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stylesonfilms · 10 days ago

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the days are long, the days are hard [h.s]

word count: 4.5k

after a long, excruciating week at work packed with bad news, all you want is your husband, harry.

(inspired by one of my moots that has had a rough few days, hope this brings some comfort!)

warnings: none, just fluff!

Your week started off rough—rougher than most, in fact. The kind of week that clings to your chest like damp fabric, making it hard to breathe and even harder to find the energy to push through.

Monday was everything you’d expect a Monday to be: sluggish, jarring, and unforgiving. Getting back into the groove of things at the office after a much-needed holiday break felt like trying to climb uphill in heels on black ice. Your inbox was flooded, your calendar double-booked, and your brain resistant to the demands of corporate life. The fluorescent lighting overhead seemed brighter than usual, glaring down at you as though it wanted to mock your every misstep.

By Tuesday, the headache that had been brewing since the start of the week blossomed into a full-on throbbing migraine. You powered through with your phone glued to your ear, making calls and leaving voicemails to important individuals who somehow never seemed available. The phone grew slick in your clammy hands, and you found yourself gripping it tighter as though that would keep it from slipping away along with your patience.

Wednesday hit like a freight train. You walked into the office, already dreading the growing to-do list, only to be blindsided by the news that you’d be giving not one, but two speeches at back-to-back meetings. Meetings that you didn’t even know existed until that very moment. You had smiled through clenched teeth and nodded at your boss, silently berating yourself for not anticipating this kind of curveball. The weight of your own expectations pressed heavily on your shoulders, making the simple act of breathing feel like a chore.

Meanwhile, Harry was a ghost in the rhythm of your week. He left before the sun rose, his coffee cup rinsed and drying in the sink by the time you wandered into the kitchen each morning. By the time he returned home, long after the sky had surrendered to darkness, you’d already have dinner waiting—his plate warm, yours half-empty. Conversations were quick and superficial, exchanges of how-was-your-day glossed over in favor of tired smiles and heavy eyelids.

Friday arrived, and with it, the chaos of the city seemed to mirror the storm inside you. Your phone buzzed incessantly in your purse, vibrating against the side of your hip as you weaved through the swarm of New Yorkers hustling to get wherever they needed to be. The cold January air stung your cheeks, and the weight of your tote bag dug into your shoulder as you dodged elbows and briefcases. You muttered an apology to someone who bumped into you, though you couldn’t bring yourself to look up from the sidewalk until you reached the revolving doors of your building.

Once inside, you let out a sharp exhale, your breath fogging up the glass as you took a moment to compose yourself. Tugging at your blazer, you smoothed it over your pencil skirt before running your fingers through your hair, trying to tame the frizz that had been building from the morning’s commute. Your heels clicked sharply against the marble floors as you made your way to the elevator, the sound echoing faintly in the open lobby.

“Hi, Martha!” you chirped at the receptionist, flashing her a smile that felt paper-thin.

“Morning! Good luck today!” she called back cheerfully, though her voice felt like it was coming from underwater.

You loved her, truly. She was one of the few people in the office whose presence didn’t add to your stress, but today, you could barely muster the energy to respond with more than a quick wave. Your nerves had been stretched to the breaking point, and your usual confidence felt like it had been replaced by quicksand.

If it had been any other day, Harry would’ve held you the night before, grounding you in the warmth of his arms as he peppered light kisses across your face. He would’ve whispered words of reassurance into your temple, his voice low and steady as he reminded you of just how capable you were. His hands would have found the curve of your back, his thumb tracing soothing circles into your skin until your worries melted into the sheets.

But last night, you hadn’t let him in. Despite his gentle prodding and his furrowed brows that silently begged you to confide in him, you had brushed him off with excuses of being overtired. You’d told him about your unreasonable bosses, blaming your frustration on the endless pile of work. He didn’t believe you—Harry never did when it came to half-truths. He knew you too well.

He’d pressed his lips into a thin line, his silence carrying the weight of his concern, but he had let it go, probably sensing you didn’t have the energy to delve into your worries. And maybe you should have let him, but you couldn’t bring yourself to add to the weight he was already carrying. With two employees down at his job, he’d been shouldering triple the workload, yet he still came home each night with that same lopsided smile.

You thought about the time, three years ago, when you asked him how he managed to leave the stress of work at the door. His answer had been so simple, yet it had stayed with you ever since.

“Because,” he’d said, pulling you into his arms, “at the end of the day, no matter how bad it gets, I get to come home to you. And that makes everything else feel small.”

The memory brought a faint smile to your lips, even as you stepped into the elevator and prepared yourself for another long day.

You sighed as the elevator dinged softly, floor by floor, the sound seeming to echo in the confined space. It was a rhythmic, monotonous chime, yet it only heightened your sense of dread. Fishing your phone out of your purse, you let the leather strap slide from your shoulder and settle in the crook of your arm. The screen lit up immediately, bathing your face in a cold glow, and a notification blinked persistently at the top. A voicemail.

Your stomach tightened when you saw the name attached: Martin Mayer-Harvey. The name alone carried weight—a man whose influence stretched across six major publishing branches, a figure both revered and feared in the industry. His voice had been a beacon of hope during your one-on-one interview, one you had approached with equal parts trepidation and determination.

Harry had been ecstatic when you first told him about the opportunity. He’d grinned so wide his dimples had cut deep into his cheeks, his enthusiasm bubbling over as he pulled you into a celebratory hug. “This is it,” he’d said, his hands cradling your face. “This is the door opening for you, babe. And you’re going to crush it.” He’d even gone the extra mile to send recommendations on your behalf, his faith in you unwavering.

But now, standing alone in the elevator, the air felt thick with foreboding. With a swipe of your thumb, you tapped the notification, bringing the phone to your ear as you turned the volume up. Another ding. Another floor.

The voicemail played, Martin’s voice smooth and clinical, like velvet stretched too thin.

“Mrs. Y/N, thank you for your time and the professionalism you demonstrated during your interview. I regret to inform you that you have not been selected as an employee for this upcoming year. Nothing personal, it just comes down to the finer things—successes and ethics, and all. Thanks again. Your time was appreciated.”

The words hit you like a gut punch. Your stomach churned, a nauseating wave rolling over you as your breath caught in your throat. Not selected. You repeated the phrase in your mind, the syllables heavy and jagged, cutting deeper with every repetition. Successes and ethics? What did that even mean? Was he saying you weren’t accomplished enough? That you lacked whatever intangible quality he deemed essential?

You swallowed hard, but the lump in your throat refused to go away. When you’d shaken his hand after the interview, his words had brimmed with promise, his smile so genuine you’d dared to believe the position was yours. Yet now, the sterile tone of his voicemail made you feel like just another name crossed off a list.

The elevator dinged again, jolting you out of your spiraling thoughts as the doors slid open with an indifferent hum. The bright fluorescent lights of the seventh floor spilled in, harsh and unforgiving, making you squint as you stepped out into the long hallway. Blinking rapidly, you shoved your phone back into your purse, gripping the strap tightly as if it could somehow anchor you.

Your heels clicked against the polished tiles, the sound sharp and deliberate as you forced yourself to move forward. The walls, painted a dull beige, seemed to close in on you with every step, the air growing heavier as you approached your office.

When you finally stepped inside, the familiar scent of stale coffee and printer ink greeted you, a small comfort in an otherwise dismal moment. Dropping your purse onto the desk with a dull thud, you leaned against the wooden frame, your fingers curling around its edge as if it could keep you upright. Your chest rose and fell in uneven breaths as you closed your eyes, willing yourself to regain control.

The weight of disappointment pressed down on you, a suffocating heaviness that made your fingers tremble as they tightened around the wood. You hated this job. Loathed it, really. What had once been a golden opportunity now felt like a gilded cage. Five years of grunt work had left you disillusioned, the spark of ambition dimmed by endless busywork and little recognition. You had learned, yes, but at what cost?

Your thoughts were interrupted by the creak of the door swinging open, followed by a brisk knock. You didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

“Let’s go,” your boss grunted, his voice clipped and devoid of warmth. A briefcase dangled from his hand as he nodded toward the hallway. “You’ve got work to do.”

The meetings were as grueling as you’d anticipated. Standing in front of the room, under the scrutinizing gaze of your colleagues, felt like being trapped under a spotlight. The projector whirred faintly as you fumbled with the remote, your palms damp as you flipped through slide after slide. Words stumbled out of your mouth, tangling together as your nerves got the better of you. Every time you glanced at the room, the blank faces staring back only made your stomach twist further.

You kept replaying Martin’s voicemail in your head, the words looping like a broken record, distracting you at every turn. The disappointment, the humiliation—it all burned, settling low in your gut like a stone.

By the time the meetings ended, you could barely muster the energy to exchange handshakes, your smiles forced and brittle as you bid everyone a good day.

You checked the dainty watch on your wrist—a delicate silver piece Harry had gifted you on your one-year anniversary. It read 5:30. You sighed, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear as you snapped your case closed on the meeting table.

“What happened out there?” your boss asked, his tone sharp and unimpressed. His gaze swept over you, narrowing slightly as though he could see every crack in your armor. “I thought you were prepared.”

You gave me just under two damn days, you thought bitterly, though the words never left your lips.

Instead, you offered a tight-lipped apology. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. I let myself get distracted.”

Your boss lingered for a moment, his eyes scanning your face before letting out a quiet “hm.” He turned on his heel and left without another word.

The breath you’d been holding escaped in a shuddering sigh. The weight of the day bore down on you, your muscles aching under the strain. All you wanted was to go home. To take a long, scalding shower and let the steam wash away the tension clinging to your skin. To crawl into bed, pull the covers over your head, and pretend for a moment that the world wasn’t so heavy.

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The hot water cascaded over your skin in steady rivulets, steaming against the cool tiles and filling the bathroom with a dense, comforting warmth. Each droplet hit your shoulders and back with a soothing rhythm, dissolving the tension knotted in your muscles from the week’s troubles. You leaned forward slightly, pressing your palms against the wet shower wall, letting the stream ripple through the strands of your hair and drip down to your toes. The scent of pomegranate and shea butter from the body scrub filled the air, sweet and creamy, wrapping around you like a gentle embrace.

You had gotten home just over half an hour ago. The house had been quiet, the kind of stillness that usually greeted you on Fridays. Harry’s car was absent from the driveway, as expected—he always stayed late at the end of the week, wrapping up whatever loose ends needed his attention. The emptiness of the house had been neither comforting nor unsettling; it simply was. You’d set your bag on the kitchen counter, slipped off your heels, and headed straight for the shower, bypassing the bedroom entirely.

Your clothes lay in a careless heap on the tiled floor, a small pile of the day’s exhaustion. You’d scrubbed at your scalp with your fingernails, washing your hair thoroughly not once, but twice, as if doing so could cleanse not just the grime of the day, but also the weight pressing on your mind. You busied yourself with every task you could—shaving over every inch of skin, exfoliating with the grainy scrub until your arms and legs felt soft and raw, then lathering up with the matching body wash, its silky foam sliding over your skin before being washed away in swirling streams.

When the water finally stopped, you stood for a moment in the silence, the air heavy with steam and the faint aroma of your products. You wrung out your hair with practiced motions, droplets splattering onto the shower floor as you reached for the towel. With a flick of your wrist, you flipped your hair forward and wrapped it into the plush fabric, the soft pink standing out against the misty haze. Another towel—this one a little coarser—was pulled from the rack, and you pressed it to your damp skin, blotting and drying before wrapping it securely around your body.

The bathroom was your sanctuary for the next hour. You took your time moving through your routine, dabbing on lotions and serums, brushing out your hair, and slipping into a pair of soft, oversized pajamas. The familiar scents of lavender and coconut oil mingled with the lingering steam, grounding you as you stared at your reflection in the mirror. Your heart still carried the same heaviness it had since hearing the voicemail, a quiet ache nestled in your chest. But now, it felt distant—muted, like background noise to the slow hum of your movements.

By the time you left the bathroom, the house felt cooler, the air outside the warmth of the shower almost brisk against your skin. You padded down the hallway barefoot, the soft patter of your steps swallowed by the carpet. The living room was dimly lit, the glow from the TV casting flickering shadows against the walls. You curled up on the couch under the throw blanket, its weight comforting as it settled over you. Your comfort show played softly in the background, the familiar voices blending seamlessly into the quiet. A well-loved book rested by your side, its pages slightly worn, ready to pull you in if you felt like retreating further into your own world.

Around seven PM, the sound of the front door opening broke the silence. The subtle click of the latch, followed by the rhythmic clack of Harry’s work shoes against the hardwood floor, was a melody you didn’t realize you’d been waiting for. His keys jingled briefly before landing with a soft clink in the bowl by the door, and the heavier thud of his briefcase settling onto the dining table made your heart lighten just a little.

Relief bubbled in your chest, warm and effervescent, as you shifted under the blanket. Your arm hooked around the back of the couch, your head tilting to look over your shoulder as Harry rounded the corner. The sight of him brought an instant smile to your face.

He was still in his work suit, the sharp lines of his dark grey blazer and slacks softened by the slight dishevelment that came with a long day. The plain black button-up underneath was unbuttoned at the collar, and the sleeves were cuffed up just enough to reveal his wrists. His hair was slightly mussed, a few strands falling across his forehead.

His lips curved into a familiar, easy smile when he saw you, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he lifted a bag of takeout into the air. “I brought takeout,” he said, his voice warm and teasing as he walked over to you. “Figured tonight was one of those nights.”

Your chest swelled with gratitude— he knew you so well. He always had.

You murmured a quiet thank you, your voice soft and a little worn, and let out a contented sigh as he sank onto the couch beside you. His arms wrapped snugly around you, pulling you close as the weight of the day melted away. You leaned into him, your head resting against his chest as his familiar scent— something clean, woodsy, and uniquely him— enveloped you. His nose brushed against your damp hair, and the warmth of his presence grounded you in a way nothing else could.

For the first time all day, you felt like you could finally exhale.

“You smell good, baby.” Harry’s voice was a soft murmur, his accent thick and lingering in the air like honey, each word wrapped in warmth. His large hands splayed across your back, their weight grounding you as they roamed gently over the sleek fabric of your pajama set. His touch was tender, deliberate, as though he was trying to smooth away the burdens of your day. You melted into him, your arms winding around his torso, clinging to him like he was your lifeline. The familiar scent of his cologne wrapped around you, blending seamlessly with the faint aroma of soap lingering on your own skin.

Your face nestled into the crook of his neck, the warmth of his body radiating into yours as you fluttered your eyes shut. His chest rose and fell steadily beneath your cheek, his heartbeat a gentle, soothing rhythm that seemed to lull your own into sync. Being here, in his arms, felt like finally exhaling after holding your breath all day.

Harry’s lips pressed into a small frown, the pinch of his brows betraying his concern. His hands, broad and steady, paused on your back, giving your shoulders a reassuring squeeze before he pulled back slightly to study you. One hand slid beneath your chin, his touch feather-light but firm, guiding your gaze up to meet his.

“What’s wrong, baby?” he asked softly, his green eyes searching yours with an intensity that felt like he was looking straight into your soul. His voice was gentle, but the concern etched into his expression made your chest tighten. His thumb brushed over your cheekbone in a slow, comforting stroke, its warmth grounding you even as you struggled to hold his gaze.

You let out a small, weary sigh. “Meetings,” you mumbled, though even to your own ears, the excuse sounded thin. Still, you nuzzled into his touch, seeking comfort as your words trailed off.

Harry’s hand cradled your jaw now, his thumb continuing its soothing path along your skin. His other hand found its way to your bare thigh, his palm warm and steady as it swept up and down, brushing lightly under the hem of your sleep shorts. His touch was instinctive, effortless, but it carried with it a deep well of care that threatened to unravel you.

“You don’t get this worn and torn over meetings, love,” he said quietly, his voice like a low hum of thunder, steady and grounding. “Is there something else?” His green eyes held yours, steady and unyielding, like a comforting fire that wouldn’t burn but would warm you to your core.

Your lips parted, but the words caught in your throat. You sighed again, this time deeper, your shoulders slumping under the weight of it all. His hands never wavered— one cupping your face, the other continuing its soothing rhythm against your thigh.

Finally, you spoke, your voice trembling with a mix of sadness and resignation. “That job at Mayer-Harvey completely fell through,” you admitted, your breath hitching as the words spilled out. “He said... he said I wasn’t qualified enough, not accomplished enough, just… not enough.” The words felt heavier the more you said them, the ache in your chest twisting a little tighter.

Harry’s frown deepened, the lines on his face etched with quiet frustration— not at you, but at the world that had made you feel this way. His thumb stilled for a moment before resuming its gentle sweep across your cheek. When your gaze dropped to your hands, which were busy fiddling with the edge of his blazer, he tipped your chin back up with tender insistence.

“Baby, you know that’s not true, right?” His voice was firm but still soft, his words laced with conviction. “None of it. He doesn’t know an ounce of what he’s talking about.”

You shook your head slightly, your brows furrowing. “H, he owns six different branches. I would say he—.”

“No.” Harry’s voice interrupted gently but firmly, his head shaking in disagreement. “Just because he owns them doesn’t mean he knows how to work them. I can guarantee you, in two months, he’ll realize just how badly he messed up by letting you go. He’ll regret it, love, because no one brings what you do to the table.”

Your lips wavered into a faint pout, sadness glazing over your eyes as you tried to swallow the lump in your throat. “I just… I have to keep looking, I guess. Maybe I wasn’t meant to work there anyway.”

“But you damn sure wanted it,” Harry said, his voice softening, though the conviction in his tone remained. His hand on your thigh paused to squeeze lightly before resuming its gentle strokes. “And you deserved it. Y/N, I’ve seen your work. I’ve seen how dedicated you are, how much effort you put in, even when it’s for a company that doesn’t deserve you. And I know,” he paused, leaning a little closer, his eyes locking onto yours, “I know you’d pack a bigger punch for a company that’s actually worth it.”

His words wrapped around you like a warm blanket, slowly loosening the knot of doubt and hurt in your chest. Maybe he was right.

You nodded slowly, your fingers tracing the lapel of his blazer as you whispered, “I really wanted it, H.”

“I know, baby.” His voice was soft, his lips brushing against your forehead in a kiss that was as much a promise as it was an act of comfort. He kissed the bridge of your nose next, lingering there for a moment. “But don’t worry, darling. We’ll find you something better— something that deserves you. And listen, if you want to leave that job now, I’d be more than happy to support us. All I want is to take care of my girl. That’s it.”

Harry’s hands framed your face, his thumbs stroking softly against your cheeks as he looked at you with an intensity that made you feel seen in a way no one else could make you feel. Then, slowly, he leaned in and captured your lips in a kiss so gentle, so tender, that it made your heart swell and your worries ebb away.

With Harry by your side, it didn’t matter what the world threw at you. His unwavering support, his patience, his love— it was all you needed.

“Now c’mon,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to press another kiss to your forehead. “Let’s have dinner, yeah?”

You spent that night cooped up under his arm, the fabric of his suit soft but slightly wrinkled from your cuddling. Neither of you cared. All that mattered was the comfort of being close, the way his steady heartbeat became your lullaby as the hours ticked by. The movie played quietly in the background, but neither of you was paying much attention. Harry’s fingers absentmindedly traced little patterns along your arm, while you nestled deeper into his side, letting his warmth soak into your skin.

When dinner was done and the plates had been set aside, Harry stood, stretching dramatically before grinning down at you. “Don’t move a muscle,” he teased, his green eyes crinkling with affection as he leaned down to press a kiss to the top of your head.

He took care of the cleanup, tossing the trash and rinsing the dishes with that same effortless grace he did everything else. You watched him from the couch, your heart swelling as he moved around the room, sleeves rolled up, that signature Harry charm shining through even in the simplest of acts. He looked over his shoulder to catch you staring, a cheeky smile tugging at his lips. “What’re you looking at, huh?”

“You,” you said softly, your voice carrying a warmth that made his smile widen.

“Good answer,” he chuckled, before walking over and scooping you up effortlessly. You let out a small squeal, laughing as he carried you bridal style toward the bedroom. “C’mon, love. Time for a proper cuddle.”

Once in bed, Harry wrapped you up in his arms as if he never wanted to let go. The suit jacket had long been tossed to the side, but his tie still hung loosely around his neck, a detail that made you smile. His hand found its way to your hair, fingers combing through the strands with a tenderness that melted away the last of your worries.

“By the way,” he murmured, his voice soft and low, “I took the next few days off.”

You pulled back slightly, looking up at him in surprise. “You did?”

“Mmhm,” he confirmed, leaning down to press a kiss to your lips. “Figured my girl needed me more than work did. And honestly, I needed this too. Just you and me for the weekend. Sound good?”

You nodded, your smile spreading as you snuggled closer, your hand resting against his chest. “Sounds perfect.”

Harry’s arms tightened around you, his lips brushing against your temple. “Good. Because I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

And as you drifted off to sleep in his embrace, the weight of the world seemed to disappear, replaced by the quiet, unshakable love that only he could give.

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aceday · 2 months ago

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Agatha Harkness x Reader

summary: you’re but a humble young librarian super into this milf who just happens to show up at an opportune moment.

warnings: age gap, public sex, oral, fingering

*afab gender neutral reader

@covenofagatha

i don’t do this btw

The Librarian

It’s snowing, the third time you meet her. Behind the circulation desk, with your feet kicked up against the long arch of desk that separates you from the rest of the library, paging through somebody’s hold (it’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover, perhaps some sort of premonition), you look every bit as bored as you are. When you look up and out the window, it’s the kind of black only 6 o’clock in the middle of January can be. Snow pummels against the window. It’s the kind of weather nobody should be out in, either.

Between you and your two other coworkers — the lifeblood, like Atlas holding up the last two hours of the library before its close — there is really only the odd, uncanny emptiness of one librarian and their empty shelves. Of course you’re surprised when she breezes in, in a long dark trench coat with damp shoulders, opened to reveal a pale turtleneck tucked into pleated trousers, snowflakes still dotting her long, thick tresses of dark hair. The snowflakes dissolve. She is panting, wind-blown, she turns around and you see the stark blue of her eyes set against the soft red burn of her cheeks.

“Hi,” she says, breathy, her chest rising and falling heavily. She flashes you a smile, an intentional, albeit distracted smile, the smile of someone who seems a little caught, a little embarrassed in the way you really only can be around strangers for no apparent reason. She carries a folded, closed umbrella and a black bag on her shoulder.

Her name is Agatha Harkness. You were here when she signed up for a library card, and spent the whole time kicking yourself that you hadn’t beat your coworker to helping her. She’s new in town, she has a son that loves to read, or be read to, and there is no ring on her finger, which, as far as you’re concerned, means you have a chance.

You don’t move from your seat, knowing that if you scrambled to put your feet on the floor and throw the book back on the hold shelf then you’ll really look like you’ve been caught. You set the book down on your lap and cross your arms.

“Hi,” you say, smiling easily.

She looks around the library and takes a few hesitant steps towards the shelves. The New section is the first thing to greet library goers, and she distractedly scans the books. You don’t take your eyes off her. She’s beautiful. And you know a lost face when you see one, so when she absentmindedly taps her umbrella against the floor and turns to you, you’re ready.

“Hi,” Agatha says again, approaching the circulation desk. This time you set your feet down.

You smile softly, “Anything I can help you with?”

“Yes, actually. I was looking to get some books for my son. He’s four.”

You point to the corner of the library, where the door frame labeled “Children’s Section” is tucked, leading to an entirely different section of the library. “The Children’s Section is over that way.” You’re a little disappointed to be sending her so far away, but you’re the only person at circulation and if she wants to check out any books she’ll have to find you anyway. But, to your surprise, she doesn’t turn towards Children’s. She taps the desk with a gloved finger, staring down the shelves. You take the opportunity to stand, leaving the book on your chair behind you.

“Is there anything in particular I can help you find?”

Agatha inhales slowly, clearly lost in thought. Then, she turns slowly to you. Her eyes are so blue. It’s like being pinned in place, the way her eyes meet yours. You’ve never been one to back down from a challenge, but you’d be lying if you said your breath didn’t flee your lungs.

“Are you busy?” She looks down at the book. Normally, you’d feign a little embarrassment, but you smile and shrug.

“I’m getting slammed right now, actually. But uh, I suppose I could help you out.”

She chuckles, peeling off her black leather gloves and stuffing them in the pockets of her trench coat. “Sure. Any recommendations? What are you reading?”

This time you do flush a little. “It’s, uh, Lady Chatterley’s Lover. It’s someone else’s hold.”

Agatha narrows her eyes a bit, a small smile curling at the corner of her lips. “Is it raunchy?”

“By today's standards, probably not. Is raunchy what you’re looking for?”

She raises her eyebrows. Your blush deepens. Working these lonely evening shifts has you forgetting you’re employed to work, not to flirt with patrons, which you never do anyway, but luckily Agatha laughs after a moment.

“What’s your name?” She squints to read your name tag, and you offer it up lazily. “I’m Agatha,” she says. “Agatha Harkness. Actually, I’m a bit new to town. I just got my card.”

“I know your name,” you say, looking away. Agatha, who, until now, has been a bit fidgety and distracted, suddenly stills. “I was here when you set your card up. You probably don’t remember me.”

“But you remember me.”

She doesn’t say it like it’s a question. A knot forms in your throat. You offer a thin grin. “Of course.” Then you tap your temple, which is stupid and you immediately regret it, but Agatha doesn’t seem to really notice or care. Her smile stretches easily. She levels you with a knowing gaze, though you can’t imagine what it is she knows.

“It’s cozy in here,” Agatha says, beginning to rifle through her bag. Her hair is windswept and wild falling down her back, but you have the impression that this is its natural state, despite the wind. She pulls out her wallet, then her library card. “The roads are getting bad though. Especially now that it’s dark out.”

You nod. “Yeah, this is definitely the place to be. At least it’s supposed to slow down soon. There’s a fireplace back past non-fiction. Do you have any holds to pick up?”

Agatha smiles. You scan her library card. “Just one.” Your stomach drops.

“Ahh,” you pick up Lady Chatterley’s Lover sadly, “right. How about that?”

Agatha looks more than amused as you check the book out to her account, quickly plucking your place marker out from the pages.

“No, no,” Agatha says, “leave the bookmark. We can do a little book club, hmm?”

You’ve officially embarrassed yourself enough for one night. You smile warily. “I hope you enjoy it as much as I was. Drive safe.”

Still smiling, Agatha hums in response and tucks the paperback into her bag. “Did you say this was supposed to let up soon? You know, I could use a few recommendations while I have you here.”

You’re pretty sure you’ve already used up all your charm. It’d be ideal if she left and came back another day, but, the more you think about it, the more you realize that this is one opportunity you just can’t waste. Not a coworker in sight (one in the break room for the next half hour, the other shelf-reading in the basement), your work crush right here, mildly stranded in a snowstorm, willing to converse, nay, to joke with you, and- Jesus do you have a chance?

“Anything,” you say at the realization, a little more breathless than you’d intended but you feel renewed with your usual charm and ready to not let this opportunity pass without a fight.

“I was also looking for maybe a cozy mystery? What with the weather and all.”

Does she know the mystery section is the most isolated back corner of the library? You can definitely work with this.

“Sure. I can show you. Follow me.”

You step out from behind the counter, Agatha lingering on your heels. You haven’t had to think this fast in months. Maybe in years. What to say? What to do? You don’t even read mysteries.

You wind through the shelves, leading Agatha deeper into the more shadowy parts of the library, into the most definitely, undoubtedly empty and out-of-sight parts of the library.

“Here’s mystery. I mean, there’s obviously Agatha Christie, and then Laura Childs is pretty cozy, and-” you stop abruptly. You have no idea why you’re talking about mysteries. You face Agatha, who looks at you with one raised eyebrow. She looks expectant. Perfect.

“You’ve happened to find us in the coziest spot in the library,” you say as nonchalantly as you can, scanning the book spines, “But you won’t find anything raunchy over here.”

The look on Agatha’s face is both curious and knowing. Amused, even. She can read you like a book (hah), and some part of you feels like an animal in a zoo, watched by an audience far hungrier than you.

“I didn’t say I wanted raunchy.”

“Didn’t you?”

Agatha scoffs slightly. Her smile widens. She takes a step closer to you and you don’t move back.

“I have more than a few suggestions if that’s the case,” you say, tilting your head. You’re a good few inches taller than her, and when she looks up at you behind dark eyelashes…

“You’re bold,” says Agatha. The same grin hangs wickedly on her mouth.

“But not too desperate, I hope?”

Agatha laughs without taking her eyes off of you. You don’t think you could move backwards if you tried, you don’t think you could move if you tried, her face sings with an effortless amusement, like she knows every thought in your mind and every desire beneath your tongue. It’s vulnerable. Like you’re naked, or just bared, skin unprotected against a harsh wind or sharp rain.

“I’m old enough to be your mother.”

“I know.”

She hums, her gaze raking you up and down, studying. You’re nothing now but a specimen, an insect, pinned by the legs and wings to a cork board, shivering under a magnifying glass. You swallow, then take a step forward. Her chin raises. It’s cute, defiant in a way that reminds you almost of a petulant child, and this most momentary relief from the scrutinization of her gaze is all you need. You raise one hand and tuck her hair behind her ear.

“Cold out there, hmm?” you ask softly, almost boredly. Her unblinking stare doesn’t move from yours. She nods. “Warm in here though.” Your hands trace the lapels of her trench coat. “Damp.” You push it off her shoulders. It’s heavy, woolen, and water-logged, and crumples to the ground with a thud, taking the purse and umbrella with it. You let your gaze drag lazily, obviously, across her face, her eyes, her neck, her mouth.

You see her swallow, which feels like a victory in and of itself. Consider yourself spurred. “And of course, I’m-”

Whatever clever remark you had readied is cut off before even its effect is conveyed. Agatha closes the space between you two, shoving you against the bookshelf. You knock back against the shelves with an “oomph” and Agatha balls your shirt in her fists. She stares at you for a pulsing, pregnant moment before you crack and push your lips against hers. It’s a vicious kiss that’s barely a kiss and lasts for only half a moment anyway. Agatha pulls back severely and pushes you once more against the shelves. Your breath heaves out of your lungs.

“Something the matter?” you ask, grinning like a snake. Agatha scoffs. Her lips meet yours with a sharp inhale, her eyes closed. The kiss is not tender but not desperate, more inquisitive, curious, until a moan escapes your throat and your hands grab dumbly at Agatha’s waist.

You don’t want to be audacious, but you’re already past that point if you’re being honest with yourself, and you step off the wall. You don’t have that much time. You want. Agatha’s tongue slips between your lips and you feel the pit in your stomach empty out, heat flushing into a tense knot in your abdomen. Not much time.

Gentle — but firm —, you push Agatha back against the wall, and sink to your knees. Surprise flickers across her face, but quickly melts into an impish smile. Mischief looks good on her.

“Can I, Agatha?” you ask, very politely, your fingers working already around her belt.

“Yeah. Yes, sweetheart. That’s good.” The words send a twist between your legs and you tug her belt open and unzip the pants. While you pull them down, her hands shovel through your hair, fingertips digging into your scalp, and the feeling almost gives you vertigo. Her skin is impossibly soft. Her underwear is plain and black. You slide it down the swell of her thighs, swallowing. You can smell her on the air, skimming the top of it, and you fight the urge to lick your lips like some hungry dog.

Your hands feel up the length of her legs, one pushing under her shirt up her stomach, in a manner not short of exalted, and you can feel her shudder under your touch. It’s a power, of sorts, and you breathe into a taut smile.

Your mouth is on her legs, sucking at her thighs, and she hisses at the sting of your teeth on her skin. You don’t need to bruise her, really, but you do, if only to prolong eating her out, to hold what you’ve been waiting for in front of you just moments longer. Her breath hitches, she’s trying to be quiet, and in a moment of uncontrolled excitement you surge forward, your jaw widening, your tongue flat against her and your nose buried in her folds.

Agatha yelps a little louder than she meant to, and one hand leaves your hair to cover her mouth. She groans quietly into her palm as you eat her out, tongue scooping inside of her, the taste electric on your tongue, burning in your nose, your eyes heavy-lidded. Fuck. She’s hot. She’s so hot. One hand grips her thigh steadily, the other slides down beneath your waistband. What can you say? You’re desperate.

You whine into her and Agatha looks down, watching as you fuck yourself with your face buried into her cunt. She curses softly, her hand grabbing onto the ledge of a bookshelf by her head. “That’s great, baby, that’s-” your tongue flicks hard against her clit, interrupting Agatha as she spills into a moan. “That’s good, that’s good, that’s-” your lips suck airily around her clit, your tongue immediately continuing its flat and solid path through her folds. She’s dripping off of your chin by now.

Agatha’s breath stutters and she falls eerily quiet, but you know the signs. Her body tightens and then convulses, a delicate shudder gripped around your tongue, thighs squeezing your face, her manicured fingernails scraping against your scalp. She orgasms moaning your name quietly, in a hushed, devoted sort of way nearing on delirium.

When its intense waves wash away and you stand up you’re wearing a self satisfied smile, but Agatha doesn’t leave you long to bask in your pride. She stumbles forward and shoves you against the bookshelf, her mouth collapsing onto yours. She moans softly at the intense taste of herself on your skin; your mouth, nose, chin, cheeks. It’s overpowering. You can feel pearls of her rolling down your jaw and neck. Agatha bites your bottom lip, hard, and then her mouth finds your throat.

You sigh at the feeling of her above your pulse, the heat of her breath and the delicate trace of her fingertips across your sides.

“That was quite the orgasm.” There’s still a ragged edge to her voice, a lulled huskiness, and she seems to struggle to keep her voice balanced in the median between hush and speaking.”How do you feel touching yourself?”

Now with your back pressed against the bookshelves, you had given up all previous hope of getting yourself close. Not that you had minded, fucking Agatha was like seeing the gates of heaven. After that, who needed some masturbatory purgatory at the helm of your own fingers? You take too long to come up with an answer, lost still in the haze of the bruise you’re sure she’s sucking into your skin. Her fingertips, gripping at your sides, rush suddenly to undo the button of your jeans.

“Good,” you say, your head falling backwards, “not as good as this, I’m sure.” Agatha’s hand sinks into your jeans. You sputter forward and she leans harshly into you, pinning you against the stacks. Her fingers and palm slide down, and, God- she’s cupping you through your underwear, pressing testingly against you. It’s intoxicating. Fuck. Your arms sling around her shoulders and your hips buck into her hand. She smiles, kisses you.

“You want this?” she asks, leaning her mouth into your ear, her breath hot, as if it’s even a question, as if you’re not already dripping, soaked through your underwear, keening into her touch.

“Yeah, Agatha, yeah. C’mon.” At the sound of her name in your mouth, Agatha hums a moan. Her fingers slip under the seam. You pull Agatha into you, your hands tangled in her hair. It’s still damp from the snow.

Her fingertips slide into you. Cold, her fingers are cold, and the sensation of them curling inside of your cunt leaves you halfway to breathless. “Fuck.”

“You’re warm,” Agatha says mildly. She’s pulled back a bit in favor of studying your face, every twitch of your eyebrows and tug of your swollen lips, the blissed out, wired look in your eyes.

“Fuck. You’re- fuck.” She thrusts deeper into you, the tips of her fingers running against your walls, feeling for every jolt of your body. She thumbs your clit, rubbing soft circles into you. She’s good, fuck, every twist of her fingers and push of her thumb sweeps tides of pleasure through your body.

“I’m what?” Agatha teases, thrusting hard, then harder, and fast, and the library is so quiet and you can hear the wet slap of her fucking you.

“God, fuck, fuck,” you groan, your forehead falling against Agatha’s shoulder. She shrugs your head up, her hand smothering your mouth.

“We are in a library, darling,” she whispers, and your being silenced like this makes the slick sound of her fingers in your, against you, seem that much louder. You whine, whimper, keen, your body jolts, her fingertips hit against your g-spot and white pulses behind your eyes as you spill into orgasm.

Your body trembles, tense, your teeth closing around Agatha’s hand, and her fingers slip out of you. She pulls you into a soft hug, holding you up between herself and the bookshelf while you steady your breath.

“Jesus,” you pant, “that was so good, God.”

Agatha pats your hair and you pull back. She pushes a fast kiss against your mouth, and the heat returns, despite your orgasm still buzzing fresh on your skin.

“Thank you and you’re welcome,” Agatha says against your mouth. “Do you have a job to return to?”

“Only if you have a number to give me?”

Agatha smiles. She kisses your cheek and begins fixing her clothes. “I’m still old enough to be your mother.”

“I still know that.”

She eyes you warily, scanning you up and down. “You’ll give me your number, and you’ll wait to hear from me first.”

You sigh in relief and fall back against the bookshelf, running your hand through your hair. “Deal. Welcome to town.”

#agatha all along #agatha harkness #agatha x reader #agatha harkness x reader #agatha all along smut

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makeitmakesomesense · 22 days ago

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Eyes Closed

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Word Count: 1.8k

A/N: Day 11: I've merged a lovely request from a lovely anon with the @taylorswiftmicrofic prompt for the 11th of January, which is 'prom'.

Fluff and gentle smut contained below.

You were in bed. The darkness had crept into the room slowly, just like the silence. You turned on a light but it wasn’t enough for that kind of darkness.

You thought about her. You tried not to worry.

‘I know, I know.’ Natasha called out as soon as she entered the room. Your mouth dropped as you stared in shock at her appearance. Blood stains coated her face and suit. You could barely see her skin beneath. Natasha stood at the foot of the bed with a nonplussed expression on her face.

‘I feel like Carrie at the prom.’ She yawned as she unzipped her blood-soaked suit to her waist, revealing her toned stomach and sports bra.

Natasha reached up to her hair then, ready to undo the end of her usual braid. She groaned as she remembered her more intricate hairstyle made up of several smaller braids.

‘Here, love.’ You slipped off the bed and walked to her. ‘Let me help.’

Natasha tilted forward, her head pressing tiredly against your shoulder as you worked to undo each braid. You tried not to hesitate as you worked around the hair matted with even more blood.

When you were done, you resisted the instinct to kiss her.

‘This might be your most disgusting post-mission look.’ You said wrinkling your nose at the pervasive smell of the dried blood.

Natasha gave you a sarcastic thumbs up as she headed to the ensuite bathroom.

‘Guess you won’t be joining me.’ She commented dryly as the shower began to run.

‘It’s so hard to say no.’ You grinned, grabbing your phone and keys and heading out of the room. ‘I’ll bring you back sustenance.’ You promised as you left.

You returned soon enough, a peanut butter jelly sandwich in one hand. You’d cut the crusts off. Natasha didn’t actually care about the crusts. That wasn’t why you did it.

You knocked the door as you entered. Natasha was lying on her stomach, sprawled out on the bed, wrapped in a fluffy white robe that she’d stolen a million years ago from a fancy hotel. It was tied loosely, already half off one shoulder. You could tell she was naked underneath. Her long red hair was damp, combed through and already curling at the ends.

She turned at the sound of the door. Her attention immediately fell to the plate in your hands.

She made a happy noise, muffled by her pillow as she rolled over onto her back. She shuffled to a seated position in the bed.

‘Give.’ She demanded teasingly as you held out the plate.

Natasha noticed the missing crusts. Her delight was easy to see. She covered her face and gave a laugh.

‘I’m special.’ She teased.

‘Yep.’ You agreed simply and sat down next to her, your arm automatically snaking around her waist.

Natasha leaned against you like you were her support pole. She chewed slowly on the sandwich, her eyes closed with the first bite and she nodded happily to herself.

‘Good?’ You checked teasingly.

Wordlessly, she gave you another thumbs up.

When the sandwich was done, Natasha fell backwards onto the bed. With great effort she moved back to her starfish position across the centre of it.

You felt yourself finally approaching the moment. The time for acknowledging what she was obviously avoiding.

The energy had been too light since she got back. It had been a bad mission.

‘I’m so tired.’ Natasha mumbled finally against her pillow.

You crawled over to lie beside her. You brushed her damp hair away from her face.

‘What kind of tired?’ You prompted gently. Natasha’s eyes screwed tight against your gaze.

‘A lot of people died.’ She murmured at last. ‘I didn’t know what to do.’

She opened her eyes again and met you with a heavy stare. You recognised the swirling regret and thought inexplicably about ocean waves crashing over rocks.

‘I should’ve-’ Her voice cracked.

The rush of love was overwhelming and you leaned forward with the sudden, aching, urgent want to kiss her.

Natasha clung to your lips needily, her fingertips brushed your jaw.

Her lips were cracked and the sensation brought you back to yourself. You cupped her cheek gently as you slowly encouraged Natasha back to a sitting position.

‘You’re thirsty.’ You hummed out as Natasha’s lips continued to brush yours over and over again.

Natasha’s eyes briefly squeezed shut again and then she nodded.

You left the bed to retrieve her water bottle on the other side of the room. Natasha unscrewed the top and wordlessly drank it all.

Your stomach twisted as you watched her.

It could be a symptom, sometimes, of the bad missions. Not giving herself what she needed. Punishing herself for things that weren’t her fault.

Natasha put the empty water bottle back on the nightstand. She turned back to you with the same hidden sadness in her eyes. Still, she gave you a small smile.

You reached forward again with a surge of the same want. You left a trail of the softest kisses along on her neck. You could smell the familiar mix of her body wash and that scent that was only Natasha.

Natasha hummed with pleasure. You felt her body rise and fall as her breathing evened out into slow, deep breaths. You tugged the white robe gently away from her shoulder, and then again, until you’d removed it all the way.

Natasha acquiesced readily to the direction of your touch. There was a relief almost in the way she was naked next to you. As if the pretence could leave her.

She arched her back dramatically and you watched the muscles move and stretch. Then, she returned her body easily to its most comfortable bad posture.

Natasha looked at you again and, this time, her gaze was easier and her smile was warm.

A longing caught itself in your throat.

Hesitantly, you touched the old scar that sat between her shoulders. Evidence of another mission survived, another risk taken.

You pressed a little harder and Natasha moaned in response to the pressure on the fatigued muscle just beneath the skin.

You adjusted yourself back on the bed, propping yourself up on your knees. You kissed the base of her neck as your thumbs began to rub concentric circles over her shoulder blades.

Natasha murmured your name. Her back arched again in pleasure.

‘You are brave.’ You told her, consumed with the constant need to take away her pain.

You kissed her again, trailing a path down the curve of her spine.

‘You are strong.’ You murmured, your mouth grazing past another nameless scar.

You felt the rise and fall of Natasha’s chest against your lips. The steady proof of her existence; all you could hope for.

‘You are trying your best.’

Your thumbs brushed lightly over the large, fresh bruise that sat under Natasha’s ribcage. Natasha stiffened.

You ran your hands soothingly back up to her shoulders and then around to cup her soft breasts.

‘And, you are always, always forgiven.’

You felt Natasha’s limbs loosen unthinkingly with your words and then, slowly, you felt her muscles tighten again with a different want.

Natasha murmured your name again. And then again. You listened to the longing soaked into her voice.

You squeezed her breasts slowly before moving around to stand in the space in front of her seated position on the bed.

You reached over and took a pillow from the bed. You held it to the back of Natasha’s head and gave her a teasing smile as you pressed her gently in encouragement to lie back.

Natasha’s fingers caught the front of your shirt automatically as she let her torso go flat against the mattress.

Her feet were still touching the ground. You watched her hip bones cant upwards towards the air in this new position.

You lost yourself briefly in the act of just looking down at her. At the softness and sharpness that made Natasha's body the only one that you craved.

Natasha’s eyes were half-shuttered as she watched you too. Her smile was easy but you caught the swirling of a thousand emotions that sat beneath her stare.

It was enough for you to drop to your knees.

You spread her legs slowly and slid between them. The steady warmth of her was your favourite heat.

Another anchor that promised you she was here.

You stretched out your arms, letting your fingernails brush back and forth along her toned stomach. You didn’t waste any more time.

Slowly you ran your flat tongue along her pussy. There was the familiar tang of her body wash and the taste that could only be Natasha.

Natasha groaned above you. You felt her stomach muscles tighten under your fingers and knew that she was already close.

You moved on instinct, your eyes closed as you lost yourself in the sounds of her hums and sighs. The heat of her against your tongue spread through you. You let your tongue arc and flatten, finding the rhythms that caused her breathless moans.

You felt her tensing. Felt the pleasure inside her become a desperate need. You used your hands to keep a steady pressure against the urgent movement of her hips.

Natasha gave a strangled cry and in the midst of it you heard your name. You pressed again and again with your tongue. You felt her body wind itself tighter and tighter and then undo itself all at once.

You tasted the dripping want and heard the soft pants of something achieved.

You gave one last lick along her pussy.

‘Good?’ You murmured, as you moved back to survey Natasha.

Natasha didn’t move or speak. Slowly, as if with great effort, she gave you a silent thumbs up.

You breathed a laugh, kissed her one more time and got to your feet.

You headed to the bathroom, grabbing a flannel and running it under the warm water. You returned and gently washed between her legs.

Natasha’s eyes were fully shut now.

You leaned forward and Natasha moaned in automatic pleasure at the sudden heat of your body against her bare one.

‘Bed, love.’ You whispered, pulling the covers back and coaxing her gently.

Natasha acquiesced and you watched her crawl beneath the warm covers.

You left and got yourself ready for bed too.

Just as you were about to slide under the covers, you heard the first snuffling noises of Natasha pressing herself comfortably into her pillow.

A moment later, you clicked off the light on your nightstand.

You turned to face her. Natasha’s face was framed by her own messy curls. You thought about her. About the sadness that you could always see unless her eyes were closed. You tried not to worry.

Natasha snored suddenly and the sound was another steady proof that she was here. You closed your eyes and finally slept.

Requests are still very welcome for future January fics. More info in the pinned post if you're interested in requesting. <3

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanov x reader #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanov x you #natasha romanoff smut

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my-castles-crumbling · 15 days ago

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flashback - January 18 - wolfstar - @taylorswiftmicrofic - word count: 297

"No!"

Remus woke up to screaming, and not for the first time. He was just glad that this time, he was already there, and did not have to stumble across the dorm room in the dark.

"No, AH! No, PLEASE!"

Sitting up quickly, Remus reached over, gently shaking the shoulder of the trembling boy next to him. "Sirius? Sirius, baby, it's alright, it-"

"NO! No, not Reg, hurt me!" Sirius voice was more whiny now, more desperate, and his face was scrunched into a terrified grimace that nearly broke Remus's heart.

"Sirius! Love, wake up!" Remus said a bit louder, pulling the flailing boy into his arms, cradling him close to his chest. "It's not real, it's a dream, sweetheart, c'mon, now..."

It took a few more shakes and a many more terrified moans from Sirius, but eventually, teary eyes opened and met his.

"What happened?" Sirius panted, a bead of sweat dripping down his temple. One of his hands was gripping Remus's sleep shirt like a lifeline.

"Nightmare," Remus whispered, running his fingers through Sirius's damp hair and pressing a kiss to his forehead. "You're safe, love. I'm here."

"I...yeah," Sirius nodded, biting his lip and sniffling a few times. "...thank you."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Remus offered hesitantly. Sirius looked so fragile, so vulnerable, like he was about to break.

And the other boy hesitated. But after a moment, it seemed like he decided that whatever flashback had haunted his dreams was too painful to discuss. "Just...just hold me, yeah?" he mumbled, laying down and pulling Remus with him.

"Always," he responded instantly, wrapping his arms tightly around the one piece of his heart that he would do anything to protect.

They fell asleep like that, tangled together in each other's arms.

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nicksolemnlyswears · 1 month ago

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FORGED UNDER FIRE

blurb: when brennan sorrengail died he left more than his family and a dragon behind. he left his best friend. he left his lover. he left his unborn child.

pairing: brennan sorrengail x rider! reader

word count: 1.1k

a/n: first and foremost, this is unedited. second, i've had this in my drafts since i finished reading fourth wing in september. i kinda wanted to make it a fic but lost some steam. i don't think i'll continue this but if i do it will be shorter blurbs/moments rather than the 10k monstrosities i like to write. i figured it wouldn't do anything in my drafts so here you go!

i like the idea of brennan having someone he befriends and takes under his wing while at basgiath war college. there's so much we don't know about him and this is me filling some of the gaps with the wonderful fanfiction.

i hope you enjoy! i honestly love fourth wing so damn much and i can't wait for onyx storm. i even have tickets for rebecca yarros tour in january. so yes, read, enjoy and let me know what you think!

The cold wind drifted around you, ruffling the grass and the branches of the dispersed trees. The sunrise was turning from a beautiful deep blue to a pale pink that bled into orange. The chill bites into your cheeks and nose, reddening them, but you welcomed it. It numbed the pain that continued to tear through your heart.

“You must stop thinking so much about him.” Your dragon Calliss shares through your link. She’s the angry voice in your head reminding you to move forward.

“I thought we agreed I could wallow in my misery this time of year.”

The day that marks his death came and went yet it left you with a whirlwind of emotions. You should’ve moved on long ago, the pain in your chest turned into a soft ache that you remember fondly as you rebuild your life without him. Still, it remains a deep gash that continues to bleed and keeps you up at night, unmoving.

“You have better things to do.” Calliss reminds you. Its inscription day and people from all over the continent will be arriving to drop off their children.

“Mhm. Yeah, sure.”

The red dagger tail huffs behind you. The air coming from her nostrils counteracting the cold breeze. She’s moody because you shut her out instead of letting her help.

The ground lightly shakes and the air stirs as another dragon lands near Calliss. General Sorrengail’s brown dragon, Aimsir. The older woman approaches you and sits down beside you on the damp grass. Despite her reputation she’s been kind to you, patient even. She’s kept you close, tucked under her wing just like he used to.

Your signet allowed Lilith to keep you closer than most. Otherwise, she’d have no choice but to leave you on your own to battle your emotional wounds.

It tends to weigh in your conscious that she only does it because you have the last piece of him. Had it not been the case, would she have cared as much?

At the same time, you’re eternally grateful. Had it not been for Lilith Sorrengail you would definitely be cold and dead. Despite all the bad days, there have been good ones woven in and you wouldn’t trade those for nothing in the world.

“Violet goes today,” Lilith says, looking at you sternly.

“You sure this is what you want to do?” You ask her, keeping your gaze on the mountain and the sunrise.

Lilith has discussed Violet's inscription with you time and time again. It's the one thing she continues to think about since the death of her husband, which is unusual. The woman is confident in her decisions, she's calculating and precise. A wonderful quality for a commander, but it falters when it comes to her children.

“Do you think she won’t be able to make it?”

You sigh and look down at the grass before your eyes shift up to look at her. “She’ll make it. She might've been raised by a scribe but she was also raised by you and Mira and Brennan which means Violet won't go down without a fight. She won’t go down easy. It is my belief dragons respect that.”

Saying his name is difficult. It's heavy on your tongue as you enunciate the syllables. So familiar yet strange at the same time.

Lilith hums in agreement, leaving a period of silence to hang in the air. She’s giving you time to talk, to bring him up. When you don’t she takes matters into her own hands.

“I can’t believe it’s been five years.”

“Only five and it feels like a century,” you scoff, pulling at the grass blades near your crossed feet. Calliss and Aimsir shuffle behind you two, making the ground tremble. It used to scare you as a cadet.

“You should get out there again, try and find something that at least resembles what you had with Brennan,” Lilith dares say.

You gasp in a sharp intake of air at the mention of his name. It’s not a surprise for Lilith to suggest such a thing. After all, it’s been five long years since Brennan left, died. But, does she not feel like she’s betraying her own son by suggesting this?

“She’s right,” Calliss voice purrs in your ear. She’s suggested it more than once, begging you to ‘release the tension you have inside.’ You've tried but the sense of betrayal that follows reopens old wounds.

“Hush, Calliss.”

Calliss growls from behind you, voicing her displeasure at you telling her to quiet. Humans do not tell dragons what to do.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able replicate what I had with Bren. It was forged at Basgiath under the threat of imminent death. I was another person there who needed help desperately and Bren was the perfect person to guide me. He was one of a kind, our circumstances were one of a kind. It might’ve been short lived but it held so much value.” You give Lilith a smile and shake your head, “I have everything I need. I’m making a name for myself, which was what I always wanted. I was married, and I have a child who I love to death.”

Lilith nods offering you one of her rare smiles. She stands, dusting off her clothes from any sticking grass. “Speaking of, we have to make our way back before he wakes and brings the house down.”

You nod and laugh, “Oh, he’s going to throw a fit when Violet goes.”

Your son and Violet are as thick as thieves. They get along well and Violet loves to spoil him. She’s never one to turn down babysitting or entertain him when you need a break. After all, he's what she has left of her brother.

“Maybe Mira will get him to calm down,” Lilith hopes, climbing up Aimsirs leg.

You have one question for Lilith. From the ground, glancing up at her you ask. “How do you do it? It’s been five years and I feel just as heart broken as I did that day.”

Brennan’s father passed away about a year ago. His heart giving out on him. All because of Brennan’s death. You mourned him too, he had always been kind to you and he loved his grandchild. It might’ve been the only reason he held on for so long.

Lilith sighs and takes a moment to form her words. “Your relationship was young and somewhat new, barely 4 years. He was the first person you trusted. You had your whole life ahead of you. My husband and I were together for nearly 30 years. We travelled all around Navarre, had three amazing children, and we watched them grow up. I wish he was here to see what will become of Violet but,” she pauses without finishing her sentence. “My point is you were full of what ifs and places to go. It’s hard to move on from that when you keep trying to make sense of it.”

“I wish I knew I was pregnant before he died so I could’ve told him. Maybe things would’ve been different,” you confess.

“Possibly. I know Brennan would’ve loved him.” With those last words General Sorrengail flies off, leaving you and Calliss alone once more.

“No more moping. We have a job to do,” she says, urging you to get on her back.

“Thank you for being patient with me,” you tell her honestly.

Calliss is opinionated but she wants what’s best for you. She continues to feel all the pain Brennan’s death caused you. All her snide remarks are only meant to encourage you to manage your pain and move forward.

“Beware. It’s running thin today.”

thoughts?

#fanfiction #fourth wing x reader #fourth wing fanfiction #fourth wing fanfic #fourth wing #iron flame #onyx storm #violet sorrengail #brennan sorrengail x reader #brennan sorrengail #fanfic

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reasonsforhope · 3 hours ago

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"Thousands of trees have been planted by volunteers as part of a new temperate rainforest in south Devon.

More than 2,500 native trees have been planted so far this winter at Devon Wildlife Trust's Bowden Pillars site near Totnes.

The charity said as well as storing carbon, temperate rainforests supported "a super-abundance" of wildlife.

The trust is transforming 30 hectares (75 acres) of sheep-grazed fields into a landscape with 70% tree cover and open glades and wildflower-rich meadows.

The charity said more than a 100 local people planted species including oak, rowan, alder, hazel, birch, willow and holly.

Nick Biggs, an 83-year-old volunteer, said he got involved with the project after being inspired by his apprenticeship with the Forestry Commission in 1958.

"That introduced me to the environment," he said.

"I was really keen to carry on with it and it's good for your fitness just to get out and do something."

The trust said in decades to come the new trees would form a temperate rainforest with high rainfall and humidity.

Helen Aldis from Moor Trees, which supplied some of the saplings, said many had been gathered locally.

She said: "The oak that's going in today is from acorns that we've gathered on Dartmoor that have come back to our tree nursery.

"Our volunteers process those, pop them into the root trainers and then they come out a year or two later to become the woodlands of the future."

'Incredibly rare habitat'

The trust said the damp woodlands used to cover large parts of Britain, but today amount to just 1% of its land area.

Project leader Claire Inglis said: "It's an incredibly rare habitat and we've lost a great deal of it over the years.

"Across the UK there is around 13% woodland cover but in Devon it's actually 11%, so it's lower than the national average."

The trust said the forests supported a variety of birds such as pied flycatchers, woodcock and redstarts, while the damp conditions meant mosses, liverworts, lichens, ferns and fungi thrived on the trees and forest floor.

Ms Inglis added: "The mix of young trees in amongst grass pastures and hedges, along with our commitment not to use pesticides and artificial fertilisers, will be better for local moths, butterflies and bees, along with farmland birds such as yellowhammers and barn owls."

The trust said 7,000 trees would be planted in the first winter with more planned in the future."

-via BBC, January 30, 2025

#england #devon #united kingdom #uk #europe #rainforest #temperate rainforest #conservation #ecology #ecosystem #ecosystem restoration #endangered species #trees #wildlife #native plants #good news #hope

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crossfandomskylines · 2 months ago

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You Deserve This

Pairing: Glen Powell x Female Reader

Summary: In the heart of London, you’re visiting your boyfriend, Glen Powell, on the set of his latest project when he receives a life-changing phone call. After years of hard work and quiet perseverance, Glen is finally nominated for a Golden Globe for his role in Hit Man.

Word Count: 685

A/N: Here's a little drabble I wrote this morning after the news about Glen's Golden Globes Nomination broke. I'm just so proud of him and I feel like he deserves all of the recognition he's been getting lately. Please let me know if you like this with hearts, comments, and reblogs!

The soft hum of London’s streets filtered faintly through the walls of Glen’s trailer, a comforting backdrop to the cozy stillness inside. You were curled up on the couch, one of Glen’s oversized hoodies draped over you like a warm cocoon. It smelled like him—part cologne and the other part something inherently Glen—and it had become your go-to for days like this when the weather outside turned damp and chilly.

The book in your lap had long since lost your attention. Instead, you lazily traced your thumb along the edge of the page, half-listening to Glen’s conversation a few feet away. His voice was steady, his Texan twang softened as he spoke into the phone.

“Yeah, I get it,” he said, pacing the narrow length of the trailer. “I mean, January feels like forever away, but...”

You glanced up briefly, noticing the furrow of his brow and the way his free hand ran through his hair—a clear tell of his nerves. But you didn’t press him. Glen wasn’t one to let you in on something big until he’d wrapped his head around it himself.

“Uh-huh,” he murmured. “Yeah, I’m listening.”

Your gaze shifted back to your book, but the words blurred together. Something about the way his tone had shifted caught your attention. The pacing stopped.

“Wait,” he said suddenly, his voice catching. “What?”

You looked up again, your heart skipping. Glen turned slightly, one hand resting on his hip as the other clutched the phone tightly to his ear. He cleared his throat, his voice soft but noticeably shaky. “Are you serious? No, no, you’re not messing with me right now, right?”

The disbelief in his tone sent a chill through you, and you set the book aside, sitting up straighter.

When Glen finally lowered the phone, his hand dropped to his side, and he stood there for a moment, utterly still. Slowly, he turned to you, his green eyes wide and glistening.

“I—I got nominated,” he said, almost breathless. “For a Golden Globe. Best Actor in a Comedy or Musical. For Hit Man.”

The words hung in the air for a moment before their weight hit you.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, breaking into a smile as you launched off the couch and into his arms. “Glen! Oh my God!”

He caught you with a low laugh, though it was shaky and choked. His arms wrapped around you tightly, grounding himself in the embrace as he buried his face into your shoulder.

“You deserve this,” you said, your voice muffled against his neck. “Every single bit of this, Glen. You’ve worked so hard for this moment.”

You felt him exhale deeply, his chest rising and falling as he held onto you like you were his anchor in a storm. When he pulled back, his eyes were red-rimmed, but the smile on his face was brighter than you’d ever seen it.

“I just…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “I can’t believe it. After all these years, all the times I thought maybe this would never happen…” His voice cracked again, and he swallowed hard. “I’ve wanted this for so long. And…for it to be…it’s this project, you know? I poured everything I had into it.”

You cupped his face, brushing a stray tear away with your thumb. “And it shows. Everyone who sees that movie can see it. This is just the beginning, Glen.”

He laughed softly, leaning into your touch as his hands settled on your waist. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he said, his voice low. “Having you here for this moment…” He trailed off, shaking his head as if words failed him.

“I’m here, Glen. Every step of the way,” you said, pulling him back into a hug.

He rested his chin on the top of your head, holding you tighter this time. “I’m so damn lucky,” he murmured.

You smiled, feeling the tension in his body finally ease. This was his moment—one he’d worked tirelessly for, one he completely deserved. And you couldn’t have been prouder to stand beside him, supporting him through it all.

#Glen Powell #Glen Powell Fic #Glen Powell Fanfic #Glen Powell Fanfiction #Glen Powell x Reader #Glen Powell x You

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bits-and-babs · 1 year ago

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Im so sorry I didn’t see this till after request were closed but so idk if you gon see this but, f!reader had her nipples pierced? I’m sorry but I feel like price would be obsessed with readers piercings like if she had a tongue piercing too? Manz would go crazy. Smut? Dw if not <33

✦ 𝐒𝐔𝐁𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐆𝐄 ✦

– KINKTOBER DAY 6: NIPPLE PIERCINGS

cds!john price x recruit!reader | smut, 18+ | 1.2k words

summary: three months into your sas training course, chief directional instructor captain john price drills you on cold-water-shock survival.

cw: f!reader, cold water shock, power imbalance (recruit x directing staff), secret relationship, breast/nipple play, p in v sex, cream pie.

⇽ KINKTOBER MLIST | DAY 7: INCUBUS ⇾

It wasn’t as though there hadn’t been sufficient warning, but three years of service in the British army was nowhere near enough to prepare your body for the brutal battering that SAS selection subjected it to. Your blisters had blisters, and your body pulsed with a bone-deep ache every time you managed to crawl into bed upon dismissal.

You had been sufficiently warned… About everything except this.

Freezing cold water drips from your nose as you hoist yourself out of the pool at the base of the waterfall. Cold-Water-Shock training was a standard part of SAS selection– the ability to control your own discomfort and maintain a level head whilst also teaching the fundamentals of surviving sub-zero. January weather meant temperature levels were unsurvivable past a handful of seconds, and you could feel why.

The process was simple. Fully submerge yourself into the icy depths before raising to the surface and keeping your chin above water. Next step; breathe. Regain composure and steady your breathing to fight the effects of cold-shock. Recruitment Staff would then ask you a handful of simple questions to assess competency before heaving you out of the water.

You’d passed, you felt, with flying colours. The savagery of the otherworldly Brecon Beacons had failed to shake your resolve, answering the questions with ease. Even now, drenched to the bone and involuntarily trembling, you maintained a strong eye contact with Chief Directional Instructor Price as he eyed you with a stern expression.

It’s momentary— barely there. You’d have missed it had you blinked. Price’s thick eyelashes, made damp by the sleet that had been battering the group all morning, dipped below your face. Sapphire blue irises glint in the low light when they zero in on their target. You hadn’t worn a bra this morning given you’d been forced out of bed at the arse-crack of dawn and expected to be in the van within five minutes… They’d left you little to no choice.

Regardless of this reasonable explanation, you suddenly begin to regret your decision to forgo the cover, Staff Price gazing at the way your grey t-shirt clings to your pebbled nipples and the exposed shape of the piercing balls either side of each mound.

“That’ll be all, 16,” he says, that raspy grit to his voice warming you from the inside-out. That fever encroaches on the apples of your cheeks when you realise he’s yet to pull his eyes away.

“… Yes Staff.”

✦✦✦

“You did that on purpose.”

John’s voice, husky and full, was surprisingly even considering how tight your pussy walls clenched around his thick, veiny cock. You wail quietly at the soft breath that dances across your assaulted skin, nipples so incredibly sensitive. Sucked and nibbled and licked, the tender skin screams when Price drags the flat of his tongue over your pierced nipple with a delighted hum.

“N-No—“ you choke out, the overstimulation of your nipples sending another shockwave of bliss down your spine. You know you’re squeezing him, because John ruts up into your fluttering pussy with a far less composed groan. “I didn’t— I didn’t mean to!”

“You’re not foolin’ anyone, Love,” John murmurs, gently taking your pebbled nipple between his teeth and rolling it.

You see stars— swirls of technicolour dancing behind your eyelids with how tightly you squeeze them shut against the cataclysmic pleasure that seeps between your thighs. When John jerks his hips up again, you can hear how wet you are. It’s sloppy, disgustingly soaked, and Price loves it.

“Fuckin’— Hah-“ John moans against the supple flesh of your breast, wrapping his lips around it and sucking on the hypersensitised skin. This time, when you arch your back from the bed with a wail of his name, he begins a slow and leisurely pace with his hips.

Burying your fingers into the short-crop of his hair, you brace against the ticking bomb of your orgasm as it approaches. Each long stroke of John’s hips makes another disgustingly wet sound, your cunt greedily sucking him in and creaming around his throbbing dick as he flicks his tongue back and forth across your abused nipple. His other palm, battle calloused and rough, squeezed the other breast, thumb equally torturing your second nipple.

It comes in waves; cresting, crashing tsunamis rather than soft laps of the ocean on a beach. A prickling heat that singes away the Beacon’s icy cold from your toes and creeps up the inside of your thighs. Your heart slams against John’s lips, your hands pushing into the back of his head to keep him there while you chase what could only be described as liquidation.

“Ohmygod—“ you slur, and it’s as though the edges of your vision blacken. In truth, you’re not sure what you call him as you come apart on his cock, sobbing out a hapless string of garbled noises that don’t sound anything like his name. Toes curling either side of his hips, you fail to brace against the overstimulation that rips violently through you.

“Fucken’ ‘ell—“ he groans deeply, a guttural growl that seems to vibrate the atoms in the air around you. The deliberate, methodical thrusts of his hips suddenly pitch to a sloppy, desperate gallop. John’s hands grasp the bed sheets so tight you almost hear the threads strain against the pull.

He cums, coating the inside of your cunt with a rumble of your name that sounds so foreign to your ears with the afterglow buzzing in your eardrums. John continues to fuck you through it, taking pleasure in the way you squirm and squeal and cry until his cum seeps between your legs, coating the inside of your thighs with his seed.

Sharp, heaving breaths echo in his small quarters, and you’re almost certain that his fellow DS had definitely heard you this time. But when John places his damp forehead to yours, eyes closed as he relishes in the bliss of being so close to you for just a moment longer, you struggle to find it in yourself to worry.

“You should wear a bra,” John mumbles, pressing a kiss to your lips— but missing in the haze of post-orgasm-bliss and settling for a peck on the corner of your mouth.

“Why?” You muse, still a little breathless as he works his lips down your chin and over your jaw. The gruff, burly Chief of Directing Staff was so affectionate when the door was closed. You knew that this thing you had going on was more serious than a thing when you stopped being anxious about getting caught and being kicked off the course— instead stressing about John offering his tenderness to another recruit. “If this is how you react to seeing me with a wet shirt and no bra, I’ll dunk myself in that water every damn day.”

In a moment of sobriety, John pulls back to look you in the eye. His aquamarine irises hold a heavy seriousness that makes your breath stall for a moment, afraid you’d said something out of line.

“Love, I completed that whole trainin’ session with a rock hard cock.”

A beat.

Just before peals of laughter burst from you. John rolls his eyes, turning onto his back on the mattress. Still, he’s unable to bite back the smile that pulls on his lips.

cod mwii/kinktober taglist:

@mortallyuniquepeach @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @crybaby-blue-blog @heart-atttack @pansa-1-san @maviee @emotion-no-hot-yes-hotel-trivago @s-u-t @ghostslynx @solidly-indulgent @glitterypirateduck @gummyfang @bii-aan-ckaa @konigsblog @crissteetee @crissteetee67 @sylvanasthebansheequeen @akaym2 @exploremyworldsm @thriving-n-jiving @su57 @cabreezer0117 @cathnoneofyourbusiness @marygraceee @thatchickwiththecamera @legend-o-zelda @eatingtheworldsoffanfiction @tusk89 @bellasbees01 @dog55teeth

@mockerycrow @bubuslutty @cheezitwh0re @haunt3dh3art @levi-llama @thebiscuitsheep @maelstrom007 @alexxavicry @bug-sy-boy @glennrheesworld @kittenfrostt @luvfromkat @blingblong55 @whore4dilfs @wolfyland07 @doggydale @dog55teeth @cabreezer0117 @cathnoneofyourbusiness @marygraceee @thatchickwiththecamera @legend-o-zelda @whore-for-anime @i-love-ghost @cyberpr1m3 @mockerycrow @bubuslutty @lundenloves @cheezitwh0re @haunt3dh3art @babychoi03 @infectedkura @allekat1988 @whore-for-anime @soupbinsoup @passi0np1t @mockerycrow @cyberpr1m3 @i-love-ghost @allekat1988 @infectedkura @babychoi03 @freakquenci @maviee @yunggoblin @sleepystaarr @watyousayin @soupbinsoup @passi0np1t @damn-dean-blog @pheonyxmoon @magicalreviewphantom @limegreenbabx @johfaam0 @iaur @justsayk

@bloodmoon-bites @wiltedwonderland @doggydale @limegreenbabx @namelesshumanperson @ninahhh-brahh

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ethereacals · 2 months ago

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Moony's Moon and Star.

synopsis; after a huge party that you were convinced you'd be alright going to, you end up hiding in your slytherin boyfriends dorm from every little thing.

pairings; poly!moonwater x seer!reader

warnings; profanity, social anxiety troubles

a/n; i'm totally not basing this off of a recent experience (except i didnt have a remus or regulus to comfort me)

THE PARTY WAS LOUD, booming even.

Students from every house drinking and dancing from wall to wall.

Couples in bathrooms and lines outside the door.

It was the last Gryffindor hosted party until holiday break, lasting until early January.

James, Sirius, and Peter had planned their last big prank of the year, though Remus wasn't very involved.

He was specifically tasked by Regulus to keep a watchful eye over you.

You had convinced your boyfriends (and not exactly yourself) that you could go to this party and make it out alive.

But godric, were you wrong.

You felt suffocated, pushing through the piles and piles of people as you somehow made it out into the silent hallways.

Tonight in the castle was the infamous no patrol night, where Filch and other teachers on duty wouldn't patrol. Basically meaning there was no curfew.

It was actually meant for students who needed to pack last minute, but everyone knew that this was a better option.

Not many students lingered the halls, besides a few horny little fourth year boys trying to get to second-base with their girlfriends of one week.

You made your way down to the dungeons, somehow making it that far without collapsing into yourself.

Quietly, you whispered the password and generously allowed into the Slytherin common room by the giant snake-like accents slithering away to reveal the dimly lit space.

You made your way up to Regulus' room, which by your knowledge was to be completely empty.

Your suspicions were right, and that left you to collapse onto his bed and let your emotions get the better of you.

You thought you could handle it.

You took deep breaths.

Hell- you even tried to stay with Remus, but the crowd separated the both of you whilst James pulled him aside.

You were trembling, and desperately wanting your boyfriends but not being able to immediately contact them.

Unexpectedly, you started feeling faint. Like your consciousness was being tugged right from your fingers.

It was like you were in a large, dark ocean with the moon just over head.

It was too far to see very clearly, though it's presence was still there.

Then, there was a star. A bright star. It was reaching for you, but the waves kept tugging you under as you felt like you were constantly drowning and being swept away.

You tried to reach for the star, but the tide crashed above you as your hand reached tirelessly towards the star.

And after one colossal wave, you had fully sunk.

The little stars glow dimming as you sunk under.

Before you jolted conscious once again, now feeling a cold hand pressed on your back.

You looked up to see your boyfriend, Regulus, a worried expression painted onto his face as you realized that you were practically laying on top of him.

"I-" You started, eager to explain yourself and why you didn't stay. As you expected some sort of lecture or "I told you so" from him.

"You don't have to say anything, amour. You're safe." He mused from below you, just as you realized how heavy your breathing as and damp your cheeks were.

"I know you were determined you could stay, but we're proud of you that you searched for solitude instead of making yourself more uncomfortable." A different voice spoke softly, that voice obviously belonging to Remus.

"I-I said I would s-stay though and I didn't..." You attempted to find some sort of blame to place on yourself, but clearly your boyfriends weren't taking it.

"Dove, it's completely alright." Remus caressed your cheek gingerly, as Regulus and his ice cold Antarctic hands against the lumber of your back.

"Please understand nobody is mad at you, it's alright, amour." Regulus cooed, his ring finger drawing imaginary lines down your forehead to the tip of your nose.

"O-Okay.." You murmured sleepily, the Sight making your brain go all fuzzy and lulling you to sleep.

"Bonne nuit, mon amour. Respire, nous sommes là..."

(goodnight, my love. just breathe, we're here…")

Regulus whispered, smiling gently at his boyfriend as you fell asleep.

You definitely were in good hands.

#marauders era #fem!reader #sirius black #remus lupin #marauders #fanfiction #james potter #remus lupin x reader #regulus black #regulus black x reader #moonwater #romantic moonwater #poly moonwater #x reader #poly!moonwater x reader

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featherandferns · 2 months ago

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day 4/24 - obx christmas countdown

‘If it's true love, that he thinks of, so next Christmas, I'm not all alone’ - Ariana Grande, Santa Tell Me | smut-fluff | jj x fem!reader

You and JJ had been messing around together since summer. Summer. That’s six whole months of sneaking out at all hours of the night to the Chateau. Six months of being tangled up in bedsheets with JJ’s sweaty, sexy body. Six months of life-altering orgasms and six months of repressed feelings. But like a trained marine, you had experience with pushing down your emotions. As of now, you’d been a professional at denying yourself love. But you knew that you did love JJ. How could you not? It was as if God had read through your checklist of your dream man - good-looking; good in bed; good at heart; good humour - and sculpted JJ Maybank and plonked him down in your town. And you made a silent, secret pact with yourself that if nothing had changed by January - if you didn’t confess your feelings, and find out if JJ felt the same - then you had to go cold-turkey. No pun intended.

That secret pact was awfully hard to stand by when you’re stood in some random local kid’s house for a Christmas party and spot JJ walking across the room. He’s so pretty you want to cry. So effortlessly beautiful with his hair perfectly tousled; his jawline sharp like carved ice; smirk shadowed on his skin like a wine stain. The loose jacket overlay hangs handsomely on his shoulders as if tailored to his body. The moment his eyes flit across the room and meet yours, you’re amazed you don’t melt into a puddle and rip your clothes off on the spot. The spiked cider does little to ease your nerves as he casually wanders over.

“Merry Christmas,” he says.

“Right back at you,” you smile. The song changes to some poppy rendition of Let it Snow but you refuse to let yourself get in the mood. His words ring like a funeral march. You count down the days until the new year. The days which you had left to grow a pair and just ask.

“How’s the cider?” he asks, nodding down to your glass.

“Alright,” you uselessly reply. His fingers brush against yours as JJ takes the glass from you. He takes a slow swig and you shamelessly watch every tiny detail unfold: the bob of his adam’s apple; the dampness that lingers on his lips; the way his tongue darts out to mop it up. God, what you’d give to–

No! Stop it, stop it!

The pact - we must remember the pact.

You take the glass back and smile. He nods. “Pretty good.”

“Mhm.”

“So…Got any Christmas plans?”

“Just spending time with the family,” you say, shrugging. He nods again. You can feel the question stirring. See it in the way his eyes look at you, scanning over you as though your clothes are merely a figment of imagination; a philosophical theory that he’s decided not to buy into. You’ve seen that look many times before and ended up beneath it many more.

“What about tonight? Any plans?” he wonders slyly, his eyes darting over your figure from head to toe.

The pact, the pact, the pact, the–

“Not really,” you guilefully shrug. You flash him that smile that always seems to work. The rest is a blur of ditching glasses, intertwined hands, brushing past bodies, trying doors, until you end up in some random bedroom of this weirdly oversized house, with JJ on top of you.

His lips are hot and heavy as they kiss you. He pushes against you with a groan as if desperate to feel your skin on his. The layers of clothes are rude now, keeping the two of you apart, but you’re too distracted by the feel of his lips on yours, the erotic way his tongue brushes against yours in a way that has you yearning for more, to shed them.

JJ coaxes you back against the pillows of some poor stranger’s bed. His lips are wet and prurient as they stray from your mouth, onto your neck. Your breath comes out short in sighs, whining, as you paw at his face and his neck and his body. You tug off his overlayer and he shrugs it off, his hands quick to return to your body. One slips below your breast and the other cups at your cheek, gently guiding your face just-so to give him more skin. He knows your body so well it’s as if he’s found the map and memorised it. Knows every short cut and every route. Knows what to do that has your body pulsing, pussy weeping, desperate for more.

Somewhere through the layers of walls, you hear the music change. The voices of party-goers are muffled and in the erotic haze, your thoughts clouded and mind foggy, you forgot where you were. Santa tell me, if you’re really there… Ariana’s voice rings out through the house and some girls sing along loudly. It feels as if they’re condemning you in tuneful, cheery lyrics.

“Wait, wait,” you murmur. Your body can’t believe what you’re doing as you softly push JJ off of you.

His lips are swollen and wet, eyes hooded and pupils dilated, cheeks adorably pinkened, as he looks down at you. His arms flex damningly as he holds himself, hands placed either side next to your head. His breathing heavy just like you.

“What’s up? You okay?” he murmurs.

You swallow and shake your head. He frowns and eases off you, sitting back on his haunches. You sit up too.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, brushing his hair off his face.

You tug your cardigan around you and glance off to the side of the room. Your eyes survey the chest of drawers and the array of pictures and trinkets atop of it. JJ murmurs your name and it sends you back to the very first night, in clammy June. You’d always been keenly aware of JJ Maybank’s existence. Hell, everybody on Kildare island was. The night his eyes landed on you and his attention switched was the night your whole life veered off course. It’s easy to not miss something you never had. But now you’d had a taste and JJ was like a forbidden fruit. After that night, you wanted more. However, it seemed like JJ did too. The two of you kept seeking one another out at random keggars and house parties. Then it strayed from party scenes and instead ventured into more mundane settings, in which he’d extend an invitation, and the hook-ups were no longer kept to just the nights. Then it turned into phone numbers and mutuals on social media, which led to random conversations and exchanges of funny memes. It became this confusing blur of lines where JJ straddled something between being a friend and a fuck-buddy. And in that confusion came feelings that you tried to cram down like an overflowing box of Christmas lights.

“Woah,” JJ chuckles. You blink yourself back to the room. “Where’d you go?”

“I don’t know,” you say, chuckling a bit too. “Sorry.”

“You’re good. We don’t gotta do anything,” JJ shrugs. He grabs for his overlayer and your body fills with adrenaline. Your hand shoots out and grabs onto his arm. He looks at you, mildly concerned.

“Okay,” you say. He quirks a brow. “Okay, okay. I just need to get this over with because it’s been driving me crazy and I know if I don’t just ask, then I’m never going to ask, and I made to a promise to myself that I would ask and–”

“--Woah, woah, woah,” JJ laughs. He places a hand on each of your shoulders. His eyes gaze into yours and he smiles reassuringly. “Breath. Goddamn.”

You do as he says. He stays like that, waiting, and you take another shaky breath in. Your eyes slip shut as you mentally prepare yourself for the sting of rejection. It’s now or never. Rip the bandaid off. The confession comes out so quick it could be mistaken for one word.

“I have feelings for you.”

It’s hard to hear anything over the hammering of your heartbeat in your ears. The party feels as though it’s miles away. The muffled voices are nothing more than extractor fan hums. The music is nothing but croaking frogs and rustling wind. It’s all whitenoise now. Your breath sticks to your throat and your chest tightens with nerves as you wait. You can’t bring yourself to open your eyes. You’re too terrified to come face to face with JJ’s expression of pure horror.

They fly open when you feel his lips on yours though. The kiss is frenzied, rushed, desperate to have you close, almost. Your hands fly up and hover in the air, just shy of his face, but his are on your cheeks. As the kiss stretches on, your hands sink down to your legs and your eyes slip shut once more, and you loose yourself to the feeling of JJ kissing you as if you’re the last breath of air on earth.

“Thank fuck. Cause I wasn’t sure how much longer I could go without saying something,” JJ murmurs the moment his lips part from yours. Your eyes open up and he’s staring up at you. Beneath the usual cocky, confident facade is a shyness. A vulnerability. Maybe it’s in his smile - nervous, waiting, unsure. Yours must mirror it.

“Really?” you say, feeling a laugh want to bubble out of you.

“Really. Shit, I thought I was being so obvious, too.”

You laugh and shake your head. Sighing out, happy - no, elated - you gaze up at the ceiling. “Thank fuck.”

You’re more than happy to have JJ silence you with his lips on yours. For the first time in a long time, you won't have to spend Christmas alone.

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