.
His hands grip the edge of the couch hard enough that his knuckles turn white with it, but he doesn’t tell you to stop or slow down.
He’s too damn proud for that.
You shift closer, your knee brushing against his leg as you position yourself to work from a better angle. You feel his eyes on you, that intense, scrutinizing stare that makes your skin prickle.
“You’ve done this before,” Joel says after a moment, his tone less sharp than before. It’s not quite a question, more of an observation.
You shrug, keeping your hands steady. “Of course I have.”
“Who taught you?”
The question catches you off guard, Joel’s never shown much interest in what your life was before you met him. You glance up briefly, catching his gaze. There’s no malice there, no judgment—just curiosity.
You swallow hard, dragging your eyes back to stitches, half way done now. “My sister.”
You don’t elaborate and Joel doesn’t push.
Maybe it’s the sudden tightness in your tone or the look you know must be clouding your face that keeps him quiet.
You finish off the stitching, tearing the thin strand of thread with your hands before you’re leaning away again.
“Good as new,” you say, dabbing some more alcohol on your own hands to disinfect. “Try not to tear these open anytime soon.”
Joel leans back, strong arms spread across the back of the couch, his face unreadable as he peers down at the fresh stitching on his side. 
“Could’ve done it myself,” he mutters, but the edge in his voice is gone, replaced with something softer, almost resigned. 
You roll your eyes with a scoff, not even trying to hide your irritation as you rise from the floor. “Sure you could’ve, right before you passed out. You’re welcome by the way.”
You gather your supplies and turn to head back to your bag, but Joel’s voice stops you in your tracks.
“You’re always like this, y’know,” he says, and the words carry that same gravelly drawl, but there’s something new there—something heavier.
You pause, your hands tightening around the kit in your grasp. “Like what?”
“Pushy. Stubborn,” he replies, his tone cutting, though it lacks the usual venom. “Like you’ve got somethin’ to prove all the damn time.”
You whip around, your patience officially gone. “You think I’m stubborn?” you shoot back, your voice rising. “Coming from the guy who would rather bleed out on a fucking couch than admit he needs help?”
Joel’s jaw tightens, and his hands flex against the couch cushions, but you don’t stop. Not now. Not after months of this.
“I’ve been busting my ass since day one to prove that I’m not dead weight to you. I’ve fought for us, for you. And for what? Just to get more of your bullshit attitude?”
“You don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about,” Joel snaps, pushing himself upright despite the obvious strain it puts on his freshly stitched wound. “You don’t know a goddamn thing about me.”
“Because you won’t let me!” you fire back, stepping closer, your voice rising. “All you do is look at me like I’m some burden you can’t wait to get rid of.”
Joel’s glare sharpens, his lips parting as if to respond, but you cut him off.
You really can’t stop yourself now that you started, all the anger and frustration reaching a fever pitch hot enough to burst the tight lid you’ve kept on your emotions.
“If I’m such a hassle, why didn’t you just leave me back there, huh? Why didn’t you just walk away like I know you wanted to?”
Joel’s breathing is heavier now,  his broad chest rising and falling as his dark eyes bore into yours.
For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then, he stands, and the sheer size of him forces you to tilt your chin up slightly to keep your glare fixed on his face.
“You think I wanted this, kid?” he growls, his voice low and strained, like he’s barely holding himself together. “You think I wanted to be responsible for someone else? To have someone else’s fuckin’ life on me?”
“Don’t call me kid,” you spit, shoving a finger into his chest, ignoring the way his jaw ticks at the contact. “I’m not a fucking kid.”
He scoffs, casting his eyes to the ceiling disbelievingly. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“Fuck you, Joel,” you growl, fists clenching at your side. “If you hate me that much, why the hell are you still here? Why didn’t you tell me to fuck off the second you met me?”
“Because I couldn’t!” Joel snaps, booming voice filling the small space.
The confession slips out like it pains him. His fists clench at his sides, and for a moment, he looks like he might break something.
You’ve never been scared of Joel, even though you’ve seen first hand just how scary he can be.
Now, as he looms in front of you, eyes blazing and jaw working furiously beneath his skin, it’s the closest to scared you’ve felt.
“I’ve seen you out there,” he continues, tone low and dark. “You’ve got a fuckin’ death wish. You’re too damn stubborn to just stop, and I’m not gonna let you go so you can run off and get yourself fuckin’ killed.”
Your heart pounds in your chest, his words hitting far too close to home.
“I’m just trying to survive, Joel,” you snap, your voice shaking. “That’s what we do, isn’t it? Survive.”
“Survive,” Joel repeats bitterly, his gaze burning into yours. “That what you call it? Throwin’ yourself into every goddamn fight, gettin’ stabbed and shot right fuckin’ in front of me and expecting me to brush that shit off?”
You let out a humorless laugh, nodding your head exasperatedly. “Yes, yes I do expect you to just brush it off, because that’s what you always do.” 
“Well I can’t,” he grates out, taking a step closer. “I can’t ‘cause despite whatever it is that you may think about me, I don’t hate you. I care about you too damn much and that's my goddamn problem.”
That shuts you up, your mouth snapping closed with a sharp click of your teeth as you stare at him, shocked.
Joel holds your gaze, lips pressed into a thin line. “That what you wanted to hear?”
It’s in that moment that the fire finally fizzles out, the dull hiss of it the only sound left in the room.
You’re quiet for a beat, stunned into silence. The heat of his anger, his frustration, it radiates off him, and you realize suddenly that this isn’t just about you. 
It never was.
“Then show me,” you challenge softly, your heart pounding in your chest. “Show me that you don’t hate me.”
Joel’s eyes darken, his head cocking to the side as he searches your face for a sign. You don’t say anything, you only square your shoulders and raise your chin, your eyes just as hard as his own.
“I want you to prove it.”
The tension snaps like a rubber band stretched too far. 
You shouldn’t—this shouldn’t—happen. Not like this. Not after everything that’s been said.
But when Joel’s lips crash against yours, hot and desperate and urgent, it makes everything blur into nothing. 
It’s not gentle, not soft—this is anger and longing and frustration all wrapped into one. It’s messy, frantic, like a fight that’s been brewing for too long.
He grips your arm, pulling you closer, almost too roughly, but it feels like it’s everything you’ve both been avoiding.
His other hand moves to cup the back of your neck, grounding you as his lips press harder against yours, like he’s trying to pour everything he can’t say into this single moment.
You respond just as fiercely, nails digging into the skin of his shoulders as you kiss him back with all the pent-up emotion that’s been simmering beneath the surface.
The coarse hair of his beard scrapes against the skin of your chin deliciously, the scent of blood and firewood filling your senses as his arm wraps around your waist, dragging you impossibly closer.
Close enough that you can feel the wild beat of his heart booming against your chest.
You pull away for a second, breathless, both of you looking at each other, your eyes wide and pupils blown.
“Goddamn it,” Joel mutters, his voice thick with frustration and something else you can’t place. He presses his forehead to yours, the deep brown of his eyes dark than before. “What the hell are we doing?”
You don’t have an answer. You’re not sure if you even want one.
You reach for him again, arms looping around his neck to drag his mouth back to yours.
This kiss is nothing like the first, it isn’t a clash of frustration–it’s filthier, rawer. A near feral thing, all teeth and tongue, a surge of hunger and need that borders on violence. 
Joel groans into your mouth, a low, guttural sound that sends a shiver racing down your spine. His teeth catch your bottom lip, pulling just hard enough to make you gasp.
He takes advantage of the sound, his tongue sweeping into your mouth to slide against yours with wet, messy desperation, like he’s trying to claim every inch of you.
The taste of him—salt and iron and something distinctly Joel—makes your head spin. 
Your fingers knot into the chocolaty curls at the nape of his neck, surprisingly soft to the touch. His own hands roam the soft curves of your body, rough and insistent, like he can’t decide where he wants to touch you most.
“Joel—” His name spills from your lips like a plea, and he answers with a deep, guttural noise that sends heat pooling low in your belly. His tongue follows the path of his teeth, soothing the bites with lazy, deliberate strokes that make your knees weak.
You’re moving before you even realize it. Joel dragging you across the room and down onto the couch with him, using the strength he’s built up after all these years to manhandle you until your thighs are spread wide on either side of his lap.
“Joel,” you gasp again, rearing back enough to break the kiss. “Your stitches–”
He cuts you off with a sharp nip to the sensitive spot behind your ear, tearing a high whine from your throat. “Can hardly feel ‘em.”
You make a displeased sound, but it’s undermined by the way you tilt your head to give his wandering lips more room. His hands find a home on your hips, one slipping beneath your shirt to press against the soft skin of your stomach. 
His fingers splay wide across your skin, his palm callused and rough. His pinky just barely brushes the underside of your breast, and you’re suddenly rearing back. 
“Wait,” you say, your voice barely a whisper.
Joel’s hands immediately loosen their grip on your hips, his brows knitting together in concern. “You okay?”
You nod quickly, your heart pounding in your chest. “I just...I need to tell you something.”
His jaw tightens slightly, but he stays quiet, waiting for you to speak.
You take a beat, chewing at the skin of your bottom lip nervously.
“I’ve never...” You pause, swallowing hard as your cheeks heat up. “I’ve never done this before. I mean, I’ve never been with anyone like this.”
Joel pulls back slightly, his expression unreadable as he processes your words. For a moment, you think he might pull away completely, but then he exhales a long, slow breath.
“Christ,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand down his face. “You’re tellin’ me this now?”
“I didn’t exactly plan for this to happen,” you snap back, crossing your arms over your chest defensively. “It’s not like I had the luxury of a high school sweetheart to pop my cherry out here.”
Joel’s gaze softens at your tone, and he reaches out to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin. “Hey, hey, I didn’t mean it like that.”
You glance away, suddenly feeling self-conscious under the weight of his stare. “I just...I wanted you to know. But I want this, Joel. I want you.”
His thumb stills against your cheek, and he swallows hard, his adam’s apple bobbing as he considers your words.
“I don’t...” He pauses, the most hesitant you’ve ever heard him. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
It’s the most vulnerable he’s been around you, round eyes shining with something so raw and so earnest it makes your heart ache in your chest. 
“You won’t,” you insist, your voice steady despite the nerves fluttering in your stomach. “I trust you.”
Joel’s jaw clenches, and for a moment, he looks like he’s going to argue. But then he nods, his shoulders relaxing as he cups the back of your neck, pulling you closer until your foreheads touch again.
“At least let me do this right,” he murmurs, his voice so soft you almost don’t hear it. “Not here. Not on some goddamn couch.”
You blink up at him, surprised by the tenderness in his tone. “What?”
“Upstairs,” he says, his thumb tracing lazy circles against the side of your neck. “There’s a bed up there. It ain’t much, but it’s better than this.”
You can’t do anything but nod, your pulse racing beneath your skin fast enough to combat the cold night air seeping through the walls.
“Okay,” you say softly, voice barely above a whisper. “Upstairs.”
Joel stands, gently pulling you to feet and taking your hand in his. He leads you upstairs, each step feeling heavier with anticipation. The small bedroom is dimly lit, the faint glow of moonlight filtering through a broken blind. 
The bed isn’t much—an old mattress on a worn frame, covered with a patched-up blanket—but it doesn’t matter.
Joel shuts the door behind you, the sound of the latch clicking into place sending a shiver down your spine.
“Last chance,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “You say the word, and we stop. No questions asked.”
Your throat tightens at the sincerity in his tone, the way he’s giving you an out even though you can see the strain in every line of his body, the way his hands flex at his sides like he wants nothing more than to reach out and touch you.
But you don’t hesitate.
You step closer, placing your hands on his bare chest. You bite back a smile at the goosebumps that break out all along his skin at your touch. 
“Jesus, Miller,” you mumble teasingly, nails lightly scratching through the salt and pepper hair scattered along his chest. “How long are you gonna drag this out before you get it through your thick skull that I want to fuck you?”
"Christ." Joel huffs, shaking his head as the corners of his lips turn up in a small grin. “Like I fuckin’ said,” he starts, big hands kneading the meat of your hips. “Pushy.”
Joel walks you backward until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed, and you fall onto it with a soft gasp.
He follows you immediately, crawling over you, his body covering yours, his weight a comforting pressure. “I’ll take care of you,” he murmurs, his lips brushing yours. “I’ll make it good for you, I swear.”
His fingers are everywhere, unbuttoning your shirt with a practiced ease that has your pulse racing. His lips follow the path of his hands, each touch a branding mark, each kiss leaving you wanting more.
“Pretty girl,” he mutters softly, pressing a kiss right between the valley of your breasts.
You feel his cock stirring against your stomach, and it makes the ache between your legs flare to life, the weight of it, the hardness of it, driving you crazy with need. 
You want him so badly you can barely think straight, but when his lips graze over your collarbone, you can’t stop the quiet whine that escapes your throat.
Joel growls in response, a sound that resonates deep in his chest, and you know then that he’s as far gone as you are. His hands slide down to the waistband of your pants, tugging them down your legs with urgency. 
As your skin is exposed to the cool air, you can feel the heat of his gaze on you, like he’s memorizing every inch of you.
“You’re fuckin' perfect,” he mutters, his voice thick with desire.
Joel's hands find your thighs, parting them with a deliberate slowness that makes your breath catch in your throat. He positions himself between your legs, his body weight pressing you into the mattress, his chest rising and falling with the same frantic rhythm as yours. 
The anticipation is almost unbearable as his fingers trace the line of your panties, the fabric damp with want.
“Jesus, she’s drippin’ for me already,” he mutters, voice rough, as he slides the material to the side, his thumb brushing over the sensitive swell of your clit.
Your body jerks at the contact, a desperate sound escaping your lips, but Joel doesn’t relent.
“You touch yourself down here, baby?” he asks, working tortuously slow circles over your clit.
"Please," you beg, your hands grasping at the sheets, pulling at them as if they can anchor you to the moment.
He looks up at you, his gaze dark and filled with an intensity that makes your stomach tighten. “Asked you a question, honey.”
You whine, high and loud in your throat as your thighs clench desperately around his wrist. “Yes, I touch myself.”
Joel’s lips curl into a satisfied grin, sliding his thick index finger through the messy wetness to slip inside your clenching hole, making you gasp. Your hands grasp at the sheets, pulling at them as if they can anchor you to the moment.
“Good girl,” he breathes, eyes darkening at the broken moan that bursts from your lips. “When’s the last time you touched yourself?”
Your brain feels hazy as you search for the answer, pleasure clouding your mind slow and sweet as molasses. “A–a few nights ago.”
Joel hums idly, slipping a second finger alongside the first. The stretch has you whining, his fingers a lot more to take than your own.
Your hands come up to claw at his shoulders, relishing in the way his broad muscle ripples and shifts beneath your greedy palms.
“Joel,” you whine, hips canting down against his hand impatiently.
He just shushes you softly, free hand brushing soothing circles along the skin of your inner thigh. “I know, honey,” he mutters, the pace fingers speeding up. “But I gotta get her nice and ready if you wanna take my cock.”
The gush of your pussy around his fingers is loud in the stillness of the room, a filthy wet noise that burns your ears each time he plunges them into your aching hole.
“I am ready.” Your breath hitches as your body begins to tremble beneath him. “Please, Joel—fuck—please, I need—”
“Need what?” His voice is thick with dark amusement, but there's a hunger in his eyes that has your stomach twisting. “Tell me, baby. What do you need?”
“I need you,” you rasp, your nails digging little crescent moons into his skin, your body pleading for release. “I need you inside me.”
Your hands grab at his hair, pulling him back up to meet your lips in a feverish kiss. 
The pressure of his body on yours, the way his hard cock grinds against your trembling thigh, drives you to the brink of madness. 
Your hands trail down his chest, past the waistband of his jeans, finally reaching the bulge straining against the fabric.
Joel groans when you rub him through his pants, feeling his cock twitch in response. He pulls back, breathing heavily, his lips curling into a smirk. 
“Yeah?” he asks, his voice thick with lust. “You want my cock in this pretty pussy? Want me to show you how good it feels to be fucked?”
“God, yes,” you answer, desperation lacing your tone as your hand moves to unbuckle his jeans. “Want it so bad.”
He lets you push his pants down just enough to free his cock, and you gasp, your eyes drawn to the way his length stands, thick and hard, just waiting for you. The tip flushed an angry red, drooling pre-come onto the scratchy sheets.
Joel pulls his fingers from you, using his hands spreading your legs wider, positioning himself between them with such careful precision that you can barely stand it.
The head of his cock drags through the mess between your legs, slipping all the way down till it catches on your soaked entrance.
Joel pauses, looking down at you, waiting for your signal, but the only answer you give is a pleading whimper, your hands pulling at his shoulders, urging him to move.
His mouth captures yours once again as he slowly slides into you, the stretch of his cock filling you steadily, making you gasp into his mouth. 
The slow burn of him carving a place for himself inside of you is almost too much, your body trembling as you adjust to the feeling of him.
“Fuck, baby,” Joel mutters against your lips. “You’re so tight, so fuckin’ perfect for me.”
As he sinks deeper into you, his thick cock finally buried to the hilt inside of you, the feeling is overwhelming. You gasp, nails digging into his back as the pain slowly shifts into pleasure.
Joel groans into your mouth, his hands moving to your hips, guiding you as he rocks gently against you. 
The rhythm is slow at first, deliberate, as if he's savoring every inch of you. Your body quivers beneath him, every inch of your skin tingling with sensation. You clutch at him, your legs tightening around his waist, needing more, wanting more.
"That's it," he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. "Take it, baby."
You screw your eyes shut tightly, trying to steady yourself as he thrusts deeper, harder. The angle shifts just enough to make your breath catch in your throat. 
Every stroke feels like it’s hitting the deepest part of you, sparking heat in places you never knew could burn so hot.
"Fuck," you gasp, the sensation too overwhelming, too much in the best way. "Joel... please..."
"Please what, sweetheart?" He pulls back slightly, teasing you with a slow roll of his hips before driving back in with a grunt.
Your nails dig into his shoulders, urging him to move faster, harder. "Don’t stop," you breathe, your voice trembling. "I need you to fuck me, Joel. Faster. Harder. Please."
The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room as Joel finally picks up the pace, each thrust harder and deeper than the last.
Your back arches off the bed, chest pressing flush to his as your body coils tighter and tighter, already so close to the edge.
Joel reaches up to take your wrist in his, dragging your hand down to press flat against your lower stomach.
“Feel that?” he asks breathlessly, the speed of his hips knocking the dingy bed frame into the wall with every thrust. “You feel how deep I am?”
His own hand blankets yours, pushing down so you can feel the way his cock punches up against your palm on the next thrust.
Your pussy clenches desperately around him at the feeling, your slick lips dropping open on a loud moan.
You can barely hold on. The heat in your stomach tightens, coiling painfully as your free hand scrambles to find purchase on his skin. "I can't—I'm gonna—"
He grits his teeth, his jaw clenched as he drives deeper, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. "Come for me, baby," he growls, his voice dark and commanding. "Let me feel it."
With a strangled cry, you finally release, your body clenching around him, every nerve igniting in a white-hot explosion of pleasure. 
You’re lost in it, your world spinning, your senses overwhelmed by the sensation of Joel’s body pounding into yours, the way his cock brushes against that sweet spot behind your clit enough to make sparks go off behind your eyelids.
Joel pulls out of your velvety warmth, hand coming up to fist his dripping length until he’s bowing over you tightly and coming with a deep groan of your name.
His release paints your stomach with milky strands of white, rope after rope of warm come claiming you in a way no one has before.
He finally collapses against you with one last shuddering breath, both of you breathing heavily, your chests rising and falling together in the quiet aftermath.
For a few moments, neither of you speaks, the only sounds are the soft creak of the bed and the quiet hum of your racing hearts. 
Joel rests his head against your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin, and you can feel the tension begin to slip away, the weight of everything that’s happened between you both settling into something new—something different, but still there.
Your hand slips down the sweaty expanse of your stomach, your fingers swiping through the sticky mess of his release curiously.
“Christ, quit that,” Joel groans, tearing his eyes away from the sight to press his forehead against your shoulder.
“Why?” you hum, brow raised in amusement as you drop your hand back to the mattress. “Can you even get it up again?”
Joel pinches your side hard enough to make you squeal, your body flinching away from him as a surprised laugh bubbles from your chest.
“Watch it,” he warns, though there’s no bite to his tone. You only laugh in response.
The two of you settle into a comfortable silence, wrapped in each other as crickets chirp from outside the window.
Then Joel clears his throat, fingers idly tracing different shapes on the skin of your hip as he gathers the courage to speak.
A circle, a square, a diamond, a circle, a heart, a heart, a heart.
“I’m…” he starts, trailing off softly. “I’m sorry. I’ve been a real fuckin’ prick, and you didn’t deserve it. You never did.”
You turn your own gaze to his chest, hand coming up so you can trail your fingers along the jagged scar decorating his shoulder. Your touch featherlight over the rough patch of skin.
All the anger seeps from your body, a heavy weight gone until you feel so light you could float off the mattress and into the cold night air.
“It’s okay,” you whisper softly, so soft you think it gets lost in the quiet darkness of the room. “I understand now.”
And for the first time in what feels like forever, you both just lay there, tangled in each other, not worrying about the world outside, about the chaos that waits. 
Just you, him, and the soft glow of moonlight.
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tags are now in the comments! if you want to get tagged for any of my works just fill out this form!
mini nat's note: should i add joel to my taglist...i do kinda want to write more for him in the future but i'm not sure yet...lmk chickens <3 bee tee dubs sorry the ending absolutely sucks i could not for the life of me figure out how to end this LMAO
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not-neverland06 · 7 months ago
Text
broken promises
pt two
bodyguard!logan howlett x congressman's daughter!reader
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a/n: the fact that he was canonically a bodyguard makes me absolutely insane someone congratulate me, I finally figured out how to make my own dividers Summary: He's learned from past mistakes that no matter how tempting the girl is, it's better not to get involved. He just needs some cash, he doesn't give a fuck how pretty you are. He doesn't care about you. He makes it clear he wants nothing to do with you besides seeing you sign his check. But, is that really all he wants? You're not blind to the way he looks at you. 18+ MDNI Shameless smut at the end, I'm not sorry about it at all.
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Logan had gotten used to this. The long drawn-out wait to meet with the man who wanted to hire him. He always arrived right on time, not a moment earlier. They all had the same game they liked to play. 
The secretary would greet him, a pretty girl in her 20s that the men were screwing or trying to screw. Then they would make him sit in the lobby for half an hour. They’d apologize by pushing the blame on someone else, saying a meeting had gone on too long. But there wasn’t a meeting. There never was. 
They liked to make themselves seem more important than they were. It was a power game, an intimidation tactic that he had always scoffed at. He didn’t give a fuck what government ties they had or otherwise. He just wanted his paycheck. 
This one was no different. A congressman who had only recently begun to make waves when he started up an anti-mutant agenda. Ironic that he had specifically requested Logan for the very thing he was trying to eradicate. 
There was a buzz and then the secretary was picking up her phone. She spared Logan a fleeting glance before whispering something into the receiver. She looked over at him and he already knew what she was going to say.  “He’s ready for you now.” 
“Thanks, sweetheart,” she gave him a coquettish smile as he made his way towards the large office at the end of the hall. The door was closed when he reached it, three quick knocks and then a quiet Come in. 
The man didn’t even look up to greet him. He continued signing something on his desk. Logan took a seat in one of the chairs, waiting for another few minutes before he was deemed important enough to address. He received a tight smile and narrowed eyes as the man took in the way he was dressed. 
He never dressed up for these things. He’d learned a while ago that a suit wasn’t going to get him any further than his leather jacket was. Might as well be comfortable while talking to these pricks. 
“Had a phone call with an associate of mine. Ran on longer than I meant it to.” Always an excuse, never an apology. 
Logan scoffed and shrugged. “I was fine.”
The man sniffed, “I’m sure. Look, I’ll cut straight to the chase. You come highly recommended by my peers and I need help fast.” Logan nodded, motioning for him to continue. The man’s eyes lingered on his fists for a long while before he finished. “It’s my daughter. Things have been a little rough for her at school, for lack of a better word. Especially since this new campaign started. I just need someone to keep a closer eye on her.”
Logan’s eyes narrowed, “She a party girl or something?” He wasn’t sure he could handle another bratty daddy’s girl again. The last one had nearly made him blow his brains out. They always think flipping their skirts up will let them get away with more and he can’t stand it. 
The man’s face blanched and he shook his head so vigorously that his jowls moved with him. “Oh, no, not at all. But she’s,” he paused and lowered his voice. He leaned in closer to Logan and waited for Logan to do the same. He rolled his eyes but did it anyway. “She’s like you, you know.”
Logan shot him a grin, “You mean a mutant.”
“Lower your voice,” he hissed, face tightening up in anger. “But, yes, a mutant. And I need one to guard her.” Ironic, this man was driving a campaign to make mutants second-class citizens, and his daughter was one. But Logan needed a check, he didn’t give a fuck about the morals of it all. 
“Sounds good to me.”
“Perfect, you can pick her up from school for me.”
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You had your earbuds in, head lowered while you made the trek across campus when you noticed him. He was difficult to miss, tall and buff. Very buff, you’re surprised that tank top of his hasn’t ripped every time he flexes. 
Your dad’s newest campaign has you hyper-aware of your surroundings. You can’t afford to let your guard down. Not after the last attack. 
There’s something about this man that tells you he isn’t someone looking to jump you, though. You’re not sure what it is. Every part of him screams danger, but not the type you’re looking out for. The cigar perched between his lips, the glistening muscles you want to bite, he’s trouble. 
When you spot him outside your lecture hall for the third time that day, you finally figure out what’s happening. Your dad had told you he’d hired someone new to watch over you at school. You hadn’t voiced just how against it you were, but you didn’t like the idea. 
You didn’t mind this guy, though. He wasn’t busting into your classes and embarrassing the shit out of you by making everyone empty their pockets like the last guy. He just lingered. You could deal with lingering. 
What you couldn’t deal with was the way he was leaning against his motorcycle, smirking as you slowly approached him. 
“Did my dad hire you?” You call out, tugging your earbuds out. “Who are you?”
He speaks around the cigar like it's second nature. “Your new bodyguard, sweetheart.” You suck in a deep breath when you hear his voice. He’s extremely attractive, you're surprised your dad would risk this. 
One of the other ones had kind of gotten a little obsessed, stalking you even in his off hours. You didn’t think your dad would want another pretty boy around you. Though, you suppose this one isn’t pretty. He’s extremely handsome, ruggedly so, very manly. Jesus, you might end up being the stalker this time. 
His lips curl up like he knows what you’re thinking about. You clear your throat, shifting your backpack higher up your arm. “You planning on taking me home on that?” You ask, pointing at his bike. 
He straightens up and shrugs. “Got a problem with the bike?”
You grin, “Not really,” but your dad will. “No, not at all.”
You walk towards him and he reaches out, grabbing your backpack straps and tugging you towards him. You stumble, hands bracing against his chest so you don’t land flat on your face. “Sorry, kid,” but he doesn’t sound sorry at all. He buckles the straps of your backpack together and tightens them, puffing smoke in your face while he does. “Don’t want this flying off.”
“Mhm,” you hum. You’re not paying attention at all. The only thing you care about right now is just how ripped he is under your hands. You’re not sure how long you gawk at him but he seems to be ridiculously amused by it. 
“Ready to go home, or what?” You jump back from him, brushing your hands off on your leggings and clearing your throat. 
“Yes, yeah.” You rip your eyes off his body and instead focus on the bike. “No helmets?” You ask.
“You heal, don’t you?” You nod and he shrugs. “Don’t need them then, do we?”
You can’t help the giddy grin on your face at that. It’s gotten tiring being treated like glass. You’re about to get on the bike when you finally process what he said. “Wait, how do you know I heal?”
He doesn’t respond verbally. Instead, his gaze darts down to his fists. Your eyes widen when you see the metal poking through the skin. Of course, your father would only tell another mutant about his abomination of a daughter. You scoff and roll your eyes. He’s such a fucking hypocrite. 
Logan climbs on the bike and you follow after him. You're hesitant to wrap your arms around his waist but he just reaches behind himself and jerks you forward. 
You suck in a sharp breath, pelvis tight against his ass while he squeezes your hands. “You want to go flying?” You shake your head and he chuckles, starting the bike and driving off without another word. 
Part of you loves the ride home, the other part detests it. For once you get to experience a little freedom. You’re not trapped in a steel box staring at the back of a car seat while the man beside you pretends he doesn’t exist. 
You can feel the wind in your hair, get a taste of real speed, and enjoy a moment uninterrupted by someone’s expectations of you. On the other hand, Logan does not respect speeding laws. And healing abilities or not, you don’t actually want to experience road rash. 
He manages to get you home in one piece, parking the motorcycle in the driveway and waiting for you to get off. But you can’t, your thighs have been clenching the seat so tight you think they might need to scrape you off. 
“Kid?” He mutters. You shake your head against his back, arms still strangling his waist. It was actually kind of fucking terrifying being on one of these things. You can’t tell if you loved or hated it. 
He lets out a rough sigh, forcibly moving your arms and then tugging you off the seat. Your legs are like jello while you try and straighten out. “Wasn’t so bad, was it?” He asks. You can’t manage much more than a strangled hum and he laughs. 
You turn to your front door and spot a leering face peering out the window. “Shit,” you huff. Your stepmother sees you spot her and disappears from view. You feel your hopes of ever getting back on that bike go with her. 
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“You took her home on your bike!”
“Well-”
You flinch at the volume of your father’s voice. “I don’t give a fuck what your excuse is! I will not have my daughter seen riding that monstrosity! You are not to do this again, do you understand me?”
You don’t know what Logan says, but you’re certain it’s not the submissive Yes, sir your father is looking for. He continues shouting at him for another ten minutes. When you hear the door to his office open you scramble to look like you hadn’t been listening in. 
But you’re a bad actress and if his huff of laughter is anything to go by, Logan knows what you were doing. “Did you know that was going to happen?” He asks, pointing back to your father’s, now closed, study. 
You nod, pursing your lips with an apologetic smile. “If it helps, I was really hoping he wouldn’t do that.”
He shrugs, “I don’t really give a fuck how much he wants to scream at me.” It’s refreshing, to finally have someone in the house who doesn’t kiss your father’s ass. It makes you smile, a real genuine smile for the first time in a while. 
You stand from the chair you’d been sitting in, gesturing further into your home. “Are you hungry? I haven’t eaten all day so I was thinking about making something.”
The smirk drops from his face, expression suddenly serious. It makes you tense up. “Look, I appreciate the offer, but I’m here to get paid. I don’t want to be your friend, kid.”
You suck in a sharp breath, trying not to let the rejection sting. He’s a professional, it should be a relief after the last one. “Right, yeah, I’m sorry I didn’t mean it like that.”
He nods, “Right,” tone stiff. You stare at him for another awkwardly long moment before you finally turn on your heel and walk toward the kitchen. You rush there, speedwalking so you don’t have to look at him any longer. 
You open up your fridge, keeping your back to him for as long as humanly possible. You can hear him take a seat at the island, can feel the way his eyes bore into you. It’s a physical thing, his gaze, makes chills scrape their way down your spine. 
You make yourself a sandwich and finally force yourself to turn around. Like you’d expected, he’s already looking at you. Lips ticking up just slightly when you finally get the courage to look up at him. 
Logan feels a little guilty. You weren’t coming onto him earlier, you were being genuine with your kindness. He knows there were no ulterior motives to it and there’s a very slight part of him that feels bad for making you so quiet. “Why’s your dad so pissy about the bike?”
You’re a little startled by the question, after the comment he made you’d thought he wouldn’t want anything to do with you. You swallow down the rest of your bite and cough a little when the bread gets stuck on the roof of your mouth. 
“He doesn’t want me to crash.”
“But you heal,” he points out bluntly and you can’t help but laugh a little. 
“Yeah, that’s the problem. He doesn’t want me to crash and for someone to see that I miraculously healed. Having a freak for a daughter wouldn’t exactly help his campaign, would it?” You can’t even attempt to hide the bitterness in your voice. And you know Logan picks up on it because he doesn’t ask any more questions. 
Your gaze drops to your plate and you finish the rest of your meal in silence. Or, you try to. “Got any plans tonight?”
You chuckle and give him an odd look. “No,” you respond sardonically. “None at all, prepare yourself for a very boring job. I don’t even know why he hired you, I never leave the house unless it's for school.”
“Yeah?” he muses, but he doesn’t seem particularly interested. More like he’s talking just to pass the time. “I heard you’ve been having a hard time at school.”
You suck in a sharp breath, a sudden wave of anger roiling through your gut. The cabinets behind you begin to shake and you wince in embarrassment, tamping down on your powers before you accidentally blow up the kitchen. 
Logan watches the moment with subdued interest like he’s not all that surprised or impressed with the display. “Unless they were a PoliSci nerd, I was a nobody up until last year.” There’s no concealing the hate lurking within your words, “And then my dad took up this whole anti-mutant regime. Well, you can imagine how much the activists love me. I’ve just had a few incidents with some particularly passionate protestors.”
“Do you believe in it?”
Your eyes widen in surprise, you hadn’t expected him to actually continue the conversation. “What do you mean?”
He leans back, arms crossed across his chest in a way that makes his biceps bulge. He shrugs, “The anti-mutant regime, do you agree with it?”
You open your mouth, the perfected script almost rolling off your tongue. But this isn’t some politician's son you’re wooing. You’re not the perfect daughter, you’re in your own home, finally talking to someone else like you. 
“No.” You answer, voice strong in its conviction. “And every time I see one of his PAs running around with their little signs I want to ram the stick up their ass.”
He barks out a laugh, eyes crinkling up in amusement. “I think we might get along, kid.”
You try to ignore the way your cheeks warm at his words. You don’t want to be this affected by him, you’ve barely spoken to him. But this is the first person in a long time that you know with absolute certainty you can be honest with. He doesn’t care about protecting your political image or bowing to your father’s every whim. 
It’s a relief, like a constricting weight being taken off your chest. You give him an easy smile and get up to wash your dishes. His eyes are on you again but they feel less oppressive this time. You’ve already forgotten the rule he’s set in place, you’re not supposed to be friends. 
It’s going to be hard to remember that. 
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Your father tightens his grip around your waist until you feel like you might squeal. “Smile, now.” You raise your hand, taking the stairs up the stage and waving out at the crowd that’s formed. It’s hot today, your makeup would be melting off if it weren’t for the artists who put it on for you. 
Always have to look good in front of the camera. All of you. Seeing Logan in a suit was certainly a surprise. You’re almost completely sure that your father had to give him a bonus to even consider wearing it today. 
He looks good, but you honestly prefer him in the normal beater and leather jacket. It’s something so uniquely him. This is just a reminder of your reality, that nothing around you is real. It’s all pretty lies wrapped up in expensive clothes. 
You have to bite your tongue and hold back a grimace when your father begins his speech. “First, we had to let them into our jobs. Now they’re in our schools! Our children aren’t safe, not when they’ve got loaded weapons sitting beside them! Because that’s exactly what they are, weapons of mass destruction that will take apart-”
“Fuck me,” you hiss under your breath. Your cheeks hurt from keeping this smile on your face. You’re struggling not to flinch every time the crowd surges up to agree with him, bigoted shouts making your ears bleed. 
Logan’s brows raise and he gives you a brief glance over his shoulder. Your face pinches in confusion only for a moment before you quickly correct it. Still, you keep your lips nearly completely motionless as you whisper, “Can you hear me?”
You dart your gaze back down to him and catch the barest of nods. Your smile softens, becoming something real if only for a moment. You don’t say anything else, you don’t need to. It’s just a comfort to know someone else is there with you, seeing through the painted faces and plastic smiles. 
There’s movement in the crowd. It cuts your father off midsentence. He peers over the podium, trying to get a better look at what’s happening. You hear someone scream and then the entire crowd is getting knocked to the ground. 
You jump back in shock, everyone on stage still. The security, however, is rushing to get to you and your family. It’s too late, though, there’s a mutant in the crowd and his eyes are set on you. “Fuck you,” he screams out your father's name and lugs something at the stage. 
You hear someone shout your name but it’s too late. Glass shatters against the side of your face. It takes less than a second for the pain to start. You can feel holes being burned through your skin, like living fire melting through your bones and gums. A scream rips out of your throat, your hands coming up to block your face too late. 
“Get her out of here!”
As agonizing as it is, you can already feel your skin working to mend itself. You can practically hear the flesh bonding back together. But the acid is dripping down you. It keeps moving steadily through your clothes and skin, your abilities on overdrive trying to repair the damage. 
You can’t focus on anything except the sensation of being burned alive. Suddenly, there’s an arm being thrown around your shoulder and you’re being lifted off your feet. Your skin scrapes against the rough material of someone’s blazer and it makes you grit your teeth and scream again. 
“I know, hold on kid, it’ll be over in a minute.” Logan rushes you behind the stage, where there are no cameras to watch you heal. You don’t know how your father’s PR team is going to spin this. Everyone saw it, saw the way your flesh bubbled and boiled. There’s no hiding the fact that half your face should be melted off. 
“Car,” you grunt out when he puts you on your feet again. 
His hands are clamped firmly around your shoulders, inspecting you for any further damage. “What?”
“We gotta get to the car,” the words are a struggle to get out. Your lungs constrict painfully in your chest while you force the rest out. “Can’t let them see.”
He looks pissed off that that's what you're worried about and not the fact that you were just attacked. Finally, after a minute of just staring at you, he nods. He wraps an arm around your shoulder and runs with you back to the limo. He throws the door open, pushing you inside and sliding in beside you. 
You take in a deep breath the second you’re no longer in view of the TV cameras. “Fuck,” you gasp out. Your dress is in tatters on your left side and you quickly cover your chest. You pray that you didn’t accidentally flash anything while you were still on stage. Your father would never forgive you for that. 
It’s silent in the car for a moment. You feel something being draped over your shoulder and look over to see Logan passing you his jacket. When he catches your gaze he gently grabs your jaw and titls your face towards his. 
His eyes rove over the left side of your face and he gives you a tight smile. “You’re fine, kid.”
You pull your chin out of his grip and pull his jacket closed around you. “See why my father wanted you around? How would he have ever explained his daughter surviving an acid attack?”
There’s something pinched in his gaze. A deep-seated irritation and something else you’re too tired to identify. He’s looking at you oddly and you wish he wouldn’t. You press your forehead to the cool glass of the window and slump against the car door. 
You don’t know when you fall asleep but by the time you wake up, Logan’s already carrying you up to your room. He sees you shift awake and places you on your feet. You steady yourself against the stair banister and walk the rest of the way to your room, trying to shake off the pain of the day. 
You look back just in time to see Logan at the front door. “Goodnight,” you call down to him. You know he can hear you, but he walks through the door without another word. You bite your lip, ignoring the sinking feeling of your gut. 
You toss your destroyed dress to the floor and turn your TV on. You surf through the channels for a bit before finding a clip of today’s incident. “-apparently part of a protest for mutants against the government. I don’t know Bill, they seem to just be proving everybody’s point. They are unsafe.”
“I agree, my thoughts and prayers go out to…”
You roll your eyes as they say your name. They’re saying it wasn’t acid, instead it’s some sort of chemical compound that causes extreme pain. Even you don’t believe that bullshit. You have a feeling your father is going to be looking for a new PR team tomorrow. 
Your attention is snagged by the replay of the accident. You don’t focus on the acid, you don’t want to. Instead, you see how quickly Logan rushed to your side. He seemed to be right there even as the acid was being thrown. 
Your brows pinch together and you glance at the jacket beside you. He’d forgotten to take it back before he left. You pick it up, eyes skating over the fabric before you find what you’re looking for. There’s a large hole in the right sleeve, acid having burned through it. 
You hadn’t even realized he was in pain. You know he can heal, but it doesn’t get rid of the fluttering feeling in your stomach. You’ve never had someone look after you like that. 
You grin to yourself, tucking the jacket in the back of your closet. You’re sure he wouldn’t want it back and you’re not planning on parting with it anytime soon. 
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You’re on house arrest for a week after the acid incident. Which includes no school. Your father has to play into the idea that you’re recovering from the trauma and healing. You don’t know how much longer he’s planning on keeping you locked up but you’re going stir crazy. 
Not only do you not get to go to classes, but Logan isn’t around either. He doesn’t need to be, not when the only place you’re in is your room. He’s not a friend, he’s made that clear, but he’s something. And you are desperately craving that specific something. 
“It was a sickening attack against my daughter that my wife and I are still trying to recover from.” You roll your eyes as you listen to your father spew his bullshit to the interviewer in the next room. 
You’re not allowed to be out and about, of course. You can’t risk someone seeing you. But that doesn’t stop you from lurking. 
“It was an incredibly traumatic experience for her, I’m sure.” You grin to yourself, picking at your nails. You like this one, whoever the reporter is interviewing him. She hasn’t let him catch a break. Especially not when he tries to capitalize on your trauma. Even though he hasn’t checked in once with you. 
“Well,” he splutters for a moment. “Yes, of course,” he tries to sound humble but anyone can tell he’s just covering his ass. “And it just further proves what I’ve always said about mutants. They are animals, they’re not like us.”
You’d think at a certain point you’d go numb to it. You’ve been raised hearing this rhetoric from him all your life. But the sting never eases. That cloying ache in your chest never quite leaves you. Not when you know the only reason he publicly accepts you is for political gains. So everyone can see what a wonderful father he is and vote for him.
You feel sick to your stomach and you don’t think you can listen to much more of this. But right as you’re about to tap out a hand clamps down on your shoulder. You nearly scream but you catch a whiff of the man’s aftershave and your mouth snaps shut. 
You leap out of your chair and whip around, a grin plastered on your face. “Logan, what are you doing here?” You can’t disguise the giddiness in your voice. He might constantly be reminding you that you hold nothing more than a professional relationship, but you don’t give a shit. He’s a constant in your life and that’s rare for you, so you’ll latch onto whatever comfort you can find. 
His gaze briefly darts to the connecting wall to your father’s study and you flush. He’d probably heard all of that. You’ve never had someone see the side of your father that you do. There’s something shamefully embarrassing about it. 
He looks back at you and gives you a sly smirk. “Wanna get out of here?” You’d have to be an idiot to say no.
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“Uh,” you can hear the music from where you stand across the street. You shuffle uncertainly on your feet beside Logan, glancing up and down the sidewalk like your father’s going to pop out of an alleyway. “I don’t know if this is such a good idea.”
Logan tugs his cigar out of his mouth. He’s leaned up against a lamppost and he’s watched you struggle for the past ten minutes. “Live a little kid, would ya?”
You look back at the dingy bar and grimace. “Okay, there’s a difference between living a little and having my face blasted on the news. How’s it going to look if I’m photographed at a bar while I’m meant to be healing?”
Logan points with his cigar to the entrance of the bar. “I can promise you, no one in there gives a fuck about who your daddy is.” Comforting, and a little humbling. 
You take in a deep breath and Logan must sense the change in your demeanor. He flicks the cigar to the ground, crushing it with the heel of his boot. He holds his arm out, “Ready, kid?”
You nod, hurrying to his side and slipping under his grasp. He lets his arm hang heavily around your shoulder, hand squeezing your bicep gently to try and quell your nerves. You’d be swooning at the touch if you weren’t about to throw up from anxiety. 
You used to have a life. Until your father had blown it up. You haven’t been around this many people in ages. Well, you haven’t been around people who are just having fun and not sucking up to every politician’s kid they meet. 
The music gets louder as you step over through the threshold of the bar. The soles of your shoes stick to the floor. People laugh loudly all around you, some of them shouting up at TV screens for whatever sport is currently playing. You’re sure half of them don’t even normally watch the game. They just need an excuse to get their wives off their backs. 
The thought brings a small smile to your lips. Logan glances down at you and frowns, “You are old enough to drink, aren’t you?”
You roll your eyes and move out from under his hold. “Yes, Logan. I’m going into a master’s program, my frontal lobe is fully formed.”
He huffs a little at the attitude, cheeks twitching with a suppressed smile. He nods towards the back of the bar, “Find a seat, I’ll get us drinks.” He walks towards the bar without another word and you resent him a little for it. 
Without him beside you, it’s like everything comes crashing down all at once. The songs playing grate on your ears. Every laugh feels like they’re screaming in your face. You’ve never been more in tune with your sense of smell and you hate it. 
Your hands tremble by your sides and you nearly miss the man in front of you spilling his beer down his shirt. It looks completely unnatural, the way it just flips out of his hand. And you know it’s your doing. 
You shove through him and his friends, running to the back and sliding into the first booth you see. You dig your nails into your palms, taking a few deep breaths to try and calm your heart rate down a bit. 
Logan slides into the seat across from you, placing a beer in front of you. It’s barely touched the grimy wood of the table before you tip your head back and drain it. You’ve never been a particular fan of beer or any alcohol for that matter. 
But right now you need a buzz before you accidentally level the whole bar. You slam the bottle back on the table, taking in a deep breath, and sitting back. Logan gives you a hard stare, glancing between you and the empty bottle. 
He clicks his tongue and stands up, “I’ll go get another one.”
You bite your lip and give him a sheepish, “Thank you.”
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It doesn’t take long for the buzz to settle in. There’s a slight tingling in your legs and the tips of your fingers. It almost feels like how you get when you’re starting to get aroused. But you don’t know if that’s from the alcohol or the way Logan looks in his slutty little t-shirt. 
Definitely tipsy, you think to yourself, nudging your third beer to the side. 
“Always been a lightweight?” He teases, watching you with amusement in his gaze while he works on what must be his fifth whiskey. 
You shake your head with a soft smile. “No, I used to go out with my friends all the time.” You laugh a little at the memories and lean in a little closer like you’re sharing some horrible secret. Logan rolls his eyes but acquiesces, leaning in to listen to you speak. “We made up alter egos for our drunk selves. Wanna know mine?” You ask, wiggling your eyebrows at him with a stupid grin.
His brows pinch together and he frowns, “I don’t think so.”
You laugh and lean back in your seat. “You’re the worst!” He places his glass down on the table and fixes you with an odd look. You shift around uncomfortably, “What is it?”
“What happened to your friends? Why are you hanging out with me and not them?”
“Oh,” your gaze drops to the table and you suddenly find the stains on it very interesting. It’s practically abstract art. You swallow harshly around the lump in your throat and shrug. “Um, just all the stuff with my dad happened, and,” you shrug, “I don’t know. My life kind of fell apart.”
You try and shake off the funk, bring back the happy-go-lucky feeling you were in only minutes ago. “I had to move out of the dorms and head back home. My friends stopped talking to me. My boyfriend dumped me. It all just kind of blew up.”
Logan frowns and you swear he seems angry on your behalf. It’s a nice feeling, having someone care enough to hold a grudge for you. “You ever tell him how it was all affecting you?”
You snort, “Of course I did. He was overjoyed. He never liked my friends, especially not my boyfriend, they encouraged me to be too independent. He thought I was losing the values he raised me with. He just never cared to learn that I never agreed with them in the first place.”
Logan doesn’t say anything for a while and you let your gaze drift to the karaoke stage. Two women are singing a bad redemption of Led Zeppelin and it makes you smile. You don’t see the way Logan’s eyes linger on the curve of your lips and then drop to your chest. 
You never seem to notice how you make him squirm. There is something so interesting about you. Something so different from the families he worked with before. He doesn’t know if it's the whole mutant thing, if you two are somehow kindred spirits in that regard. He doubts it, he’s never really cared much about that. 
But he knows that there is something magnetic about you. It draws him in and makes him hate his own rules. He promised not to get involved with another client. It always ends messy, most times bloody. 
You turn back to him and smile. Your voice is a low purr as you ask, “You wanna get out of here?”
Of course, he’s never been one to follow the rules. 
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“I am so sorry about this. Really.” 
Logan glares down at you while you straighten out his tie. You duck your head so you don’t have to meet his gaze and he lets out a long-suffering sigh. 
“Forget it, kid.” He says it with a smirk but it doesn’t make you feel any less guilty. 
This will be your first public appearance since the incident. It’s a gala, of course, because your father hates you. He’d demanded you find a date, someone to look pretty on your arm because he doesn’t want you talking while you’re there. You’re meant for pictures and nothing more. 
Considering the fact that no one wants to talk to you on campus, the acid incident not helping at all, you had no luck finding a date. You’d had to beg on hands and knees for days to get Logan to agree. 
You don’t know what it is that finally made him cave but you’re grateful for it. You think your father was expecting you to fail. To come crawling to him and be forced to go with who he wanted you to go with. 
You were not going to spend the whole night listening to some political major try and explain your own father’s campaign to you. You’d rather swallow acid than go through that for another night. Your father, of course, doesn’t know that Logan is taking you. 
You’re planning on ambushing him with it. He can’t do anything about it now. He wants you to have a date for some reason and there’s no way for him to find a backup now. You take a step back from him and turn to look in the mirror. 
Side by side, you do make an incredibly attractive couple. He looks amazing in his suit, his muscles just slightly pushing against the fabric. And as much as he hates the tie and constricting material, he makes it work. 
And you feel pretty for the first time in a long time. You actually got to do your own hair and makeup for once. You’re a lot less heavy-handed than the assistants your father hires. You feel comfortable in your own skin, finally, wearing the deep red dress your stepmother had gotten for you. 
“We look good,” you muse. 
Logan looks down at you and smiles slightly, “You do.”
You give him a confused grin, “I said we.”
He leans down, lips brushing against the shell of your ear as he whispers, “I know what you said, sweetheart.” Your heart nearly beats out of your chest at the proximity. Gooseflesh raises on your arms where he’s touching you and your knee buckles ever so slightly. 
You can perfectly imagine his husky voice whispering something much, much dirtier to you. He pulls back with a slight chuckle and forcefully turns you around. “Come on, kid, we’re gonna be late.”
He nudges you towards your bedroom door and you nod your head mutely. He keeps doing that to you. These little things that could be so easily dismissed as you reading into his actions. But you know, deep down, you’re not reading into anything. 
But you don’t know what to do with this information that he might possibly be into you. Or at the very least, attracted to you. He made it clear early on that he wants nothing but professionalism between the two of you, yet he continually breaks his own rule. 
Your father and stepmother are waiting at the bottom of the stairs for you both. Your stepmother smiles when she sees you but your father’s face screws up in anger. “Are you fucking kidding me? The goddamn bodyguard?”
You shrug and slip past him, already walking to the front door. “A date’s a date.” You pause and grin over at him, “What are you going to do about it?” It’s a taunt, one you don’t give him a chance to respond to. 
You’re already slipping outside and heading to the town car. Something about Logan being with you emboldens you to act in ways you never would. Even when he’s not there, when you’re just having family dinner and your father says something off-putting. You fight back, you don’t let him steamroll you and your opinions. 
You feel better than you have in ages with Logan beside you. Still, the ride there is incredibly awkward. 
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The hotel is grand and luxurious. But they all are. You feel guilty complaining about your life when this is your weekend. What do you have to be upset about when you regularly stay in five-star motels and wear designer dresses without glancing at the price tag?
Sometimes you feel guilty around Logan. You wonder if he ever resents you for your privilege. You might be a mutant like him, sure, but you’ve never had to struggle to make ends meet. Or try and scrap together enough money to get your next meal. You’ve never had to worry about where you’re going to sleep next or if you’ll have a roof over your head. 
Your struggles have been so different that you worry if something ever did happen between the two of you, you might not work together. 
But those are spiraling thoughts for another time. Right now, you’re just trying to get through the front door without someone bombarding your father with questions on his stance about whatever. 
When it’s clear that he’s going to be there for a while, he sends you and Logan off to the ballroom on your own. You feel bad for your stepmother, having to stay behind and pretend she’s interested as they bore her with stories that have no real meaning. 
“Poor woman,” you mutter, watching her struggle to keep the smile on her face. 
“You don’t call her mom,” Logan muses. You turn to look at him and he just shrugs. “Just a little weird.”
“Well, she’s not my mom.” His head tilts in confusion and you elaborate. “My bio mom left the second she figured out she gave birth to a mutant. We lie to the public, stepmom’s interfere with the perfect nuclear family ideal my dad’s pushing for.”
“If he cares so much about family then why don’t you have your dad’s last name?” A good question, one you had to field a lot when you first started school. 
You give him a sly grin, “Took my mom's maiden name the second I was eighteen, just to piss him off.” There’s no true reason behind it other than being vindictive and petty. “He’s been trying to get me to change it for years but he can’t force me to. Besides, I like having my name separate from theirs. Lets me pretend I’m not a part of the family. Don’t get me wrong, she’s nice and all, we just never really had the chance to bond.”
Someone passes by you. A couple you know you’re supposed to recognize but you can’t place their names. The man calls out your name, coming toward you with his arms open wide. You can see Logan tense up slightly beside you, bodyguard instincts coming out for a moment. 
You squeeze his hand briefly before stepping forward to hug the man. “So nice to see you, again.” You tell him. He grins and squeezes you a little closer to his chest than necessary. 
Logan clears his throat, glaring at the man’s drifting hands. Before either of you can react, Logan is pulling you back, hand resting lightly over the small of your back. He holds his hand out, forcing the man to shake his hand and take his attention off of you.
You can’t hold back the smile on your lips when you see how much smaller the man is under Logan’s intense stare. You’ve gotten used to the men at these events treating you however they want. They don’t see you as a human, you are your father’s accessory and their toy. You envy Logan for how easily he can dismiss these men, take away their larger-than-life personalities, and reduce them to the sniveling rats they truly are. 
He doesn’t even speak, simply tugs you towards the ballroom and away from the man’s wandering hands. You can’t help the stupid smile on your face while you look at him. He glances out the side of his eye and huffs, “What?” He snaps, tone impatient. 
You shrug and shake your head. “Nothing, you’re just…” You trail off, unsure how to continue. You don’t want to make him uncomfortable by telling him how you really feel about him. How deeply you appreciate him, how horribly you desire him. You’re afraid it will all just blow up in your face. That you’ll have truly been reading into everything and gotten his intentions all wrong. After all, he’s made it abundantly clear that there’s meant to be nothing between the two of you except a paycheck. 
You take in a deep breath, smile faltering, “Nothing.” You finally spit out, slipping out of his grasp and walking quicker towards the doors. His hand lingers on your back, fingers trailing slowly down your spine until you’re completely out of his reach. 
The chatter inside gets louder the closer you get to the entrance. You listen to the indiscernible voices, the quartet playing in the corner, and the clink of metal on the glass as they all eat. You straighten out your shoulders and put on your best smile, mentally preparing yourself to keep it stiff on your cheeks for the rest of the night. 
Logan catches up to you, the both of you stopping the second you see the inside of the ballroom. 
People Against Mutants
Evolution or Monstrosities
Parents for the Removal of Mutant Children
Your eyes widen as you take in the banners and signs hanging off the walls. More and more uncreative rhetoric all for the annihilation of mutants. Of people like you and Logan. Your smile drops immediately and you know you should have expected something like this from your father. He’d been refusing to tell you what this gala was for, saying offhandly he was just raising some money. 
You thought it was another charity. Not this. Not people, quite literally, calling for your head. For Logan’s head. You suck in a sharp breath and glance towards the silent man beside you. His jaw is clenched as he takes in all the finely dressed people around you. They’re all laughing and chatting like they’re not actively campaigning for the destruction of children. 
“Bar?” You ask, already walking towards it. 
“Sounds good to me.” His hand is on your back again and you’re grateful for it. The glower on his face, the attitude that screams I don’t belong here keeps people away from you. He shoulders through the men huddling around the bar, forcefully clearing space for the two of you. 
And when they turn around, posturing like they’re going to say something, he only has to look at them for them to retreat with their tails tucked. It’s ridiculously attractive seeing someone command these men so easily. 
“Whiskey,” Logan grumbles, he looks back at you and you slide beside him, leaning your elbows against the cool counter. 
“Just champagne, please,” you tell the bartender. He nods, quickly making your drinks and handing them to you. You turn with the flute in your hand, surveying the room. It feels less like a gala and more like a production of false niceties that will never end and never be genuine. 
“Don’t know how you deal with these fuckers all the time,” Logan mutters, glaring as a man slams into him and keeps walking without apologizing. 
You let out a short huff of laughter, “Honestly,” he glances over at you and you shrug. “I’ve got no fucking clue either.” He scoffs and takes a swig from his glass. But you can’t take your eyes off of him. You feel the words on the tip of your tongue, weighing you down until you feel like you have no choice but to spit them out. 
“You,” his brows quirk up and he glances over at you. You take in a deep breath and start over, nerves making your palms sweaty around the glass. “You make it bearable.”
Logan’s face falls and he sucks in a deep breath. You see the expression on his face, you know what he’s going to tell you. And you hate how apologetic he looks. You especially despise the way he’s making you feel pitied. He’s never done that before and you don’t want him to start now. 
“Don’t,” you tell him before he can say anything. You let out a self-deprecating laugh and place the champagne flute on the bar so you don’t have to look at him. “I know what you’re going to say, alright. So, just, don’t.”
Logan purses his lips and grabs your jaw. You try and jerk your face out of his grasp but he doesn’t let you, he forces you to look at him. He only lets go once you reluctantly make eye contact. You’re surprised by the look on his face. There’s no pity in his gaze like you’d expected. 
This is something else, something darker and more twisted. You can’t put your finger on what exactly you’re seeing but you know it makes your heart race and your thighs clench. “Listen, sweetheart, I-”
“What the hell are you doing?” You jump away from him but Logan just clenches his eyes shut with a short huff of irritated breath. You clear your throat and turn to face your father. He’s glaring between you and Logan, but smiles warmly anytime someone looks your way. “I didn’t bring you here so my contributors could see what a fucking whore you are for the help.”
“Dad!” You exclaim, eyes widening in horror. But Logan doesn’t seem bothered by your father’s words. If anything it seems to incense him, his hand drifting from your jaw to drape itself over the nape of your neck. You try not to show just how much the possessive grip is affecting you but you know they can both tell. 
Your father’s face pinches and he nearly stomps his foot as he looks between you and Logan. He looks like he wants to say something else but your stepmother, thankfully, calls his name. She waves him over towards her and you hold your breath, waiting to see what he’s going to do. 
He takes in short puffs of air, straightening out his suit jacket and glaring at you. “You’re not going to be a fucking wallflower all night, got it?” He doesn’t give you a chance to respond before he’s stomping off. He calls out a warm greeting to someone across the room and you feel like you can finally breathe again. 
You give Logan a tired smile and nod towards the rest of the party. “Time to mingle.”
He laughs, loudly, enough to make people’s heads turn. You can feel your skin heating up from embarrassment and flinch away from the sound. “Sorry, kid, mingling ain’t part of my contract.”
Your jaw drops as you glare at him. “Are you serious?”
He turns back to the bar, flagging down the bartender for a refill. “Deadly,” he tells you firmly, barely looking at you. You roll your eyes and walk away from him, glaring at his back the whole time you do so. 
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He thought coming to one of these things, being stuffed in a scratchy suit, would be his worst nightmare. He was proven wrong when he heard them talking to each other. Bitching about golf and their mistresses wanting more attention. Their kids nagging them and their wives being bitches. 
All of it made him want to down a whole bottle of whiskey and then blow his brains out. His worst nightmare turned into ever having to hold a conversation with one of these pricks. 
Then, he turns around, surveying the room for wherever you were lurking. He expects you to be by your father’s side or hiding somewhere in a corner. Instead, you’re standing close -extremely close - to some pretty boy. 
His hand is on your waist and you’re laughing at whatever boring fucking story he’s telling you. Logan tries to pick up on your conversation but there are too many things happening at once already. His senses are on overdrive and he’s already struggling against a migraine. 
He feels something brewing in his gut, something he’s been trying to just shove down for months. He doesn’t know what it is he hates about this picture but it makes him sick to his stomach. He hears something crack and looks down to find the glass of whiskey split on one side. 
“Shit,” he hisses, slamming the glass on the bar behind him. He shakes his hand out and tries to unclench his fists but it’s hard. He couldn’t have possibly been standing here long enough for you to suddenly find the love of your life. Why the fuck are the two of you so close?
This was so unlike you. Rarely did you ever have something good to say about the men you would encounter at these things. He’d heard you bitch about it enough times. Something about this isn’t adding up and he doesn’t know if it’s his own jealousy or intuition. 
Still, he finds himself pushing away from the bar and stalking towards you both. Closer, he can finally see what the problem is. Your hands are on the guy's chest but you aren’t leaning against him, you’re actively trying to push him away. 
It makes Logan’s blood boil, jaw clenching as he tries to keep himself at bay. He didn’t want to cave some kid’s head in in the middle of the gala. But the closer he got the clearer he could hear your hissed warnings to take his hands off of you. 
Logan finally reaches you and the look of sheer relief on your face makes him want to bring the claws out. He’d love to see that smug smirk ripped off his face, but he holds back. If only so he doesn’t traumatize you. 
“Alright, bub, hands off,” he warns. 
“Why don’t you just leave us alone?” He had to give it to the kid, he’s got balls. Rarely did anyone ever buck up to him like this. Normally, he might entertain him a bit, drag this on longer than necessary to get a kick out of it. 
But he still hasn’t taken his hands off of you and Logan’s not interested in fucking around tonight. Without a word, he grabs the kid by the collar of his jacket and tosses him away from you. 
He lands roughly on the floor with a loud gasp and people turn to look. Logan pays no mind to the onlookers. He places his hand on your back and leads you out of the ballroom, unwilling to have eyes on you for the rest of this conversation. 
“Logan,” you start, tone nervous. 
“Don’t,” he snaps. He regrets it immediately from the way you jump in surprise. He lets out a rough sigh, running his hand down his face, and walks through the first door he finds. “I’m sorry, kid, I just-”
“Logan,” you cut him off. The tone of your voice is enough to get him to finally look at you. Your arms are crossed and you’re glaring at him. “Why the fuck did you drag us into a closet?”
His brows furrow in confusion and he glances around, finally realizing what he walked into, “Fuck,” he hisses. He gropes blindly around the room for a light switch. There’s a small click and then an unflattering fluorescent light is shining down on you both. He’s managed to drag you both into a small, incredibly cramped, cleaning closet.  
You’re grimacing as you push a few mops away from your head. You look over at him and something about the look on his face must be funny because you start to laugh. “What were you thinking?”
Your smile makes one curl up on his own lips. He can’t help it, something about you eases a bit of the tightness constantly lurking inside him. “Thought it was one of those stuffy conference rooms.”
You scoff and reach for the handle, “Just a stuffy closest, good going, Logan.” You roll your eyes and tug on the knob. Your brows furrow together as you jiggle the handle every which way, desperately pulling on it. 
“Move over,” Logan mutters, nudging you to the side. He wraps his hand around the handle and yanks on it, expecting the door to swing open. When it doesn’t his face falls. 
“Did you miraculously unlock it, genius?” You demand sarcastically. Logan feels his shoulders tense up, frustration levels steadily rising. He’s already got a shit temper, he doesn’t need you adding to this. 
“No,” he snipes, “but I don’t see you coming up with any wonderful solutions.”
You throw your hands up in the air, wincing when your elbow collides with the shelving unit behind you. “I didn’t drag us into this mess! Why did you even come in here?” You demand and he can see how angry you are. 
It shows in the way you tapped your heeled feet against the floor and glower at him like he’s the bane of your existence. He doesn’t know what happens, what comes over him, or why this is the moment he chooses to break his rule. 
Your back slams into the shelves behind you and you gasp as he surges towards you. His hands come up to cup your cheeks and before you get a chance to question him, his mouth is covering your own. Logan buries his hand in your hair, ruining the perfectly styled curls. You don’t seem to mind much if the way you arch into him is anything to go by. 
His tongue runs across the seam of your lips, tasting the cherry-flavored gloss you’d applied earlier. He wants to devour you. Consume you body and soul, take everything you have to give, and then keep going. He doesn’t want to stop, but he’s not sure he wants the first place you have sex to be in a janitor’s closet. 
He pulls back, tugging you back when you try to chase his lips with your own. “Shouldn’t do this here,” he mutters. He’s struggling to hold back. And when you look up at him, lips swollen from his kiss, and you mutter why, how is he meant to resist?
He tugs you away from the shelves, pushing you against the door so he doesn’t have to see your face twist up in pain every time the corner digs into your lower back. Your hands drop down to his belt, lips desperately carving a path down his neck. 
He’d laugh at your eagerness if he wasn’t just as desperate for you. He reaches for the hem of your dress but it’s one of those floor-length gowns with no slits. He struggled for a minute before getting too impatient and just muttering, “Fuck it.”
You gasp when you feel the metal of his claw against your leg, eyes dropping down to watch as he makes himself a slit. He slices the fabric along your thigh and then just rips it. “Logan,” you hiss as he hikes the silk over your hips. 
“Something wrong, sweetheart?” You glare at him, eyes darting between him and his pants before you finally shake your head. He laughs slightly, hand drifting under your dress and reveling in the way you shiver under his touch. “Yeah,” he whispers, “that’s what I thought.”
His fingers move gently along your thighs, easing you into his touch. You let out breathy whimpers, tucking your face in his neck the closer he gets to your core. He lets his hand drift lower, searching out the band of your underwear. 
He’s pleasantly surprised when he’s met with nothing but you dripping for him. “Shit, you’re not wearing any underwear?”
You freeze and keep your face stubbornly buried in his neck. Logan laughs slightly, tugging you back and forcing you to look up at him. You mumble something under your breath. It’s said so quickly he can barely understand you. “What was that?”
“Ugh, god, Logan.” You groan and let your eyes drop down to his shirt, fiddling with the end of his tie. “I was hoping this would happen.”
When he doesn’t say anything your face shifts, worry gnawing away at you. You glance up at him and are surprised by the intensity of his gaze. He’s staring down at you like he wants to eat you whole. His pupils have consumed all the color of his eyes, there’s nothing but want on his face. 
“You wanna know why I agreed to come with you, kid?”
Your mind is completely dulled just by being this close to him. It takes you a moment to process what he’s saying before you nod your head. “Why?”
The look on his face reminds you of a wolf guarding its territory. It’s predatorial, animalistic, it makes you want him even more. “I didn’t want any of these little boys getting a chance to have their hands on you.” His gaze drops down to your lips and he leans in until your breaths are mingling together. 
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you.” He dips his head down and his kiss isn’t as intense as it was the first time. His lips move lazily over your own, tongue stroking against yours like he’s savoring the taste. 
You can taste the whiskey he’d drank earlier, can still smell cigars on his breath. It should be revolting, you’ve never liked kissing smokers. But there is something so intoxicating about him. Everything he does is enchanting to you. 
It’s a naive train of thought but you trust him wholly. He could do whatever he wanted to you and you’d let him willingly. His hands continue their exploration down your body and you can’t help but arch into his touch. His fingers stroke languidly over your center and you moan into his mouth. 
Your lips part with little gasps and your head thunks loudly against the door. Neither of you notice or care, you’ve all but forgotten the gala outside. The government employees and rich socialites that you’re supposed to be entertaining. 
And when he slips a finger inside you, you don’t care who hears you call out his name. The rough pad of his finger creates a feeling you’ve never been able to produce on your own. There’s something so exhilarating about this whole situation. 
Stuck in this tiny closet, no air to breathe but each other’s. No room for anything other than your bodies pressed as closely together as possible. You're completely surrounded by him and you never want to leave. 
“Logan,” you gasp out his name and shove at his shoulders. He momentarily stops his ministrations, giving you a worried look. “Please, I just want you.” You tug at his wrist, hissing when his fingers leave you with a lewd pop. 
He looks hesitant, but you can see the way he’s straining against his boxers. You let your hand trail down his stomach, palming him through the thin fabric. His hips buck into your hands and he lets out the most attractive noise you’ve ever heard. You’ve always liked guys who aren’t afraid to be vocal. 
“Fuck, you’re gonna be the death of me,” he whispers. He swats your hands to the sides, tugging his boxers down and squeezing your hips hard enough to bruise. “Come on, up.”
You jump and he slings your legs around his waist, lining himself up with your entrance. He drags you slowly down his cock, resting your back against the door and giving a hesitant thrust inside you. 
You can’t help the low groan that leaves your parted lips. It’s like you’re full of nothing but him. You’d been mentally prepared for the stretch he would present, but you probably should have given him more time to warn you up. 
You don’t care though, this is all you’ve been craving for months. To feel nothing, taste nothing but him. You’ve been praying that he feels the same way you do, and if the look on his face is anything to go by, he does. 
He looks completely wrecked, head resting on your shoulder while you both take a breath. It’s overwhelming, this feeling of finally having what you’ve always wanted. Someone you can give yourself to completely and still feel safe with them. 
You drag your hand up his back, burying it in his hair and reveling in how soft it is. You tug him back by the roots, tilting his neck until he’s forced to look at you. Your gaze drops to his reddened lips and you smile at the gloss you’ve smeared across his chin. 
“Come on, Logan, don’t tell me you’re all talk.”
His eyes narrow but you can see the amusement swimming within them. “You’re gonna regret that.”
“Oh, yeah?” You goad, grinding your hips down against his and biting your lip hard enough to draw blood. You’re trying not to make a noise, trying to make sure he doesn’t see just how much he’s affecting you. But you can already feel your orgasm forming, it’s a low tingle in the tips of your toes, a burning hot desire rushing through your thighs as you clench around him. 
“Yeah,” he promises, thrusting sharply into you. This time the moan is forced out of you, your lips parting unbidden as you slump over him, burying your face in his neck. He doesn’t waste any time, using your hips as handles to pump you over his cock like you’re nothing more than a toy. 
The door rattles behind you, each thrust of his hips makes it shake in its frame. His hands fist the back of your dress, grip so tight you think it might tear. You don’t care. He could rip it off of you and you’d walk outside naked right now. 
You don’t care what happens, not when he’s beside you. There’s a feeling of security that comes from being around Logan and you can feel it in this moment. You trust him to take care of you in every way. 
Maybe you shouldn’t. After all, you two haven’t known each other long. But there’s not much you’re worried about when he’s moving steadily inside you. You can taste the desperation you share for each other in each pump of his hips. 
He whispers it into your ear while you claw at his back. The shelves around you shake and you worry you might bring them down if you can’t rope yourself in. But you can feel the wave building in the back of your throat, your vision blurring as you tighten your legs around his waist and begin to match his rhythm. 
“There you go,” he mutters, pinning you to the door and keeping your hips still while he moves inside you. “Come on, I can feel you clenching around me, sweetheart.” He manages to hold you up with one hand, the other diving between your legs to rub tight circles around your bundle of nerves. 
It doesn’t take much longer for your muscles to seize up, back bowing as you clench desperately around him. “Oh, fuck, Logan,” you shout his name, and his hand quickly comes up to smother your cries. He squeezes your cheeks until your eyes snap open and he drags you down to meet his gaze. 
“Don’t want to lose my job, need you to be quiet for me,” he grunts out, his tone breathy and strained. He loses his rhythm, movements speeding up erratically while he lets out low groans and whispers of your name. You almost cum again when he finally finishes inside you. 
Your limbs are twitching in overstimulation by the time his hips still. You feel completely boneless, body slumped lazily in his arms. He wraps both arms around you, squeezing you a little before slowly lifting you off of him. 
It’s a relief of pressure when he pulls out. His cum leaks out of you, dribbling down your thighs and dripping onto the floor of the closest. Your face screws up at the feeling and you internally cringe. No condom was probably a stupid call.
But you don’t really want to think about the repercussions right now. Not when he’s stroking your hair and rubbing a soothing hand down your back, waiting until you can form a coherent sentence before he lets you go. “Alright?” He asks, voice bordering on something smug. 
“Mhm,” you push away from him, legs shaky as you try and straighten out your dress. It’s a loss cause, trying to hide what happened in here at all. You’ve got a tear going up to your hip and you’re pretty sure there are holes in the back. Logan’s tie is gone and you don’t even remember taking that off. His shirt is completely wrinkled and your lip gloss has stained his face. 
You’ve both got horrific sex hair and the room reeks of it. You don’t know how you're going to sneak out of here. You still try and relax your hair, patting down the flyaways while Logan retucks his shirt. 
It’s silent between the two of you, heavy but not awkward. You don’t think either of you knows what to say now that you’ve physically acted on what you want. A sudden thought hits you, makes your heart clench painfully and your tongue ties up in your mouth. 
He’d confirmed that he wanted your body. That he desired you sexually. But you don’t think he actually said anything about a real relationship. There would be problems, of course, your father for one would have a lot to say about it. But you don’t care about that. You don’t care about any of the consequences, you just want to be with him. 
You open your mouth to ask him what he wants when the door swings open. Both you and Logan whip towards it. But where you look like a deer caught in the headlights he looks like the epitome of male pride. 
Especially when he realizes it's your father on the other side. “Dad-” You start, but you have no idea what you could even say. Your dress is in tatters and both you and Logan are still mussed up. There’s no hiding what happened here. 
He doesn’t let you finish, holding up his hand. His voice is eerily calm as he says, “I thought I heard something banging around in here.”
“You did,” Logan scoffs, crossing his arms and glaring at your father. You feel your heart jump to your throat, staring over at him with a horrified look on your face. How could he think that was okay to say? It was so dismissive of what you believed had happened. 
This was more than just a quickie in the dark to you. This meant something, but you’re seriously starting to doubt that it was the same for him as it was for you. And that just makes you feel like the stupid little girl everyone seems to believe you are. 
Your father says your name but you can’t bring yourself to meet his eye. “You’re feeling sick,” he tells you, no room for argument. “Your date had to take you home. It was just too much too soon after the incident at the rally.” When you don’t say anything he shouts out, “Understood?” That makes you jump. 
“Yes,” you clear your throat and face him. “Yes, understood.”
Your father has made his stance on mutants clear. He hates them, despises them to their very being, and wishes he could kill every last one. And as much as you were raised with those ideas, they were never truly turned on you.
But he’s looking at you right now like he wishes you were never born. You feel like shit on his shoe. Something to be hidden away and buried. It makes your shoulders slump like a hundred pounds was just tossed onto your back. 
You try to run past him but he jerks you back, fingers so tight around your bicep you feel the skin tear. You gasp in pain but don’t say anything, too afraid to argue. “Put his jacket on, I won’t have you looking like a whore.” He releases you with a rough shove and storms off. 
You can feel something burning at the back of your eyes. A moment later Logan drops his jacket over your shoulders, pulling you back into his chest and running his hands over your arms. “Come on, kid,” he mutters. There’s something resigned in his voice that makes your heart drop, “Let’s get you home.”
The walk through the lobby feels like you’re walking through a dream. You’re not completely present for it, or the ride home. Your mind and your heart are warring and you feel like you’re going to be torn apart if you keep lingering on what just happened. 
You just can’t understand how you could go from having everything you wanted to feeling like the scum of the earth in less than two minutes. Logan doesn’t speak as he drives you home. His knuckles are turning white around the steering wheel and you’re afraid to even try and start a conversation. 
You don’t want to hear him tell you that he didn’t desire you past your body. You don’t want to discover that you’re just another notch on his belt. He seems to do this a lot, sleep with the girls he guards. The idea of just being another job, another fun night, makes you absolutely disgusted with yourself. 
When he pulls into the driveway of your house you both just sit in the car. Neither of you knows what to say. And the air between you is so thick with tension you feel like you could choke on it. You stare down at your hands, fingers fiddling with the ripped seams of your dress. 
You pick at the threads and feel his stare on you. You can’t do this. You can’t deal with the possibility of rejection. Not after what happened between you and certainly not after what your father said. 
You undo your seat belt and Logan watches as you go through the movements of getting up. His eyes never leave you and it’s like a physical caress, his stare. Normally it would make you warm inside, comforted by his presence. But right now all you can feel is the chill of where his cum has dried between your legs and the icy-hot stab of nausea in your gut. 
You throw the door open and you’re nearly out when he calls out a quiet, “Goodnight.”
You don’t look at him, you can’t. You slam the door shut and walk silently to the front door of your house. You don’t look back, don’t respond, you just slip inside your house and finally let the weight of the night come crashing down on you. 
You don’t cry until you hear him pull out of the driveway. 
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Your father and stepmother usually stay at the hotel the night of a gala. Most nights you come home and enjoy the house to yourself for once. Tonight, you’re woken up by the front door slamming so hard your walls shake. 
You can faintly hear your stepmother’s voice trying to console your father. She’s muttering something to him you can’t make out. You shoot out of bed, running to pull some sweatpants on. After you’d cried yourself out you’d taken a shower. 
You’ve scrubbed your skin raw but you swear you can still smell him on you. You rush to your bedroom door, turning the knob quietly and slowly peeking your head outside. Your father’s at the bottom of the stairs, the second he spots your open door he’s screaming your name. 
Your stomach twists painfully and you can feel panic starting to overwhelm you. Your hands shake and your legs are stiff as you slowly step into the hallway. You’re a grown woman. You shouldn’t feel like this because your dad is going to yell at you. 
But he’s been so good at forcing you to rely on him. At forcing you to bend and break to fit his beliefs and mold. You don’t know what to do if you’re not striving for his approval. And right now it’s very clear that he’s never been more disgusted by you. 
If the look on his face isn’t enough to twist the knife deeper, his words are. “I have never,” he screams at you. You take a step back, keeping the stairs between you, refusing to meet him in the middle. “Been more embarrassed to call you my daughter. Do you have any idea how humiliating that was for me? Do you know how many people saw you being dragged outside like a fucking whore off the corner?”
You clench your eyes shut, turning your face away from him as the shame becomes a physical thing inside you. You can feel it making its way up your throat. Because he’s right. Tonight you were nothing more than a slut without any self-respect. 
But you’re also pissed off. You’re fucking enraged at yourself for being so stupid as to ever believe Logan wanted you for anything more than your body. You're mad at Logan for knowing how you feel about him and taking advantage of it. And you’re so fucking tired of doing everything you can to make your father proud and it never being enough. 
“Have you ever once asked me what I want?” You raise your voice, screaming down at him with a ferocity that surprises even you. His eyes widen, frame trembling with unreleased rage. You plow through, not stopping because you know if you do, you’ll never get this out. “No, you haven’t. Not once. Because you don’t fucking love me! And it has taken me years to accept that, to finally realize that you’re incapable of loving anyone but yourself.”
You gasp, the noise wet and painful as something warm trickles down your cheek. You stare down at him with your eyes wide in realization. “It’s so clear to me now, I feel like an idiot for missing it for so long. You never loved me. You’re incapable of it!” 
You’re embarrassed at the way your voice cracks. As much as you want to pretend you’re stronger than him, not afraid of him. There’s still a little girl inside you who wonders why Daddy doesn’t love you. 
“I don’t give a flying fuck what you want, Dad. I don’t care what you want my life to look like or if I embarrassed you. I’m glad I did, glad someone finally saw a sliver of the truth you try so desperately to hide-”
“Enough!” He shouts and it startles you so bad that you jump back, your abilities reacting and a vase behind you flying off the shelf. You duck as glass shatters across the stairs and floor. You glance at the scene with shocked eyes, looking down at your father to see that he’s not even a little bit surprised. 
Instead, he just looks so deeply disappointed that it makes you shrink into yourself. The anger within you is extinguished in a second. He rubs his face, shaking his head and turning his back on you. “Dad?” You call out, voice trembling. 
“Go to your room,” he tells you quietly. “I don’t want to look at you anymore.” You hover by the top of the stairs for a moment, not quite believing him yet. And when he realizes you're still there, that you’re not taking him seriously, he finally looks at you again. 
“I wish every goddamn day that those doctors had just put you down. I’d rather have a dead daughter than one like you.”
You stand there, stunned, even after the rest of the house has gone to bed. You clean up the pieces of glass while you try and swallow down your tears. Let the sharp edges dig into your skin and tear until you can feel any type of pain besides the one inside you. 
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A week of solitary confinement. You’re surprised that you haven’t just been kicked out of college. You’re sure that your father’s many donations to the university are the only thing stopping your professors from dropping you from the class. 
You don’t care if they do or not, though. You never actually care about what you studied. You’d just always hoped that it would be a way for you to escape the tight grip around your neck your dad has on you. 
You’ve figured out that no matter how hard you fight, you’ll never escape him. He hates you and yet, he can’t let you go. You’d laugh if you weren’t busy wallowing in your depression. 
Someone keeps leaving food by your door but you can’t find it in yourself to be hungry. You’ll nibble on something, but you feel like you’re going to throw up when you so much as breathe the wrong way. 
You haven’t heard from Logan since that night. You knew your father would fire him the second he woke up. But you’d held out hope - foolishly - that he might still try and reach out to you. You have this childish image in your head of the prince coming to rescue the princess from the dragon. 
But you’ve been naive your whole life, you don’t want to keep going down this road. You don’t want to keep expecting the best of people and live your life in perpetual disappointment. 
You haven’t seen or spoken to your father since that night. Wordlessly, he’d banned you to your room. No one’s said it, but you know you’re not allowed to come out. You don’t know when he’s going to deem you useful again and drag you back out into the public eye. 
Contrary to his belief, no one had seen you leave that night with Logan. You hadn’t been in any tabloids or shitty news articles. Besides emotional estrangement from your father and losing the only guy you’ve ever really liked, there were no consequences to your whorish behavior - as your father so lovingly puts it. 
You roll over in your bed and picture yourself taking a shower. It feels like such a workout but you can’t stand lying in your sweat and tears for much longer. With a long drawn-out groan, you throw yourself out of bed and enter the bathroom connected to your room. 
You know you’ll feel better afterward, but everything besides sleep sounds like too much work. Still, you force yourself inside and finally clean the grime of laying on your ass for a week off. 
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You walk naked through your room, making a beeline for your dresser. You feel a little better after washing yourself off and moisturizing. But not much. Physical health can only do so much for how you feel inside. 
You hope this will blow over soon, you’re not sure how much longer you can take feeling so awful. You hate pitying yourself, and that’s exactly what you’re doing right now. You huff irritatedly, digging around your drawers for your favorite shirt. 
A hand clamps around your mouth, rough and big, yanking you back into a muscled chest and keeping you quiet. You still try and scream, hands clawing at the skin of their hand until you feel blood. 
“Fuck, quit that, would ya?”
Your erratic movements slowly come to a halt. You still feel your heart pounding against your chest, adrenaline warming your blood and making you feel like you're on fire from the inside out. But, you recognize the voice, recognize there’s no danger to the situation. 
That doesn’t make you any less pissed off. When Logan is sure you won’t keep attacking him, he lets you go slowly. You immediately whirl around on him, uncaring that you’re still naked. Energy moves quickly through you, becoming a physical thing under your skin. 
He smiles at you and you push the energy out, throwing him across your room. He flies into your bookshelf, crashing to the ground with a loud slam. “What the fuck are you doing?” You scream at him. 
There’s no one home right now, luckily, or else you both would be screwed. He shakes his head off, brushing pieces of wood out of his hair and slowly getting to his feet. “Well, I was coming to say hi-”
“You say hi by ambushing naked girls?” You interrupt, grabbing the clothes closest to you and pulling them on quickly. 
Logan rolls his neck out and shrugs. “No, that was just a plus,” he gives you that insufferable smirk and you want to scream. 
This is the first time you see him in a week since you had sex together and your father officially disowned you. And this is what he’s leading with? Seriously? “You’re a real fucking prince, Logan.” You shake your head with a scoff and glare at him.
He narrows his eyes, looking to be in disbelief at your attitude. “What happened?” You expect to hear irritation in his tone. Anger that you’re being such a bitch right now. Instead, he sounds concerned, like he can see right through you. 
You hate that. You used to love having someone who could see past all the pretenses and walls, but it just hurts now. “Nothing,” you tell him, unable to hold eye contact any longer. “Look,” you take in a deep breath, and your brows furrow in confusion. “How the hell did you even get in here?”
Logan doesn’t look like he wants to drop the topic just yet but he relents. He nods towards your window and you fix him with an astonished look. “I climbed, I didn’t want your dad to risk seeing me on the security cameras out front.”
You feel suspicion brewing inside you, tone turning defensive. “Look, if you came here because you want to fuck again, I suggest you go find another girl. I’m not interested anymore.”
“Well,” he scoffs, “I find that hard to believe.” How easily he just dismisses your words. Like they hold no real importance. It makes you want to scream. Instead, you just flick your wrist, throwing him into another wall. You don’t know how you’re going to explain these holes in the wall to your father but you don’t really care. 
“Enough,” he snaps, brushing himself off and glaring at you. Your lips curl up in amusement, the first thing you’ve felt besides anger and depression for the last week. “Look, I was coming here to get you the hell out, kid. Clearly, I’m not wanted.”
He walks towards your window, intent on climbing back down the side of your house and leaving. You almost let him, if only to see him scurrying down the wall. Instead, you take a step forward and stop him with a small, “Get me out?”
He sighs, running an aggrieved hand over his face and propping the other on his hip. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Look, I can’t stand the thought of you cooped up in here, isolated from the rest of the world. It’s not fair, I was gonna see if you…” He trails off and roughly swallows. 
Your interest piques. Whatever is this hard for him to get out has to be interesting. “Logan,” you call his name softly. “See if I what?”
He huffs out a rough breath, turning around and staring you down. There’s something in his eyes, something reflected in yours. He’s looking at you the same way you always look at him. “You wanna come with me, kid?”
Well, you’d have to be an idiot to say no. 
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You don’t leave a note. You don’t give them any clues or hints as to where you might have gone. They can draw their own conclusions about what happened to you. They can tell the news whatever twisted lies they want. 
You don’t care, that’s not your life anymore. Your life is packed away in a backpack in the back of Logan’s trailer. Your new life is in the passenger seat beside him. You’re equal parts terrified and excited to figure out what you’re going to do with the rest of it. 
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a/n: can you tell I know fuck all about politics?
Also, smut, wow, this was hard and rough to write. I don’t know why it’s such a struggle. I just feel guilty writing such dirty words, it’s absolutely diabolical that I have no problem being crazy over a guy whose age gap with me is the same age as my parents, but I can’t write smut.
end. — I do not own the characters or the comics/movies Wolverine/X-Men, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.
General Taglist: @evasmlp
Logan Taglist:  @nonamevenus @smexy-bucky-waifu @wh1sp♡
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ireneispunk · 11 months ago
Text
Pride, the Wolf, and the Dragon
Jacaerys Velaryon & Cregan Stark x female reader smut (King's Landing Handmaiden)
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You were a sight to behold, merely a handmaiden yet you could command a room. And grasp the attention of a prince and a lord... on the same night?
request: (anon) 'Saw your requests are open, what about dark dom jace x sub brat reader or a threesome with the same as before but with cregan too which they're dark dom but still obsessive I don't know how these too can make sense but I hope you got my point'
w.c: 4537
c.w: canon divergent (blacks won and it is set after the dance, rhaenyra sits the iron throne, basically just did it to have everyone in one place), threesome!!! woop woop, p in v sex, oral (m & f receiving), light choking, spanking, overstimulation, dirty talk, NO use of y/n, as usual no specific features mentioned - let me know if i've missed any!
a.n: i've never wrote for cregan before but im supper happy with this! other requests made are about half done for those waiting ♡
dividers: @v6que ♡
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You let out another fake giggle as yet another wealthy man bided for your attention. This type of thing always happened on big occasions, and today certainly was one. Lucerys and Rhaena’s wedding was no small occasion, every lord and lady who had supported Rhaenyra’s claim was here. I mean hells, that’s why you even had the opportunity you did. You weren’t low born, but handmaiden to the queen was a role very much reserved for high born girls. You father had risked his own life, and your families, to help Ser Erryk back into King’s Landing with a secret route he knew through Tumbleton. This job had provided you with a home in quarters you could’ve only dreamed of, and the opportunity to be around the prince. Your fingers grazed across your skin to fiddle with your necklace, you smiled up at the man in front of you, laying on your charm. Despite entertaining his dull conversation and even duller jokes for the past half an hour, you certainly did not care for him. You took advantage of the man’s position in society and every once in a while, you stared beyond his shoulder to see the prince of Dragonstone burning holes into his back. Tonight, however, was different. Not only had you caught they eye of one prince Jacaerys, but his friend from The North, Lord Stark. You could not deny the beauty the two of them shared, handsome, strong features, large frames and eyes that looked as if they wanted to consume you. The few times you looked their way, as to avoid suspicion, they occasionally whispered to one another. A small look caught your eye from your queen, Rhaenyra. You excused yourself from the conversation and walked to the other side of the great hall to where Rhaenyra and Daemon sat. From the opposite side of the table, you felt a gaze upon you, but you did not do the favour of glancing upon them.
You reached Rhaenyra’s side bowing your head before she whispered to you, “Has Lucerys’ chambers been prepared?” She seemed uncomfortable at the request.
You nodded as you said, “Yes, your grace. I can return? And make sure it is still perfect?”. She shook her head, as Daemon placed a hand upon her’s.
“No that won’t be necessary, you have done so much for us today. Feel free to keep enjoying the celebrations,” She paused to look over to her eldest son and the Lord Stark. “Though I believe there are still some who await your acquaintance.” Your mouth formed into a small ‘o’ shape before nodding. You took your leave and turned to face towards the prince and the lord. Both had already been starring at you, Jacaerys averted his gaze whilst the Stark stared you down. Once you stood opposite them at the table you gave the prince a small curtsy, before turning to Cregan and dipping into a deeper curtsey whilst maintaining eye contact with him. He raised his brow, not used to being looked in the eye by such a sweet looking girl. “Your grace. My Lord Stark, I am pleased to meet you.” You spoke confidently, introducing your name and admired the length of his arms that were visible from his rolled sleeves, “It appears the warm climate agrees with you, my lord.” This was one of your favourite hobbies, you couldn’t deny it. Compliment lords see how they respond, speak almost out of turn but not enough to turn any heads. Jacaerys’ grip on his cup tightened at your remark. For weeks since you had worked there you had tortured him. Wearing those barely there handmaiden’s dresses, the obsessive eye contact, compliments unbefitting of a lady he was not courting, drawing his baths, and offering your assistance. Everyday it was a struggle to not rip your dress from you and fuck you in front of everyone like you seemed to desire. He loathed any sort of gathering because he knew your beauty and charm would attract the attention you deserve.
He was snapped out of his thoughts by a large smack across the back from his Stark friend. “Where have you been hiding this one Jace?” He exclaimed with a laugh.
You smiled slightly, “Perhaps my lord has not been searching hard enough, enjoy the rest of the celebrations.” You smirked, turning on your heel and stepping down the stone stairs. A bewildered look flashed across Cregan’s face, as Jacaerys shot him a ‘now you know’ look. You were stopped by a rather handsome man on your way past the dancing pairs, you declined his offer to dance and made your way to the other maidens who erupted into quiet chatter, asking you about what the Stark had said.
Your final task of the night had been escorting Rhaena to Lucerys’ chambers. You held her hands in yours and promised her she would be okay, you boasted of Lucerys’ sweet nature and gave her hand a quick squeeze before stepping back behind the corner. You watched as she knocked on the door, before it opened, and she disappeared inside. You smiled to yourself as you turned to head down the corridor before coming face to face with the tall northern man once more. You gasped, raising your hand to your heart. A small chuckle left his lips as he eyed you. He did not know you all that well, but this felt like a rare feat, to catch you off of yours. “My lord, you startled me. Is there something I can help you with?” You looked at him and watched as his eyes shamelessly travelled down your body, lingering on every curve.
“Ah, yes, my lady. I appear to have gotten turned around from my chambers, and I’d hate for those fancy baths these lot make go cold.” You raised a brow at him. Sure, the Red Keep was busy, with windy corridors, but it was a fairly straightforward route from the great hall to the guest’s chambers.
You gestured with your hand to follow him the way he came, “Of course, my lord. Though you do not need to use such honorifics with me, I am not a lady of anything.” He sensed a strange proudness in your lack of title. Cregan was used to people fighting to get the next best thing, yet you were content with your lack of status.
He thought for a moment, before responding. “Then how may I refer to you?”
“However his lord desires.” You spoke with purpose, but never harshly. Every second he had of you intrigued him more.
Once you had reached the familiar door in which Cregan was given a few days prior, you placed your hands behind your back and watched him. He stepped by you and pushed the door open, he leaned against the door frame and eyed you. “So.” You watched him, waiting for him to continue. “Do you have anymore handmaiden duties for the night? Or are you available for me?” A smile tugged at your lips as you thought for a moment.
“Mmm, that depends, why do you wish to know?” Your arms folded over your chest.
He chuckled, “I’ve never had to try this hard to get a pretty girl to have a drink with me.”
You raised your brow, “Most men just ask.” He brought a hand to his chin and rubbed it against the scruff. Just as he was about to respond, someone speaking caught your attention.
“It is getting late your grace is there something you need?” You recognised one of the servants voicing out from around the corner. Out of curiosity, you stepped back to see who it was and there stood the prince himself. He looked away from you when he met your gaze.
“I will come in for a cup of wine. Just one.” Cregan’s face lit up, stepping to the side to allow you to step inside. Your eyes narrowed at the lit fire, the flames still tall. You heard the clanking of a belt and the shuffling of clothes before turning back around to Cregan. You jaw dropped slightly at the sight of him completely nude and making his way over to the bathtub in the room. Your eyes absorbed every inch of him, admiring each defined muscle, every scar, the dark hair that tufted around his chest.
You pulled your gaze away and turned to face the wall. “My lord this is not appropriate.” You voice quivered ever so sightly as heat rose to your cheeks.
“Neither is staring.” You could hear the smile in his voice. “But why waste a perfectly good bath.” You heard water slosh around as he sank into the tub. “Turn around.” Your core lit up at the sternness in his voice.
You turned to face him now that he was submerged, only his upper torso out of the water. He leaned back into the tub, sighing out as he brought his arms to rest on the sides. “Wine?” He questioned. You looked at him with a puzzled look but nodded your head. He gestured over to small table and chairs that had a jug and a few cups upon it. You made your way over, feeling his gaze locked onto you.
“When you invited me in, I thought it might be you fetching the wine.” You grasped two of the cups and the jug before turning to face him.
“Ah, well. It seemed easier to get my own clothes off first.” You raised a brow and walked over to him. You kept your eyes on his face, avoiding what was beneath the water. You used your foot to slide over a cushioned stool towards the side of the bath and sat upon it. You met his gaze once more, now eye level with him. You held out a cup to him and watched his fingers lace around it. Picking up the jug in your hands you steadily poured into the cup, before moving onto your own. You were about to take a sip from yours before he stopped you to clink cups. He did so as if you were another harsh northern man causing the liquid in your cup to slosh backwards and land over your arm and into your lap. You gasped and looked up at him with a shocked look on your face. He laughed heartily at your expression and took a sip of his wine. He heard as your cup clinked against the floor, “You may clean up with me if you wish.” He smirked, placing his cup on the ground, and gesturing to the bath. You stomach tightened at the thought of it but rose to your feet with a hum. He moved slighted and raised his hand up to you. “Stay, please. No more win spilling.” His damned handsome face spread a warmth across your body. You exhaled before taking his hand.
All of a sudden you felt him pull you down, landing bum first into the bath with a big splash that threw water over the sides. You let out a small scream feeling yourself become soaked in water. You yelled at him, splashing his face with the water in annoyance before the door suddenly opening caused his laughter and your screaming to cease. You turned around to see a very angry, then confused, then embarrassed Jacaerys. Your heart dropped as you scrambled to your feet out of the bath, you slipped slightly on the wet floor before stepping towards him. “Y-your grace!” You exclaimed, you felt exposed, the thin material of your dress completely soaked through and clinging to every inch of your body. His eyes darted between you and Cregan.
“I heard a scream, and thought I recognised it. My apologies.” He was about to turn to walk away before Cregan got up out of the tub. Jacaerys eyes widened before hastily shutting the door. Jacaerys kept his eyes firmly on the wall behind you, worrying that if his pants got any tighter it’d be noticeable. For once, you were speechless, unable to form a thought, let alone communicate it. “C’mon Jace, this is exactly how you wanted her. Naked- well almost, needy. I know she’s needy just at the sight of you.” His voice rung out from behind you. “I know you didn’t imagine sharing,” He inhaled sharply through his teeth, as his fingers grazed over your shoulder to pull your hair behind you. “But she’s definitely one who needs two cocks to put her in her place.” You face flushed, as you felt a new wetness in between your legs as Cregan’s hands sat upon your shoulders, rubbing small circles with his thumb. Jacaerys finally brought his gaze to you, he eyed your face before devouring ever inch of your body. His throat bobbed as he walked to face you.
“Tell me what you want.” He spoke as he locked onto your eyes. You looked up at him through your eyelashes, feeling as if you were in a dream.
“I want you,” You spoke softly. “Both of you.” You clarified, looking back over your shoulder to meet Cregan’s eyes.
His large hand rested on your jaw, tilting it up towards him. A shaky breath escaped your lips as his hand trailed down and rested upon your neck, his thumb tracing your throat. Cregan turned your head to face Jacaerys, his jaw was tensed, fists clenched at his sides and eyes filled with hunger. Your body burned hot, Cregan’s body pressed against you, his hard cock pressed above your ass. His grip on your jaw tightened slightly. His lips grazed against your neck up to your ear. “Undress his grace,” Your heart buzzed as Jacaerys’ eyes finally tore away from yours to fleet to Cregan’s for a second before returning to you. You swallowed, feeling smaller and smaller as the seconds passed. “Go on, like a good serving girl.” Cregan’s voice dripped with lust. Your hands made their way onto Jacaerys’ chest, he stiffened under your touch. Your fingers traced along the three headed dragon pin that held his jacket together before unpinning it and letting the jacket fall open at his chest. Cregan’s hands never once left you, tracing up and down your sides of your soaked dress, lips occasionally finding your neck or shoulder. Your eyes travelled down to the belt that decorated his waist and kept you from seeing him. You unhooked it, and pulled it from him, allowing it to clatter to the ground. Your hands pushed his coat from his shoulders and down his arms, revealing a thin cotton shirt. His throat bobbed as your hands traced to his waistband, pulling his shirt up slowly over his head. You hand instinctively touched against his chest, admiring each definition and feeling his skin burn beneath your fingertips. “I told you she’s fucking needy for you.” Cregan’s words flushed your face. Jacaerys eyed you, raising a brow to question him. You nodded lightly feeling overwhelmed with the tightening in your stomach, Cregan’s hands exploring your sides, and Jacaerys watching you like you were his prey. Jacaerys picked up your hand in his and placed a small kiss against it before placing your palm against the bulge in his trousers. Jacaerys’ hand reached your jaw, his thumb traced along your lip as his brows furrowed from your touch.
His fingers were soft, and his touch more delicate than Cregan’s, as he tilted your face to the side as if he were finally able to appreciate every inch of your beauty. His eyes flashed behind yours towards Cregan before you were being led over towards the bed. Jacaerys sat first on the end of the bed, pulling you by your hips to stand between his legs. His palm ran from your stomach, through the valley between your breasts and he rested his fingertips upon your lips while he thought for a moment. “Take off her dress, wouldn’t want the poor thing getting cold.” Your thighs instinctively pressed together. You’d never heard Jacaerys speak in a tone like this, but it was certainly a welcomed surprise. You felt the large hands of the Stark trail up your exposed back to the tie of your haltered dress. One movement later the dress was pulled over your chest and over your hips and dropped to the ground. You felt a cool chill over your exposed skin as Cregan took your hand in is. He pulled you around in a circle, admiring each curve of your form as he did so. A small ‘gods’ mumbled from his lips as he watched you. You gasped as his hands travelled round to your front, taking your breasts into his hands. Jacaerys leaned back slightly to admire you, his fingers absentmindedly rubbing your inner thighs. Your eyes screwed shut as Cregan’s fingers played with your nipples and his lips attached to your neck. “I want her coming on my tongue first.” Your eyes shot open to watch Jacaerys, a small smile playing at his lips. You opened your mouth to say something before Cregan shushed you.
“You heard the prince.” Cregan instructed. You gulped lightly, watching Jacaerys lay back upon the bed, his head of curls hitting the pillows. Cregan held your hand pulling you onto the bed. He watched as you crawled over to Jace, his hand landing on your ass with a harsh slap, causing a yelp to leave your lips.
His hand pushed you closer over Jacaerys until you were straddling his chest. Jacaerys’ hands looped over your thighs to bring your core to his face. His smirk disappeared under your mound as his lips placed small kisses on your thighs. Cregan sat beside you and guided your hand to his cock. He hissed as your hand wrapped around it and began slowly pumping it up and down. You felt as Jacaerys licked a long stripe from your core to your sensitive clit, tasting and collecting your wetness on his tongue. You almost flinched at the sensation, your hand flying up to grip the headboard. A loud moan left your lips as his tongue teased your entrance, before delving in and out of it. Cregan turned your face to him, a groan leaving his lips seeing yours screwed up in pleasure. Your hand continued to pump his cock, enjoying feeling it twitch beneath your hand when your thumb grazed the tip. You jaw dropped at the feeling of Jacaery’s tongue massaging your clit. A flurry of moans left your mouth as his lips latched onto it causing your hips to rut into his face and that familiar tightness to return to your stomach. Cregan’s thumb pulled on your bottom lip before pushing into your mouth and gliding across your tongue. You moans were supressed by Cregan’s thumb as you sucked upon it, a satisfied smirk plastering his face as your eyes fell back behind your lids. His thumb left your mouth with a pop as his hand returned to your throat. Your hand moved quicker on his cock as Jacaerys tongue worked on your clit. “You should thank his grace for his hard work, pleasing you with his tongue like this.” Cregan spoke close to a whisper, well, as close to a whisper as the Northern man could get to.
You whimpered in response, unable to form words being on the precipice of your orgasm. Cregan’s hand squeezed lightly against your throat, his rough fingers grazing your soft flesh. “Use your words when spoken to.” His tone was harsh in a way that flushed your cheeks.
“T-thank you, my prince, for kissing me.” The words fought to escape your lips as all you felt you could do was moan. Your praise causes a groan to fall from his mouth that vibrated upon your clit and fuelled him to massage it at an unbearable pace with his tongue. Your nails dug into the headboard, as your other hand left Cregan’s cock to grip his forearm that held your neck. A flurry of moans left your lips as your orgasm erupted from within you. Your thighs quivered as Jacaerys’ tongue broadly licked you through your high. A large whimper left you lips from the overstimulation causing Jacaerys to place a final kiss upon your clit. You panted as you shuffled down back to straddle his waist. Jacaerys leaned up on his elbows to see you, his hair was dishevelled, his lips plump and coated in your arousal. You leaned forward and tentatively placed a kiss on the side of his mouth, before brushing your lips against his. Your tongue swiped over his lips, tasting your wetness. You gasped as your hips were gripped and you were pulled further down on the bed onto all fours. Jacaerys smirked as you were level with his cock, his pants becoming impossibly tight.
Cregan’s fingers teased the entrance of your pussy as he leaned forward to you, “Gods Jace, she’s soaked.” Your cheeks flushed as you looked away slightly. Jacaerys’ hand found your cheek and turned you to face him.
“I want to watch as he fucks you.” He smiled slightly; his words contradicting the sweet look upon his face. A whimper left your lips as you felt Cregan’s cock rub between your folds and occasionally hitting your sensitive clit. You watched in anticipation as Jacaerys undid the tie of his trousers and pulled them down enough for his cock to spring free. It was huge and dripped with an inviting bead of precum.
Just as your lips were about to touch Jacaerys’ cock, Cregan thrusted into you, bottoming out almost immediately. You clenched at the full feeling, your eyes screwed shut as you let out a half yelp half moan. Once his pace became regular you opened your eyes to see Jace stroking his cock at the sight of you. You opened your mouth and stuck your tongue out, begging for his cock. He obliged and groaned at the sight and sensation of the tip hitting your tongue. With both of your hands propping you up on all fours you took him into your mouth bobbing up and down on the tip and massaging the underside with your tongue. You couldn’t help but moan onto his cock with the feeling of Cregan pounding into you, his length hitting a soft spot inside of you you’d never felt before. Cregan’s hands went from peppering small slaps across your ass to kneading it with his large hands. Jacaerys’ hand made its way to your hair and took a fistful of it. He was gentle as his guided your mouth further down his cock. He moaned loudly as it glided across your tongue and hit the back of your throat. The familiar pressure began to build up in your stomach, and as if he read your mind, Cregan’s pace quickened. Both of his hands gripped into your hips, snapping into you, and pushing against your sweet spot. One of his hands left you hips to reach under your and rub harsh circles into your clit. Your eyes widened as your moans got choked upon Jacaerys’ cock. You tapped the side of his thigh, and he immediately pulled you from his cock, allowing heavy pants to leave your mouth. You cried out a loud ‘fuck’ as you felt your second orgasm wash over you, your pussy clenching tightly over Cregan’s cock. Just as quickly as your orgasm passed your mouth reattached to Jacaerys’ cock, wanting him to enjoy himself too.
A few moments after your peak, Cregan thrusted a few more times before burying his cock deep inside of you and filling you up with his cum. He groaned loudly as his fingertips dug into your skin. He slowly pulled out of you and collapsed onto the bed behind you. Despite the shaking in your legs and your sensitive pussy, you looked up to Jacaerys with an idea. You readjusted to straddle his waist once more and aligned his cock with the entrance of your pussy. Jacaerys looked shocked for a moment before his hungry gaze returned. Your brows furrowed as you slowly slid down onto his cock, trying to readjust for his size. You watched as his head threw back in pleasure as your second cock of the night bottomed out inside of you. You started to move, slowly thrusting yourself upon him. Jacaerys eyes opened to watch you, occasionally looking down to his cock disappearing inside of your pussy that was now overflowing with cum. A loud groan left his lips as he internally cursed himself for not being able to last longer and savour your pussy smothering his cock. He pulled you down by your hair to meet his lips as he kissed you deeply. It was passionate, his tongue leaving little time before it delved into your mouth. You moaned against his lips at the new angle, he was managing to fill you even more. Your thighs shook with overstimulation and Jacaerys noticed before he held your hips at a certain point and began to thrust into you. Your eyes locked with his as you moaned his name. He grunted as his rhythm became erratic before holding your hips down on his cock and as you felt his seed spread within you. You rested your forehead against his as you both regained your breath. His hands ran softly down your back as he pulled his cock from you. You whimpered at the emptiness, before sitting back onto your thighs to relieve the quiver in them as Jacaerys re tied his trousers.
You heard footsteps walk over to the side of the bed, before looking up to see a fully clothed Cregan. You blushed, realising how consumed you had been in the prince to not notice. “Aren’t you both just adorable.” He spoke with a chuckle, as his hand lightly spanked your ass. You shot him a glare, moving to lay beside Jacaerys. “Easy,” Cregan spoke raising his palm. “I though you were the fire breathing dragon.” He smirked gesturing to Jacaerys. Jacaerys, turned his head down to face you, before returning a shrug to Cregan with a smile. Cregan laughed, waving you off before making his way to the door. “Sleep tight, lovers.” He smiled to himself as his hand gripped the doorhandle.
“Wait! But this is your room?” You questioned, leaning up from the bed.
He shot you a grin, “I heard the prince’s chambers have become available.” He shot you both a wink before disappearing into the corridor. You hummed in confusion as Jacaerys just smiled.
“You both confuse me.” You hummed, scanning Jacaerys’ face. He raised his arm up and motioned you to lay beside him. You huffed as you cuddled into him, your head upon his chest. He reached for the blanket that had been tossed aside and threw it over you both. His hand landed upon your side, and softly rubbed your waist.
He planted a small kiss upon your head. “I think we both did a good job at showing you what we think of you.” You could hear the smile in his voice as your cheeks flushed. You definitely knew for sure now.
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navybrat817 · 4 months ago
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Hold You Tight: Part 14
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Pairing: Club Owner!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Fic Summary: The owner of The 107th wants you to be his girl whether you like it or not.
Part 13 | Series Masterlist | Part 15
Chapter Word Count: Over 5k
Chapter Summary: The manager of The Red Room gives you a little advice regarding your situation with Bucky.
Chapter Warnings: DARK AU, backstory, reference to stalking, hopelessness. inner turmoil, slight feels, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?), more warnings to come.
A/N: More Hold You Tight! I realize some of this may feel like filler, but it's happening for a reason. Thank you for sticking with me! Bucky edit by the beautiful @nixakimbo . ❤️ Beta read by the lovely @whisperlullaby , but any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @firefly-graphics . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
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Ray kept a close but respectable distance as he took you to his car. It was similar to the vehicle he drove Bucky around in, but a slightly different shade of black that wasn’t as flashy. You should've spotted it sooner, but you weren’t exactly looking for it, were you?
“Have you just been driving around following me all day?” you asked once you were in the car.
“I followed you on foot, too. I’m good at blending in,” he said, giving you a sideways glance as he buckled up and made sure you were buckled up, too. There was no boasting in his statement, just truth. “It wouldn't surprise me if I’m the one asked to stay nearby when you join your friends on Saturday.”
“But perhaps if she really does want to go and you’re unable to accompany her, boss, someone could discreetly keep an eye on her.”
With his looks and massive build, he shouldn’t be able to blend in so easily. How many people paid that close attention to their surroundings though? You hadn’t before. You needed to be on guard more. And what was that going to do to your stress levels?
At least it would be Ray watching if he was asked and not one of Bucky’s other friends.
“Well, I hope watching me drink wine doesn't bore you,” you said, glancing out the window as he drove off, watching the cars and people go by. “How did you get so good at what you do?”
“Making sure you're safe doesn't bore me,” he said. Ironic considering his boss put you in danger. “And I think that’s a story for another time.”
Ray said he had been working for Bucky for a few years. You wondered just how they met. There had to be a story there. “Do you ever think about walking away from it?” you asked curiously, bringing your gaze back to him while he kept his eyes on the road. “I mean, you have a life outside of this, right?”
Did he have family? Friends? A loved one? He had to have a hobby at least. Something.
He tapped a finger on the steering wheel. “Do you think one simply walks away?”
“No, I guess not,” you replied. It was unlikely that you would ever escape, but you didn’t know how it was for people who willingly ran in circles with men like Bucky. You still had a lot to learn. “But I’d like to think there’s hope for you if that’s what you want.”
“I appreciate the hope and I don’t want you to lose that,” he said, sparing you a sad glance. “But you should place it elsewhere.”
Where exactly would you place that hope when Bucky continued to infect everything in your life?
You nodded once, feeling a bit sad for him, too. He just seemed different from the others Bucky surrounded himself with. “Sorry for the questions.”
“Don't apologize,” he said, tapping the steering wheel again. “It’s nice that you care enough to ask.”
You smiled to yourself, content to sit in silence after that. Grabbing your phone from your bag, you aimlessly scrolled through your messages and stopped at Bucky’s name. There were no new messages, but would he send something at the stroke of midnight? And if he was in a mood without you around and Ray eventually told him that Zemo introduced himself to you, what would he do?
“We’re here,” Ray said after a minute, parking his car in front of a tall, sleek building and getting out. He held up a hand to stop the valet from opening the door for you, opting to help you out himself. “This way.”
The sleek theme continued as you went into the lobby and you understood why it was called The Red Room. The color was everywhere, balanced out by a mix of black and gray and soft lighting. The nearby sofa and chairs looked high-quality, as did the art. It appeared to be an oasis of luxury and a place for a well deserved break.
You stopped Ray before you got to the desk. “How much is a room? I get paid tomorrow, but…” You had some money in savings you could transfer over to cover what was surely an expensive cost.
“You haven't checked your account today, have you?”
Taking out your phone with a furrowed brow, you quickly logged into your bank account. An embarrassing squeak came out when you saw the amount, your eyes wide as you looked between your phone and Ray. That had to be some sort of mistake. There was no way…
Bucky.
“He put money in my account?” you whispered, double checking the amount to make sure your eyes weren't deceiving you. Why did he do that? “I can't…”
“He did and he won't take it back if you try,” Ray confirmed. “Regardless of how much you now have, if my boss found out that I suggested you stay here and made you pay he’d have my head.”
“Well, what’s the point of having this money then?” you pressed.
Not that you intended to use it. Spending even a dime of it would likely encourage Bucky to give you more. Or was it a test to see if you would spend it? Would he know if you did?
Maybe, just maybe, you could get Addison and Brady a nice wedding gift.
“To make sure you're taken care of in every possible way,” he said, gesturing to you to move forward.
“Welcome to The Red Room,” a woman in a black dress smiled, Ingrid from the name on her tag. “Do you have a reservation?”
“We do not,” Ray said, sliding a card over. “And I’ll need to speak with Natalia regarding a room, please.”
“Natalia?” Ingrid’s smile didn’t slip, but a hardened look took over her eyes and you suddenly felt uncomfortable. “I’m afraid that’s-”
“It’s fine, Ingrid. I’ll be happy to take care of them.” A redhead in a similar black dress walked over, her heels echoing on the marble floor. She carried herself with grace and power and looked like she could snap your neck without breaking a sweat. So did Ingrid for that matter. “Why don’t you go on break?”
“Of course.” Ingrid’s smile was back on her face. “Enjoy your stay,” she added, gliding away.
“Raymond. Good to see you,” Natalia said, her voice warm as he gave her a nod. “You’ll have to excuse Ingrid. She gets a little protective when anyone asks for Natalia. You know you're one of the only men around who still calls me that.”
“It’s your name, is it not?” he asked, though her tag read Natasha.
“Indeed it is. Maybe one day you’ll call me Natasha,” she said, cocking an eyebrow at you. You didn’t think she was judging you, but you still felt a little self conscious under her gaze. “I wasn't supposed to meet you until later. I also expected Bucky to be with you when that happened.”
You held your breath before you remembered that Ray said the manager had worked with Bucky before. “So you know who I am,” you said. For Bucky to preach about your safety, a lot of people were aware of who you were. “Does everyone know who I am?”
The corner of her lip quirked up. “Not everyone,” she said, turning her attention to Ray. “Why is she here early? Did something happen?”
“She needs a place to stay for the night and she’s not to be disturbed. That includes my boss.”
She raised an eyebrow again. “Understood. I’ll give her suite 213 and put you just across the hall.” Her fingers flew across the keyboard before she slid the card back to Ray. “Follow me.”
“Isn’t a suite a bit much?” you asked. And for Ray to pay for that, you had to pay him back somehow.
She paused to stare at you. “All of the rooms here are nice, but the suites are a bit more spacious. It’ll give you room to breathe while you relax,” she gently spoke. “You look like you could use some rest.”
Did she know the extent of what you had gone through? You weren’t claustrophobic but with Bucky smothering you, breathing and rest didn’t come to you as easily. “I appreciate that,” you said. A spacious area would feel nice.
She nodded, pressing the elevator button. “You’re also welcome to book anything in the spa at no charge and whatever you’d like from the restaurant or room service menu is on the house.”
You gaped at her. “So because I’m Bucky’s girl, you’ll just give me these things for free?” you asked, noticing that she stood on one side of you and Ray on the other. “I mean, I’m not trying to sound ungrateful, but there’s no need for the special treatment.”
Everyone so far in Bucky’s circle fawned over you. But what had you done to earn anything? Nothing. All you did was catch the eye of a powerful man.
“Nothing in life is free. There’s a price for everything,” she said above a whisper. “And I know you’re not ungrateful. You’re just not used to it.”
You weren’t sure if you’d ever get used to it since you grew up with the belief that you had to work for what you were given. “You asked why I was here early. When exactly was I supposed to meet you?”
“Not to spoil the surprise, but Bucky booked a dinner reservation and our best suite for a romantic evening.” She gave Ray a glance, who didn’t look too pleased. “I think he plans to tell you the day of, if I had to guess.”
“Wonderful,” you muttered, a shiver running through your body. You weren't an idiot. If Bucky booked a suite for the two of you, he’d expect you to sleep with him.
“I thought you were good at keeping secrets, Natalia,” Ray uttered.
“I’m very good at keeping secrets that are actually worth keeping, Raymond,” she retorted.
“I’m glad you told me,” you said. In her defense, you asked a question and she gave you an almost direct answer. “Besides, it’s just another thing to add to the list of ‘surprises’ for today. Bucky having Ray follow me. Meeting Zemo.”
“Zemo?” She didn’t give anything away, but she gave Ray another look. This guy didn’t seem to have a lot of fans. “You met Zemo? When?”
“He introduced himself to me at the park just before we came here,” you replied.
She pursed her lips when the elevator door opened. “I can’t wait to hear how Bucky responds to that.”
Your stomach sank. You saw what he did to John after he insulted you. Zemo likely wouldn’t fare much better, but he also seemed to be a bigger player in whatever went on in the city.
“Will you let me do a sweep before she goes in?” Ray asked before Natasha could open the door.
“No one has been in this room and no one knew you were coming here, but I know you'll be chewed out if you don’t,” she said, stepping aside for him.
“You’re not planning to bug the place, are you, Ray?” You didn’t want to think he would, but you had to ask.
He didn’t look offended by the question. If anything, he seemed to understand your concern. “This is meant to be a safe haven for the rest of the day. I won’t take that from you,” he promised, shutting the door behind him. It was nice to have him somewhat on your side, even in the smallest capacity.
The hall was eerily quiet as you stood alone with the redhead. Your gaze darted back and forth, expecting Bucky to waltz in and tell you that this wasn’t a haven at all. That he’d drag you to the suite bed and do whatever he pleased.
“I’ve been told you have a kind heart,” Natasha said, bringing your attention back to her. “That’s good for Bucky.”
“Is it?” you asked, looking down the hall again.
“Relax,” she urged. “You don’t have to feel nervous here. You’re safe.”
“You work with Bucky, so I’m naturally going to feel nervous and suspicious,” you said. You wouldn’t apologize for that. “How much do you know about me?”
“A man named Jake who does security and surveillance works for both Bucky and I. When Bucky needed him for an extended period of time, I was naturally curious as to why. He gave me just enough pieces to put the puzzle together.”
“So you know I’m trapped,” you said. She had to know it wasn’t a consensual relationship.
“More or less,” she said.
“And let me guess. This Jake guy specializes in bugs and listening devices?”
“Hmm. So you know about the bugs,” she said. Bucky was all too proud to share that when you asked. “Jake does specialize in those and you might meet him at some point. If and when you do, don't blame him for doing his job, please. Not everyone gets to choose their line of work.”
“Well, I wish he would’ve stopped him,” you said. You could blame this guy, but it wouldn't do you any good. Like Natasha said, he may not have had a choice.
“If it’s any consolation, he wasn’t pleased when he realized he was helping bug an innocent person's place, but he has a sister and niece to consider,” she said, giving you a hard stare when you opened your mouth. “And before you ask because I know you’ll ask, I can’t help you.”
You tried not to get upset at her immediate denial to help. “May I ask why not?”
She sighed, toying with the delicate gold necklace around her neck. You wondered if the arrow charm was symbolic. “The women who work here… We didn’t exactly have the best upbringing and we didn’t have much freedom, even as adults. Including my sister,” she explained, a haunted look taking over her eyes momentarily. “But Bucky stepped in some time ago and helped us. Without him, I wouldn’t have been able to open this place or give us normal life. I’ll be forever in his debt for that.”
“He helped you?” you asked. Marc mentioned that he donated to the local hospital and charities, but this was something else. Was this a normal hotel or some kind of refuge?
“He did. When he isn't doing bad things, he actually does some good,” she answered, still toying with her necklace. “In all the time I’ve known him, there have only been two things I’ve ever heard him say he wants and you’re one of them. If I help take you away from him, I don’t know what he’ll do.”
“So you won’t help me, but it’s really more like you can’t,” you guessed. She was essentially in Bucky’s pocket and had to think of the women under her employment and her sister. She couldn’t put them in danger. “No one will help me.”
“Barnes isn’t the kind of man you win a fight against. It’s better for most to stay on his good side than to be his enemy,” she said, putting a hand on your shoulder when you hung your head. “Hey. I’m not telling you to just lay over and accept your new relationship for what it is, but I don’t want you to be surprised when people keep telling you ‘no’ when you ask for help.”
“Everyone just looks the other way and that isn’t…” You bit your lip to keep from screaming.
“It isn’t fair. I know,” she whispered. Her sympathy didn't make you feel better. “I won’t make excuses for him because what he has done is awful, but he isn’t entirely evil. He’s… flawed. We all are.”
Would Bucky be so flawed if people didn’t enable him or look the other way? “Do you think I’ll get used to belonging to him? I keep fighting it, but…” Doors kept getting slammed in your face in terms of help and that hope continued to fade. Was it time to accept the inevitable?
She considered your question. “I can’t say if you’ll get used to it, but there’s a careful balance between embracing a circumstance while maintaining your own boundaries. You need to find that.”
“But I have no boundaries thanks to Bucky,” you argued. He took them away.
“Maybe not now, but you could get some back down the line. He isn’t a man most people win fights against, but he’s still just a man. Use what you know about him and sway him. You have a little more power than you think.”
You thought back to the club when Jax flirted with you. Bucky worked himself up, but your touch and soft demeanor helped calm him down. “I guess I could try,” you said. It seemed easy enough, but he was so good at swinging things in his favor that you had a hard time believing you had a chance.
“And it isn’t much, but I can offer you a space here to use on occasion if you need time away from him. I know you don’t believe he’ll let you use it, but I think you can convince him and you deserve a safe haven,” she said, smiling a little when she handed you a card. “I could even have one of the girls teach you some self defense if you’re interested in any lessons.”
You turned the card over. There was only a phone number listed and a black widow spider. “I appreciate the offer, Natasha,” you said, tucking it in your bag. It wasn’t freedom, but it was something. And whatever Natasha’s full story was, your heart went out to her. “Can I ask what the second thing is?”
“Excuse me?”
“You said Bucky has only wanted two things in the time you’ve known him and I’m one of them. What’s the other thing?”
She shook her head. “That’s for him to tell you.”
Ray came out of the room a moment later. “All clear. Not that I expected anything less from you and your staff, Natalia,” he said. It earned him a small smile as she passed his room card over. “I’ll be just across the hall if you need me.”
“And you can ask for me personally if you call the desk,” Natasha added.
“I appreciate it, but I’ll be fine,” you said honestly. As long as Bucky didn't show up. “I’ll just order some wine and food, curl up in bed, and finish reading my book.” You didn’t need much else.
“Are you sure?” Ray asked.
“I’m sure,” you smiled softly. He had done enough by bringing you there. “Thank you both.”
They each gave you a sympathetic gaze as you stepped inside and shut the door behind you. The red, black, and gray theme continued in the tastefully designed suite. It was the nicest hotel room you had ever been in. Too nice for someone like you.
Setting your bag down and removing your shoes, you went right to the bedroom with your phone and book. The large bed looked comfortable and inviting. Sighing as you stretched out, you stared at the ceiling and tried to reflect on what had recently transpired.
Natasha. She couldn't directly help you and she had her reasons, but she might be a good ally. She was at least in the camp that you deserved some sense of freedom and offered you a small form of sanctuary. It was better than nothing.
Ray, you still couldn't figure him out. Like Natasha, he wouldn't directly help you. Bucky said he was loyal and didn't let emotions cloud him. He seemed to care to an extent though.
You froze when a message popped up on your phone. It wasn't from Bucky though. It was from your coworker, Kate.
“Hey, girl! You know Clark? Pretty blue eyes. Super hot. He stopped in and asked when your next shift was.”
Your stomach twisted in knots. Why was he asking? “Hey. What did you tell him?”
Kate messaged back quickly and your stomach twisted up more. “Told him you’d be in tomorrow and he looked happy until Mrs. Crandle announced that you have a boyfriend?! Girl, WHAT?! I need all the details!”
You groaned and hid your face in the pillow. Mrs. Crandle meant no harm, but this was the last thing you needed. Maybe Clark wouldn't come around after hearing that. “I’ll tell you about it during our next shift together.”
You didn't look at your phone for the rest of the afternoon. Instead, you lost yourself in the pages of the book and only took a break to order a drink and meal from the room service menu. And true to Natasha’s word, no one disturbed you. The food was left outside of the door once ready. Natasha even had a nice pair of pajamas sent up for you.
It was a quiet and relaxing rest of the day.
But as the sun went down and you got ready for bed, you held up your left hand and looked at your bare ring finger. A shuddering breath left your lungs as you imagined a ring around your finger. How happy your friends would be that you found love. How happy Bucky would be to have you tied to him forever.
Glancing at the empty side of the bed after your delicious meal, you wondered how it was going to be sleeping next to Bucky. Was he a cuddler or would he want his own space? Would he hog the covers? You would find out soon enough, wouldn't you?
But for today, he left you alone. He kept his promise. Yes, he sent Ray to watch you, but he hadn't shown up or reached out. He actually gave you some space instead of smothering you. And with you in the suite, he didn't have eyes on you.
Who knows? Maybe his mood improved and he had a good day without you. One could only hope.
“Good night, Bucky,” you whispered, closing your eyes and getting the sleep you craved.
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A loud knock on the door woke you. Slowly opening your eyes with a groan, you wondered what time it was. Your body alarm clock said it was too early. Stretching, you made your way to the door and stopped when you heard raised voices outside.
“Get the hell out of my way, Natasha.”
You gasped when you heard Bucky’s voice, the quick anger rushing through you making you clench your fists. God, you knew it. You knew he’d show up.
“Don't make me put you on your ass, Barnes.” Natasha didn't sound afraid at all. What was it like to not have fear? “I’ll repeat myself in case you didn't hear me the first time: My instructions were that she wasn't to be disturbed and that includes you. So unless you're checking in, I suggest you leave. The fact that you’re even on this floor after I promised no one would bother her-”
“He was up here to speak with me,” Ray cut in.
“And I did. Now I need to see her,” Bucky said, the desperation in his voice making your heart ache.
“Boss, it’s two in the morning.”
“Exactly. You need to let her sleep. It’s the least you could do,” Natasha urged.
“I promised her the day to herself, but that day is up and I have to see that she’s okay,” Bucky argued. You were lucky he didn't knock on your door at 12:01. “I just need to see her with my own eyes.”
The bugs at your place would've given him access to whatever he wanted, but he didn't have that in the suite. It was probably driving him crazy. He sure as hell sounded out of sorts.
“Wow, an entire day. How generous.” You almost laughed at Natasha’s snark. It was appreciated. “Is this about Zemo? I know he saw her at the park, but he hasn’t been around here. We both know I’d never allow him to set foot in the door without a very good reason.”
“I still need to deal with him and he’ll be lucky if I don’t kill him with my bare hands,” Bucky growled, making you tense up.
“You have enough blood on your hands, but what’s one more body?” Natasha asked, the conversation reminding you once again that Bucky was a killer. “Look, I’m not going to disturb her and neither should you.”
“Natasha-”
“No. You played this wrong, Barnes. You could've chosen a compassionate route of courting her and eased her into this, but you intimidated her from the start and made it so she won’t ever be free of you. Maybe you're more like your father than-”
The sound of something colliding with the nearby wall made you jump back from the door, your heart thudding. It took a moment to get your bearings before you threw the door open to make sure Natasha was okay. The redhead, Ray, and Bucky all looked toward you and no one had a single mark on them. The wall beside the door, however, had a fist sized hole.
“Kotyonok,” Bucky smiled the second he saw you. He looked like he hadn't slept much. Good. Now he knew how it felt.
“What are you doing here?” you asked, not having it in you to scream, cry, or anything else. “And did you just punch a hole in the wall?”
He chuckled sheepishly, brushing off his gloved hand. “Yeah, I did that.”
He was unbelievable.
“I’m so sorry he woke you,” Natasha said, putting out an arm to stop Bucky when he stepped forward. “Back up, Barnes. You’ve seen for yourself that she’s fine.”
“Yep. I’m fine.” You gestured to yourself and yawned. “Can I please go back to sleep?”
“Can I come in for just a minute?” Bucky asked, a touch of guilt in his eyes when you narrowed yours. He was pushing his luck when all you wanted to do was go back to bed. “Please?”
“Apologize to Natasha for damaging her property,” you demanded. He had no right to do that.
“I’m sorry, Natasha,” he sincerely stated.
Natasha’s mouth parted before her cool expression took over again. “Thankfully no one else was on this floor, so you hopefully didn't disturb anyone else.”
Bucky's eyes were still on you, full of longing. “May I please come in?”
You mulled over it. Technically he still kept his promise and let you be for a day. You could be angry later that he showed up so early. For now, you needed sleep.
“Come in,” you said, surprising everyone, yourself included. “It’s fine,” you assured Natasha and Ray.
The redhead nodded after a moment and lowered her arm, but the bodyguard shot his boss a subtle glare. “You know I'll have to bill you for the damage,” Natasha told Bucky.
“I know,” he said. He could afford it.
“Thank you, Ray. Natasha. I hope you both get some rest, too,” you said, letting Bucky into the suite and shutting the door.
Bucky let out a breath as he looked you over, but didn't move any closer when you backed up. Of course he had to invade what was meant to be your haven for the night. Strangely, you weren't as nervous as usual to have him so close. “Hi.”
“Hi,” you mumbled, crossing your arms when he slipped his jacket off. “You really couldn't wait until after sunrise to see me?”
“I’m sorry. I was up late at the club and Ray said you were here and… I missed you,” he explained, his expression soft.
It was kind of nice to be missed. “I’m sure you did,” you yawned again. “King of the loopholes,” you added under your breath.
He ran a gloved hand through his hair. “And I’m sorry about Zemo. I should've known he would-”
You shook your head quickly. “Nope. Not having this talk when I'm still sleepy,” you said, heading toward the bedroom. It was too heavy of a discussion to have in the middle of the night. “Take your shoes off. We both know you aren't leaving.”
He looked surprised all over again when you looked back at him. “You’re letting me stay?” he asked, a smile on his face like you handed him a gift. “You aren't telling me to leave?”
“Stay or go, up to you, but I'm going back to sleep,” you said, curling up on the bed. “And if you sleep next to me, don't you dare let your hands wander.”
“And you’re letting me lay with you,” he said, the mattress dipping beside you. “You’re being very agreeable.”
“You’re lucky I’m choosing to be nice instead of kicking your ass or letting Natasha kick your ass for disturbing me and my sleep,” you said, tensing up when he spooned you, his arm wrapped tight around you and his breath warm against your neck. “We have some things to talk about when I wake up.”
Ray following you. Zemo. Natasha’s offer. Bucky’s mom. Your relationship.
“We can talk about whatever you want,” he whispered, nuzzling you gently as your eyes shut. “Did you miss me yesterday?”
“No,” you mumbled.
Your reply didn't stop him from chuckling. “Not even a little bit?”
You sighed. “If I say ‘yes’, will you let me sleep?”
“I will,” he answered.
“I missed you a little,” you said, snuggling further into the pillow. He placed his hand over yours and you blamed your tiredness for why you didn't tense up again. “Now sleep.”
He pressed a gentle kiss to your neck, but didn't push any further, thankfully. “Thank you for letting me hold you.”
Your heart clenched. He sounded so happy just to be around you, just to be in your space. You were his everything.
“You’re welcome,” you mumbled, drifting off not long after.
Your last thought before you fell asleep was that you hoped Bucky would behave himself.
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Lovelies, I think we all knew Bucky would show up the first chance he had. What do we think of Natasha? Is she being truthful that she can't help or is she biding her time? Will Bucky behave? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️
Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi
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amywritesthings · 10 months ago
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press four for more options. | part one.
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( Read on AO3 )
Pairing: levi ackerman x f!reader (attack on titan / shingeki no kyojin) Word Count: 4.6k Summary: After seeing your ex with his new girl at a work party, you take the not-so-smart advice from a friend to call a sex hotline to get over him. Your match? A baritone bossy dom named Levi.
Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI - alternate universe (modern), slow burn, eventual smut, sex work, phone sex, dirty talk, dom!levi, light dom/sub Credits: dividers by @saradika-graphics
part two. | masterlist
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“Thank you for calling the Scout Services Hotline. You’re only a dial away from your wildest fantasies with the sexiest singles near your area.”
God, even the automated voice sounds porn-y.
A breathy feminine voice straight out of a 1975 VHS tape croons into the dead air of your small apartment bedroom, setting your nerves on edge.
God forbid the noise travels through the walls into your next-door neighbor's bedroom. Harriet and Miro do not need to hear what you’re up to this Friday evening.
Maybe, up to this Friday evening.
You haven’t decided yet, though one could argue that calling was half the battle.
Dressed head-to-toe in an emerald cocktail dress with a face full of tear-stricken makeup, you feel utterly ridiculous sitting at the foot of your bed — not even the edge of the mattress, but the goddamn floor.
Even your black heels, now scuffed from someone stepping on them on your way out to fetch a cab, remain dangling at your toes.
(As non-committal as your last relationship, ironically enough.)
The experts say don’t shit where you eat. Dating someone you work with typically goes up in flames as fast as a rogue wildfire — and you should have listened to all of the warning signs, but Porco Galliard had been so damn charming that you’d forgotten just about everything.
Including your dignity, apparently, since you seemed to conveniently forget the part where he has had an on-again, off-again relationship with Pieck Finger well before you got hired at this place.
Not exactly side chick behavior, since he technically didn’t cheat, but the sting of being second place before the race even started lingered deep.
(Didn’t you know? He always chooses Pieck. It’s just one of those things.)
Well, no missing that now.
Especially since the two of them were so cozy at the annual shareholder event — right in front of your fucking salad.
The event’s slated to end at eleven so you’ve been nursing a wild array of drinks since seven, with little breaks.
In retrospect, the napkin with scribbled chicken scratch that Annie Leonhart, your closest colleague, shoved into your hand in the midst of your brooding at the bar may have been a joke:
You need to loosen up. Call this stupid sex line and get that stick out of your ass.
She wasn’t kidding. 
Every muscle in your body is too taut, including your brain.
So you took a cab, stumbled into your apartment, and landed — here.
Your phone sits right in front of you next to one of your half-worn heels, on speaker at the lowest setting.
Maybe it’s best to let the pre-recording list the entire numerical menu.
Maybe it’ll deter you from pressing anything at all.
“If you already know your match’s extension, press one.”
Yeah, that wasn’t happening.
You tap the napkin carelessly against the stem of your glass of wine, contemplating exactly how Annie Leonhart managed to find the information for this service to begin with.
Did she already have a match?
Did she regularly call them to blow off some steam?
She's always so chill. It would make sense.
There’s a chance this is a nasty prank at your lowest moment, but you don’t think Annie cares enough about other people to plan such a masterful takedown. 
At the work event, she seemed pretty serious about the legitimacy of Scout Services Hotline, and honestly?
Even if you had been drinking all night at the event, you were going to need way more liquid courage to even consider trying your hand at calling a sex line to quell weekend loneliness.
So naturally, you opened a new bottle of wine.
At the first glass of wine, you still weren’t ready.
The second? The napkin sat adjacent to your laptop as you played compilations of sad break-up songs further aggravating your spiraling depression.
The third was the charm to get you to pick up the fucking phone to see what the fuss was all about.
“If you’re looking for someone specific — whether it’s the man, woman, or person of your dreams — press two.”
Tempting.
Your finger reaches out for the ‘2’ on your screen, but you wait it out.
“If you don’t have a preference for your delicious match, press three.”
“You could’ve done without the delicious part,” you mumble to yourself, picking up the glass of wine to take a generous sip. An involuntary grimace tugs at your cheeks.
“If you’re looking to speak with one of our representatives or need more assistance, press four for more options.”
For a solid five minutes you wait.
Contemplating.
Deciding.
You could press the red circle to hang up and go to bed.
It wouldn’t be the first time you rubbed one out and called it a night.
After all, what’s one more lonely weekend?
The spiel starts up again on a loop with the same seductive, breathy feminine voice.
“Thank you for calling the Scout Services Hotline. You’re only a dial away from your wildest fantasies with the sexiest—”
You smash a button, but you’re not sure which one you’ve clicked.
Before you can lean over to see on your screen, a different feminine voice comes over the speaker.
It’s a little higher pitched than the menu screen voice, but it’s still inviting. Warm.
“Thank you for choosing the Scout Services Hotline. You’re speaking to Petra. May I have the pleasure of knowing the name of the person I’m speaking to this evening?”
A name.
You should give a name that isn’t your real name.
But technically wouldn’t your name be on the credit card if you go through with this anyway?
“You can give a nickname, too, if that makes you feel better,” the woman named Petra adds as if she's a mind reader, breaking the running silence on your end of the line. “A lot of our clients like giving a fake name for security and anonymity.”
“Doesn’t that break once you put in your credit card information?” you blurt, not realizing the thought has spilled on your lips.
Petra laughs musically.
“Technically yes, but if you prefer to be called something, then we’ll be sure to add that to your profile. I take it it's your first time calling.”
Why are you doing this again?
“Painfully obvious, right?” you lament, staring down at the scribble on the napkin. 
Did Annie have a fake name with this service?
“Not painfully at all,” Petra promises. “It’s a learning curve. So what may I call you?”
Real or fake?
Committed or just testing the waters?
“Scarlet?” you suggest, wincing immediately at the on-the-nose literary reference.
Letters, passion, blah blah love — it’s about the only creative thing your wine-addled brain can muster.
“I like Scarlet,” she hums, and immediately your brain is set on fire.
Are you going to be seriously this easy?
“Are you female, male, non-binary, genderfluid, prefer not to say…?”
“Female.”
"Pronouns?"
"Um, she and her."
“And you’re over eighteen?”
“Definitely over eighteen.”
“Perfect. So, Scarlet — did you have a preference on who you wish to speak to today? If you have a fantasy you wish to fulfill, then I can select someone for you.”
You want to scream.
Neurons fire as you try to come up with a cool and collected answer, only to allow the elixir of truth on your tongue to spill the beans.
“Just someone who’s got their shit together, honestly.” You exhale an awkward laugh. “I don’t know. I’m just calling because — I mean, I know you don’t care, but I like… um, deep voices? Stronger voices. Honestly I have no idea what to—”
“I have just the person.”
You pause.
Blink.
But you didn’t even describe anyone, not really.
A voice, maybe, if they cater to kinks of that nature.
You can only imagine they do — it’s a sex hotline, for crying out loud.
“Wait, you do?”
“Mhm!” she perkily states. “Is a man alright for this evening?”
A man with a deep voice who allegedly has his pretend shit together.
Granted it isn’t the opposite of Porco, he’s fairly capable at his job and out living his life just fine, but maybe you were just looking for a copy.
(Or a clue.)
“A man is… fine,” you hesitate. “Wait, so when do I give you my credit card information? My friend hooked me up with this, um — I don’t know if you have her name or if I should even say it, I know there’s probably some confidentiality—”
“Hold that thought,” Petra interrupts cheerfully. “You get the first fifteen-minute session for free, actually — you called just in time before our first-timer coupon expires.”
You can’t hide your surprise.
“Really?”
“Really!”
Ha, your fucking luck.
“If you're enjoying the call, just tell your match and we can set up your card and keep it going. All we ask is that you take a survey after your session. Then you’ll be in our system with this phone number! We’ll never solicit you for calls, but it’ll make the process faster the next time should you call our hotline again.”
You drop your head back on your mattress, sighing heavily.
“...okay, yeah. That sounds great.”
“Yeah?”
“Sure.”
“Give me one moment, Scarlet,” Petra giggles.
You hear something shift on her side. 
Maybe she’s swiveling her chair. Are they located in an actual office building?
God, an office where people just do this for a living sounds larger than life.
“I’ll connect you with your match in a moment.”
Then the line cuts out to the opening notes to Marvin Gaye’s Let’s Get It On, and you’re pretty sure you’re this close to chugging the rest of this bottle in one gulp.
“Is this seriously what you do on weekends, Annie?” you mumble to yourself, enduring the brutality of the waiting music while Petra connects you to your alleged match.
A man with a deep voice who has his shit together.
Is that even a real kink?
Has the bar really gotten that low?
Should you have described someone’s appearance? It wasn’t like it mattered over the phone.
As soon as it gets to the high note of the song, the line cuts again — silence.
Immediately you scramble to sit up taller, your hands fumbling to grab the phone from the floor.
You bring it up to your face, cupping the device in both palms to muffle the noise if it becomes downright pornographic in seconds.
Moment of truth.
With bated breath you wait — the person on the other line sighs, heavy and deep, before answering with the most nonchalant tone.
“Thank you for calling the Scout Services Hotline. You’re speaking with Levi. May I ask whom I have the pleasure of speaking to?”
Holy fuck.
Immediately you forget your own voice listening to the hum of the receiver.
While you’ve only joked in passing that you have a voice kink, it’s screaming in neon lights here and now: this man’s voice may be monotone, but there is a growl to it. 
A rumbling.
At this very moment, you completely forget that this man is on speaker phone and you’ve just returned home from the worst work event in the world.
You don’t have an ex-boyfriend.
You don’t even know your home address.
You’re simply… existing, lips parted, taking in the sheer tingle rolling through your torso.
“You there?”
Right, you’re meant to talk back.
“Huh? Oh — yes! Yeah,” you recover poorly. “Hi. It’s, um, it’s Scarlet.”
“Mm, Scarlet… Scarlet, Scarlet, Scarlet…”
The way the name drags along his tongue nearly makes your mouth water. 
His voice — Levi — is smooth, like the velvet on your dress you’ve yet to take off.
“A pretty name for a pretty thing like you.” Something ruffles and Levi makes a small noise on the other end, likened to a cut-off hum. “Tell me what you look like, Scarlet.”
All you can do is stare at a chip in your wooden dresser directly across from you, listening to him speak.
“I’m…” 
What do you even say? 
How come you have to say anything at all? 
Can’t he just read a takeout menu to you and call it a night?
Before you can answer, there’s an amused huff. “Someone’s nervous.”
Your face turns — well, a certain shade of scarlet.
“Ha. Sorry, I’ve—”
“Never done this before?” he finishes for you.
How mortifying. 
“Is it that obvious?”
“It’s cute,” he relents, and you feel your face turn a degree hotter. “Don’t worry — I’ve been told I’m a great teacher, so you’re in good hands.”
“You’ll have your work cut out of you, trust me,” you breathe, feeling like you’ve been injected with an overdose of a truth serum. “Because I just got home from this stupid work event. My ex-boyfriend brought his new girlfriend — who also works with us — as his date — yay, me — except I feel like I was the side-piece-in-waiting for them. So he’s off getting laid and I’m calling a complete stranger on a random Friday because my work colleague recommended this phone sex hotline for a quick solution.”
Silence.
You blink twice as dread settles in your cut. You tap the phone off of speaker and push the device close to your ear, balancing it with your shoulder.
Did you scare him away? 
Was that too much of a depressive dump? 
You suddenly want to crawl under your bed frame and hide there forever.
But then — a gentle chuckle sounds from the other end of the line, and arousal shoots straight to your lower belly.
“Good thing all of the dirty talk is my job, then,” he muses. “You’re supposed to lay back and listen.”
“Listen?”
“Yeah, unless you weren’t looking to get bossed around.”
It isn’t the worst idea you’ve ever heard, that’s for sure.
“If I’m honest with you, Levi, I don’t know what I’m looking for,” you confess, running a hand down your face.
“Then let me figure it out for you. We have time.”
The man calling himself Levi pauses on the other end.
“Did you want to get fucked, Scarlet?”
Well, shit, he didn’t have to say it like that.
“Yes,” you blurt without thinking, then fumbling to recover. “I mean— Sorry, clearly I called thinking about sex, and your voice is extremely lovely and actually very hot—”
“Oh, you think so?” Levi interrupts, honey-smooth voice humming with amusement with that same hum that’s going to make you scream.
“Absolutely. Completely. Are you serious?” you sputter. “You’re like an ASMR wet dream.”
“A what?”
“A wet dream?”
“No, the other thing — ASMR?”
“Um, like when people make really niche quiet noises to a microphone with their mouths, and it gives you the tingly sensation in the back of your head.”
“Interesting,” Levi says. “So are you saying that’s what I do to you?”
For the umpteenth time, your brain blanks.
God, you could scream into your pillow.
If you weren’t so afraid you’d forget to mute your microphone first, then you already would be.
“Yes! — I mean, yes, but — wait, can we just pause this for a second?”
For a moment he doesn’t answer, but the tone of his voice shifts: still just as sultry, but with a hint of confusion and a dash of concern. 
“Of course. Is everything alright?”
No, this entire night is weird.
If you don’t say something, then this is going to just keep looping and wasting his time.
“Okay,” you start, mustering the courage to get through your speech, “I know I’m spoiling the first-caller coupon for a free call and I’m sorry, I’ll totally pay for the session since you’re great and sound insanely hot and I’m sure you’re amazing at your job, but I just…” 
You trail off, collecting your swimming thoughts.
“...I’m something like six or seven drinks in, I am craving potato chips, and I’d really like to just talk to someone for a few minutes.”
There.
It’s out in the open, your confession to the liminal altar.
You half-expect him to hang up rather than wasting his time with someone like you, but to your surprise, there is no click. No call ended. No new automated message.
“Six or seven is a lot,” he comments, and you can picture a brow furrow even if he doesn’t have a face. “Does this mean you handle your liquor, or is this a one-off rager?”
“I think I’m only still functioning because I ate my weight in dinner rolls at the party.”
“Do you have a glass or bottle of water near you?”
The switch up lessens the tension in your shoulder blades in an instant.
His voice is just as crooning, deep and inviting, but it’s nice to simply be asked.
“Nope.”
His voice sharply changes, authoritative and firm. “Then go get one.”
The demand does something to you. 
Without thinking twice you begin to rock up on your heels, standing at full height.
“Okay, Mr. Bossy.”
“Isn’t that what you wanted?” he asks with a sprinkle of sarcasm. “Someone who has their shit together, if I read the notes right.”
“They write that stuff down?” you ask genuinely, minding your step as you pad barefoot across your apartment to your fridge.
“It’s your session,” he reminds softly. “We do whatever it is you want to do.”
“Even if it’s just to talk?”
“You’d be amazed at how many people call just to talk. Though I can’t say it’s my specialty.”
“No?”
“No. I’m not much of a small talker.”
The refrigerator door swings wide. “What’s your specialty, then?”
“Kink play, mostly. Dom and Sub. Guided masturbation. Edging. Making decisions for people who want to forget about making them for a while.”
One second the bottle of water is in your hand.
Next it’s on the floor.
“That’s, uh… a wide array of specialties,” you say. “And your rate, it’s…?”
“Not cheap.”
“Got it. So I’m really flubbing this free call.”
It’s small, but you hear a chuckle on the other end. “You said you wanted to talk, Scarlet, so we’re talking.”
Bending to grab your water bottle, you untwist the cap.
“Does this bother you, wasting your time talking?”
“You’re not wasting my time, Scarlet,” he says with such a promise that you almost believe it’s genuine. “You have a pretty voice, and you’re funny.”
“Shut up.”
“You do, and you are.”
“Uh-huh. And do you talk to a lot of people during your shifts?”
“That’s confidential.”
“So a lot.”
“Confidential.”
“And the length of calls,” you test, “are they hypothetically confidential, too?”
“It’s per minute, so.”
“Per minute?” you gawk. “Jesus, I’d go bankrupt talking to you.”
“Well, premium members receive bills per half hour,” he explains. “More bang for your buck.”
“Quite literally," you mumble. "And what’s a premium subscription get you?”
“Didn’t you check out the website before calling?”
“I told you I stumbled out of my cab and called the number on my napkin, Levi,” you chide. “I didn’t exactly do my research in my sexually frustrated state.”
“Fair, can’t blame you there.”
There’s something of a grunt on the other end, like he’s stretching his arms over his head.
Maybe he’s sitting in an office chair, too, going through the motions of his profession the same way the Petra lady had been.
You keep wanting to imagine what he’s doing on the other line, but you realize you haven’t asked the titular question yet.
“Hey, Levi?”
“Yeah, baby?”
It’s breathy, a roll of thunder in his tongue.
Instead of an office chair, you imagine a man lying on his bed.
Maybe his tie is half-done, hanging loosely around his neck.
Button-down open, exposing the planes of his chest; dress trousers unbuttoned and loose around his hips, so he can easily slide a hand—
Whoa.
You stop walking back to your bedroom and blink twice. “Oh, so you like pet names.”
Your face, in miraculous humiliation, grows another degree hotter at how amused he sounds with himself. “I never said that.”
“Sure,” Levi replies with a smirk to the concession. “What is it, Scarlet?”
(Maybe you’ll permanently change your name to Scarlet after tonight if it sounds this good on a man’s lips.)
You finally unzip the side of your dress and wiggle out, before finding a cozy spot in the middle of your mattress.
“How much time do I have left on this freebie?”
“Approximately three minutes.”
Time flies when you’re too busy gawking over someone’s voice, apparently.
“Can I ask what you look like?” you finally decide, playing along.
“I’m surprised it took you this long to ask,” Levi responds, returning to that same seductive tone he’d used when he first picked up the line. “Black hair, guess it’s a little shaggier than usual. Undercut.”
You squint to your ceiling. “I’m thinking of Dimitri from Anastasia right now but with black hair.”
“I have no idea what that is.”
“You’ve seriously never seen Anastasia?”
“It’s a movie?”
“Oh my god, Levi, I’m so sorry for your childhood.”
“It’s an animated movie?” he scoffs. “Even worse.”
“You wound me,” you joke, pressing a hand over the cup of your beige bra. “What color are your eyes?”
“A gray-ish blue,” he tells you. “Sharp nose. High cheekbones. I’m a daily gym go-er, so I’m mostly lean muscle. I can probably pick you up, easily.”
So a fit man with an undercut hairstyle with gray-blue eyes and a relatively sharp face. 
Now you have a face to the image of a man lying on his bed, still in that button-down shirt and dress trousers.
His happy trail is probably dark, too, disappearing just under the waistband of his boxer briefs.
Or boxers?
Maybe nothing.
Your hand moves on its own accord to the waistband of your panties, toying with the fabric.
Contemplating.
Wondering if it’s wrong — when it really shouldn’t be wrong at all.
“You sound handsome,” you murmur. “I wouldn’t mind being picked up.”
“Wouldn’t be the only thing I’d do to you,” he flippantly states, and your brain blanks to pure putty. “You sound a little more winded than before. Doing alright over there, party animal?”
“It’s late,” you lie even when you damn well know you don’t have to lie. “Lots of drinking, first water of the night, lying down…”
“Better make it two waters before you fall asleep,” Levi states. “That’s an order, Scarlet.”
“Uh-huh.”
Your hand dips under your underwear, testing the waters.
But—
“Final sixty seconds,” he adds. “Any last words you want to get in before the line disconnects?”
“Only one minute left?” you protest, ripping your hand out of your underwear to pull the phone away from your ear.
14:02
So it really had been a fifteen-minute call.
God damnit.
Tapping the speaker icon once more, you stare at your phone and press your tongue against the inside of your cheek.
“What’s your extension?”
Because you have to know.
Even if you don’t call again, it’s a comfort to have it on hand.
Levi waits a moment before responding.
“Two-five-one-two.”
2512.
You swipe away from the call to quickly pull up your notes app, tapping the number down with a noted reminder: the guy with the hot voice!
“Are you going to call me again, Scarlet?”
You open your mouth, but you struggle with an answer.
(You only have a few seconds! Think, idiot, think!)
“I’m not sure if—”
Click.
“Hello? Levi?”
“Thank you for calling the Scout Services Hotline. Please stay on the line for a quick two-minute survey so we can better serve your fantasies in the future.”
Out of time.
You drop your phone to your stomach and groan.
Instead of calling back, you close your eyes — and, not before long, fall asleep to a dream of only one voice.
.
.
— —
.
.
    Saturday is a wash.
You wake late, missing an invitation to brunch.
For the better half of the day, you wonder about him.
Levi.
Your arbitrary match that doesn't feel so arbitrary anymore.
(It's placebo effect, you tell yourself. They're supposed to make you feel wanted.)
Punishing yourself for your excessive liquor and stupid plans, you trudge to your local gym and do your best to stay focused on your workout.
Every nameless person with dark hair that walks past you on the sidewalk from your apartment; anyone could be him.
The man waiting in line at the coffee shop.
The man who accidentally walked into you while you were switching the song on your playlist at the crosswalk.
The man weight training in the corner of the room, fringe cascading down his face as he drips sweat.
You keep the napkin in your gym bag, then transfer it to your purse as you run errands.
You could call.
It isn’t like you’re strapped for cash at the moment.
Granted it’s very wish fulfillment and it isn’t like he’s actually into you, but the attention is nice.
Besides — you haven’t thought of your ex once since you woke up.
Annie texts you twice within ten minutes of each message, which is unheard for her.
 [A. LEONHART]: So? Did you call?
[A. LEONHART]: Hello, earth to moron. At least like my message to tell me you’re alive. I’m not being interviewed by Dateline for you.
(Ah, there she is. Classic Annie.)
 [YOU]: Yeah, I called. Not sure if it’s my thing.
[A. LEONHART]: Sometimes they match you with a dud. 2nd time’s the charm ;)
[YOU]: Do you ever use someone’s extension?
[A. LEONHART]: Duh. I’m a regular of one guy.
Okay, so she talks to a guy. Something grips your stomach as you type your reply.
 [YOU]: Can I ask his name?
[A. LEONHART]: Why, so we don’t eiffel tower this?
[YOU]: jfc annie
[A. LEONHART]: lmao his name is Bert
    So not Levi.
For some odd reason, you breathe a sigh of relief as you close out of your messages.
Maybe you're one of a million, but at least you're not sharing with Annie.
Once you return home from your errands, it's close to dinnertime.
You cook something simple for yourself, occasionally glancing over at your purse like you can x-ray vision through the fabric to see the napkin.
Then again, it isn’t like you actually need the napkin.
The number is already in your phone.
Pulling out your device, you set it on the kitchen counter and draw a slow, calculative inhale.
One more call can’t hurt.
Levi may not even be working.
Hell, he could be talking to someone else. 
A regular.
Several regulars.
For over five minutes you stare down at your most recent calls list, willing yourself to just get brave for one second to press the button.
(It isn’t like Porco’s going to call you.)
The soured thought propels your hand without thinking, fingertip pressing the green phone icon faster than you can think. 
You brace for the ringtone, fists balled tight on the cool kitchen surface.
“Thank you for calling the Scout Services Hotline. You’re only a dial away from your wildest fantasies with the sexiest singles near your area. If you already know your match’s extension, press one.”
You continue staring.
Are you really doing this?
It isn’t like it means anything, which is exactly what you need with the upcoming work week.
A distraction.
A very expensive distraction, but hey — you’ll avoid takeout for a few weeks.
How bad can it get?
“If you’re looking for someone specific —”
You press one.
.
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Author's Note:
Thank you for reading part one of my zany little 'Sleepless in Seattle' modern au! This has been a bluesky idea for a while now, and I needed a little reprieve from my other angsty Levi longfic silver underground, so I hope you enjoyed the ride.
There will be actual smut in part two, but as a Reader!Writer I had the thought of 'would I be suave enough to do the first phone call flawlessly or totally waste my free coupon'? and this chapter was born, lol. I promise this is not Porco slander.
Thank you for likes, and even more love to those who choose to reblog this to help spread the word of this new series or reply in the comments. ilu xo
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notanactressyayy · 9 months ago
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˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳ 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐫
— ₊⊹ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 . Natasha Romanoff x reader
— ₊⊹ 𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 . in which she finally feels heard, seen.
— ₊⊹ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 . angst, emotional breakdown (panic attack), swearing, mentions of scars (sh), mentions of suicidal ideologies. Nat being honest and open about her feelings for once. hurt/comfort.
— ₊⊹ 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 . english is not my first language (🇧🇷) so i apologize for any spelling errors. rainy days, match sad stories. venting.
divider credits: @saradika-graphics ༉‧₊˚.
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the heaviness of the afternoon air settled over Natasha — weighting down what was already heavy. her mind, her body.. everything felt like a weight, a weight she carried since she was born, or even before her soul was incarnated in her body. she felt— no, she knew that she was born in bad news, cursed, and there was no way of getting out of this. it's funny, those were the exact same thoughts she had ever since she was a child— 10, 11, maybe? and in that age, crossed her mind that probably when she grew up, those ideas would vanish and she would be free to have a normal life.
but that certainly didn't happen. and now, she found herself trapped. trapped in web that the more she struggled, more stuck she got, and that was a routine that repeated over and over and over — optimistic, optimistic delusional thoughts that came to battle with the bad ones, telling her that things would someday be okay, and the real, coherent ones, that crushed all the hope, the little sparkle of hope she had within her, making her mind a complete and total mess. chaos behind chaos. sleepless nights, restless days.
god, how good would it be if at least, her body wasn't enchanted. how perfect would it be, to throw herself down a building and don't feel anymore, instead of having just a few scratches here and there. the blade helped, even with the acknowledge that a normal person would feel 10 times more than she did. because the pain was still little, when comparing to everything this woman already endured. the red lines on her arms and thighs were just a reminder of the red on her ledge, and that it was now impossible to wipe away.
in moments like those ones, her brain desperately searched for any solution, any thought to refute her current state — it was the human instinct to survive. (yeah, she's human). her eyes squeeze tight, feet stumbling forward and hands gripping tightly the trailer's window rail, knuckles turning white.
inhale, exhale. inhale— no, let's stick to panting.
her mind would drift back to the little girls who she shared her life with in the red room, remembering each of their personalities, what each one of them would do in a situation like this. ironically, for Natasha, they deserved to be listened and helped. but herself? nah. but in the deep end, she didn't know if they were still breathing, still in this world. what was the point..?
"come on..." she mutters, hissing loudly as her legs start trembling, knees ready to give up. "stop, stop, stop, stop..."
her heart never felt so filled with anguish and pain like right now — yes it did, but it was always like that: whenever that happened, the past experiences felt like they never existed — and the now felt like too much to handle. her ears buzzed, the sounds of the wind blowing across the tree leaves around her went down to volume zero — the hair on her legs and arms went up in a deep shiver, and eyes went wide — realization.
the same fucking realization as always. nobody listens, nobody cares. no one will ever know her true story. no one will ever fix her. she won't be remembered. her life's a waste— why was she even born, when everything that happened was disgrace after disgrace. that's when the thread snaps, and her body reacts before her mind can follow.
her throat closes, as if suffocating — body falling backwards, hitting the floor with full force. her fingers run through her hair and tug on the strands, pulling them strongly, even breaking a few of the auburn locks. tears of desperation threatens to fall down her cheeks, but she doesn't really realize that yet. she's just so out of air, that's impossible to control any other action.
"why won't that fucking—" Natasha manages between gasps. she groans, grabbing on the skin of her thighs and squeezing them harshly, creating moon-shaped little marks, enough to draw blood. "won't it— stop!"
then, she sobs. wait, but.. why did it felt like.. relief? perhaps because now, she was in your arms.
a foreign, strange sensation of warmth, warmth of another human being, enveloped her. she didn't recognize who it was, nor did she care. with pure instinct, her arms wrapped around the person's midsection, clinging for dear life. and now, with the sense of security, she was able to cry freely. she cried silently, something you didn't like. her chest heaved with emotion, but you wished she was louder. she was taught that widows didn't feel pain, wether it was physical or emotional. that's why her small cries sounded as painful and miserable as loud ones. you, sitting on the floor with her, scooped her weeping frame into your arms and held her — her side against your chest, head tucked in the crook of your neck.
sadly, it wasn't the first time, and you knew it wouldn't be the last. you were always in the trailer with her when she had breakdowns like this one. and that was what broke you the most — her brain subconsciously would tell her she was alone, and she didn't know how to deal with intense feelings like those: thus, she didn't know how to ask for help, how to come to you so you both could prevent those mental draining episodes.
when you first met Natasha, the first thing she asked you was to forget that she was a deadly spy, an avenger, or whatever the hell else people knew her as. at least for a day, so you could see where things would go. this fact only, meant that since the beginning, she had a feeling about you.. one she couldn't quite put a finger on, but which made her want to be herself, with no masks or titles around you.
it was common sense everything she went through. but only you knew about her true point of view. when her own self felt like an outside observer regarding to her own life, you were always there to remind her of who she was.
"you're safe... you're safe, i am safe.. we're both safe.." you whisper, running your hand up and down her shivery arm, putting the cold away. "okay, Nat? you are safe. i am right here, ready to fight whatever evil that befalls you.''
"i don't know.. i-i just.. i'm exhausted... i'm s-so tired.." she manages between small cries, eyes pleadingly looking up into yours. her hand reaches out and intertwine her fingers with your own, grasping on every sense she had of your presence — because she knew it could fade again, that she could fall in the loop again. and it was torturous. "i never.. no one ever listened to me... i never.. told anyone.. about.. a-about..."
"i know." you nod, arms tightening around her. you crawl a little backwards, just so you could reach the blanket that laid upon the couch and grab it. you wrap it around her with one hand, not letting go of her own. she subconsciously brings the fluffy fabric closer to herself and snuggles up against your body. "but you can tell me. isn't it clear, malyshka? that you're stuck with me?"
malyshka. the endearment term in russian she had taught you. she loved it, so goddamn much. a little weak smile tugs on her lips, the kindness you were showing her easing the tension — as if you were offering to carry the weight with her. compassion, empathy. so foreign.
"i just.." she shakes her head, sniffling and taking a deep, shaky breath. she stays silent for a few minutes, and you wait. voice so quiet, small.. and scared. "before you.. no one ever.. held me. i never had anyone holding me. i never had a touch that didn't mean harm. never had anyone to listen."
"i know, Nat. and that pains me more than you think." you confirm, running your fingers through her hair, and nuzzling the side of your face against her cheek, resting on your shoulder. "but trust me, i will listen for hours, days, years and centuries. if you wanna share every single second of your life with me, i'm here to listen."
"that doesn't make any freaking sense to me." she chuckles humorlessly, a soft groan escaping her throat. she was feeling a little tired. "but.. the truth is.. few people understand what i went through. the little people who lived in the same circumstances as me are probably all dead.. and... i truly don't want you to understand. i don't want you to try and live the same horrors as i did. all i wish for..."
you take a moment to stare at her when she pauses. hurt arms, tear filled face. oh, what you wouldn't do to protect this heart. to keep it safe. never let anything harm it again.
"all i wish for, is for you to be here. to hold me like you're doing, to share your own experiences with me, to live with me. to whisper sweet nothings in my ear by the night. handle my body gently. just be here. be here and i know i'll be forever safe."
that was it. everything you ever wished for. you exhale deeply and shift her carefully, so she was on your lap. she looks down at you, and at your hand.. that slowly comes up to land on her cheek. she leans against it and breathes heavily. you smile, waiting for her next expected words.
"can i..." she clears her throat, hands shyly gripping your shoulders, eyes looking at you from below her eyelashes. "can i cry more?"
"of course." you cradle her again and settle her thighs around your hips. her arms wrap around your neck, and she gently leans her head on your shoulder... allowing herself to cry.. out of relief.
your right hand tenderly caresses her leg, tracing over the self indulged scars she had. the left one, makes slow, soothing circles on her spine, moving up, and down her back. she was letting all her emotions out, all the pain inside her heavy heart, was flowing out of her being. thanks to your patience, your gentleness, and your love.
turns out, love wasn't only for children. goodness gracious, how good it was to be loved...
"god," she sobs, squeezing you tighter, nose brushing against your hair as she allows herself to.. let go. "god, i need you."
"i'm here." you confirm quietly, looking up and kissing her temple. "i'm here, i'm not going anywhere."
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igotanidea · 8 months ago
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Cracking: Damian Wayne x reader
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part 5 of "Family rules" series.
He was going mad.
For a girl.
Nothing he ever thought would happen to someone like him.
A guy raised by assassins and Batman, who was used to putting his feelings at bay if even having any.
And now he couldn’t stop thinking about her.
It was impossible for someone as perceptive as Robin himself to miss her paleness and sadness. At least whenever he was near. 
And avoiding him at any cost.
And – as it usually happens – the teachers were completely oblivious to the situation and that was about to be the source of a hell of a problem for both Damian and Y/N.
“Pairs? What do you mean we’ll be working in pairs?!” she exclaimed at one history lesson upon hearing the great idea of their tutor.
“Is that such a horror for you, Y/N?” the teacher smiled through the glasses and in any other situation it would be almost benevolent but not this time.
“Yes!”
“Well I am afraid the class has already divided so you just have to comply.”
“But—”  she spun around and groaned both internally and externally upon realizing that her little outburst only left her one person to work with. “Fucking great…” she muttered noticing Damian swinging casually on his seat, not having a single care in the world.
“Miss Y/L/N!”
“I’m not working with him!”
“Getting scared, Y/L/N?” Damian smirked, knowing well how to use the opportunity. He’s been trying to talk to her for the last two weeks since that little beating in the hallway but she was surprisingly skilled in disappearing in thin air. And since he was also a teenage boy, mocking and teasing seemed the only way to reach his goal.
“Pff!” she scoffed, crossing arms over his chest. The need to prove herself superior to him was fighting with an iron resolve to forget his existence.
“Y/N, sit down now and do not make a scene. I do not understand what’s been happening to you lately.” The teacher instructed, clearly losing patience with one of the best students.
“Fine…” she muttered, plumping on the chair as far from Damian as possible, still grumpy, hardly even listening to the teacher’s instructions on the task.
“Fate definitely has a wicked sense of humor huh, Y/L/N?”
“Can you just shut up?”
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
“Yeah, no shit genius.”
“Why?”
“Why do you care?”
“Well I am asking so clearly I do.”
“You don’t really strike me as a caring type, Wayne.”
“Maybe not by your definition. Not my fault you are so conceited you mess up care and selfishness.” He mocked.
“What did you say?” Y/N hissed
Damian smirked. This was the exact reaction he was trying to get out of her.
“You call me selfish, you little prick?” Her eyes flashed with anger. “You piece of shit. You look down on everybody because you are fucking Wayne and you dare reflect all your fucking traits onto me!?”
The girl didn’t even notice how her voice got louder and how she was suddenly standing instead of sitting and quietly working on the task. She missed the fact that she was making a scene for the whole class to see, once again dragging all the attention to herself. And once again the reason for her emotional outburst was Damian Wayne. Who she hated with all her heart. Who made her act like a fool and clearly – bring out the worst of the good girl she always considered herself to be.
“Who do you think you fucking are?!” Her self-control was now completely gone “You think you can just do whatever you fucking want and have zero consequences coming from it!?”
Thank god the phones were not allowed in classes cause at this moment she would definitely end up being a meme on social media.
“Y/N!” the teacher finally woke up from the shock that her transformation brought upon everyone. “Enough! Principal’s office. Now. In fact – “ he looked around, his gaze landing on Damian. “Both of you.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong. There is no basis for me to go –” Damian stated with the most cold voice he could produce.
“I don’t care!” the teacher seemed to finally lose his cool “you two are trouble and I’m not having either in my class. Now off you go. Out!” he pointed to the doors and with exchanged hateful glances Y/N and Damian decided to obey. Part of the reason was also the fact that they both knew they were in full capacity to drive the principal crazy just by showing up on the doorstep to his den.
***
“The hell is wrong with you?” he muttered as soon as they were out the door and on the empty hallway.
“Oh, me? You are the one who seems to be constantly looking for my attention.”
“And why do you think that is?” The sudden change in his tone took her by such a surprise she stopped and dared to do something that did not happen in a few weeks. She looked at him. More precisely, into his eyes. And in them, she saw something she did not like. At all.
Emotions.
Pain.
Confusion.
Embarrassment.
Affection!?
“Damian…” she gulped heavily trying to clear her head and calm her rapidly beating heart.
“You are annoying. Unnerving.” He hissed, his eyes fixed on hers “Messed up. I don’t understand you. You are a mystery I cannot crack. And it’s making me angry.”
If he was a normal person he would probably clench his fists right now.
“Then why don’t you just leave me alone?!”
“Stop yelling.” Damian grabbed her hand and dragged her into the nearest empty classroom so that no one would catch them causing disturbances in the hallway. “How come for years we didn’t care about each other and now we can’t seem to be within five feet distance without fighting?”
“Oh please!” she scoffed leaning on the door “Care? Have you been reading a dictionary and learning new words?”
“You are getting on my nerves here Y/L/N.” Damian took a step closer to her trying to look menacing and as much Robin-like as possible.
“Then let me ask you again – why don’t you fucking leave me alone!?”
“Because I can’t!”
There. The armor cracked and even though he barely said anything it felt awful. He exposed himself. Showed his weak points to the enemy.  Lost on his own wish.
For a moment his words seemed to echo from the empty walls of the classroom, the air filled with tension.
“You’re not even trying are you? Damian?” her voice was surprisingly quiet and soft, even to herself.
“No…” he confessed, unable to fight against those e/c eyes fixed on his face “no… no, I am not trying.”
“Damian…”
“Please…” now he was so low as to stoop to begging. And it was humiliating. Downgrading. Scary. “Please don’t run from me, Y/L/N. You are driving me mad.”
All it took was one more look. One more exchange of glances filled with mixed emotions.
And they were back to that gala night.
The classroom was gone, the school forgotten and all that mattered was holding her close, preventing her from running away and that strange, strange, unknown feeling in his chest.
Everything important in this moment came down to the feeling of his arms around her, hearing his heartbeat against her ear and calming the storm of the emotions neither of them understood.
For some reason, simply holding onto each other felt like a peace amongst the storm. Like a lighthouse guiding them to safe haven amongst the families feud and last-names competition.
“What are we gonna do-?” he was the one to cut the silence, the weight of questions pressing onto his shoulders making him speak before he could think about the consequences of his doubts.
“I don’t know-“ said implications took form of her pulling back from him “I don’t know Damian-“
“Don’t go-“ with the reflex of a vigilante Damian gripped her arm causing her to whimper in pain. “Y/l/n? You good? What happened?” The strength he used was definitely not enough to make her react like this.
“Nothing. Nothing. It’s nothing!” she responded quickly trying to wriggle away. Too quickly. Quickly enough to make him suspicious and ignoring her protest to push him to roll her sleeve a little.
“What--?” the words died in his throat as he noticed the purple bruise on her forearm.
“It’s nothing!” she yanked free “you had no right!”
“I’m –” Damian stuttered. He messed up again.
“You’re a prick!”
“I’m sorry! But if we’re about to do- this-“ it was impossible to use the word concerning possible relationship or anything of sort – “you need to tell me. What happened?”
Y/N hesitated, torn between a lot of mixed things. Could she tell him? Could she not tell him? Every move came with the consequences, almost like she was reduced to a figure on the chessboard, constantly moved by someone else. Without any power to control her own life.
But one thing was certain.
Some things and some feelings were worth protecting.
And that’s why she had only one way of surviving.
“I can’t.” she whispered with a sad, apologetic smile. “I can’t, Damian.” Without missing a beat she leaned forward, kissing him as if trying to sweeten the bitter words. Pulling everything she had into the brief contact of lips on lips, like a silent apology of putting him through the mess.
Before Damian realized what was happening he was kissing her back, pulling her close, caressing her back, in his own way trying to show her he was going to protect her. But what did he know? He was only 17 with zero power to shape reality. And when he felt her slip from his grasp and losing her warmth against him that realization hit him like a ton of bricks.
But it didn’t mean he was going to give up.
Not now. Not ever. Not until she explicitly told him she didn’t want him.
***
 “How was school today?” her father asked her as soon as she stepped over the door to home. There was no denying Mr Y/L/N became very interested in his daughter's progress at school.
“It was normal.” Y/N couldn’t care less about his fake concern, trying to walk past him and get into her room.
“Ah! Not so fast, young lady. Did you do what I asked of you?”
“No.” The girl frowned, putting hands on her hips in a poor attempt at a power pose.
“No?”
“No!”
“Then I suppose we have to have the talk again, don’t we, little girl?”
She was in deep trouble that seemed to have no end….
@6000-fandoms @beyond-your-stars @mikyapixie
@heartz4miz @crookedmakerfury @mariam12344 @celestair
@faimmm @hornyslasher @urdarlingali @emmalove1111 @crookedmakerfury @herondale-lightworm @itzjustj-1000 @ginger24880 @anonymousmuffinbear @adharawitch @jasons-little-princess @sharkybabydoll @cupids-diner @whydoyoucare866 @ladychibirae
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slvtforfiction · 1 year ago
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Could you pls write a Johnnie guilbert x f! Reader where reader is a famous song writer and she’s up late at night like around 2:00-3:00 am working on a new song and Johnnie is sick and tired of her staying up all night and not taking care of herself so one night he gets up and hauls her ass to bed and when reader try’s to protest he tells her to stfu and plops right on top of her so she can’t go nowhere.
☆ Ahhhhh yes omg thank you anon x
☆ Sorry it’s short ☹️
☆ Johnnie Guilbert X Reader
☆ Fluff
☆ If you are going to request: please check at the pinned post if requests are open,otherwise I will delete your requests which I have already been doing
☆ Creds to @cafekitsune for dividers :)
Masterlist | Pinned Post
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“Pumpkin,come to bed.” Johnnie whispered as I shook my head, “I can’t,I have to finish these lyrics.” I whispered as I barely looked away from my computer screen.
“When will you come to bed? It’s already midnight.” He told me and I nodded my head, “I know,I’ll be in bed by one,I promise,but I really have to finish this.” I told him with a sigh.
“If you’re not in bed by one,I’m turning off your pc.” He told me jokingly and I giggled, “Sure.” I said lightheartedly with a smile.
I continued to write as Johnnie walked off to bed,I had to finish these lyrics because the deadline was in three days,I was already behind and if I didn’t get this posted to them I would be worse off.
The amount of emails I was getting about the deadline was finally getting to me,the pressure put on me was keeping me up at night.
Ironically enough it was a song about the love between two people.I’ve always loved Johnnie,since the moment I saw him,so the second I got the chance at a love song I took it.
I hummed a tune to myself,listening to the beat of a song and editing the lyrics to fit the best I could. I knew I would end up scrapping and editing a few lines but I didn’t mind,as long as I got a base for my writing.
“You’re my my my lover~” I sung softly to myself as I checked if the lyrics matched the beat.
It was the most ironic situation I’ve been placed in,Johnnie was always looking out for me,taking mental health days off with me and always making sure I got enough sleep,he was the perfect example for a boyfriend.
I hummed softly to myself as I mind mapped some feelings for the song,the best I got up to was :
•love
•kindness
•looking out for people
•Caring
This was before I realised I was writing a song about Johnnie essentially. I was listing everything Johnnie had done for me,past and present. Johnnie was the perfect model for any love song.
I sit there tapping my pen against my paper,slowly running out of ideas before I edit a few more words.
“This is our place.” I hum to myself and quickly edit the line before I forget to,I smile as I realise i have my own house with the person I love. The realisation pulling a smile into my face.
“Have I known you 20 seconds or 20 years?” I whisper as I read out the lyrics,humming the tune to myself. This had become a love song about Johnnie and no one would know,I laugh to myself at the actualisation.
And before I knew it the click of the clock on my laptop changed the time to 1am, “Hey sweetheart,I need you to come to bed please,this isn’t good for you.” Johnnie whispered standing in the doorframe.
“Five more minutes,” I say as I look up at him, “Please!” I whisper to him as I see the disapproval sat on his face. “Okay,but after that im gonna have to drag you to bed.” He laughs but I know he would probably do that.
I mean ; not literally but Johnnie would drag me kicking and screaming if that’s what he had to do to get me to snuggle up to him in bed and sleep.
I edit a few lyrics and words before resting my head on the desk for a brief moment. A brief moment then turns into Johnnie tapping my arm, “Love wake up,you can’t sleep here,come to bed.” He whispers lovingly.
“No I have to finish this.” I say quietly looking up at him, “No,you’re coming to bed come on.” He says as he picks me up by the waist,holding me up to his waist without a reaction.
“Okay.” I whisper quietly.Tiredly I rest my head on his shoulder as we walk into our shared room,i strip myself of my clothes and put on my Pyjamas before huddling up in bed next to Johnnie.
“I love you.” I whispered as I kiss his cheek, “I love you too,princess.” He whispers before I drift of back into sleep.
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novashelby · 1 month ago
Text
Pink Panties-Tommy Shelby x Reader
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Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Female Reader Word Count: 2.4k Warnings: dirty talk, dubcon, teasing, spanking, panty obsession, sniffing said panties, fantasizing about said panties, breath play. Summary: Tommy Shelby's cute maid gets herself into some trouble, and well, he wants to uphold his reputation.
Please enjoy! Remember to comment and reblog. Is this a good comeback? It was meant to be a drabble about spanking. A cute drabble about spanking.....(And thank you strangergraphics for the divider).
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He was a particular man as he enjoyed things neat and in order, but he more often than not, was not a cruel man to work for. To be a maid or nanny in the Shelby household was sort of a privilege on the ladder of household jobs. She was a simple maid who clocked in and then clocked out, and no one, but Francis had ever paid attention to her. Though, the occasional time that she’d get a glimpse of the man, he’d offer a nod of kindness and politely tell her to have a good day. She wasn’t as loud as Maisy, as outgoing as Clara, and certainly wasn’t as funny as Sandra. Many of the guests coming in and out paid attention to them, offering little quips of flirting. But her? She preferred to move quietly with her broom through the shadows. 
She took her little bucket with soapy water and the mop, turning his office doorknob with her elbow. Grunting as she pushed open the door with her bottom, the person inside looked up, amused how she struggled. “Shoot, shoot, shoot,” she hissed, water droplets splashing from the bucket. Throwing down the mop, the room echoed with a little boink. 
Tommy slid back down in the chair, feet propped on the desk and smoke perched between his fingers. He watched as she worked for a while, humming, completely oblivious to his presence. But he wasn’t oblivious to hers. She definitely wasn’t as loud as Maisy, outgoing as Clara, and annoying as Sandra, he thought, but she was certainly, in his opinion, the prettiest. The most delicate, the quietest, and the most womanly. Not womanly as physically, but that she radiated a certain femininity modern day ladies lacked. In fact, out of all his girls, she was perhaps the one with the most inquiries from single men. Often partners of his. But none of them would do her justice. 
His eyes followed the curve of her body as she bent over to move an ottoman. A breath hitched, getting stuck in his throat. Kicking his feet off the desk, he slowly got up and moved over. She was attempting to move an iron sculpture, far too heavy for her. Slow, taunting strides, he moved closer until he could smell her perfume. “Let me help you,” he said, but when his hand went to touch her shoulder, she immediately swirled around with a look of horror on her face.
Her heart dropped. She was alone just two minutes ago. Who? How? When? Gripping the wet mop tightly, she let out a loud shriek. The mop at that point turned into a very reliable weapon as she raised in and whacked it across his face. Tommy stumbled back, hand feeling the wetness on his cheek. “Fookin’ ‘ell!” he cursed, putting his hand up.
When her breathing eased and her heart calmed, she took a deep breath, stick the mop in the bucket. When she realized who she hit, her face went ghostly pale. “Mr. Shelby,” she whispered, seeing not only her job, but also her life flash before eyes. Immediately, she went for her rag, dabbing along his wet cheek. Fretting, she kept repeating, “oh, I’m so, so, so sorry…I just, I had…You just…Mr. Shelby, you’re never in your office at this time.”
Sighing, he moved away a bit, softly grabbing her hand. “It’s alright, it’s alright. Just be more careful with that thing, eh?” He pointed to the mop and her eyes followed before looking back at him. “It’s dangerous, I suppose.” It took her a moment to hear the smile in his voice. When she finally understood his tone, she smiled. “I was going to help you move that thing.”
“The sculpture?” she asked, kicking at it. It was a god-awful fugly thing. Rich people often bought ugly things. “I still don’t know what it is-”
“Me either,” he agreed, handing his wet coat on the rack and loosening his shirt. “But it came with the house and I have no energy for interior design. I’m not fashionable-”
“I think you are,” she let out, her cheeks going red. She motioned to his clothing before sighing. 
“And to think I was about to give you a punishment,” he teased, pinching at her chin. He winked, enjoying the way her face reddened at anything. She flinched back slightly, her face skewing, trying to figure out if he was joking or not. “But then you complimented me.” 
She gave a soft acknowledgement of amusement and grabbed the bucket, bringing it to the farthest corner of the room. She felt his eyes linger on her before she broke the small ounce of silence by saying something that surprised her. “I heard you were good with punishments, Mr. Shelby.” 
His brows arched before he nodded, saying in his smooth, quiet voice that reeked of confidence, “oh, yes. I can be very good at administering punishments.” She whacked the mop against the floor before dragging it around in circles, watching the suds bubble and pop. He walked closer, making sure not to step on the wet bits. “What have you heard of these punishments?” He pulled up a chair and draped one leg over the other.
Without looking at him, she said, “girls like to talk, Mr. Shelby-”
“Do they? And,” his voice dragged off as his hand motioned for her to continue. “And what exactly, y’know, ah, what exactly are these words they speak? This talk.”
Her smile widened. “Just gossip, I’m sure. Right, Mr. Shelby?” Her eyes fluttered to him. “All the things they say about you. Surely, there is no reason to believe any of it-”
“Oh, but perhaps there is some truth. All gossip starts with the truth, doesn't it, eh? What do you girls talk about in your bed chambers?” Oh, so many things. The three of them chatted constantly about the Shelby men. All night sometimes. How handsome he was, how sexy that other one was. What they believe they’d be good at in bed and what they’d be bad at. She, however, was more of a listener. Sometimes they’d say things like Mr. Shelby likes to use a heavy hand when a maid acts up. They’d all sing their song, claiming his hand has spanked their bottom. But she doubted it. 
“That you like to keep your maids in check-”
“And do I? Do you feel like I keep you in check-”
“Not anymore or less than any other boss, Mr. Shelby,” she said, walking around him to get a rag. “But they do say that you enjoy a heavy hand against a lady’s bottom. That when they act out, you have no quips or quarrels about giving a good spanking.” Tommy kept his composure, but on the inside he felt quite…shocked. They said that? That he spanks his maids. Well, the thoughts may have circled his mind, he never once spanked a maid. 
He grinned in amusement, grabbing a new cigarette before deciding against it, tucking it away. “And you believe such things?”
“You said it yourself, Mr. Shelby, all gossip must have some origin of truth.”
“And you think that is what I should give you right now? A spanking?”
She froze, feeling the heat return to her cheeks. She rushed back around the chair and looked at him. Scrambling for words, she was fighting for her dignity. “No, no, no! N-no! I was just…I didn’t…Why would I want a spanking? You’re the one who scared me! I was simply acting on self defense-”
“So you want to give me a spanking-”
“No! Mr. Shelby, nobody is giving anyone a spanking-”
“No?” he snorted, grinning, quite enjoying the flustered look on her face. “And you, dear, think you aren’t deserving of one?”
In a tone of finality, she stated, “no, I do not want a spanking-”
“I didn’t ask that,” he said, casually, shaking his head. “I asked whether or not you thought you were deserving of one. Now!” He grunted, getting from the chair, pushing it back. The room echoed with a creak. Slow strides, he cornered her against a book again. Her heart beat bounded like a drum in her chest. Tommy leaned in, pinching her chin. “You wouldn’t let me ruin my reputation, now, would you?”
“Mr. Shelby,” she let out, placing her hands against his chest. His hands reached up and held them, squeezing lightly.  
“And you can go back to your little maid friends. Tell them all about how Mr. Shelby spanked you.” He walked backwards, her hands still in his as he guided them both. “Now, are you more of an over the desk type of girl or over daddy’s lap kinda naughty, eh?” Tommy answered for her as she kept opening her mouth to speak, but it only came out as choked whispers. He twirled her around and pushed her against his desk. Her hands braced herself as he pressed his body against her back. 
“This is hardly necessary,” she whined out, but didn’t fight, even spreading her legs just a tad. 
“Oh, but it is,” he grinned. “Because you and I both know that you have been a naughty girl, and most importantly, Mr. Shelby believes in upholding certain notions and ideas about himself, especially those that keep his girls in line.” It had been so long since a man touched her so closely and intimately. Her body reacted almost in a deprived, needy, desperate way. The young maid wasn’t going to argue, mumbling a surprised yes, sir under her breath. “Under or over?” She answered for him, grappling with her skirts which he ever so kindly placed over her arched back. His fingers hooked under the waistband of her tights and pulled down. 
“Shit.” Her body shuddered, feeling the cool breeze hit her back. The way his fingers felt, just teasing at her skin as he pulled down her layers, sent goosebumps over her body. 
“Language,” he  whispered, in deep thought, admiring the curves he often fantasized about. How many men pulled down her underwear before him? It was always the quiet ones that surprised him. The ones that played innocent and unknowing were the ones with the deepest, dirtiest desires. She was no different, and he knew by the time she was done working at Arrow house, he was going to pull every last fantasy from her brain. “It’s like you knew that you were going to be a naughty girl today.” His fingers traced lines along her pretty pink knickers. “With naughty lace trimming. Who was to see these today if not me, eh?”
She looked back at him, doe like eyes. “No one-”
“I think you’re a little lying slut,” he said, watching her choke on his words. “That doesn’t mind that her boss is going to take these little panties and keep them-what? Don’t look so shocked.” Slowly, tauntingly, he pulled down her panties. “And what I’ll do with these,” he trailed off, pulling them off one foot and then the other. “Is I’ll keep them for my naughty self and start a whole new reputation for myself-”
“And you’ll-”
He sent a warning glare her way, his hand raised only to spank it down with a harsh slap. She cried out as the room echoed with a lightning sharp crack. “Shut up,” he told her, leaning over her body. Grinning, he grabbed her quivering jaw with one hand as he brought her panties to her face. “And what I’ll do, while my wife sleeps next to me, is I’ll pull out my cock. Give it a few good tugs until it’s nice and hard to the thought of you.” She let out a little moan, her ass pressing up against his groin, feeling the hardness. “And you can tell Clara, Sandra, Maisy, whatever the fuck their names are…that out of all of them, Mr. Shelby fantasizes about you-”
Closing her eyes, she whimpered out, “and my panties-”
Two fingers slipped in her mouth, pressing down her tongue. “I told you to shut the fuck up,” he grunted, positioning himself so that his knee could rub up between her legs. Her eyes rolled back as she moaned, a stream of drool pooling on his desk. It’d been to fucking long because just by his taunting, she felt herself swell with pleasure. His fingers pushed deeper, enjoying the sounds of her gags. “And when I am nice and hard that pre-cum is dripping, I’ll take your cute panties and wrap them around my cock.” His mouth went real close to her ears, peppering kisses, tickling her with teasing chuckles. “I’ll rub them up and down, thinking about how they touched your wet, needy cunt.” He removed his fingers from her mouth, along her to gulp up deep breaths. “Sloppy,” he commented, rubbing the drool all over her lips. 
“Mr. Shelby-”
“Fuckin’ ‘ell, the prettiest, but the stupidest, eh?” His hand raised again landing down on her ass with an even harder spank. She cried out, fingers scratching at his desk. It left a pretty red mark. “I said keep that mouth shut!” His hand covered her mouth, watching her squirm and wiggle. Her face going nice and red, he grinned, pinching her nose. Panicked, she whined, thrashing and trying to pull away. But it felt so good. So fucking good to be right under his control. He allowed her breath as he continued on. “And while she sleeps right next to me, I keep stroking my cock, softly moaning your name as I stain these pretty panties white.” She opened her mouth to speak, but he quickly slapped her cheek. “I’m not fucking done yet...and I walk myself to the bedroom where you’re sleeping, and I make you wear them-you can even show your little friends how Mr. Shelby adores you so much more than them.” He smiled, pressing a soft kiss against her wet, pouty lips. When he pulled away, she inched forward, chasing after them. “Good girl,” he complimented, meeting her. Their lips moved together as he teased at her bottom lip; licking and nibbling. Her head was swirling with confusion, arousal, and above all, desperation while his right hand rubbed down her back, grabbing her ass. “Now, you go and finish my floors. I have business to attend to.”
“B-but-”
“Shhh,” he hummed, pulling away. He tucked her panties away and caressed her face. “Good girl.” 
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distant--shadow · 7 months ago
Text
The Witch and the Widow – Chapter One – The Lake
Laudna Bradbury had murdered her husband.
Maybe murdered. Apparently. That is what brought Imogen here - indirectly, at least.
Not that she's with the law enforcement or anything. Not that, definitely, though ironically being an officer - an interrogator - would suit her well, at least on paper. Passion and enthusiasm would be a different question - and that's why she's here. Sorta. Indirectly, again, for a different question. Words travel, by means of mouth or ink or thoughts (apparently, she had found out), even though thoughts should not travel past the head that they were made in. But they did, and continue to do so, and Imogen had heard enough accounts about the man himself (the Lady’s husband, when he was alive and after the fact), had seen enough women squashed under the boots of the men they were tied to to intimately know and understand a flash decision made in a moment for self-preservation-
all too often women tempered their instincts to allow themselves to become the soil underfoot rather than the sole of the shoe
so much as to say that Imogen does not care much if Laudna Bradbury had murdered her husband.
She cares more about what the words whispered and weaved and waded in the time after wrote:
Laudna Bradbury had used witchcraft to murder her husband.
The only utterances of magic Imogen had heard of, had seen, had unexplainably received taken telegraphed by inner voice and grey matter before that rumour, were her own.
Imogen needs answers, desperately, as though a necessity purely imperative like breathing and eating, and so she brought herself to the source of the lake before it divided and weakened and meandered from river to muddy stream to drink directly from her-
(it.)
Laudna Bradbury is a widow, a widow who continues to live on the estate her husband’s heraldry and wealth had afforded them, company kept by a small team of housemaids and gardeners and the like.
and it is a large estate, a lot to look after, for sure, certainly, with its couple hundred maybe more years in age and just as many acres. There's hairline cracks in the stucco, a missing roof tile here and there
but there is no denying that it is a fine example of architecture, certainly was the highest of fashion at the time. A grand country house with an East Wing and a West, bay windows and towers and pleasing ratios between alcove and doorways and arches and walled topiaried gardens that extend from north to south, illustrations in stained glass ornately framed with flowering climbing ivy
statues that step out from domesticated bordering jungles, now appearing more as gargoyles thanks to the decay of time, noses eroded like they have rotted off, birds’ nests of briars thorned crowns or horns
rosemary bushes skirt the main building’s façade, perfuming the sometimes hot-and-humid, more often brisk-and-grey air carried through the opened lead-lined boiled sweet coloured window panes into the dark mahogany-panelled and silk-embroidered tapestried interiors.
Off of the West Wing there is an extension nearing the height of the gargoyled walls that surround the estate. This is the wall that fortifies the Lady Bradbury’s private garden; with doors adjoining directly to her study - both of which are off limits. Imogen doesn't know much of pretty and imported flowers, but she knows local common sense, knows what berries to pick and which weed’s sap causes a blister that will never heal again should it brush her skin.
Through small cracks in the masonry delicate tendrils curl out; leaves crawling, surfacing, small purple flowers with yellow tear-drop centres blooming.
Deadly nightshade.
She wonders what else grows behind the wall, patiently biding its time until the decay of such allows it through. 
It is in the stables that Imogen spends most of her own time; her years of experience working under Master Faramore awarded her an earnest recommendation, and it sure helped that a couple of the Lady’s mares and a stallion were from his own livery, that they had been raised and trained by Imogen's own hands before they left them.
She needs answers, so she has taken herself to them, to the lake to drink from. She observes from a distance, listens to any whisperings and wonderings that bed with her in the servants’ quarters.
The days are long, mostly spent between mucking and feeding and exercising and grooming the horses and watching the Lady Bradbury taking a walk around the herb garden with knees as muddied as the kitchen staff’s, or cutting bark segments from off of the trees that dot the grounds as if she were operating in front of an amphitheatre of flora and fauna students whilst Imogen brushes down one of the horses or shovels hay
and despite the distance and Imogen's best efforts to remain subtle, the Lady Bradbury’s eyes would sometimes catch hers observing (staring, admittedly), and she would smile, and perform a barely perceivable curtsey (one of many behaviours outside of expectations), and Imogen would tip her brimmed suede hat in return, and would think of how despite the fact that the Lady’s practices of class and boundaries and what is proper were different, a bit odd, nothing of the woman's behaviour suggested that of a killer - only the situation that she stood in - the peculiarly beautiful widow with a walled off poison garden. And so maybe the same is to be said of her magic, should she even be harbouring or practicing any (although admittedly her appearance certainly is bewitching…)
and it's like the instances before but unlike them - Imogen stealing glances of the Lady Bradbury as she potters about her estate (she probably really does potter, she fills so much of her time with crafting and making. Imogen wouldn't be surprised to see her pale skin elbow-deep in caked-on terracotta pigment digging out clay rich soil into old whisky barrels to have carried by willing hands to a throwing room with a secret kiln.) but on this day, when their eyes in new routine now inevitably meet across the wildflower-speckled field (that in itself is unusual, highly out of vogue, it isn't the acres of well-kept uniform lawn and paths laid with talking-point pebbles imported from the coast that the other estates boasted and Imogen had glanced when ferrying Master Faramore’s horses elsewhere) the Lady Bradbury takes pause, before she starts to make her advance towards Imogen.
shit.
She's been brushing the same patch of short thick hair on Foie Gras’ shoulder for so long that she's surprised there isn't a bald patch. Maybe the Lady Bradbury is worried as such. Maybe Imogen has been too obvious in her observing (admitted staring). Maybe she has been found out.
She feels her brow start to perspire, the muscles in her limbs wishing to move erratically and awkwardly and restlessly and to carry her to stand out of sight hidden behind the thick neck of the horse like an obvious child playing hide and seek behind a tree trunk, or to flatten the creases in her breaches and her linen tunic and pick out the strands of hair and hay that have lodged themselves into their weave, untwist the grasp of her suspenders over her shoulders - but she practices restraint - is trained and cautious and intentional and thorough she was only being thorough with the mare, casts her gaze in iron like the blacksmith hammering the horseshoes and steels herself for the Lady Bradbury’s approach.
Her skirts are full and structured and plumed by many layers of petticoats that hide the movement of her feet across the wildflower lawn, causing her to appear to be drifting like the bees do from petal to petal, pollen dusting her pleats though ghostly her skin in contrast to the fine fabrics that she dresses for the part, black in mourning, still, bodice tight and sleeve leg of mutton, an ornate decorative layer of black lace laying over each yard of textured textile like spider webs on porcelain patterns, her husband's tableware collecting dust in the kitchen cupboard.
real impractical for how tending towards practical the Lady dares to be, hands on, too busy for errant hairs in piano key ivory and ebony windswept and loose from the high bun she pins in place with a cameo broach, a memento mori engraved in silver and inlayed with ruby eyes and tied with red ribbons. Her skin also proudly displays the age and perhaps trauma that her hair does, lines from laughter and furrowed brows and the feet of the crows that cry from the top of the chimney pots
Imogen has heard her call them her children (the birds that is, not the wrinkles) - has heard her talk to them as if they are responding, oftentimes giving her own tampered voice to do so (and to Imogen’s amusement)
The Lady never had children of her own; those are their own rivers of rumours within themselves. Imogen did not care for that stream of gossip at all.
The Lady steps closer, and the yet-to-be familiar fog of her mind cocoons Imogen, water transmuted into mist against jutting rock at the plummet of rapids, relief from the laborious work and humidity, her previous restraint to keep her body in check breaking as she visibly swallows and licks her lips, suddenly aware of how dry they had been.
The Lady Bradbury rests her hand on the back of Foie Gras’ neck, fingers long and pale and decorated in black lace like mother of pearl inlay and marquetry on a lacquered curious curio cabinet that perhaps Imogen had eyed through a stained glass window standing in the corner of the out-of-bounds office.
“Good day. It's Imogen, correct?” her delicately veiled fingers comb through the mare’s mane, her dark mahogany eyes seeming to look over the gloss of Foie Gras’ coat to inspect the way the late morning sunlight rests upon its sandy hues before turning her attention back to Imogen with a smile.
She hadn't spoken much to the Lady since she was hired a few weeks back - not much being that this is the third time, after her interview and a brief acknowledgment when being shown around by one of the housemaids the day she started.
The Lady Bradbury’s lips are painted a deep purple, an unusual colour for sure; Imogen had only seen illustrations and paintings of the dignitary from era’s passed in shades of peach and pinks and reds, stencilled in exaggerated shapes, and as with the landscaping of grounds, to wear such obvious make up itself is frowned upon, old fashioned, conveniently equated with providing false fronts.
The Lady’s teeth are bright, especially in comparison to the purpled dark lips.
and sharp
especially in comparison to how soft-
“You must pardon me, have I got it wrong?”
shit, fuck-
“Oh! n-no-” Imogen was staring, definitely “I apologise m’lady. You are right, it is Imogen.”
God dammit - she’s gonna get herself fired, fired for daydreamin’ and giving the horses receding hairlines and ignoring the Lady of the Manor when she addresses her-
The Lady chuckles to herself delicately, an act displaying a markable absence of frustration and bewilderment.
“From Master Faramore’s, yes? How are you finding the new environment? I am sure the stables here pale in comparison to his, but I do not believe that they afforded such space and the opportunity for frequent walks around such a beautiful lake…”
“Certainly, m’lady. There are less of them so they get more attention, they can be well looked after-”
“Indeed, plenty of grooming at the very least-”
Imogen can feel the hot blood rush to the surface of her cheeks, unable this time to wrangle her body’s motor reflexes.
“I have yet to visit the lake m’self, I am sure they enjoy bein’ taken by you though, they always seem happier when they come back.”
“Is that so? Well, I must insist you see the lake for yourself, if not only to relish the fact that you took great part in an amount of their contentedness.”
The Lady Bradbury looks to her expectantly, Imogen expected to have a reply for the unexpected.
“Would you accompany me this afternoon?”
Imogen can read thoughts. She can read thoughts but what if the Lady Bradbury can too? Or what if she can tell that she is imposing? Would she find herself in the bottom of that lake on her very first visit? A drink more filling than what she had wanted, her lungs full and void of buoyancy. Imogen can read thoughts but she dares not to read the Lady’s.
She can feel them, though, that first and second and now third time in her vicinity, feel how they are different, an audible silence amongst the swarm of bees wings and small talk and anxieties
At some point the Lady had stepped around Foie Gras’ head to stand beside Imogen
She smells like sage and gunpowder
On the day of her interview she had smelled of eucalyptus and raw animal fat-
“You’re quite the thinker, aren’t you?”
Of that she is guilty, though usually she can argue that the majority of the thoughts that weigh her down are not her own.
“Apologies m’lady, I wasn’t sure I had heard you right. Did you want a horse saddled for you for this afternoon?”
Imogen had never thought that her accent sounded particularly thick or clunky, but it felt as heavy as her mind tends to be around other company when speaking with the Lady, her tongue all thick tangled muscle swelling against the roof of her mouth and her teeth.
Perhaps this is some sort of witchery. She waits for the molasses to take a hold on her muscles and limbs, for the her skull to be crushed concave from the inside
But it doesn’t happen.
The Lady smiles (again)
“Almost. One for you and one for me, if you would accompany me around the lake - there isn’t a cloud in the sky today and it would be a shame to keep the clear reflections of the mountains to myself and Foie Gras here.”
Imogen is thrown. Yes, y’all could argue that this is exactly what she came here for; time alone with the Lady Bradbury, the opportunity to form a rapport or to subtly pluck at her brain but there is something in the way that she carries herself, how she talks to Imogen with ease and lack of formality that is alarmingly disarming, and leaves Imogen cloudy on why she came here in the first place-
“C-certainly, if it’s what the Lady wants-” she chuckles (again, again) waving her hand dismissively before catching herself and laying it over the patch of hair on the mare’s shoulder that surprisingly hasn’t thinned from all of Imogen’s enthusiastic (distracted) brushing.
“I will take Ceviche; you seem to have formed quite the bond with Foie Gras.”
Imogen can only nod with lips parted in silenced protest as she feels her cheeks flush again.
~
The walls of the stable are thick and stone, absent of windows save for the upper halves of the handful of wooden doors that allow for the horses to pop their heads out in eager greeting to Imogen as she walks towards them with their buckets of feed.
It is a clear day, as the Lady Bradbury has said, hot and humid and Imogen is grateful for both the surroundings and the company of the stable.
As she rakes the trodden-in and dirtied hay across the flagstone floor she allows the earthy scents of the dried grass to remind her of the smell of the sage, the crumbling mortar imitating gunpowder.
She wipes the back of her shirt sleeve across her brow, skin also sweating at the wrist where the gloves wrap work-beaten leather over shielded skin
Soft skin, mostly - save for where her fingertips appear to be frost-bitten.
A fairly visible reminder of why Imogen is here, should she forget again in the Lady’s presence-
Not that she would dare to take off the gloves.
That would only lead to questions.
‘Jammed in between horse-drawn carriage and stable door’ - she used to say, before the purple bruised tips started to migrate further, splitting out like surfaced capillaries that encompassed her fingers one knuckle at a time
They mark half-way over her palms now – like someone had dipped fine dense vegetable roots in an inkwell and struck them in lashings across her hand, punishment obfuscating her palmistry.
She hears one of the horses whinny – Ceviche most likely, a little restless, the black stallion not having been let out onto the fields yet today, as Imogen was now preparing him for his ride to be taken shortly.
The Lady’s saddle is very ornate, the leather finely tooled and decorated with organic flowing arrangements that resemble leaves and petals and insects with patterned wings or many many limbs
Its material and stitching is kin to the other saddles, the ones for notable guests and stablehands alike, brands the same maker’s mark
After a short amount of time observing (staring), Imogen suspects that the Lady tooled it herself.
~
The Lady does not ride sidesaddle – she straddles the stallion proper.
Imogen can only assume that she changes from her garden-strolling undergarments to allow for this, having never worn a crinoline herself - that would both be out-of-class, and, more importantly (to Imogen at least) - real impractical.
She had noted as such about the Lady on the first day she had seen her taking one of the horses (it was Carpaccio, a black and white paint) out of field.
It was the first instance of out-of-expected behaviour that she had witnessed.
Imogen can admit to herself that such a small thing had ignited her warming to the widow.
~
Imogen allows the Lady Bradbury and her steed to take the lead, pace set by the older woman’s enthusiasms making themselves known in short enough time from pointing out ‘notable’ forms in the sloping rock faces lining the well-worn path, covered in blankets of moss and ferns and tall stems of bell-shaped pink and white foxgloves and pomanders of wild thistles.
“I just can’t help but imagine what tiny creatures would love to make home between the cracks in the rock and the tree-stumps.”
“’lotta mice and rats I imagine, probably squirrels-”
“Well, yes, certainly…”
Ceviche’s slow walk carries on ahead of Foie Gras’, and the Lady sways with his gate in the saddle, though despite this Imogen could just about read the slight deflation in her shoulders when she had replied to the Lady’s statement.
Her head turns over her shoulder, gaze searching and challenging Imogen’s, caught staring (again), dark eyes hollows of homes burrowed in rocks, the high sun exaggerating high cheekbone architecture, pleasing ratios of brow to bridge of nose.
“…I refuse to believe that there are no imps or fairies when the land is so perfectly carved for them.”
“I can only say I’ve heard stories…” Rumours, rivers.
“Certainly, else you would not be here, would you?”
The Lady holds her gaze a moment longer, as if expecting Imogen to have an answer worth vocalising for that. Imogen feels her pulse begin to thud at her temples, the sweat returning to her hairline and underneath the cuff of her gloves.
The Lady giggles melodically and dismissively, returning her attention to whatever catches its fancy on the path ahead.
“How ugly it is that we must quarry and build. I have thought more than once about leaving the manor to the animals and the girls and making my home in the cave by the lake- oh, I am so very thrilled to show it to you.”
Her excitement cuts the atmosphere, spring back in her step transposed through the steed’s, one hand off of his reins and gesturing in the air.
“You can see it from the upper floors of the house – though that is rather rude of me to say, isn’t it? If you will allow that injustice to fall upon the architect and how societal structure seems to love its walls and assigning basement dwelling.”
Imogen finds herself inadvertently allowing Foie Gras to fall at a pace beside the Lady and Ceviche.
“That’s alright, most nights I tend t’lodge in the stables; eases my mind that I’ll be near the horses should anythin’ happen.”
“Plenty of wild animals around, yes? They do get spooked so easily.”
“I like how you’ve named ‘em – it’s fun.”
“Oh!, You do? I am so glad! You are the one who has to be calling their names most often after all.” Imogen may be in early days (hours) of learning the Lady’s tells, but the smile that creases the skin around her nose and mouth and deepens the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes feels genuine.
“It does often make me chuckle, I assume you’re fond of raw meats?”
“I suppose you would think so, wouldn’t you?”
“Are y’not?”
The Lady takes pause, her look introspective.
“Have you ever eaten horse?”
“w-what? Of course not – do people actually do that?”
“Mmhmm, across the waters – in all directions. It is certainly a common custom. What makes horse any different from beef?”
“I could never – we share a bond, they let us- they give us-” Imogen's tongue is too thick and heavy again, blubbering with words that do not come easily to it as they do her head. She allows herself a deep breath, collects what little face she has, remembers the presence she is in (a Lady regardless of murder or witchcraft) “-in all honesty I rarely eat any meat, the more time ya spend with animals the more guilty ya feel about doing so.”
“How peculiar…maybe you need to spend more time around carnivores.” The Lady laughs at her own joke this time, hand patting at the side of Ceviche’s neck, the horse unaware of what words have been said. Imogen is thankful, in this instance, though she will admit she has tried more than once to see if her mind reading extended to her four-legged friends.
“But they’ve got no choice, that’s how they were made.”
She mimics the Lady’s movements, lovingly patting Foie Gras at the same spot on her neck.
“Made…yes…You have incisors don’t you? Canines?”
“I do, but I don’t have a mouth full of ‘em. Most of our teeth are as flat as these fellas over here…” she ruffles the mare’s mane “-though I won’t deny that gettin’ bitten still hurts something fierce.”
“Makes you wonder what sort of damage you could do if you so chose to, after all, your eyes are not on the sides of your head.”
~
The lake is beautiful.
Of course it is. It displays itself naturally basined, wrapped in the embrace of the mountains surrounding draped in forest cloak, walls both man-made and much older obfuscating its view from the ground floor of the estate.
The lilac and blue hues of the pebbles are familiar, lining the vegetable patch borders in the garden, larger stones used for holding stable doors open.
It is quiet over the lake. The terrain raised around it shutting out the winds, only the quiet breeze that drifts through the canopies on the mountain crests giving a gentle whistle to the waters below, an enjoyable confusement between what is wind and what is the crashing of the tender tides.
The waters are clear blue with a hint of turquoise, green given by either the surrounding plant life’s reflection or by the ones that live underwater.
It reminds Imogen of the lakes in the mountains from her childhood. It is something else new.
Their horses slow to a stop, on the Lady’s cue.
“Magnificent, isn’t it?”
“It really is - no wonder why the horses come back so happy.”
“And will you be as such on your return?”
“Certainly m’lady, thank you for allowing me such a privilege”
“It is not mine to give, though I will make it explicit that you may come down here whenever you wish – providing the horses are happy, of course. That is what I ask of you.”
Imogen thinks she is blushing again, but the feeling is further inside her than her veins, a warmth radiating.
“You take good care of the servants at the estate, don’t you?”
For the first time, the Lady seems thrown by what Imogen offers, a step behind instead of two larger-horsed paces ahead.
“They take better care of me.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone wish to leave their home to the help.”
“It would be the very least I could do.”
“You give ‘em food and a roof over their heads-”
“They sow the seeds, they tend to the animals, they butcher their meat and harvest the wheat to bake the bread. I have been so lucky that they have yet to poison me.”
“I can only say from ma short experience that I’d find that hard t’understand.”
Her face softens again. It feels both comforting like a blanket but then uneasing like having the lights blown out.
“Funny thing, perspective…”
Lady Bradbury slides off of her horse, heels of her fine boots falling into the gaps between the pebbles, though her footing remains certain, experienced.
On the surface of the lake the trees grow downwards, the birds fly with their bellies exposed to what lies in the waters.
The Lady halts, dropping to one knee as she makes short work of the laces on her shoes.
Imogen isn’t sure if she should be offering to remove them for her, jumps down from Foie Gras and jogs clumsily on uneven surface towards the Lady regardless. 
“There are old stories of this lake, you know-”
Lady Bradbury confesses a little breathlessly, lung capacity limited by the press of her thigh into her stomach. She swaps her knee for the other on the ground, starting on the other lace.
“I won’t tell of them just yet, I would hate for them to be off-putting.”
She stands straight again, the sieved remnants of harsher winds that have made it over the mountains’ embrace wishing to make field mouse nests of her hair, spiderwebs of the lace collar around her neck, footprints of birds’ feet fossilised in the marble cornering her eyes.
She looks at home at the lake, certainly a natural thing - flesh and blood and bones cocoons to silk cotton to yarn to lace – Imogen wonders what a marvel the Lady could paint and chisel into the mouth of an open cave.
Balancing, she pulls each shoe free, grin knowing, slightly manic, intensely catching Imogen before she gathers the length of layers of skirts into one hand and steps into the clear waters.
Imogen swears she sees something conjure beneath its surface to greet her.
Laudna Bradbury had (maybe) murdered her husband – (maybe) with witchcraft, most importantly - but Imogen has bigger questions that require her answers, and so she follows the Lady into the lake.
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ryuzakemo128 · 4 months ago
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who wants a royalty au of poly141 with pirate hunter reader?
Think about it. Four dukes meet a princess who is coincidentally a pirate hunter.
Dividers: @cafekitsune + @strangergraphics
If you would like to have a say/ input for this idea: Link to a poll.
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The Defiant preys upon other vessels belonging to pirates, bandits, assassins, slavers, marauders, and thieves. Described as a beast with an insatiable appetite. Its prey deliberately chosen before headhunting those with influence inside those few communities. Targeting the ones who gather the most power amongst the pirates, slavers, and marauders.
The defiant is maintained by the pirate ships, she cleaves through in half with the obsidian blade in the front of the war ship. A blade made from obsidian and steel.
The wood of the ships would be used to fix damages incurred, and anything left over would be stored as cargo. Anything of value would be secured in safes to prevent theft from third party groups and individuals. Ensuring nothing of the wreck is left behind once they're done.
The Defiant's crew likely assess the materials on the conquered ships for quality and usability before dismantling them.
Usable wooden components are carefully removed and sorted for potential repairs or reinforcements.
Valuable metals, fabrics, and other resources are extracted and catalogued for later use or trade.
The obsidian blade is used to efficiently cut through enemy ships, minimising damage to the Defiant while maximising the harvestable materials.
Skilled carpenters and blacksmiths on board The Defiant repair and reinforce the ship with the salvaged wood and metal.
Any excess materials are stored in the ship's hold as cargo, providing additional resources for trade or barter.
The Defiant gets large shipments from outposts you have created all over the world, hubs of intelligence gathering, recruitment, trade, repairs, and maintenance. 
Your ties to people within the black market, information brokers, contraband trade, blacksmiths, mercenary services, protection rackets, money laundering, hidden workshops and safe houses. 
Planting disinformation whenever the target needs to be forced out of hiding. 
While also maintaining a close eye on the region as a hub for their spy network. One that you have meticulously established over the years to help hunt down more pirates, obtain more resources and expand their range of influence. 
Working on your own for this long has been taxing on your mind. So how do you do it when things constantly require your attention for one thing or another?
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They called you, ‘Ghost of the High Seas’, ‘The Iron Maiden’, ‘The Merciless’, ‘The Pirate Killer’ and ‘The Human Shark’.  
However, once someone got your loyalty, they would have to do something so heinous and vindictive against you to lose it.
You didn’t give out demands.
You gave out requests.
For things which for sensitive souls in the royal department often took as forceful demands with a dramatic flourish. 
John heard a rumour of how you asked for something. But a Duchess took it as an aggressive demand.
Which he thought was either a declaration of war or an exaggerated complaint about you. Either way, you weren’t to be crossed, regardless of how simple your requests actually were.
You didn't need to raise your voice to get what you wanted; a simple, firm look usually did the trick.
John chuckled to himself whenever someone complained about how you managed to make it sound like a demand. Your diplomacy was as subtle as a sledgehammer, or a knife in the back. Depending on who you were dealing with. 
It worked surprisingly well in your favour.
It was all part of your charm. But you didn’t think you had charm. Something which he vehemently disagreed with you. 
To him, you had it in spades, enough to sink a merchant’s ship. His first meeting with was in court. You were mumbling, grumbling and scowling about having to wear a dress.
“‘I must take care to maintain a vigilant watch over you and all matters of such impropriety.’” you were as sour as a cat trying to get the taste of lemon off their tongue. 
The dress you wore, a midnight blue colour with matte silver trimmings, and silver embroidery in the skirts. The skirts hovered just above the marble floor.
Custom-made as well as custom-designed to suit your personality and fit your physique perfectly. The dress in made of soft feeling velvet. The underskirts of the dress have both satin and silk underlay. Underneath the silk and satin is a layer of cotton for added comfort.
The three throwing knives sat firmly. Comfortably in your garter. It provided another level of security in case you felt cornered by someone you didn’t trust. The fan you used to cool yourself down had feathered tips along the edge, matching your dress.
It was all part of your charm. 
Which had earned you the respect of many and the fear of those who knew you well. Price had seen it in action during your second meeting. You'd simply looked at a man twice your size and said.
“Might I entreat you for the loan of that map? Your generosity would be greatly appreciated.” and somehow, it had ended with him handing it over without a fight. It was uncanny.
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“I am wholly indifferent to the duration required for its completion, provided that the task is executed with care. Such an undertaking demands an ample allowance of time, for one cannot hasten the attainment of perfection, even should the final result fail to appear flawless to the discerning eye of another.” you told your second-in-command.
You weren't petty, vindictive or sadistic. The preferred term you loved to call yourself is more, realistic, tinged with cynicism in your terms and conditions.
Strolling right past the four of them. Blatantly ignoring them. Not even giving them a sideways glance.
Your mind wasn’t focused on any of them. You had a target on your mind. The focus totally on your own mission. Your own priorities.
"Didn't your father give you a warship at sixteen?" John would overhear in complete disbelief. A warship for your sixteenth birthday? Was your father mad or just incredibly wealthy?
"I didn't just hear that, did you hear what I just heard? I'm not going hearing things, am I?" Kyle asked the other three.
"The defiant is more than enough. It dwarfs every warship stationed at this dock, and you know it." you protested. "It will cleave those pathetic pirates in two, or I will die trying."
The other person's voice is muffled. Your voice was loud enough to echo own the hallway. Simon couldn’t help but wonder how long you’ve been at sea for. Some say it has been almost eleven years. But that couldn’t be right. It would mean you were sixteen when you started Pirate hunting. 
“Did you hear that Price? Eleven years. What does eleven years sound to you if they were spent at sea the entire time?” Gaz asked Price. 
“Either a living legend or a madwoman.” John answered.
“Possibly both.” Simon interjected. 
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When Price had the misfortune timing of coming across you in person a second time. Your face, had a sickening, twisted Cheshire grin painted across your face. The two sword slicing through pirates like a hot knife through butter. Slicing and cutting them down to size. 
It was, by the lord above, it was enjoyment on your face. Unhinged joy radiating as you continued to cut them down. 
Then a loud sound came from your throat. 
Your war cry sounded like a siren's song to your crew, a battle hymn echoing  through the port as you led them further into the fray. 
These pirates had no idea what was coming for them, who was coming for them, but the four shadows lurking in the alleyways certainly did. Watching with a mix of horror and fascination as you and your loyal band of warriors descended upon the marauders like the wrath of Neptune's own hand.
You weren't just a killer; you were a strategist. Knowing what how to strip things down fast enough to leave someone with nothing to work with. It’s a system you are familiar with. A system you crafted your own purposes.
The stragglers were picked off by your archers. As the fight quickly came to an end. 
“Look, take a real good look. The defiant cannibalises other ships as it is MEANT to be. To devour, to eat, to survive. And we do it well. She does it well.”
Price couldn't help but begrudgingly admit you had a point. The way your crew moved with precision, stripping the enemy vessels of their resources, was surgical. It is adamantly clear the Defiant is more than just a ship to you; it is a living, breathing entity you had tamed and turned into a weapon of war.
“Awful thing for morally minded people, to be sure.” you stated. “But sharks eat, lurk, move around, they don't stand idle because they're pretty or have a fancy title. They survive.”
“And you know what we do? SURVIVE.”
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Perhaps it was the time Johnny seduced you into walking to their home in person a third time, whispering honeyed words into your ears like he knew what you were capable without really knowing what kind of person you are.
“You and your questions. I love them. Please tell me you have more.” you answered, taping the tips of your fingers together.
Price gripped the pommel of his sword upon hearing your voice coming through the front door. As his lover, their lover Duke John MacTavish, made his blatant seduction attempt in front of him, Duke Kyle Garrick and Duke Simon Riley. Their anger thrown towards you, as if you should have known better, despite not knowing he was spoken for already. How could you have known that? 
You tapped the tips of your fingers together nervously. “I will take my leave. My deepest apologies, your grace.” you were a rank higher. Tipsy sure. But you weren’t going to stay in a den full of lions. 
Simon blocked your exit, leaving your heart beating fast like a rabbit running from its predator. As the adrenaline building up inside, finally kicking in. “Goin somewhere luvie?” he asked. 
Price placed a hand on your shoulder, you were certain you were going to die right then and there. Was it the way your hair had crimson red flowers woven into your loose braid? Was it the matching teardrop earrings in your ears? 
“Your grace, if I may.” you said, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice. As if you were willing your courage to come back to you. 
“You may not.” Price uttered into your ear, guiding you back into the depths of the room again. “As you might observe, your... reputation has indeed found its way to us. Yet, it is our friend Johnny, who, possessing a certain flair for eloquence, appears to have made no small impression upon your good self as well.”
“I can always find someone else.” you protested. Meekly. 
“But why would you need to? Why would you even want to?” Price cooed into your ear. “You have four willing men at your service.”
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lillaydee · 1 month ago
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Shhh!!! Part 8
Celebrity!Joel Miller / F Reader
A reluctant celebrity contractor who has closed his heart for love meets a celebrity-hating Cafe on Wheels owner...
She HATES him. Thing is, he couldn't get enough of the coffee she makes...
Tag List:
@kirsteng42 @peelieblue @harriedandharassed @joelalorian @vickie5446 @inept-the-magnificent @maried01 @brittmb115 @peedrow @lovefreylove @liciafonseca
Let me know if you would like to be added/removed from the tag list.
Dividers by the awesome @saradika
Header by Moi cause I learned how to use Canva! Yay me!
WARNINGS: Grumpy Joel (The Last of Us), Protective Joel (The Last of Us), Good Parent Joel (The Last of Us), Joel is Bad at Feelings (The Last of Us), Alternate Universe - No Cordyceps Outbreak (The Last of Us), Joel Needs a Hug (The Last of Us), Celebrity Joel Miller, Fluff and Angst, Eventual Smut, I'm Bad At Tagging, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Tags May Change, Hurt Joel (The Last of Us), Jealousy.
SERIES MASTER LIST
Part 7
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Joel froze. He didn’t say anything back to Tommy. You were weirded out by the silence, so you turned around and gave Tommy a beaming smile yourself, asking him what you could get for him.
“Oh, I’m just here to get the coffee that changed my brother’s mind about fancy coffee. He seemed content with crappy coffee all his life until he had yours,” Tommy smirked at Joel, whose face had now turned bright red.
“Oh, you must be Sarah and Ellie’s Uncle Tommy! It’s nice to finally meet you! They talk about you all the time!” you held out your hand for him to shake, and he took it, kissing the tips of your fingers gently as he confirmed his identity. You didn’t see Joel’s jaw clench watching his brother easily flirt with you.
“Let me just get your order. You Millers must have an iron stomach! Six shots of espressos are no light feat!”
You turned around and immediately began preparing his order, completely unaware of the silent argument going on between the two siblings. Joel keyed in the price of an americano with the extra espresso shots, holding the reader out aggressively, stopping just before it hit the younger man squarely in the nose for him to pay.
“It’s okay, Joel, it’s on the house. Maybe he can wipe tables for a few hours,” you joked.
“Nah, he has places to be, he’s a busy guy, right Tommy?” Joel widened his eyes at his brother, though his stiff body posture visibly softened at your gentle tone.
“Actually, I could use a change of pace. Sure, I can wipe tables, you got a rag?” Tommy’s smirk widened as his brother’s face turned an oddly darker shade of beet. Joel tossed a rag to his face, signalling for him to move aside so he could serve the next customer.
“Best leave them to it,” Bill’s voice chimed in, “Not enough space in the truck for all of us,” he said, pulling a chair and sitting down himself, gesturing for Tommy to sit with him.
Tommy took a sip of the coffee you handed to him as soon as he sat down. He offered Bill a hand to shake, “Tommy, I’m Joel’s brother,” he said.
“I know who you are, I know who your brother is. Seen you on that show,” Bill grumbled. “You guys do a good job,” he said, “Been doing DIY all my life. You know what you’re talking about.”
“I hope so,” Tommy said, eyes watching Joel smile more than he ever had outside of his family time. “Learnt everything we know from our old man. Sure wish he was still around to see us, you know? We grew up lacking, he worked so hard for us, and I think our biggest regret, both mine and Joel’s, is that our parents didn’t live long enough to enjoy our success,” Tommy held his head down, fingers fiddling with the strap on his watch.
Bill nodded, eye softening a bit hearing Tommy talk about his late Papa.
The two chatted a bit, Bill learning how Tommy and Joel knew you, and Tommy learning a little bit about your family. The man was not as much of a grump as he seemed to be, Tommy found, actually reminded him of Joel a lot. It was clear how much Bill loved you, cared about you.
After a while, the two stopped chatting, eyes fixed on the truck, both you and Joel working seamlessly together. Tommy felt as if he was watching some sort of a TV show where the hero resembled his older brother, except this guy was smiling way too much.
“Is Lily seeing anyone?” he chanced a question at Bill.
Bill glared at him for a second, as if deciding if the question was intrusive, but ultimately deciding it wasn’t, seeing where the man was coming from. He had been wondering about this Joel guy since he appeared this morning, clocking his shy body language whenever you were near him. And as for you, there was something he saw in your smile when you saw him that morning. Being in the service industry, you had a smile at the ready, one you used for everyone, a generic smile you turned on effortlessly. But your real smile, you saved for a select few people in your life. The one you gave this Joel guy was definitely the second one. More so, in fact. Extremely genuine, but you didn’t hug the man or kiss him hello. You were usually very physical with people you deemed your friends. So the fact that you served this man your genuine smile, but refrained from touching him told him something.
“Who are you asking for?” Bill asked Tommy instead of answering.
Tommy laughed, “Just curious, is all,” he deflected, still watching his brother laugh with you in the truck, glancing at Bill, who was also watching the scene unfold. “Known that guy all my life, never seen him smile and laugh like that with anyone who is not his immediate family,” he told Bill, who raised an eyebrow at him.
The guy from the next truck came by, talked to you about something, and you beckoned to your uncle, who hurried over to see you. Joel came out, his own coffee cup in his hands, sitting down himself.
“You know, this is good coffee,” Tommy seemingly conceded, taking another sip from his cup. Joel nodded, couldn’t help himself from agreeing with his brother, eyes closing once more at the warm, bitter, sweet liquid warming his insides.
“But it’s strange,” Tommy continued, “It’s good, but I didn’t close my eyes as if my world was put right again after a sip. I’m wondering if it’s not the coffee… but the person who brewed it instead,” he finished, his eyes twinkling.
Joel’s head snapped around, checking if you heard Tommy’s accusation. But try as he might to retort, he couldn’t find it in himself to say anything. He could feel his cheeks turn red as his younger brother’s grin got wider and wider.
“Oh man, I’m right, aren’t I?” he smacked his brother in the shoulder. “What are you waiting for? Ask her out!”
Joel scoffed, shaking his head. “She’s a friend, Tommy. She’s the girls’ friend. I can’t risk ruining their friendships.”
“The way the girls kept talking about her at the cabin? I think they know. And what’s more, I know they approve.”
Joel hung his head, hands playing with his cup. He looked at the truck, seeing you and your uncle arrange the order that Tony’s brother put in. He had volunteered to help, but the order was urgent, so Bill would do a faster job, seeing as he was a lot more used to helping compared to him. The guy could actually use the machine and make fancy coffee with you.
“It’s not about that, Tommy. I’m not ready for that kind of thing. I don’t know if I even have it in me anymore. You want me to reel some unlucky lady into a relationship when I don’t know if I can do that? I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure that’s just cruel.”
Tommy wanted to say more but decided not to. He didn’t want to push Joel into anything like this, knowing his aversion to having a romantic relationship. He had tried. Oh Lord, how he tried. But Joel was a stubborn man. And perhaps, his love for Laura was too great, maybe he was afraid of losing again. Tommy had no idea what it was like to lose a wife, to become a single dad at 22, heck, he didn’t even know Laura that well. He was in the army when Joel met Laura. He met her maybe five times, but it was clear to him that Joel was besotted with her. And when she died, it was as if his ability to love another woman, aside from their Mama and Sarah, and later Ellie, died with her. Joel refused to even talk about her. It hurt too much, perhaps. Maybe Laura was the great love in his life and he would spend his life mourning her. And everyone around him just had to make peace with that.
But then, what he saw this past week, and especially this morning, made him think there was hope yet for his brother. His girls definitely were hoping he would find someone. Both of them seemed to make their life plans around him, not wanting him to be alone. And what Ellie kept insisting happened over the two weeks before Sarah came home was not her imagination after all. He had only seen Joel with you for a little over an hour, and already, his big brother was the happy man he knew before his wife passed. More so, in fact. He seemed light, relaxed, happy.
His Mama used to voice her worries for Joel before she passed. Joel was quiet after Laura. He had an inkling that his Mama knew more than she let on, but she never told him anything. She was so worried he would just end up alone forever, and the last thing she wanted was for her oldest boy to be lonely. And then there was Sarah, she worried for her, wanting her to grow up with a female presence in her life other than a grandmother. But any time either of them suggested a set up or him going out more to meet new women, they were either met with silence, straight out rejection, or in Tommy’s case, hostility.
Tommy knew he was not one to talk. He hadn’t exactly had a serious relationship in years. He realized that he and Maria were a new development, but now that he’d met her, he also knew that he didn’t want to even imagine a life without her in it. And he wanted his brother to have that too.
But how could he help Joel, when the man himself didn’t want to be helped?
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A couple of weeks went by, and before they knew it, the meetings for the shoots over the next season had begun. The new episodes shot over the past year was edited and ready to go for airing, and Joel found himself dragging his feet to get to work. The prospect of another year of this, as determined as he may be that it was the final one, was too much to bear for him. Another year of long work hours, another year of being away from his girls. The idea that he would have to be away from home more than he would have liked hurt him.
Sarah was home, loving her internship so much she came home every single day with stories to tell. Ellie finished her summer course, enjoying the last couple of weeks of her summer holiday. He was positively sulking at the idea that he might need to leave the house before he could send Ellie to school and come back home after the girls were asleep, missing Sarah’s stories and Ellie’s homework time. Given how busy his schedule would be, he might even be away on weekends, so movie nights with the girls and Tommy might be a thing they had to forego for a while too. Even the thought of what was coming made his heart feel heavy.
But what weighed his heart down even further was the fact that Ellie would no longer be attending the classes at the rec centre. There would be no excuse for him to see you in the mornings. For the coffee, obviously. He had no idea how he was going to go back to bad coffee on set when he had been indulging in that luxurious cup he had been having for the past few weeks.
Of course, the idea that he wouldn’t be seeing you every day for the next year was something he wasn’t looking forward to either, but that was neither here nor there, surely?
He had learnt more about you from your time together, seamlessly chatting whenever the truck had a breather from customers. You even taught him to make his own espresso shots. He actually managed to make a simple latte and an americano for a couple of customers when you went to get something from Tony. But for his special cup of coffee, his payment for helping you out in the mornings, you had always indulged him. And he wouldn’t have it any other way.
He stayed once Ellie came out of class, wiping tables, joking around with you and Ellie, only going home when you close for the day. Heck, he had the free time, and spending time with Ellie as she earned her first cheques was something he wouldn’t miss. Ellie got quite good at making coffee, despite hating the stuff. She even managed a decent cup of cappuccino a few times, complete with the foamy art thing at the top. He couldn’t get the look of happiness that graced his little girl’s face every time she succeeded, and the proud smile and hug you gave her stayed in his head.
He couldn’t deny the influence you had on his girls. He knew Ellie spoke to you about things she didn’t dare tell him, private stuff, perhaps, and watching her interact with you brought warmth to his heart. He watched as you braided Ellie’s hair in one of those stick to the head braid things, the one he had attempted for years with Sarah but could never get neat enough, when she complained the bits that was not tied in her ponytail kept getting in her face. He was so tempted to take a picture, you sitting in the truck doorway, Ellie between your legs on the steps, smiling and laughing with each other as Ellie told you something that happened in class that day, but if someone knew what a big deal it was to have someone snap a picture of them without consent, it was him. So he didn’t. But the sight was so domestic, so intimate, he wished he had done so. Ellie’s own mother ditched her as if she was yesterday’s garbage and knowing that Ellie had you to turn to made him feel better. Even Sarah wouldn’t shut up about you, even though her time spent with you were now limited to weekends, texting and phone calls. Like Ellie, she had taken to telling you stuff she wouldn’t share with Joel as well, and the fact that you never told him anything showed him they were right to have chosen to tell you in the first place.
He liked you. He knew that. There were days when he was lying in bed looking at your phone number, daring himself to text you. But he didn’t know what to say. Laura was the only woman he had ever allowed himself to be that close to, and his relationship with Laura was… different.
But God, he wished he could find the courage to text you.  
Yesterday, on Ellie’s last day of work, Joel watched as you presented her with her final cheque, giving her a tight hug after, telling her to come over in the evenings if she decided to volunteer at the centre. Though the teenager had plans to do exactly that, Joel could still see she was sad that she wouldn’t be spending so much time with you. She took a selfie with you, silly faces for the photo, you pointing at the cheque in Ellie’s hand with a huge grin on your face.
Then, you turned to him and gave him a brief hug, thanking him for helping you out, telling him not to be a stranger.
Maybe he imagined it, but he could have sworn he saw a glint of sadness in your eyes.
How he wished he had the courage to get a selfie with you too, but given how the two of you met, he didn’t even dare ask.
And he’d be lying if he said he wouldn’t miss your company.  
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“Okay, so there is a list of celebrities who had already expressed interest in the charity episodes, more than we need, actually, but those who we couldn’t fit in this season could always be on standby for next season,” Jimmy, one of the co-producers told the team, shuffling a bunch of papers on his desk, passing the list around.
“Next season?” Joel asked, “Didn’t Angela speak to you?”
Jimmy looked at Joel, confusion in his face. “What do you mean?”
“I’m not renewing. This is my final run.”
There were murmurs of confusion going around the room.
Jimmy looked flabbergasted. Tommy kept his head down, but didn’t say anything.
“Well,” Jimmy managed to blurt out, “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it then. Moving on…”
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“Angela, why hasn’t the team been informed about this being my final year?” Joel barked as he walked into Angela’s office, Tommy following behind.
Angela rolled her eyes, “Are we really back here?” she asked, her arms crossed on her chest as the brothers stood in front of her desk.
“I wasn’t kidding. I am not renewing. I was very clear about this.”
Angela opened her desk drawer, taking two envelopes out, depositing one in front of each brother. “Have a look, gentlemen, and tell me you want to decline that offer,” she said, a self-satisfied smirk on her face.
Tommy picked up the envelope and took out the new contract, shuffling the pages for a bit before settling on one page, letting a whistle escape his lips, his expression impressed. Joel didn’t even look at his envelope.
“They tripled our pay,” Tommy said. Joel still didn’t budge.
“Tell me I didn’t do you justice. Haven’t I always taken care of you two?” Angela cooed.
“I don’t care about the money. I am done. I’m not signing,” Joel reiterated, turning around to leave.
“Tommy, knock some sense into your brother here, please. Imagine what you can do with that kind of money!” Angela told Tommy, exasperated at Joel’s stubbornness.
Tommy didn’t speak. He closed up the contract and placed it back in the envelope. He raised an eyebrow, shaking his head a little before letting the envelope fall on her desk.
“I’m not renewing either.”
Joel stopped in his tracks, his head snapping around to face his brother.
“What?” Angela gasped, her face now devoid of any colour, despite the layers of make-up on it.
“I’m with Joel. I’m not renewing. I’m done. One more year and then I stop,” Tommy cooly replied, hands in his pockets.
“If the amount is not enough…”
“It’s not about the money, Angela. We’re just… done.”
Tommy turned around and joined his brother, asking him if he was interested in having a drink at his place, which Joel happily accepted.
They spent the evening drinking by Tommy’s pool, taking advantage of the final couple of weeks of vacation time they had, Joel letting loose for the first time in a long time. He felt free. Tommy wanted to retire too. One less person to fight over this decision he had made. Their phones were blaring with texts and missed calls from the agent, so much so, they had to set her tone to silent.
“So, you and Maria…?” he tried.
Tommy nodded, “Yeah…” he wiped his face with his hand, happiness written all over his features. “She’s great, Joel. She makes me happy.”
“Angela knows?”
“Fuck no. She’s gonna make it a thing. Publicity, all that. I’m not putting Maria through all that. And you know what she’s like, she’ll whip up an NDA before I finish telling her about it.”
Joel shook his head, annoyance clear across his features.
Tommy raised his eyebrows at that, pouring another shot of whiskey for the both of them.
“You two… uh… still…?” he tentatively asked, worried Joel might not be drunk enough to share.
“Nah, stopped that like… a couple months before i officially adopted Ellie?”
“Can I ask why?”
“She’s changed,” Joel said, sipping his whiskey, taking the fuzzy slippers Tommy gave him to wear in the backyard off, lying down fully on the pool chair. “You remember what she was like when we first met her?”
Tommy nodded. Of course he remembered. Angela, the sweet, fresh faced, innocent young girl who just landed a job at the agency. The two of them were among her first few clients. They were more friends than agent/clients back then, all of them starting out, still learning the business.
Somewhere along the way though, she changed. Obsessed with money, even going so far as marrying someone she didn’t love just because he was rich. The man was a known playboy, notorious for openly having a new young girl in his arms on a weekly basis. As she got older, she began to worry his interest was waning, so she took it upon herself to look younger, keep his interests alive, all in the name of living a luxurious life. It was no secret she didn’t love him, only his money. She had lovers on the side for herself, not that her husband ever cared. He stayed with her because of her Hollywood connections, good for business, you know?  
Unfortunately for her, the man matured, fell in love for real, retired, and divorced her for the love of his life. And because of the prenup she signed, she didn’t get much in the divorce. She herself had become successful by then, so she went back to her single life, with plenty of money and a list of men she could call should she ever get… lonely.
She and Joel were friends for a long time, with benefits, of course. But he was always the man he was now, someone who refused to commit. The arrangement lasted until she got married, and resumed for a bit after she got divorced, only to stop completely when Ellie came into the picture. Joel didn’t like the way she tried to influence his decisions on Ellie, realizing that his formerly kind friend had changed. Everything became a question of image, and of course, money.
Joel just couldn’t find it in himself to ever be involved with someone like her. If not for the contract he signed, he would have said goodbye to her the moment she suggested having Ellie in his life was going to ruin his image. But now, he had one year left of this contract. He was not renewing, and Tommy was by his side. He had to stick with this for one more year, and then he’ll be free of her.
“What are you gonna do when the year is up?” Tommy asked.
“Ellie still has to finish school, after that, we’ll see,” Joel shrugged, giving Tommy his glass for a top up.
“Don’t punch me, but… will Lily be part of that life?” he smirked at his brother.
To his shock, his brother smiled, so widely, and blushed.
Oh, the drinks had gotten to him, Tommy thought.
Joel closed his eyes, laid his head back on the chair, a silly grin on his face, looking just the way Tommy imagined he himself did when the revelation about Maria came forth.
“God I hope so,” Joel heard himself say.
Shit. Stop talking.
“I like her, Tommy, I really do.”
Fuck, what the fuck was wrong with him? Stop talking!
“She’s so sweet, and kind, and funny, and smart, and she’s so nice to the girls, they love her, and she makes the best coffee in the world!” he exclaimed, gesturing to show how big the world was with his arms, spilling whiskey on himself.
Fuck it felt good to finally say it out loud.
Fuck, did he say it out loud?
He sat up, Tommy grinning at him like that cat from that book. Was it a cat?
“Maybe I should stop drinking, huh?” he feebly said.
“Fuck, no! I want to hear this!” Tommy teased, taking the glass from his brother and giving him water instead. “So we were right, you do like her?”
Joel hid his face in his hands, nodding.
“So tell her! What are you waiting for?”
Joel took his hands off his face, frowning a little.
“I don’t think she likes me like that,” he pouted, lying back down, arms over his eyes.
“What do you mean?”
Joel sat back up, looking a bit forlorn now.
“She hates celebrities. We’ve been mean to her all her life. One stole her boyfriend. And I yelled at her. I fucking yelled at her, Tommy!”
Tommy wanted to laugh. When was the last time Joel was this relaxed? But this was the most he had ever gotten out of his brother, and he wasn’t going to let such an opportunity pass by.
“Well, maybe when you retire, you could ask her out. Technically, you wouldn’t be a celebrity anymore then, right?”
Joel’s eyes went wide, “Yeah, you’re right! I could ask her out then! I need to text her and tell her,” he slurred, fishing his phone out of his pocket, squinting a little at the screen when the brightness hit his eyes, deciding then he shouldn’t text you right away.
“Okay, let’s call Sarah huh? Have her pick you up? You’re in no shape to drive.”
“It’s just down the street, Tommy. I’ll be fine. I’ll walk.”
“Yeah, I don’t think you can walk a straight line to the bathroom, brother, let alone to your place. It’s a very long street.”
Joel laughed, standing up, swaying slightly. He downed the bottle of water Tommy gave him, going to the bathroom. He splashed some water on his face, smiling to himself. He felt lighter. He may have been loopy, but he knew he was telling Tommy the truth. He liked you. and it felt good to finally say it out loud.
“Hey Joel,” Tommy called out as he struggled to put his boots back on, “I want you and the girls to meet Maria.”
Joel nodded, happy to see his brother happy.
“Friday night? That sushi place?”
“It’s a date,” Joel said, squinting his eyes a little as Sarah’s headlights shone in his eyes. Ellie came out and went into the back seat, waving at Tommy as she did so.
“Hey, since it’s a date,” Tommy said, walking to the car with his brother, “Why don’t you ask Lily to join us?” He bent down to Sarah’s open window, “What do you think, girls? Do you think we should invite Lily to join us for dinner with Maria?”
The squeals the girls let out made Joel’s efforts to bend himself into the mini much more difficult, but his heart was soaring at the idea that his girls were that excited at the prospect of having you join them for dinner.
As he laid in bed that night, hoping to God his first hangover in years wouldn’t be too harsh, he took a deep breath and held his phone in his hands, the texting app at the ready. Might as well do it now while liquid courage was still in his system.
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You placed the recycling in the bin, running a little as you went back to your apartment. The summer heat was still very much evident, even at night time, and you couldn’t wait to get back in the comfort of your AC. You were fishing for your keys in your pocket when Lucy tapped you on your shoulder, a meek smile on her face, a sponge cake in her outstretched hands.
“I need to apologize,” she said, a cringe accompanying the apology.
You felt bad for her, so you beckoned her inside, even cutting her a slice of the cake.
“I want to say sorry,” she began, “That day, I was hungover, I had a terrible first date the night before, and seeing Joel here…” she sighed, shame across her features.
“Hey, it’s no big deal, really… if you’re worried I would say anything, I…”
Lucy held her hand up, “No, Lily, I was rude to you. And I’m pretty sure I said some really bad stuff about him too. I just… I feel like I need to set the story straight.”
You nodded, letting her go on.
“See, I think I made him sound like some jerk or something. He really isn’t, Lily, there’s a reason I’m so bitter, after all,” she said, head hung a little, ashamed of herself.
“He’s a great guy. I dare even say that he’s the most gentlemanly man I have ever met. So polite, so gentle, so considerate. Compared to his brother, who, by all means was a great guy himself, Joel was just… on a different level, you know? I crushed hard on him. Everything I just said about him is true, and he’s good looking, humble, and a great dad to his kid to boot? Oh, I was in love with him before he even knew my name!”
You smiled, knowing that she was right. Joel was a great dad. You’ve seen him with his kids, they clearly loved each other a lot. And aside from his tantrums at the beginning, you knew him to be a great guy too. Everything she said about him was true.
“And the thing I said about his… bedroom… skills…” she added, carefully choosing her words, “I think his… lacking… was more due to the fact that he didn’t want intimacy, rather than his lack of a gift or talent, if you know what I mean…” she narrowed her eyes at you, head going down a little, as if trying to get you to read her mind.
Your head lowered with hers, face scrunched up, confused by her words.
“He’s packing, honey. Very much so,” Lucy blurted out.
Oh. Oh…
“So, he didn’t really need to try that hard, if you get my meaning,” she added, rather conspiratorially.
Uh… sure, whatever you say dear.
“So, when he reconfirmed the fact that he didn’t want more, I was heartbroken. He was perfect, he was actually a great guy, back then, at least. And he didn’t want me and couldn’t have made it clearer. I think if he tried to make it any clearer, he would have seriously injured himself. I couldn’t stay there and see him every day. It’s like being a diabetic in a candy store, and the shop owner wouldn’t let you buy any,” she sulked a little at her own words, making you snort.
She saw the way you were refraining from laughing and laughed herself. You burst into laughter, Lucy laughing harder than you at herself.
“So, I came to ‘warn’ you because I was jealous. I didn’t mean any of it,” she said, looking genuinely sorry for putting you in that position. “There’s a reason all his ‘exes’ are still on good terms with him, you know. He’s a great guy. Just… emotionally stunted, is all. And they all handled the NDA thing much better than I ever did,” she continued, taking another bite of the sponge cake.
“What about the NDA?” you couldn’t help asking. For someone who didn’t really bother with the gossip columns growing up, you were really curious.
“Ah,” she said, taking another slice of cake. “See, as I understand it, at least, the way it was explained to me before we, you know… had that experience in his office, he only made sure the NDAs go to people who were not deemed his ‘serious romantic partners’. Only his ‘friends with benefits’ receive them. And so far, most of those he slept with were given one, so when his agent gave me one, I knew right away that I was never ever going to be ‘the one’ for him,” she explained, taking another bite of the cake. “Damn, this cake is good.”
“Most? Did he ever not give anyone one?” you heard yourself ask, almost slapping yourself for even asking. Why did you need to know? You’re not interested, right?
Lucy nodded frantically, and you felt your heart drop further and further down every time her head dropped down. “One lady contractor, she was in that show on TLC a while back? Tess, I think? Yeah, Tess. They were seen together a lot, and there were rumours that they were an item. From what I heard, she didn’t have to sign one. They broke up when she moved to Texas.”
Okay, you shouldn’t listen to this anymore. So you changed the subject, asking her where she got the cake instead.
Before she left, she turned around and took you by the hand, making you promise her that you wouldn’t use her words back then against Joel. You gave her a disbelieving laugh, “Honey, I’m not with Joel. He’s a friend.”
“Okay, uhuh… sure… cause we all look at our friends the way you guys looked at each other that morning,” she smirked.
“Lucy, there was no look, I was just thanking him for helping me out,” you insisted, feeling your face and neck get hotter as you did.
“Lily, honey,” she said, “I may be a delusional, inconsiderate, untalented bitch who made you suffer through my horrendous singing at one point, and I was definitely hungover that morning, but I’m not blind. If Joel Miller had looked at you the way he would a friend that morning, I would not have come barging in here trying to make him seem like a limp-dicked, selfish man whore,” her eye brows were raised so high, her lips in a mocking pout at you, her hands rubbing your arms soothingly, as if she was sorry you were too thick to understand what was going on that morning.
With that, she took your face in her hands, pinched your cheeks and bid you goodnight.
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You laid in bed unable to sleep, wondering what the hell to do with the information Lucy just gave you. You could not deny what she said back then did give you pause about Joel.
Sure, you liked him. He’s nice. Funny, even, when no one else was looking.
And okay, if you squint, he may even pass as okay looking.
Oh, who the fuck were you kidding? He’s totally hot. So hot you found yourself feeling hot all over every time he looked at you. Like all the heat in your veins just pooled under the outermost layer of your skin. Not to mention the way your heart skipped a beat every time he smiled at you. It’s a wonder you hadn’t toppled over from cardiac arrest at this point.
You looked for him in the morning crowd, and that week he was away…
Your fingers itched to text him. You willed Ellie to send you pictures with him in it. You stared at that photo she sent you of herself, Sarah and Joel with sushi in their mouths. Even at his silliest, he looked dashing. You found out rather early that googling his pictures was pointless, he didn’t smile in any of them, always with that frown on his face. You watched YouTube videos of him from that show, but he didn’t smile there either. You missed his smile when he was away. You kept rereading the text he sent you asking you to teach him how to brew coffee, the only texts between the two of you, aside from the ‘hi’ he sent when he first got your number.
When you said goodbye to Ellie yesterday, you meant it when you said she could still contact you. She’s been telling you things, whenever Joel was out of the truck. Texting you at night and even calling you with Sarah to talk to you about more private stuff. You didn’t mind, of course, but on one such call, he knocked on Ellie’s door and told her she should go to sleep, it’s late, and you heard him say goodnight to her and Sarah.
You couldn’t stop imagining what he was like at home that night, in a more domestic setting. What was he wearing? Did he look as good as he did outside?
After hugging Ellie goodbye, you took a chance and hugged him goodbye too, heart heavy at the thought of not seeing him around as much. You made the mistake of taking a whiff of his shirt as you did.
Fuck, he smelled great. And now you couldn’t stop thinking about him. Not that you ever managed to since he started hanging out at the truck.
If what Lucy said back then made you pause on being closer to him, that conversation you just had with her didn’t help either. You could not get him out of your mind. And that comment about his… physique…
Your phone chimed, making you jump.
Joel Miller: Hej
Your heart soared. He texted you. He actually texted you.
Okay, stay cool. Relax. He couldn’t see you.
You: Hei. What are you, Swedish now?
Joel Miller: I might be a bot drink.
You: You don’t say? How can I help you, Mr Miller?
Joel Miller: Yuo frre Frrday?
You: Uh… I’m gonna guess you’re asking if I’m free Friday? I’m working. Why?
Joel Miller: Sorry, fst fingers. Froday night. You free Friday night?
You: I should be.
Joel Miller: Call I kill you?
Joel Miller: Walt. Np.
Joel Miller: No.
Joel Miller calling.
“Hello?” you had to refrain from laughing.
“My fingers are too big to text.”
“I can see that.”
He chuckled. You could hear the slow, lazy drag in his laugh.
Oh yeah, he’s drunk alright.
“I was trying to ask if you would be free for dinner. Friday. With me. The girls, Tommy, and his new girlfriend.”
His voice was so calm, slow, relaxed, every word drawn out. God it made you feel things.
“You sure you want me there? Sounds like a family thing. I don’t want to intrude…”
“You’re not. Please? The girls would really love it if you joined us.”
I would too. Please say yes.  
You were quiet. He lifted his phone off his ear, checking to see of you were still online. You were.
“Hello? You still there?”
“Yeah, I am, I just… are you asking me this cause you’re drunk?”
“No,” he slurred, chuckling. “I’m really asking. I’ll ask you again tomorrow, if you don’t believe me,” he promised.
“Okay, ask me tomorrow.”
“But if I do, would you say yes?”
“We’ll see, Mr Miller.”
“Okay,” he said, unable to control the grin on his face. “I’ll text you tomorrow. Good night Lily, please say yes.”
“Night Joel.”
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Part 9
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certified-sleep-deprived · 2 months ago
Text
In the club
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Part one: The Club
Authors note: sorry this took so long to post. I was going through a slip in grades, a writers block, and just a general unhappiness with some parts of this story. I've rewritten a good portion but I'm still unhappy with the smut, so any tips or comments would be greatful! This is being divided into two parts as I don't know how long the second one will be. If it's anything like this one? It'll be awhile.
Wc: 6500+
Warnings/additional tags: closet sex, cunnilingus, fingering and oral (r receiving), strap-on (r receiving), Agatha is a scheming little shit, Rio fucked both these ladies once, Reader and Agatha are so down bad for eachother, mommy kink, voice kink (?), r has an obsession with Agatha's hands (don't we all), top Agatha, bottom Reader, Reader has a name but it can be overlooked easily :)
Miami is home to many kinds of people. Average citizens, thugs, hookers; and then there's you: a crime boss. You had an iron grip on your assets, even had a good relationship on the side with your girlfriend, Rio. Although, I should say ex-girlfriend now that she had betrayed you and turned you into the police.
Six years in prison wasn't a light sentence by any means, especially when you were thrown into a literal concrete box with no light and no human interaction.
Your sentence was for life, but you only spent six of them thanks to this rookie looking for a mentor in crime, who would eventually turn out to be your friend.
He was the one to coax you out of your forced retirement. You should have been laying low, staying away from your life of crime, you had argued; but he wasn't taking it. There were people who had moved in on your turf, and you needed to take it back. As the younger guy was persistent as he was infuriating, the idea was tempting, so here you were four years later as you continued to rebuild your crime empire from nearly the ground up.
Tonight though, you were sipping a glass of wine from the balcony of your penthouse overlooking the Miami skyline. The sunset was like a Bob Ross painting. Streaks of orange and pink tangled in the clouds in a tango, the sun illuminating through them like stained glass in a chapel.
You never knew how much you missed it when you came out of prison and back into the world. Now, you never took another sunset for granted, as who knew which one would be your lazy?
“Ellie!!”
The out-of-world trance you were in from the skyline was broken by the sound of one nagging apprentice.
Your friend has been insistently bugging you about going out to a nightclub to blow off some tension, maybe hook up with someone as a bonus. There were certain things that required attention, you had argued, and they couldn't wait, as they had a time frame. Did your friend care? Hell no! He practically tuned you out and left you with no other choice but to go with him to the nightclub he had been raving on about.
It was dangerous to go out to just any nightclub in the bustling city of Miami without doing research on its owner. Hell, it's dangerous to go to just any nightclub period, no matter where it was. It could belong to a drug cartel, a narc looking for vulnerable prey, or even worse, her.
Agatha Harkness.
She was your biggest competition in the crime world, and she was always two steps ahead of you. When you had escaped from that concrete box, she was the main onr who had made moves in on your turf.
She was just as aware of you as you were aware of her. It felt like she knew more about you than you knew about yourself sometimes, like she was living in your mind.
At the scene of where your jobs and crimes should have been, is a nicely painted note on a wall or a piece of paper from her that usually says something along the lines of, ‘better luck next time, sweetheart’, with a purple heart attached.
Every. Single. Time.
Truth be told, you unfortunately came to admire her when it came to how she would work. But it also frustrated you to no end. It's as if she somehow knew your intricately prepared jobs beforehand. Almost like she was a psychic or a fortune teller. And the worst part? She would leave no trace of evidence it was her behind, except for the hand-painted notes she left for you after.
It irks you more the fact that nobody has seen her face. Ever. She was more incognito than a drop in the ocean. This information also meant that she likely disguises herself as an everyday Sue. And there were many of those around Miami. So you had no idea what she looked like, and your friend could be dragging you directly into her web tonight.
Only one way to find out, you suppose.
So, here you were now, putting on a flowing, black dress that went ankle-length, and held a sewn-in pocket on the off-white inside. The dress had a slit in the front that stretched from the bottom to just above your knees, making it easier to not trip from limited leg movement. It was also strapless to prevent irritation from rubbing against your shoulders all night.
You had debated not putting on a wig, because who would recognize you? But then it dawned on you that it maybe wasn't best to stand out with turquoise dyed hair, especially if there was a certain rival there to spot you. So, it was a natural-colored wig for you tonight.
You placed a pocket knife in the cushioned slip inside your dress for safety measures. You never know who or what you'll encounter in a crowded nightclub. Especially in a city like Miami.
Upon standing in front of the mirror in your bedroom, you realized that, wow, you'd certainly bat a few eyes, to say the least. The dress hugged your curves in all the right places like it was suffocated saran wrap. And between the makeup and your hair? Bellissimo! Anyone who would see you wouldn't be able to take their eyes off of you, and you didn't know if that was going to be a good or bad thing.
The voice of your friend from the other side of your door breaks you out of your self-admiriful state,
“Hey, uccella canterina! If you spend any longer in there the club will go out of business!”
His exaggeration elicited a chuckle from you,
“I'm coming, I'm coming! Go start your car!”, you call out to him.
The faint sound of the front door closing indicates he's gone, and so you make sure you have everything before giving yourself another look over in the mirror. Please don't attract the wrong kind of attention, you think before exiting your room and heading for the front door.
The cool air nips and flows across your exposed skin as you step out of the doors to the outside. They close behind you with a click and the sound of a car revving its engine breaks the near silence of the night. Your friend is waiting in front of his sports car, and once he spots you, he sends a whistle your way.
“Damn, girl! You'll have ladies all over you tonight with that outfit!”
His words are genuine and they hold no underlying intentions. You get into the car still putting on your coat before replying to his statement,
“You really know how to make a girl feel special. I could say the same for you, dude! You're dashing, and I think you'll definitely have guys and gals all over your dick tonight.”
He shakes his head with amusement before pulling out of the driveway and looking behind him before taking off in the streets.
“You're too much, sometimes, girlie.”
The wind battles your put-together hair as your friend sped through the streets to the nightclub. Nighttime air did wonders for calming your racing mind.
There was something about the crisp ocean air that brought a calm mood upon you. Maybe it was the smell of saltwater, or maybe it was the cooler temperature of the air at night. Whatever it was, it was able to calm you, unlike the stuffy, humid air of the daytime. The air had such a powerful calming effect it was lulling you to sleep, almost like magic.
You hadn't even noticed that the car had arrived at its destination until your friend gently shook you awake by the shoulder,
“Hey, we're here. Come on!”
His voice betrays the excitement and anticipation that courses through his body, but he still tried to be gentle with waking you.
Your eyes took at least a minute to adjust to the bright lighting of the outside of the nightclub you were at. To say it was blinding was an understatement. It was like a flashlight was being shone in your eyes, and it burned for a moment until your eyes fully adjusted from your power nap. Only then, did you realize the nightclub your friend took you to.
It was E11even. The most exclusive club in Miami.
Your breath was taken away by the beauty of it. In your entire time of clubbing and doing jobs, you had never made a stop at E11even before. You've heard stories, but never ventured in yourself.
And the fact you haven't been here before worried you.
Who knew what kind of people lurked here? It was downtown Miami, after all.
Your friend was next to your door and seemed to notice the worry etched in your brow. His hand finds its way to your shoulder in a soft squeeze of reassurance.
“Hey, don't worry. I've been here before, and I can say nobody will recognize you. You blend in like a basic bitch any- ow! What was that for?”
You punch his arm at the playful jest with a shit-eating grin on your face.
“It felt necessary.”
He huffs and shakes his head before opening your door for you to get out.
“I don't want any wrinkles in this suit, stronza. You're lucky you're my best friend.”
You step out of the car and he closes the door behind you before locking it with the button on his keys.
It's only about ten minutes you both are waiting on the line for the door when you get to the entrance. Expecting to pay, you pull out your phone, but your friend says his name to the bouncer before he guides you in with a hand on your back. Your head swivels back to the bouncer fading from your view and then back to your friend with confusion. He laughs when he notices your perplexed state and says,
“I'm on the V.I.P. list.”
A smile paints its way on your lips before responding in a mocking tone,
“Look at you, climbing up the rungs of the ladder. Maybe you aren't the amateur I met three years ago.”
His unamused side-eye tells you he's unimpressed, but he shakes his head before leading you to the bar and sitting down.
The dance floor to your right was loud and bright; the exact opposite of the bar you were sitting down at. Lights over your heads were so dim you could barely notice them. Maybe it was a contrast done on purpose, or maybe it was a coincidence. You'd never know, but it was a nice feeling to not be under all the hot and bright lights of the main floor.
The bartender comes over to order your drinks. Your friend orders a couple of shots of tequila and you order a shot of vodka. His gaze turns back to you as the bar keep pours your shots.
“Hey, I've come a long way since then. I haven't been an amateur since I convinced you to shadow me-
“More like you cajoled me, but same thing I guess.”
He kicks your leg under the lip of the bar with a smug smirk.
“Payback, huh? You always were petty”, you say as the shots come back to you.
Your friend watches from beside you as you gulp the shot in one swallow with high regard. He huffs with amusement before turning to his two shots of tequila.
“You still know how to keep the party going.”
“That's because I don't crash from the first sips of alcohol, like you”, you jest with a shoulder bump.
“I may have been in prison for a while, but it's been a long time since then. I still know how to live it up.”
He knew you were right, declared by his lack of words after, but he continued to down the last shot of his drink before placing the shot glass back on the counter. Your thoughts wander back to your paranoia for a moment, but thankfully you're pulled back when a guy approaches your friend and looks him up and down with a hungry gaze.
The guy is clearly inebriated as he flirts with your friend.
“Hey, the name's Ruben. But you can call me anything you like.”
A chuckle escapes your lips at the flustered state of the companion beside you. His cheeks were dusted a light red as Ruben holds out a hand to him to take.
“I think that's your cue, amico”, your voice takes on a teasing tone as the guy, Ruben, practically drags him to the dance floor. Both stumble and eventually blend in with the crowd so much you can't spot them anymore.
The minutes seemed to drag on with shot after shot of vodka as the effects started to settle in.
Only when an older woman sat herself next to you, were you temporarily broken from your inebriated trance. She was the most ethereal thing you've seen. Long, wavy, chestnut locks that flowed around her. High cheekbones that just screamed confidence and power. A deep purple tailored suit jacket hugged her shoulders tightly with matching slacks and a white dress shirt. And, to top it off, her eyes were a captivating cerulean, and they were pulling you in like quicksand.
She caught your lingering gaze and gave you a hungry look up and down with a smirk. Her eyes dragged from top to bottom before they finally settled on your own eyes. Time seemed to stop as this happens, everything around you feeling like it was slowing down. It's not often, if at all, a stranger can get you this flustered by a look alone, and it made you feel small… vulnerable.
“What's a pretty girl like you doing here? First time clubbing?”
Her voice is raspy, but smooth like butter. And, fuck, did it do things to you.
A fire ignites itself in your gut and it's heat spreads throughout your body, making the room suddenly feel hot. You shift in your seat slightly to try and center yourself and get a grip. A random woman's (who you literally just met) voice shouldn't be making you feel like this. It's a stark contrast to your usual bravado, and it scared you.
You couldn't tell if it was just her, or the vodka, or even both, but whatever it was, it was doing things to you.
The clearing of her throat brought you back to the present and out of your intense staring competition with the bar counter. It reminded you that she had asked you something.
“Just looking to alleviate some stress, I guess. As for first time…? It isn't my first time clubbing, but it is my first time here.”
Your voice shakes slightly as you respond to her earlier question. What the fuck was wrong with you? You were never this nervous or jittery when you drank. Did this woman have you under a spell or something? This isn't like the fierce, cold crime boss you are.
A sly-smile dances across her lips as she takes in your reaction, like she's cornered her prey. She leans an elbow on the bar counter and places her hand on her palm and looks at you with an unreadable expression. But it's almost like she's analyzing you, picking apart every tissue, every cell in your body and studying them. She brings her shot glass of tequila to her lips and takes a big gulp. As the burning liquid slides down her throat, it bobs and you didn't think she could get any more captivating.
Her eyes snap back up to yours in a heated gaze, pupils dilated and full of hunger and want. It sent shockwaves of heat directly to your core, and your breath was stolen away until she spoke again,
“Well, that makes sense. I haven't seen you here before.”
And your voice cuts through before you could think,
“You a regular?”
She seemed to contemplate her answer for a second.
“I suppose you could say that, sweetheart.”
You turned your head away from her to hide your burning cheeks, not wanting to show how open you felt at that moment. And the way she said the word sweetheart felt oddly familiar, and it sent chills down your spine. But before you could question it further, her hand comes up to the side of your jaw and tilts your face to turn back towards her. Her hands. God, they were so rough yet tender at the same time.
Your heart felt like it was about to beat out of your chest when she looked you in the eyes again. The beauty of her eyes were like a siren call, wanting to pull you into the depths of their ocean.
Her eyes flicker down to your lips as her face inched closer. Slowly, but surely, you found yourself leaning in as well, as you knew this woman had you in her web, and there was no escape from it. At this moment, it didn't matter enough who she was or even could be.
Just as her breath ghosts over your lips, she pulls away and you just about whine until she speaks in that honey-smooth voice of hers,
“Let's take this somewhere more secluded, shall we?”
She offers a hand out to you, and you took it almost immediately, desperate for any physical contact with her. It wasn't just the vodka talking at this point, it was her. She had you wrapped around her finger like a thread, and she fucking knew it too. You would soon be wrapped around her fingers quite literally.
The way her fingers interlaced with yours as she gently guided you to wherever she was going felt so intimate, making you feel so fluttery inside. You'd gladly follow this mystery woman to the ends of the earth if it meant you could have her.
She eventually brings the both of you to a small storage closet in a more secluded area. The lighting was dim, and it wasn't spacious, but it would have to do.
As she turned to face you, you brought your free hand, the one not intertwined with hers, up to her face and your eyes scrape over every line, every contour of her face as if you were trying to burn it into your memory.
“Has anybody told you that you are absolutely bewitching?”
You are now the one to catch her off guard, her resolve nearly crumbles at the sound of your voice and your words. But, she composes herself and shoots back another witty remark,
“I could say the same for you, sweetheart. You are enthralling, like an enchantress.”
Her free hand comes up to cradle the back of your head before she closes the distance and finally, finally, presses her lips to yours in a burning kiss.
It was tender and soft at first, but soon dissolved into a desperate need and hunger for one another. Your hand gripped hers tighter as she backed you up into a table, your ass pressing into the refined wood. The kiss deepened as she lifted you by your thighs onto the table, tongues dancing together in a heated tango, and your bodies bumped and rocked against one another.
You wanted to commit the taste of her to memory as best as you could. Because if this was just a fleeting one-night stand, then you'll be damned if you don't make the most of it.
The buzz of your phone almost breaks you from your heated interaction, but as you go to reach for it, the woman grabs your wrist in a firm grip.
“Live in the moment honey”, she let's go of your hands and trails it slowly up your thigh, teasingly.
“I can make you feel so good”, her voice is the only other sound in the closet besides your combined breathing.
“Do you want that? You want me to make you feel good?” You nod your head frantically, so desperately. It was embarrassing, so pathetic, but you could care less at this moment.
She has you under her control and willing to obey every command she gives you.
“Take off your jacket. I want to see that sexy dress of yours being hidden from me.”
Her voice is dominant and commanding action, washing over you like a spell. And like so, you immediately start shedding the outer layer that is your coat. It was almost pathetic at how fast you got it off and on the floor of the closet. A chuckle escaped her lips, but then her breath hitched as the sight of you in your form-hugging dress greets her.
Her cerulean eyes danced over your body that was fitted by the dress. It accentuated all your curves and dips so well, and it made the hunger for you by this woman skyrocket. If it wasn't clear she was pulled to you before, then it should be now.
She takes notice of how you slightly spread your legs, as if almost on instinct, and her hands are immediately on your thighs, spreading them further for her to get leverage.
As she speaks, her hot breath fans over your face,
“You really are a gem, sweetheart. I might just have to keep you all to myself, don't I? But then again, you'd probably like that.”
She runs her hands up and down your thighs under your dress before using them as leverage to pull you flush to her. The table scoots from the wall a bit at the sudden movement. As you come in contact with her crotch, you feel the outline of a strap under her slacks, and by the judge of it, it's big.
The stimulation against you clit leaves a hitch in your breath, and she smiles through peppering kisses on your jaw.
“Someone seems excited. I'll have to work you open first, baby”, she drawls, “bet you haven't had a good fuck in awhile by anyone, haven't you?”
You don't want to admit it, but it's been ages since you've felt this way, been in this position.
It's been too long.
Her lips graze your earlobe, gently nipping at it before moving slowly down your jawline, and eventually the junction of your neck. The feeling of her tongue and teeth marking up your neck was a sensation you were once positive you wouldn't feel again, but here you were, under this woman and she was giving it to you.
Embarrassment flooded through your veins at the prospect of admitting how long you've been denied an orgasm, but it was inevitable. So as you nod your head, she coos in an almost-teasing way,
“Poor thing. Seems like mommy will have to change that then, yeah?”
Holy fuck.
That word.
Mommy.
You think your soul just left your body and ascended at the way she called herself ‘mommy'. Normally you wouldn't fold like this for anyone. Anyone. But with her? It just felt so right. The tight resolve you always had crumbled away in an instant for her and you only met her not even ten minutes ago. She has you under her spell, and you wouldn't have it any other way.
You feel her lips graze a certain spot on your neck before biting down into it and sucking harshly. A gasp leaves your throat at the sudden sensation, but instead of it hurting like it should, it actually felt really good.
Fuck, you thought. Did you have a pain kink now?
The way her lips nipped and sucked at your neck felt heavenly, it was like she was staking a claim over you. Your friend would have questions come tomorrow, but you could care less. All you cared about in this moment was this divine woman hovering over you right now.
Her lips roughly pull away from your neck with a ‘pop’, a trail of saliva connecting her lips to a newly forming bruise on your neck. A satisfied smirk lit up her face, but something told you she was far from over.
Her fingers trailing on the inside of your thighs and inching closer to your core is what brings you back to earth. With this close-up, you might have a new thing to obsess over on her: her hands. They appear like they have aged like fine wine, with how taut the skin around her veins were, and the sheer power that exuded from them.
Her long, elegant fingers dance and stroke along your inner thighs so light it felt like she was almost tickling you. It was intentionally teasing, and it was driving you up the wall (almost literally!).
The teasing hand strokes along your thigh for a moment longer before dipping in the waistband of your underwear and pulling them straight down your legs. And you swear a moan escaped her throat as she caught just how wet you were through the widened slit in your dress.
“Fuck, baby you're dripping. This all for me? For mommy?”
If it was possible, her words made you even wetter. Possibly you also had a newfound voice kink for this captivating woman, amongst other things you'd discover tonight.
She gets on her knees in front of your core and her left hand was stroking along the inside of your folds, gathering your wetness as a lube for her fingers. Her hand stilled for a moment before she pushed two of those amazing fingers in your dripping hole, and the sudden action made you throw your head back with the most obscene sound you've made in your life. The pace was slow at first, but quickly built a crescendo as her lips attached onto your clit and began to suck on it.
It was intense the way she fucked and twisted her fingers into you, and every bump and ridge of them hit the right spots. Her lips were still wrapped around your pearl and continued their sucking motion while her tongue mapped something out, a word maybe. Her name? There was no way you could tell.
“You taste so good, sweetheart. Absolutely divine”, she all but groans out. The vibration against your bundle of nerves seems to stimulate it more, and it sends shockwaves throughout your core. A raging inferno pulsed through you. An unstoppable inferno, at that.
“Your pussy is so delectable. It tastes like it was made for me, and it's all mine.”
She soon added a third finger without you noticing, and the initial stretch burned so good.
“Oh! Oh, shit. Oh my god!”
Your breaths are coming out in ragged gasps as her fingers curl and uncurl into that one spongey spot inside of you, and she drags another sinful moan from your throat. She revels in every millisecond of it with a dark look.
Liquid fire felt like it was coursing through your body with every curl of her fingers, and every suck of her lips on your clit. It felt absolutely divine. Her lips and fingers combined were the eighth wonder of the world. The world you stood on and shared with her.
Her fingers played you like a violin. So intricate, but still holding great power behind them. Still so quick, anticipating the next second ahead. She was anticipating the next second of your approaching release like reading ahead in her sheet music. You were her sheet music.
Your release approaches quickly, and as you're about to tip over the edge, she rises up from her spot in between your legs and crashes her lips on yours, still fucking you in a harshly fast rhythm with her fingers.
“I'm so close. Please, let me cum!”
Your words seem to have a deep effect on her as she looks at you through hooded eyes.
“Go on. Cum for me, baby. I want to see and hear you as I bring you to the edge.”
Those words are what broke the camel's back, and it feels like a tsunami crashing over you with how strong your release was. Your entire body jerks and arches into hers as you grasp onto her shoulders, trying to steady yourself through what may be the most powerful orgasm you've had yet.
The aggressive waves of your high soon became shallow pushes against the shore as you came back to your senses. A soft brush of her fingers tucking your hair behind your ear was what eventually brought you back down from Mars.
Your new obsession stood over you like a statue, pupils dilated and a deep fire in her eyes as she raked over your disheveled state with pride. She gently withdrew her fingers from your cunt with an unholy sound, and a small whine from your throat.
“God, you're so beautiful, and you taste so good”, she moans as she sucks the residue of your orgasm off of her fingers, and looks you in the eyes as she does so. The sight of her licking and sucking your essence of her fingers could have made you cum again from how hot she looked doing it.
“I can't wait to see how well you fit around my cock, pretty girl.”
One of her strong hands comes up to caress the side of your face, her thumb stroking your cheek in a loving way almost, before pulling you upfor a quick, messy kiss. Her other hand trails down to her slacks and undoes the clip and zipper binding them together. She pulls away from the kiss and uses her other hand to push the slacks down her thighs and to pool at her ankles.
Around her hips and thighs is a buckled harness, and in the center of it was a large, purple dildo. It was definitely larger than any strap you've taken previously, and the thought of it stretching you out further than her fingers had made your mouth water like a starved woman. She caught you staring the strap down and with a knowing look, she simply tilted your chin up so the only thing you could see was her blazing, lustful eyes. Most of the cerulean of her irises was blown out by her pupils, and it looked like she was a feral animal in heat, but still holding some semblance of control. There was no way this was just a quick fuck in a closet, or at least you hoped.
“You're a big girl. You can take it, can't you?”
Her words were more on the teasing side, but, nonetheless, it was still a genuine question. All you could respond with is a nod, as words weren't coming to you at the moment. But this woman wasn't having it as she gripped your chin between her pointer finger and thumb as she made sure you weren't able to look away.
“I want words, sweetheart. You can take mommy's cock, can't you?”
Fuck, did her voice do things to you. You naturally had to obey her, like it was your job. Who knows what would happen if you didn't? Her alluring voice seemed to have a hypnotizing effect on you, pulling you further into the dark depths of her ocean.
“Yes, mommy.”
Your voice was still shaky from the remnants of your previous orgasm, but it still conveyed the point to her as she lined up the tip of her strap with the entrance of your cunt. Her eyes seem to glaze over with an unfamiliar look, like something has stirred inside of her. But it is only for a moment, because as soon as it appears, it disappears just as quick. She starts to glide in, and as she does, she groans in pleasure almost as if she could actually feel you clenching around her.
Of course, she can actually feel you, but where's the fun in telling the person, who is your rival, just exactly who you are? Why would she give herself away when she knows you'll eventually put two and two together. By the time you will, she thinks, it will be too late. The thought brings a smile to Agatha's face at the thought of the grand reveal to you. Not only is she your rival, who you've been fuming over (but also admiring), but she is also a witch. It takes everything in her to not let it show on her face, trying to gain some self-control over her thoughts. Once her plan unfolds, you'd be at her mercy and she would have finally won.
That self control is thrown out the window when she feels your walls flutter around her strap, and it draws a strangled groan from her lips.
The pace she sets is far from gentle, and it's partly because she felt you had enough preparation from her fingers and her tongue. So, why the need to be gentle? It wasn't necessary in her eyes. After all, it was your fault that she lost her control. But it was also partly for the fact she lost control in the first place.
Her hands fly to your still clothed breasts and gives them a firm squeeze as her hips plow into you relentlessly. The jarring motion of her rough thrusting keeps making the table you're plopped on hit the wall, like a metronome gradually increasing its tempo. As she starts feeling you slide backwards on the cool wood, her hands move from your tits down to your ass, and she grabs onto your cheeks and yanks you forward, holding onto you.
The force of her thrusts start to increase as she chases her high. It's far, but so near at the same time. In this moment, she needed you like the air she breathed. All your curves calling out to her like a prize to be taken, the platinum trophy for her hard work.
When she looks down at you, Agatha feels something inside her stir slightly.
Originally, her whole plan was to lure you into her nightclub and fuck your brains out, then blackmail you with the threat of going back to prison. But, looking into your fucked-out face, she begins to second-guess her motives.
Sure, you encroached on her hard earned territory, tried fumbling with her assets, and overall you were a massive thorn in her side, but she found a weird attraction to you. Sure, it was her who had stolen your territory and you were rightfully warning it back, but still. She wanted to cut you open and watch you bleed, like any rival would, but she couldn't find it right to do so.
What was wrong with her? Is she really feeling something for you, her rival? The thought is laughable. No way would she let one time fucking you into submission change her heart. She is still going to go through with her plan, no matter how much her gut is screaming at her not to.
Good thing she had Wanda, her second-in-command to get your friend excited to drag you along here, because now you were in her sticky snare with no means of escape.
One of her hands snakes from your ass, around your waist, and slips between your folds to find your clit. The slight graze of her fingers on your clit, while she continues pounding into you with bruising force, is enough to make your hips buck into hers.
You were still sensitive from the orgasm she pulled from you with her tongue and fingers just before, so your next was quickly approaching on the horizon. Agatha originally thought of torturing you, and dragging out your orgasm, but she decided against it as she was desperate for release herself. Also, she was tired from managing a nightclub while devising a plan against you, so she decided to go easy on you tonight.
The swipes of her thumb become faster and more rough as it presses harder into your bundle of nerves, which strangles a pornographic moan out from your lips. The sound did wonders to her own impending orgasm, and a low groan came from her as she felt her peak near closer. Her powerful thrusts were so jarring in their force that you were convinced you'd have bruises, alongside the ones on your neck.
Agatha found herself enamored with you, unable to get enough. Her glass would seem to never be full when it comes to you. She just wants more and more, and more; she was so greedy to drink in every last drop of you until there was nothing left.
The signs of her impending orgasm were clear as day when her thrusts started becoming sloppy and uneven; there was no set tempo and obscene sounds were coming out from both of your mouths. And they blended together so much so you couldn't tell who's moan came from who's mouth, and vice-versa. it was like an ideal choir; sounding like one voice.
Your voice was a pleading chant as you begged this goddess of a woman to give you what you so desperately craved.
“Oh- fuck! Mommy! Mommy, please, I need- I need to cum!”
‘Mommy’ came off your tongue like a sin never to be uttered. But if it was a sin, why did it felt so good? Because, with this woman, you found you'd commit any sin in the world for her.
Lips collided, tongues tangled, and hands flew anywhere they could find purchase to gain a sense of ground. They flew to hair, faces, and elsewhere they touched. It was a comboluded and tangled mess of limbs.
The messy drive of her hips falters for a second, before they resume their sloppy movement until stilling completely a moment later. A drawn out, pleasure-filled groan leaves her lips as her orgasm completely overtakes her entire body.
Agatha has never cum this hard or fast for any woman in her life, not even Rio, but you seem to be the outlier in this scenario. You're the unknown that she can't tell if she hates or is now genuinely interested in. Her plan was to blackmail you into giving all your assets to her, and leave you bleeding, but here she is second-guessing herself yet again. The thought of doing that to you isn't sitting right with her the longer it marinates in her thoughts.
Fuck. She needs to get a grip.
Her hair drapes like a curtain over her face, concealing it from all sides except facing your own face. Speaking of your face, yours was totally and utterly wrecked. Your cheeks and neck held a deep, crimson flush that spread like a wildfire. It was so hot it even felt like a wildfire.
Agatha's cerulean eyes travel and map your entire face, as if she was committing it to memory. There was a hint of desire still lingering in her blown out pupils, but there was a hint of something else; it was something you couldn't put your finger on.
The last thing you felt before you slipped into unconsciousness was a purple haze surrounding your mind like a thick cocoon.
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egrets-not-regrets · 24 days ago
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Imposter (1)
Someone finds the perfect opportunity to muscle in on Erriox's bond.
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Author's Notes: Current Chapter >>> Next Chapter
**Dialogue spoken in Gothic language are bolded and italicized.**
Inspired by a conversation on Discord. This takes place earlier in Erriox's and Lenora's relationship, during the two months that Erriox is still trying to figure out logistics of Ancient Terra and is unsure whether to live with Lenora or not.
Thanks to @squishyowl for the dividers.
Tagged: @shadowfirecat , @kit-williams , @bleedingichorhearts , @barn-anon , @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan
@sleepyfan-blog , @bispecsual , @c-u-c-koo-4-40k , @ms--lobotomy , @legionsofthehungry
@gra93fruit-blog , @i-am-a-dragon34 , @felinisnoctis, @thevoidscreams, @yurihasurunbara
@cruelmeltryllis,
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“Are you leaving again?” Lenora asked the Iron Warrior as he helped her clean up after dinner. 
Erriox wrung the towel he just washed and replied, “Yes. I will be going to the Steelix fortress base.” He technically didn’t need to tell her where he was going to be, but some nagging feeling made him feel obligated to tell her where he’s going. If only to ease his bonded’s mind. 
“When will you return?”
Erriox went quiet for a moment. He wasn’t sure how long this trip would take, between orientation, training, and the likelihood of being immediately thrown into work or missions. Uneasiness crept into his bones, Lenora and her home will be left alone for an unknown amount of time.
“I’m not sure.” he murmured, “I will be back as soon as I can.” He'll make it happen one way or another. Putting his gauntlets back on, Erriox then turned to Lenora and repeated, “I will return as soon as training is over.”
She smiled at him fondly. That big silly Iron Warrior, his determination to return was quite endearing. Erriox wasn’t the type to stay for long, unwilling to impose, and he always seemed to have something on his mind; but will stop by to visit from time to time. Well, even though he was bonded to her, Erriox had his own business to deal with and it’s not for her to pry. She’s sure he’ll return whenever he wishes, like he does normally. To be fair, it wasn’t a bad thing, Lenora thought. She enjoyed her privacy and freedom after all. She’s heard stories about how scarily codependent and suffocating bonded Astartes can be. 
Lenora accompanied him to the porch and gestured to him, “Kneel down for a moment. Please.”   
Erriox did as she requested, only to be taken aback when she wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him. He couldn’t stop the heat rushing to his face each time Lenora embraced him. Not that he didn’t appreciate it, but it felt strange as he didn’t need comforting nor did he do anything to warrant such a gesture. No baseline in his time would have willingly given such a gesture of affection, let alone initiate it. (Though there had been whispers of some of his brothers having illicit relationships with baselines.) After all, as Iron Warriors, they were a legion that people reviled rather than admired. 
Erriox leaned his head against hers, inhaling her scent. He could feel Lenora’s gentle sigh on his cheek.
She whispered, “Safe travels. And be careful, alright?”
“I will naturally be cautious, but why do you say ‘safe travels’? There Is no guarantee my journey would be without danger.” 
Lenora hummed, thinking about his question, then chuckled, “It is a human saying, similar to wishing someone luck or wishing someone to survive another day. I want to see you again, alive, and not at death’s door.” 
Warmth filled his chest. His bonded was so kind, he felt he wasn’t worthy, but he was lucky enough to have bonded to her, and treasured her words. Erriox nuzzled her. He replied, his voice steady and confident, “I will return to you.”
“I know. And you will always be welcome here.” she smiled as the Iron Warrior held her tighter.
They stayed together like this for some time. Lenora didn’t resist. She enjoyed giving hugs and considering how long Erriox held her, she knew he needed it. The Iron Warrior had talked about some of his experiences before appearing here on Earth. It broke her heart since it seemed his world and his time wasn’t very kind to him. So she hoped to make up for that during his stay here. Besides, everyone could use a kind word and a hug every now and then.
Eventually, after one last nuzzle, Erriox reluctantly let go and was about to stand up, “I have to leave.”
“Wait.”
Lenora held his face in her hands, brushing over his scarred temple, her expression soft and gentle. She pressed her lips between his brows, murmuring, “One for good luck.” before letting go. 
Erriox stood up, a small smile gracing his lips, “Remember to lock your door. I will return.” he said. 
Lenora laughed and waved, “I will. See you then!”
Content, the Iron Warrior put on his helmet and turned to leave, not knowing that they were being surveilled by a pair of calculating turquoise lenses. 
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whatdoeseverybodywant · 1 month ago
Text
Blood Bound - Part Two 🥀
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Vampire!Jey Uso x Black OC
I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site, even if you give me credit. DO NOT REPOST MY FICS
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All OC Characters belong to me
Masterlist
Divider by @firefly-graphics
Josh let out a sigh as he pulled onto the street of his Condo. “Go ahead and say it, Joe.” 
Joe leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, his face unreadable. After a long pause, he spoke, his tone sharp and accusatory. “Why were you giving her your blood?”
Josh cut the engine and turned his head to look at Joe. “After Priest started poking his head around, I had to tell her the truth. And I-I didn’t want to lose her so I did what I had to do, Uce.” 
“You did what you had to? No, you did what you wanted to do. You didn't even think about the consequences Joshua!” 
“She knew! She knew what would happen!” His hands gripped the steering wheel, the tension in his chest rising. “I wasn’t forcing her into anything. She knew the risks. She -” Josh stopped abruptly, his fangs were suddenly sharp against the inside of his lip. He felt the veins starting to grow under his eyes. “Mora.” He whispered, before Joe could say anything, Josh had blurred out of the car. 
His senses honed in on her, the bond between them growing stronger with every second that passed.
He could feel her. Her pain. Her fear.
She’s fading.
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24 hours ago
“Yeah, I’ll be home soon. Love you too.”  Josh hung up the phone, his face softening as he stared at the screen for a moment, as though savoring the words then, he slipped the phone into his pocket, shaking his head with a small smile.
Jon, who had been watching him from the other side of the kitchen, raised an eyebrow. “Being in love is a good look on you, twin.”
Josh snorted, but couldn’t stop his smile from growing.  
“Look at him not denying it.” Jon’s wife Trinity interjected as she came into the kitchen and handed her husband a cup of familiar red liquid. The rich, iron-scented blood swirled in the glass, still warm from whatever source she’d gotten it from. “Don’t go breaking her heart now, We actually like this one.” 
Josh chuckled and nodded his head. He liked Simora a lot too, more than he cared to admit out loud. A lot more. There was something about her—the way she made him feel like he wasn’t just a vampire going through the motions of immortality. She had a way of making everything feel more… real. She made him see there was more to human life. With Simora, every moment felt like it had meaning. She made him remember what it was like to want something.
Jon’s teasing grin faded as he saw the shift in Josh’s expression, the quiet intensity that had come over him. “Damn Uce, You really are all in with her, huh?”
Josh met his twin’s gaze, his smile was soft but firm. “Yeah. I am.” 
“Good, we’ve been around for centuries but we still need someone to keep us grounded.” Jon’s voice was soft as he glanced over at Trinity.  She was from a well-known and respected African American coven with a long history of guarding powerful magic and secrets. Jon knew his time with Trinity was limited.  Despite the magic that sustained her, Jon knew that human lifespans weren’t meant to be stretched across centuries. Eventually, he’d lose her; no amount of power or immortality could change that. “Don’t take her for granted,” Jon whispered only for Josh to hear. 
Before Josh could respond, his phone started to ring. The smile was back on his face as he looked at the caller i.d, Jon sucked his teeth. “Man, get on outta here and go home to your girl.” 
Before Josh could respond, his phone started to ring. The smile was back on his face as he looked at the caller i.d, Jon sucked his teeth. “Man, get on outta here and go home to your girl.” 
Josh chuckled and answered the phone. “I told you I was -” 
“JOSH! HELP!”
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Present Day
If Josh’s heart was still pumping, it would be hammering in his chest. He wasn’t able to blur up to his apartment because of the humans still lurking around at this hour. He was running as fast as he could with Joe right on his heels. 
He burst through the front door of his apartment, not caring about how the wood split. “Simora!” He called out, his panic rising when he didn’t get a response. 
“Josh?” It was weak and if he weren’t a vampire, he wouldn’t have heard it. He blurred to the hallway by his bedroom and found her sitting on the floor with her knees pulled up to her chest. She looked weak. 
“Baby…” He called out, crouching down next to her. She picked her head up to look at him. She was crying. Red tears streamed down her face, her fangs were elongated, and the veins under her eyes were pronounced, dark lines threading outwards like cracks in porcelain. She had “vamped out”.  He ran into his room and came back out holding a blood bag.  “You need to drink, it’s gonna stop the pain, but only temporarily. You need to actually drink from the source to complete the transformation.” 
Simora’s eyes flickered to the blood bag, but her gaze was unfocused, distant. Her lips trembled, caught between fear and hunger, her fangs aching for sustenance. He gently tore the bag open and held it out for her, “Please, you have to drink.” 
She nodded and took the bag from him, her fingers were trembling as she brought the blood up to her lips. 
Joe watched from the sidelines, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He had stayed out of their intimate moment, giving Josh and Simora space. He couldn’t help but let his mind wander back to that day. The day he had tried to save her and failed. He had been reckless, thinking he could turn someone he loved into a vampire without considering the consequences. He could tell she was apprehensive when he asked if she wanted to be with him forever. He remembered how her eyes had flickered with hesitation, how she had quietly whispered that she wasn’t sure, but for him, she would try. And then, in an instant, it had gone wrong. When she had awoken, she immediately regretted her decision.
The change had been too much for her, too overwhelming. Joe had tried to help, tried to comfort her as her body fought against the transformation, but the damage was done. She hadn’t been ready, and she didn’t want this life. She had begged him to make it stop, to take it all back, but once the curse was upon her, there was no undoing it.
The girl he had loved—the one who had trusted him—was gone.
Joe closed his eyes for a moment, the memory still raw. He had failed her. And now, watching Josh fight to save Simora, he couldn’t help but wonder if the same thing was happening again. He hoped Simora’s love for Josh would be enough to pull her through
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Authors Note: poor Joe 💔. I really love writing this story lol. How are you guys liking it?
I'm kinda basing my vampires off of Vampire Diaries and Tru Blood. Just taking some elements from both shows and mixing them together!
I know the chapters are short LMAO but I don't wanna overload them with information.
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