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illbegottenfaith · 2 months ago

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can I take your order?

you get off on the wrong foot with the new barista at your hometown's coffee shop, but even your off-putting behaviour isn't enough to deter him (theo nott x reader)

a/n - a little birthday gift from me to myself! this was inspired by an episode of fresh off the boat season 4. I dont usually like coffee shop au's but they do make for a fun silly little drabble :)

warnings/tropes - coffee shop au, one-sided reluctant acquaintances to lovers(?), fluff, petty!reader

word count - 2.8k

In hindsight, your first clue should have been the unfamiliar, deep, masculine voice coming from the figure crouched behind the counter. You walked into the coffee shop, the familiar bell jangling warmly.

"Just a minute!"

Strange, you had thought. Elaise sounds rather different. And like the utter idiot you were, you settled on one of most nonsensical conclusions anyone could have drawn - she must have a sore throat. Poor Elaise.

The figure straightened, heaving a box of individually wrapped candy canes onto the counter, sweeping his hair out of his eyes.

“Hello. Can I take your order?”

You gaped at the new, unfamiliar barista. His hair fell appealingly across his forehead in soft, silky curls. His cheeks were rosy with the warmth of the cosy shop, and you distantly took note of how becoming the flush looked on him. That, and how adorably put-together he looked on what was clearly his first day on the job, with his neatly rolled-up sleeves and pristine apron.

You, on the other hand, were bundled up in an absurd amount of woollens and jackets, your pinched face desperately lacking any colour or sign of life.

In your defense, you typically looked much more normal. It was just that you could not, for the life of you, find your coat that morning, which may or may not have to do with the fact that you had only haphazardly unpacked half your trunk (you had precious few days away from Hogwarts - you weren't going to spend half of one unpacking and another half packing again.).

Since you could not find your coat, you had made a guess (a rather poor one, you were quickly realising) at how many layers you needed to pile on to avoid catching your death in the brisk chill outside. By the time you stepped outside, you were sweating under the sweltering layers. But the only thing more stupid than bundling yourself in an obscene number of layers was wasting time peeling those layers off, and so you waddled down your driveway with what was left of your dignity.

Besides, on a cold day like this, it wasn't like you were going to run into anyone. Only Elaise down at the coffee shop, someone you could laugh about this with.

Someone you could not laugh about this with, you decided, was the equally stunned stranger of a barista in front of you. It was warm, very warm, inside the coffee shop. With your lucky, you'd somehow manage to sweat through all of your layers. Could he tell you were wearing too many? Was it obvious? Oh, God, between your layers and the overthinking you wer going to overheat. But you couldn't remove any of them, because then it would be obvious, because then he would know -

That was when you made the brilliant observation that he was staring at you just as much as you were staring at him. There was the faintest sheen of sweat along the bridge of his unfairly well-constructed nose. Your gaze slipped down to the box of candy canes he had just pulled out and, with considerable difficulty, willed yourself to tear your eyes away from him. Honestly, what he was doing in a coffee shop in the middle of nowhere with forearms like those?

This was getting ridiculous, you fumed. He was just as out of breath as you, even if it was for entirely different reasons. Why did he get to look so roguishly dishevelled, while you...actually, you didn't want to think about how you looked. His lips were parted and his brow was lightly furrowed. Maybe, if you were clever about this, you could convince him that this was all just a fevered hallucination the both of you shared.

Too late.

He was moving his mouth, and from the way his eyes were fixed on your outermost ugly Christmas sweater (that you had worn ironically. Ironically. You were not destitute in the clothing department.), you were sure he had nothing constructive to say.

So you did what any rational human being would do - turn around and leave.

"And then you just...left? Without saying anything?"

You sealed the last of the cardboard boxes. "He was very off-putting."

Whatever. Ivy hadn't been there. It's not like she would know that you had been the off-putting one.

The two of you were sorting through the boxes cluttering your dreary attic. It had taken up the better part of your morning, but at least you were finally done. Ivy tucked away the last box, wiping her hands down her pants.

"You know what I could really go for right now? A vanilla latte."

You put down the label maker, narrowing your eyes at your friend. "Ivy."

"With a light dusting of cinnamon on top."

"We can't go there," you protested. "We have to stay away from the place until Elaise comes back. If she comes back. You know, out of solidarity?"

What you meant was, you couldn't show your face there again after yesterday. Really, what were you thinking, walking out without so much as a word? He probably thought you weren't right in the head. Although, you thought bitterly, maybe he wasn't far off.

"Oh, relax. She's talked about going out of town to visit her family for ages now. Don't her grandparents live in Minnesota? Besides," Ivy picked up your coats, tossing you yours, "I have to see the guy my best friend is so down bad for."

Your tongue suddenly felt too thick for your mouth. "I'm not down bad for him. Why would you think I'm down bad for him?"

"Y/N, you spent the last half hour talking about his hands."

You scoffed. "Uh, yeah, about how stupid they look, with all those stupid veins and that stupid bone structure."

The whole way there, you came up with more and more excuses to avoid the coffee shop, each one more desperate and ridiculous than the last. Unfortunately, none of them seemed to work.

The two of you walked in, and you were briefly soothed by the comforting aroma of roasted coffee beans. Ivy gave the barista a warm smile. "Hello." Traitor.

"Hi. What can I get you?"

He didn't look as fresh-faced as yesterday, but god was he still devastatingly attractive. You tried to focus on what Ivy was saying.

"I'll have a vanilla latte with cinammon on top."

"And you?"

You opened your mouth. You wanted to tell him your order; really, you did. But for some strange, inexplicable reason, your mind went blank. What did you want? The silence stretched awkwardly. You felt your face heat up. Your throat felt dry. Eventually, Ivy - wonderful, fantastic, heaven-sent Ivy - cleared her throat delicately.

"She'll have a hot chocolate with whipped cream and a hazelnut drizzle. Say, Elaise used to work here, didn't she?"

The barista glanced up at Ivy. "Hm? Oh, yes. She's just out of town for the holidays."

"Minnesota?"

"I think so."

Ivy gave you a knowing look. You scowled at her and looked away, only to see the barista watching you with an odd expression, as if a smile were tugging at his lips. You hurriedly straightened your face, fixing your gaze on the bottles of syrup behind him as he went back to taking the order.

"Could I get your names?"

"Ivy and..." She prodded you in the ribs. You stayed resolutely silent, your eyes only slightly watering from the jab. "...and Y/N," she finished.

Ivy paid, and the two of you found a table in the middle of the shop to wait at. You couldn't stop kicking yourself over the interaction. That was twice you'd made a fool of yourself in front of him now. Once your drinks were ready, Ivy fetched them. When she handed you yours, you turned the cup around in your hand. It felt like any other drink. You turned it a little more and your heart skipped a beat. There was your name scrawled in black ink, and at the end was a slightly untidy, yet unmistakable, heart.

"Aww," Ivy crooned, peeking over, "he likes you."

"Shut up," you mumbled, trying to hide your burning face. Still, when she wasn't looking, you ran a thumb over his writing, memorising every careless flick of his marker.

There had to be something wrong with him. No one was that perfect.

"What am I looking at?" Matteo asked drily, as you stood outside the coffee shop the next day. A couple of your friends were spending Christmas in the area, and you had managed to drag a couple of them down here. The person you really wanted there was Matteo, someone to validate your (diminishing) distaste for the guy. Sometimes you felt like he was the only one who understood your mistrustful nature. You vaguely stabbed at the direction of the barista, who was busily whipping up a drink, through the cafe's window with your mittened hands.

"There. That guy."

"What about him?"

"How much money are you willing to bet on him being a serial killer?"

That was when Matteo started laughing, and it was a long while before anyone could get him to stop.

"I don’t think Matteo was the right person to ask," Ivy said, patting your arm sympathetically once all of you had bundled inside the shop.

"Obviously not," you said bitterly. "He’d gamble his trust fund away for shits and giggles."

Your gaze wandered over to the counter where the others were still ordering. The barista's pencil wasn't moving on his writing pad, and Matteo actually seemed interested in whatever he was saying. Typical. Don't! you wanted to yell. He's the enemy!

"Have a nice little chitchat?" you asked witheringly once the guys returned with their drinks.

"Hey, I was only trying to scope out if he was a - what did you say? Right, a serial killer."

You rolled your eyes. It was starting to get annoying, how everyone couldn't help but love the guy.

"I miss Elaise," you grumbled, taking a sip of your drink. As you set your drink back down, you glanced back at the counter to see the barista once again watching you. You stiffened. What was he looking at? Did you have something on your face? You did have something on your face! You hurriedly wiped off the whipped cream above your upper lip and on the tip of your nose with the back of your hand. But he still wasn't looking away. His eyes dipped down to your drink. Mystified, you followed his gaze, looking more closely at your cup.

There was a cartoonish Christmas tree etched on the side with a speech bubble coming out of its mouth.

Why did the Christmas tree go to the dentist?

You rotated the cup.

It needed a root canal.

A talking Christmas tree. A talking Christmas tree going to the dentist. How ridiculous, you thought. You laughed suddenly, startling your friends. You didn't know why you were nearly It was so stupid that it circled back to being funny. Noticing your friends curiously watching you, you hurriedly rotated the cup, shielding the doodle with your palm. You waved away their questioning glances, and slowly the conversation resumed.

You glanced back at the barista, eyes bright with mirth, watching him take someone else's order. Sure, it was a stupid joke, but it was your kind of stupid joke.

Ever since that first day when you walked out without saying a word, Theo had watched you return to the coffee shop day after day, bringing more and more backup. Today, he had to duck behind the milk steaming station when he spotted your table as he emerged from the back. Impressively, you had managed to squeeze an entire party of seven around a table for two, complete with everyone’s puffy winter coats. As you had discovered a few days ago, that table was the perfect vantage point to spy on the goings-on at the counter.

Today, he approached your table with his familiar writing pad and pencil. "I thought it might be easier if I came to all of you instead of the other way around."

One by one, your friends rattled off their orders.

"Vanilla latte, cinammon on top. Y/N?"

It was your turn. You met his eyes. His striking, crisp blue eyes. Fuck. You felt your thoughts start slipping from your mind again.

"I know," he started saying, "hot chocolate with whipped cream and a caramel drizzle on top."

"Hazelnut."

"Hm?"

Everyone was staring at you. That had just come out of your mouth, hadn't it? Your throat felt scratchy. You didn't think you could string two words together, but somehow, you managed.

"It's not a caramel drizzle," you forced out clumsily, hyperaware of your scarlet face. "It's hazelnut."

Then, oh so subtly, in a way you would have missed it if you hadn't been watching his face so closely, his mouth curved into an undeniable smirk.

You looked around your circle of friends to see if anyone had noticed, but they had been too busy watching you. You looked back at him. The smirk was gone, but the polite graciousness in his eyes as he murmured an apology and walked away didn't fool you.

Ivy patted you on the back, but you shrugged her away. You were too busy fuming. He tricked you. He tricked you. Who did he think he was, manipulating his way into getting you to say two words to him? Before anyone realised what you were doing, including yourself, you were standing up and walking over to the counter with a more than indignant air.

"I bet you think you were real slick with that, huh?"

"With what?" he asked smoothly, completely unfazed as he continued with the drink he was making. Unfazed enough to make you suspect this was what he had planned all along.

"You know. You knew it was hazelnut."

He gave you what anyone else might have mistaken for an innocent smile, but you knew better. "Did I?"

"Yes, and frankly, it's almost insulting to think I wouldn't have picked up o-"

He set down the cup he had been writing on. It was only then that you realised it was your drink.

"Hot chocolate. Whipped cream. Hazelnut drizzle."

You blinked, having lost your train of thought. You hesitantly picked the cup up and walked back to your table.

Your friends were too engrossed in their conversations to notice you returning. You turned your cup, looking for today's doodle. Except, there was no doodle - only your name messily scrawled without so much as a heart. It was legible, but barely.

You bit your lip, trying to stave off the stinging disappointment rushing in. It hurt to know that you had been right all along, that he didn't really fancy you. As for the hurried scribble, who could blame him? He had a good seven or so drinks to make. He was in a rush, he couldn't be wasting time doodling on every single cup.

You looked up, making eye contact with Ivy sitting opposite you. You shook your head, gesturing to your drink. Only, when she glanced at your cup, her eyes widened dramatically. Frowning, you spun the cup around, and you nearly choked.

561-555-7689

"Um, I'm going to get some air," you mumbled to no one in particular, dazed, as you exited the shop with your drink. You looked at the digits on the cup again, repeating them over and over again in your head till you had them memorised. Should you? No, you didn't want to come off as desperate. Unless...no. No. You weren't that pathetic.

Oh, who were you kidding? You had made a complete arse of yourself in front of him. What reason did he have to actually give you his number?

"Hello?"

You were stunned speechless. It worked. He picked up. And you knew it was him, because you could see him on the phone through the window, wiping a hand on his apron as he raised his eyebrows at you.

"...hi." You shook yourself, turning away. It was easier if you didn't have to acknowledge who you were talking to. "Sorry. You're working now, obviously. I just didn't think you'd give me your real number."

"Why would I give you a fake number?"

You could imagine the corner of his lip quirking up into that slightly asymmetrical smile of his. Everything you did seemed to amuse him. You shrugged, laughing weakly. "I don't know. For some kind of sick joke?"

"I thought you liked my jokes."

You scrunched your nose. He had you there.

You called him again that night, once you were sure his shift would have ended. And the night after that, and the night after that, and every night for the rest of the holidays.

#theo nott #theo nott x reader #theodore nott #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott x y/n #theodore nott x you #theodore nott fluff

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dreamlanderin · 5 days ago

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You don't see me, Part 5 (Sam x reader)

Summary: You're in Green Hollow, Sam and Dean race to find you. Follows after part 4

Warnings: Swearing, blood, gore, horror, angst (Legit almost everything you can expect from a supernatural episode), spoilers if you squint?

Words: 10k (I got carried away)

You’d been following Bobby’s directions for hours, squinting at a hand-drawn map that seemed to make less sense the further you drove. The landmarks he’d mentioned—a crooked signpost, an old water tower—had been there, sure, but they looked… different. Faded, almost distorted, like you’d stepped into some parallel version of the real world.

Your phone was useless out here, the signal dead the moment you’d left the last highway. You’d tried restarting it, even waved it in the air in a desperate attempt to catch a bar, but nothing. Just static.

And then, after what felt like an eternity of wrong turns and second-guessing, you’d found it. The town. Green Hollow.

It didn’t look like much—a handful of buildings huddled together in the middle of nowhere, their facades weathered and crumbling like they’d been abandoned decades ago. But the lights were on in some of the windows, and you’d caught glimpses of movement behind curtains and doorframes. A general store, a diner, what might’ve been a post office—they were all there, clustered around a single stretch of road that barely qualified as Main Street.

At first, it had seemed… normal. Quiet, but normal. Until you stepped out of the bike.

That’s when you felt it. Eyes on you.

It wasn’t subtle, either. People weren’t sneaking glances from behind windows or casually looking up as they passed. No, they were staring. Full-on, unapologetic staring, like you were some kind of intruder who’d wandered where you didn’t belong. A woman sweeping the porch of the general store stopped mid-swipe, her hand frozen on the broom as her gaze locked onto you. A group of kids on bikes paused at the corner, their laughter dying as they turned in unison, their faces eerily blank. Even an old man sitting on a bench across the street was watching you, his eyes unblinking, his hands resting motionless on his cane.

You tried to shake it off, brushing past the unease with a shrug as you headed toward what looked like a diner. You’d figured maybe you could grab something to eat, ask a few questions, and figure out your next move. But when you pushed open the door, the bell jangling above your head, the low murmur of conversation inside died instantly.

Every head turned toward you. Every set of eyes.

You froze, the weight of their stares pressing against your skin like a physical thing. The room was small, just a handful of tables and booths, but it felt suffocating. The waitress behind the counter—young, with a crooked name tag that read Mary—stood frozen, the coffee pot in her hand hovering inches above a mug. The man she’d been serving, a burly guy in a flannel jacket, turned his head so slowly it was almost unnatural, his gaze pinning you in place.

You managed a tight smile, forcing your voice to stay steady. “Uh… is the kitchen still open?”

Mary didn’t answer. She just stared at you, her wide eyes flicking briefly to the other patrons before settling back on you.

“Okay,” you muttered under your breath, backing toward the door. “Guess not.”

No, just no. You left the diner without another word, the weight of their stares trailing you all the way to the sidewalk. The air outside felt colder now, heavier, and as you glanced back at the windows, you swore you saw the curtains twitch.

You tried the motel next, if you could even call it that. It was more of a rundown, single-story building with a flickering VACANCY sign hanging crooked above the office door. But when you stepped inside, the tiny reception desk was empty, the bell for service cracked and rusted. You’d called out, your voice echoing in the stillness, but no one came.

It wasn’t just the motel, either. The gas station was locked up, the lights inside dim. The general store had closed early, its door chained shut. Even the post office, which had looked abandoned at first glance, now seemed to hum faintly, like there was someone—or something—inside watching you.

You tried not to let it get to you, tried to tell yourself it was all in your head. Bobby had said there was just some strange weather or something you needed to check out, this didn’t feel like strange weather at all. Did he give you the right map?

You’d gone back to your bike, luckily it was still there, a part of you thought it might be missing when you went back. It would have to do for now, maybe you should camp for the night? The headlights cast long, distorted shadows across the empty street, and in the rearview mirror, you thought you saw movement—a figure standing just beyond the edge of the light.

But when you turned to look, the street was empty.

By now the sun had long since dipped below the horizon, leaving the town cloaked in an uneasy twilight. The streets were deserted, silent except for the faint creak of an old weather vane spinning lazily in the cool evening breeze. You’d pulled your motorbike up to the edge of the road, flicking the kickstand down and cutting the engine. The silence that followed felt too heavy, like it had been waiting to swallow the sound whole.

Unfolding the crumpled map Bobby had given you, you tried to make sense of the faded lines and scrawled notes. The directions had been straightforward enough when you set out, but now the roads seemed to twist and blur together, leading nowhere. Your headlamp cast just enough light to make out the words, but even they felt wrong somehow, like the map was deliberately trying to confuse you. You were hungry and tired, you wish you’d taken some snackss when you’d stopped by the gas station.

You tried your phone again but nothing.

You shifted your weight on the bike, exhaling sharply to ground yourself. It was fine. You’d figure it out. You always did.

But then you noticed them.

At first, it was just a flicker of movement in the corner of your eye—quick, darting, like shadows stretching in the fading light. You brushed it off as nothing, focusing instead on the map. But the flickers kept coming, and when you finally glanced up, you saw them. The children.

They were standing in the dim glow of a streetlamp a little ways down the road, half-hidden in the shadows. Two, no, three of them. Their faces were blank, pale, and still, with eyes that seemed to glint unnaturally in the low light. You recognized them immediately—the same kids you’d seen earlier when you’d first rolled into town. They’d been playing by the fountain in the square, laughing and running circles around each other. But now? Now they weren’t laughing. They weren’t moving at all.

They were just staring at you.

You looked back down at the map, trying to shake the uneasy feeling creeping up your spine. It was fine. They were just kids. Probably curious about the stranger in town. Kids were like that, weren’t they? Still, your fingers tightened around the edge of the paper, crumpling it slightly as you forced yourself to focus.

The sound of small, deliberate footsteps broke the silence.

Your head snapped up, and you realized they were closer now. Still not speaking, still not smiling—just standing there, watching. One of them, a girl with long, stringy hair that clung to her face, tilted her head slightly, the movement unnervingly slow. Her eyes caught yours, and for a split second, you felt frozen in place, like she was daring you to look away.

You cleared your throat, gripping the handlebars of your bike. “Can I help you?” you asked, your voice steadier than you felt.

No answer. Just silence, thick and oppressive.

This wasn’t right, you thought. Your hand itched against your thigh, next to you knife.

The boy next to her—a gangly kid with a too-thin frame and a face that looked too sharp in the dim light—took a step forward. Then another. His bare feet scuffed against the pavement, the sound too loud in the stillness.

You didn’t wait for them to get closer.

Stuffing the map back into your jacket, you swung your leg over the bike and fumbled with the ignition. The engine roared to life, a comforting burst of sound that cut through the quiet. You glanced back toward the children, expecting them to scatter at the noise.

But they didn’t move.

If anything, they seemed closer now, their figures outlined by the glow of the streetlamp. The girl’s lips curved into something that might have been a smile.

Your heart thudded in your chest as you revved the engine, trying to drown out the rising panic. You weren’t scared of a few kids. You’d faced worse, far worse. This was nothing. Just your nerves playing tricks on you. Right?

You shouldn't have come here. Still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that their eyes were following you, even as you turned the bike and sped off down the road. The town blurred around you in streaks of dark shapes and flickering lights, but you couldn’t bring yourself to slow down, not until the uneasy weight pressing on your chest began to ease.

But as you glanced in the mirror, your stomach dropped.

They were still there. And their eyes, they were black now.

Demons. Where the hell did Bobby send you?

You twisted the throttle, the bike roaring beneath you as the town faded behind in a blur of dark shapes and faint streetlights. The air felt heavier with each mile, like you were dragging it with you, and the memory of those children’s unblinking stares clung to your mind like smoke. You told yourself to shake it off, to focus on the road ahead, you needed to leave, and now.

The first time you noticed them, you thought it was just your nerves. A man in a dark coat, standing under the yellow haze of a streetlamp, his head turning to follow as you passed. Then another—a woman in a pale dress, sitting on the steps of a house with her hands folded neatly in her lap. Her eyes locked onto you, they flashed black. Then another, and another. Figures standing in doorways, leaning out of windows, scattered across the streets like chess pieces on a board.

All of them were watching you.

Your chest tightened as you leaned into the bike, urging it faster, the engine growling as the wind whipped past your face. The cold bit at your cheeks, sharp and unforgiving, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the growing weight of their stares. They were everywhere now, appearing out of shadows and corners, their faces blank but their eyes piercing.

Your breath came faster, shallow and uneven, as you tried to push the bike harder, faster. The town blurred around you, the streets twisting and curling like the lines of Bobby’s map. You didn’t know where you were going—just away.

Then you saw her.

She was standing in the middle of the road, a small figure bathed in the pale glow of your headlamp. The white dress she wore was stark against the darkness, its hem brushing her bare ankles as the fabric swayed gently in the wind. Her hair, dark and loose, framed a face that was eerily calm, far too still for a child standing alone in the street at night.

You slammed the brakes, the tires screeching against the pavement as the bike skidded sideways. Your heart leapt into your throat as the handlebars jerked in your grip, and for one terrifying moment, you thought you’d lose control. The bike wobbled, then steadied, stopping just a few feet from where she stood.

The engine idled loudly, its growl the only sound breaking the eerie silence. Your chest heaved as you tried to catch your breath, your hands gripping the handlebars so tightly your knuckles ached. The girl didn’t move. She just stood there, her arms hanging loosely at her sides, her head tilted slightly to one side as she watched you.

You cut the engine, the sudden quiet almost deafening. The faint hum of the wind picked up again, carrying with it the distant creak of something—maybe a swing set or a weathered sign—moving in the darkness.

She stood, there unphased.

“Hello,” she said, her voice soft and clear, like the chime of a bell.

You swallowed hard, your throat dry as sandpaper. “Hey,” you managed, your voice rough and uncertain. “You… okay, kid?” You look at her, please be a kid.

She tilted her head further and gave a faint nod, her dark eyes glinting in the light of the bike. “I’ve been waiting, you know” she said simply.

“Waiting for what?” you asked, your pulse thundering in your ears.

She smiled then, small and faint, but it sent a chill crawling down your spine. “For you.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, and suddenly, the air felt colder. Heavier. You glanced around, your eyes darting to the shadows that lined the street, searching for… something. Someone. But the street was empty now, eerily so. The figures who’d been watching earlier were gone.

Just you and the girl.

Your hand instinctively moved toward the knife strapped to your thigh, your fingers brushing the hilt as your muscles tensed. “Who are you?” you asked, your voice sharper now, more demanding.

Her smile didn’t waver as her eyes flashed white.

“I’m Lilith”

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

It had taken Sam and Dean almost a full day just to figure out which road to take. They’d driven through the area where Green Hollow was supposed to be—at least twice—but the town itself was nowhere to be found. The map didn’t make sense, the roads didn’t match up, and every turn seemed to lead them back to the same stretch of empty highway.

“This is ridiculous,” Dean muttered, gripping the steering wheel with frustration as the Impala rumbled down yet another unmarked road. “It’s like the damn town doesn’t exist.”

Sam, slouched in the passenger seat with a map unfolded across his lap, ran a hand through his hair and let out a sigh. “The map says it’s supposed to be right here,” he said, jabbing a finger at a point on the paper. “But it’s not. None of this lines up.”

Dean shot him a glare. “You think I don’t know that? We’ve been driving in circles for hours, Sam. Maybe Bobby gave us the wrong coordinates.”

Sam shook his head, his brow furrowed in thought. His knee bounced restlessly, his fingers gripping the edges of the map a little too tightly. “Bobby doesn’t make mistakes like that. If he says it’s here, it’s here. We’re just missing something.”

Dean scoffed. “Yeah, like a magic portal, maybe? ‘Cause I’m not seeing a single sign of this Green Hollow anywhere.”

Sam didn’t respond right away. His mind was a tangle of frustration and unease, not just from the endless backtracking but from the weight of the vial still tucked away in his duffel bag. He hadn’t touched it, not since he’d packed his bag back at the motel, but just knowing it was there was enough to keep his nerves frayed. He’d told himself it was just a precaution, but he knew better. The temptation was clawing at him, and the withdrawal only made it worse. His hands itched to fidget with something, but he forced them to stay steady, even as a cold sweat broke out at the back of his neck.

They’d eventually pulled off into a small, run-down gas station on the outskirts of a nearby town, the kind of place where time seemed to have stopped thirty years ago. The fluorescent lights flickered, and the old man behind the counter looked like he hadn’t seen a stranger in years.

“Green Hollow?” the man had repeated, squinting at them from behind the counter. “Why the hell would you wanna go there?”

Dean had leaned against the counter, his tone flat. “Long story. Can you tell us how to get there or not?”

The old man had given them a long, scrutinizing look before finally jerking his thumb toward the window. “You’ll need to take the dirt road about five miles west of here. Ain’t marked, but you’ll see it if you’re looking. Place is a mess of old trails and overgrowth, though, so good luck not getting lost.”

“Great,” Dean had muttered under his breath, already dreading the drive.

“You boys sure you wanna go poking around there?” the man had added, his voice lowering slightly. “Ain’t much left of Green Hollow. Place is washed up. Folks there don’t like strangers much.”

Sam had thanked the man and grabbed the directions, but the warning lingered in the back of his mind as they left the gas station and headed back to the Impala. Dean, of course, hadn’t cared. “Washed up or not,” he’d said, starting the car with a growl of the engine, “we’re finding this place.”

As they drove toward the dirt road, Sam leaned his head against the window, the vibration of the Impala’s engine doing little to calm the restless energy swirling inside him. His thoughts drifted—mostly to you. What was he even going to say when he saw you again? How could he explain himself, the mess he was in, and the way he’d let so much spiral out of control? Every time he thought about it, the words felt like sand slipping through his fingers.

Would you even want to hear him out? He wasn’t sure he’d deserve it, not after leaving things the way he had. But the thought of you out here, alone, in a place that didn’t even seem to want to be found—it made his chest tighten.

The dirt road wasn’t hard to spot once they knew where to look, but navigating it was another story. It was narrow, uneven, and riddled with potholes, winding through dense trees that seemed to swallow the light. The further they went, the more the air seemed to change—heavier, quieter, like the forest itself was holding its breath.

Dean had grumbled the whole way, swerving to avoid a particularly deep rut in the road. “This better be worth it,” he’d said, gripping the wheel tighter as the Impala jolted over another bump. “If we end up driving into some Deliverance situation, I’m blaming Bobby.”

Sam didn’t respond, his focus split between the map in his lap and the weight of his duffel bag at his feet. He hadn’t opened it, hadn’t even looked at it since they’d left, but the knowledge of what was inside felt like a lead weight. He’d brought the vial with him. He didn’t know why—it wasn’t like he planned on using it. But the thought of leaving it behind had felt like a risk he wasn’t ready to take. It wasn’t just the blood that haunted him, though. It was you.

His thoughts circled back to you, and he found himself gripping the map a little tighter. He couldn’t stop imagining the way your face might look when he showed up—surprised, maybe even angry. But there was also a small, selfish part of him that hoped you’d still look at him the way you used to, with that quiet trust that had always unnerved him a little because he wasn’t sure he’d ever deserved it.

Then they found it an old sign written in yellow: Green Hollow.

Dean slammed the car door shut, stepping out into the late afternoon sunlight, the Impala parked a little crooked near the curb of Green Hollow’s diner. The town, to both their surprise, had a pleasant hum to it. People walked casually along the sidewalks, chatting with neighbors or carrying groceries. A group of kids on bikes zipped past, laughing as they raced down the street.

“This doesn’t look like the kind of place someone vanishes into thin air,” Dean muttered, shielding his eyes against the sun as he scanned the square.

Sam climbed out more slowly, rolling his stiff shoulders. “Yeah,” he agreed, his voice distant. The heavy bag slung over his shoulder seemed to weigh more than just his belongings. He could feel the glass vial inside, nestled among his clothes, and it gnawed at him like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

Dean gave him a sideways glance as they started toward the diner. “You good?”

Sam nodded too quickly, his hand brushing against the strap of his bag. “I’m fine.”

Dean raised an eyebrow, his frown deepening as his gaze dropped to Sam’s hand. It was trembling slightly, the motion faint but noticeable.

“You look like crap, man,” Dean said bluntly, stopping short of the diner steps.

Sam ignored him, brushing past with a muttered, “I said I’m fine.”

Dean didn’t push, though his jaw tightened. Dean’s gaze flicked toward the people milling about the square. “Alright,” he said, grabbing his jacket and opening the door. “Let’s ask around.”

They split up, keeping the square in sight as they started talking to locals. Most of the people they approached seemed friendly enough, offering polite smiles and vague answers about the town’s quiet charm. No one acted suspicious, and no one seemed particularly interested in two strangers asking questions.

Sam spoke with a woman near a flower shop, her apron dusted with dirt and her hands holding a small pot of marigolds. “I’m looking for someone,” he explained, showing her a picture of you that Bobby had dug up. “She might’ve passed through here recently.”

The woman squinted at the photo, then shook her head with a small, apologetic smile. “Sorry, hon. Can’t say I’ve seen her. But if she’s new, she might’ve stopped by the diner. Folks there know everyone who comes through.”

Sam nodded, thanking her before heading back toward the square to meet Dean.

Dean wasn’t having much luck either. He stood near a group of men loading lumber into the back of a pickup truck, arms crossed as he asked about you. The men glanced at the photo, shook their heads, and returned to their work without much interest.

“Nothing,” Dean muttered when they regrouped.

Eventually they headed to the diner. Inside, the place was all warm lighting and polished chrome, the scent of coffee and grease hanging in the air. A waitress with a kind smile greeted them and gestured to a booth near the window.

Dean slid into the seat first, his eyes already scanning the room for anything out of the ordinary. Sam took the other side, resting his elbows on the table as he tried to focus on the menu. His fingers tapped lightly against the laminated paper, his leg bouncing under the table.

What’s that smell? Something to Sam had smelled familiar, it made his head dizzy and his hands shake. It was all over this place.

“You want coffee?” Dean asked, his voice tinged with a note of something sharper—concern disguised as nonchalance.

“Sure,” Sam said, though he barely glanced up.

When the waitress returned with two cups of coffee and Dean’s order of pie, Sam reached for his cup, but his fingers faltered, the handle slipping slightly before he steadied it. Hot liquid sloshed near the rim, and Dean didn’t miss the way Sam’s hand trembled as he lifted the cup to his lips.

Dean’s frown deepened, but he didn’t comment, choosing instead to spear a piece of pie with his fork. “You think she’s here?” he asked after a moment, his tone casual.

Sam shrugged, his gaze fixed on the steam rising from his cup. “Probably,” he said. “I mean, Bobby said this was the last place she was headed. She might just be laying low—sleeping it off at one of the motels or something.”

Dean’s eyebrow arched. “Sleeping it off? She’s not exactly the ‘kick back and relax’ type.”

“Yeah, well,” Sam muttered, taking another shaky sip of his coffee. “Neither are we, but it happens.”

Dean didn’t argue, though the skeptical look on his face spoke volumes. He leaned back in his seat, watching as Sam stared down into his coffee like it might hold the answers he was looking for.

Sam’s thoughts, however, weren’t on the coffee or even the town around them. He kept picturing the look you might give him when you saw him again—angry, maybe hurt. And he deserved that, didn’t he?

He couldn’t stop the sarcastic thought that crept into his mind: Sorry I ignored you and didn’t call for weeks—my bad. How’s the hunting going?

The corner of his mouth twitched briefly at the ridiculousness of it. But beneath the sarcasm, there was a weight—a fear that whatever he said wouldn’t be enough to bridge the gap between them.

“You’re doing that thing again,” Dean said, breaking the silence.

Sam blinked, looking up. “What thing?”

“The thing where you overthink everything and don’t say squat,” Dean said, pointing his fork at him. “If you’ve got something on your mind, spill it.”

Sam shook his head, brushing it off. “It’s nothing.”

“Yeah, sure,” Dean muttered, digging back into his pie. “And I’m the Tooth Fairy.”

They finished their meal and headed back to the Impala, deciding to drive around town to get a better sense of the place. The streets were starting to quiet as evening crept in, the earlier buzz of activity tapering off into the kind of calm that made Dean’s instincts prickle.

They saw it.

Dean slowed the car, his gaze locking onto a familiar shape propped awkwardly against the curb.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, throwing the car into park and jumping out.

Sam followed, his stomach sinking as they approached the bike. It was unmistakably one of Bobby’s—a sturdy machine with just enough wear to show its history.

“This is hers,” Dean said, crouching down to inspect it. “It’s one of Bobby’s. I fixed it up last time I was at the junkyard.”

Sam knelt beside him, his fingers brushing the handlebars. The grease stains were still there, faint but unmistakable.

“Why is her stuff still here?” Dean noted your duffle bag was still attached and looked up, thinking maybe you were close by and that he’d spot you comping up the sidewalk.

“Dean” Sam looked at him pointedly, Dean frowns but notices what Sam was hinting at,

Dean’s hand brushed against the handlebar, and his eyes caught on a streak of something dark near the base of the grip. His fingers hovered over it before he rubbed at it gently, then brought his hand closer to his face.

“Is that…?” Dean’s voice trailed off, his jaw tightening as he recognized the faint but undeniable smear of blood.

Sam stiffened, his chest tightening. “It’s fresh,” he said quietly, his hand gripping the strap of his bag like it might anchor him.

Dean glanced around the street, his gaze sharp. “Alright, now I’m officially not liking this”

“Don’t look at them, act normal” Sam whispered “It’s impossible for nobody to have seen her, either there is something wrong with this town, or there is something wrong with them”

Dean’s jaw tightened as he glanced at Sam, his grip on the wheel still firm. “And what exactly do you mean by ‘something wrong with them’?” he asked, his voice low but edged with unease.

Sam shifted, keeping his voice steady despite the jitteriness clawing at his insides. “I mean, they’re too normal. It’s like they’re trying too hard not to notice us—or the bike.” He gestured subtly toward the people walking down the street, all of them going about their business as though nothing was out of the ordinary. Not one of them had so much as glanced in the direction of the bike, even though it was left awkwardly propped on the sidewalk.

Dean’s eyes flicked back to the street. The people moved in a rhythm that felt… off. Perfectly timed, like they were part of some eerie choreographed routine. A woman pushing a stroller stopped at the exact same moment a man adjusted his tie, as if they were mirroring each other. A group of kids laughed too loudly as they walked past, their laughter abrupt and out of sync, cutting off too quickly.

Dean muttered under his breath, “Yeah, no, that’s not creepy at all.”

Sam leaned closer, lowering his voice even further. “Don’t stare. Just… keep it casual.”

Dean shot him a sidelong glance, one brow arched. “We’re driving a classic car through the middle of a washed-up ghost town. Casual isn’t exactly in the cards.”

Sam’s hand twitched, and he clenched it into a fist to steady the tremor. His palms felt clammy, and he rubbed them against his jeans as he tried to focus. “Look, all I’m saying is we don’t know what we’re walking into. This place isn’t right, and if they’re not going to give us anything willingly, we’ll have to figure it out another way.”

Dean sighed, his knuckles whitening as he tightened his grip on the wheel. “Great. So, what’s the plan, genius?”

Sam didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed fixed on the street ahead, his mind racing through the possibilities. “We start with the motel,” he said finally. “If she’s not there, we’ll ask around—but carefully. If they’re hiding something, we don’t want to tip them off.”

Dean nodded, but the tension in his shoulders didn’t ease. “Fine. But if one of these Stepford rejects tries anything, I’m not playing nice.”

Sam almost smiled at that, but the weight of the situation kept his expression grim. “Let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Sam’s gaze lingered on the bike. The faint smear of blood and the ignition still on gnawed at him. You had to be somewhere close. He just hoped they weren’t already too late. Please be okay, please, please

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

The cold, hard floor beneath you was a poor substitute for shelter, but it was the best you could manage under the circumstances. You didn’t know how long you’d been here—probably just a few hours—but it felt like an eternity. The first rays of sunlight began creeping through the grime-covered windows, casting faint streaks of pale gold across the room. It was almost comforting, but not enough to banish the dread clawing at your chest.

Your body ached in ways you hadn’t thought possible. You shifted slightly, wincing as a sharp pain shot through your side. You pressed your hand against the source—a gash just above your hip. It wasn’t deep enough to be fatal, but it was bleeding more than you liked, the steady trickle soaking through the makeshift bandage you’d tied around it. Your left arm wasn’t much better; a long scrape ran from your elbow to your wrist, raw and throbbing. Nothing life-threatening, but enough to make every movement a struggle.

Your thoughts replayed the chaos from hours earlier, every detail burned into your mind. When Lilith had finally revealed herself, you’d bolted, your instincts screaming at you to run. You’d leapt onto your bike, the engine roaring to life as you sped away. But the moment you turned out of the main street, you realized you weren’t alone. The townspeople—those same eerily vacant faces that had stared at you when you arrived—had started to chase you.

They came out of nowhere, spilling onto the streets like a wave, their footsteps pounding against the asphalt as they gained on you. You had pushed the bike as fast as it would go, weaving between narrow streets and tight corners, but they were relentless. One of them—a man with hollow eyes and dirt-streaked clothes—had managed to grab at your arm as you turned a corner. His grip was iron-strong, his nails clawing into your skin as he nearly dragged you off the bike. The memory of his face—too close, too wrong—sent a shiver down your spine.

In a panic, you’d reached for the knife strapped to your thigh, slashing at him with wild desperation. The blade cut deep, and he stumbled back with a guttural sound that didn’t quite seem human. Blood had splattered onto your arm, hot and sticky, but you didn’t dare look back. You’d gunned the throttle, the engine screaming as you tore down the road, your heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst. You didn’t even notice you were hurt

But the bike was loud, and it drew attention. You could hear them behind you, their shouts echoing in the night, growing louder with every turn. You knew you couldn’t outrun them forever—not on the bike. It was too conspicuous, too easy to track. You needed to disappear. So, when you spotted the outline of the old school in the distance, you made your choice.

You’d parked the bike.. The engine clicked softly as it cooled, but you didn’t wait around. You grabbed your bag, slipped the knife back into its sheath, and ran, your boots crunching against the gravel as you darted toward the schoolyard. The building loomed ahead, its dark windows staring back at you like empty eyes. It was large enough to hide in, with plenty of rooms to keep you out of sight. You hadn’t seen anyone else as you crept inside, but you hadn’t taken any chances.

Now, in the relative stillness of the classroom you’d chosen, you took stock of what little you had. The desks and chairs scattered around the room had been pushed to one side to make space for your rudimentary fortifications. On such short notice, you’d done what you could to ward off any demons that might come sniffing around.

A quick search of the school had turned up a few supplies: an old box of chalk, a rusty pair of scissors, and some forgotten cleaning supplies tucked away in a janitor’s closet. It wasn’t much, but you’d made it work. Using the chalk, you’d drawn a devil’s trap on the floor just inside the door, ensuring that any demon who stepped into the room would be instantly immobilized. The scissors weren’t exactly iron, but they’d do in a pinch as a makeshift weapon if you had to fight your way out.

You’d also found a bottle of salt in one of the abandoned classrooms—probably left behind by a teacher who’d used it for a science experiment. It wasn’t a lot, but it was enough to line the windowsills and the threshold of the door. It wouldn’t hold up forever, especially if Lilith decided to come after you herself, but it was better than nothing.

The faint sound of footsteps outside the building sent a chill down your spine. You froze, your hand instinctively going to the scissors you’d tucked into your waistband. They weren’t close—yet—but you could hear them, the steady crunch of gravel underfoot and the occasional murmur of low voices. The townspeople. Or… whatever they were. You’d heard them last night, too, their footsteps echoing through the schoolyard as they searched for you. They’d come so close to the building that you’d barely dared to breathe, afraid they’d hear you.

The faint light of dawn creeping through the window offered little solace. You didn’t know if it was enough to keep Lilith at bay. If she wanted you badly enough, the salt wouldn’t matter. But for now, you had to hope that your makeshift defenses would hold. You pulled the scissors from your waistband, gripping them tightly as you pressed your back against the wall, listening to the sounds outside. You were going to die here, you thought. And Bobby, Oh Bobby would blame himself.

What about Sam and Dean? You hadn’t even said goodbye to them. The thought twisted in your chest like a knife, sharp and cruel. And now, here you were—hurt, bleeding, hiding in an abandoned school—about to die because you’d been too damn stubborn, too caught up in proving yourself.

No. You shook your head sharply, banishing the thought before it could take root.

I am not going to die here.

You took a shaky breath, pressing your palm harder against the wound on your side as if the pressure alone could hold you together. I will live. I’ll see Bobby again and hug him so hard he’ll call me an idjit. I’ll laugh at Dean’s stupid jokes again, and when I see Sam, I…

Your thoughts faltered. What would you do? What would you even say?

The memory of his face surfaced—those warm, haunted eyes that always seemed to carry the weight of the world. Would he even care? Would he even look at you the same way? You didn’t know. But there was no time to dwell on that now.

Movement caught your eye. You pressed your back flush against the cold wall, your breathing shallow as you stared at the stained glass window across the room. Shadows moved on the other side, their distorted silhouettes flickering against the colorful panes. They were there.

The tapping started—a slow, deliberate sound that sent shivers down your spine. Fingernails, or maybe claws, scratching at the glass, testing it. They were looking for a way in.

Your grip tightened around the scissors in your hand, the dull metal pressing against your palm. It wasn’t much, but it was all you had. Your gaze darted to the devil’s trap on the floor, the salt lines around the windows and door. You’d done everything you could to fortify this room, but was it enough?

The tapping grew louder, more insistent. Then came the whispers—low, guttural murmurs that didn’t sound quite human. They were speaking, but the words didn’t make sense, like a language that didn’t belong in this world.

Your heart pounded in your chest, the sound deafening in the otherwise silent room. You forced yourself to stay still, to stay quiet, even as every instinct screamed at you to run.

But where would you go?

The shadows grew darker, the tapping more frantic. Then, suddenly, the whispers stopped. The silence was worse. It stretched on, heavy and suffocating, pressing down on you like a weight you couldn’t escape.

And then, a voice—soft, childish, and chilling.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

Your blood turned to ice. You knew that voice. It was hers.

Lilith.

You gripped the scissors tighter, your breath catching in your throat. The tapping resumed, but now it was coming from multiple windows, surrounding you.

You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to focus. You weren’t going to panic. Not now. You had to think. There’s always a way out. Always.

Your eyes darted around the room, searching for something, anything you could use. The door was barricaded, but if they broke the windows, you wouldn’t have much time. The second they got in, it was over.

What would Bobby do? What would Sam and Dean do?

What would you do?

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself. If this was the end, you weren’t going down without a fight.

You stared at the flickering shadows, your mind racing. Panic clawed at the edges of your thoughts, but you shoved it back, locking it behind a wall of sheer determination. Think. Think. Running wasn’t an option—not yet. They’d catch you before you even reached the hallway. You needed a plan. A distraction.

Your gaze swept over the room, cataloging every detail, every possible tool. The barricaded door. The salt lines. The devil’s trap scrawled on the floor. The scavenged supplies—a few candles, some chalk, and a rusty old fire extinguisher. An air vent. It wasn’t much, but it would have to be enough. Your eyes landed on the ancient metal trash can in the corner, and an idea began to take shape—reckless and desperate, but it might just work.

Crouching low to stay out of sight, you moved quickly and quietly. The fire extinguisher was the first thing you grabbed, dragging it to the trash can. You shrugged out of your jacket, wincing as the movement pulled at the wound on your arm, and stuffed it inside. Matches from a supply closet went next, the flame sparking to life in your shaking fingers before catching on the fabric. Smoke began curling upward, thick and acrid.

Grabbing a piece of cardboard to control the airflow, you moved to the windows, dumping salt along the ledges and whispering a hurried exorcism ritual you’d memorized from Bobby. Would it be enough to hold? Probably not, but it was all you had.

The smoke was spreading now, seeping out through the cracks around the windows and door. It wouldn’t drive the demons off, but it might obscure their vision enough for you to get away.

Then your eyes flicked to the ceiling—a rusted air vent, partially concealed by a row of cabinets. Your heart thudded. It wasn’t ideal, but it was a way out.

The tapping at the windows grew louder. A voice followed, soft and singsong, with an edge that made your blood run cold.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” Lilith’s voice cooed, childlike and cruel. She was in the hallway.

You didn’t look at the windows. You didn’t have time. Moving quickly, you dragged a desk beneath the vent, ignoring the searing pain in your arm. You hauled yourself up, biting back a gasp as the motion jarred your wound, and wrenched the vent cover loose with fire extinguisher, breaking off the screws. It screeched as it gave way, and you froze, the sound cutting through the room like a siren.

Outside, the tapping stopped.

You moved faster, shoving the cover aside and scrambling into the vent. The narrow space closed around you, dark and stifling. Sweat trickled down your back as you pulled the cover into place behind you, muffling the sound as best you could.

The fire below crackled, smoke filling the room. You could hear the demons outside, their muffled voices rising in confusion. Then, with a crash, the window shattered. You heard them pour inside, heavy footsteps as they tried stomping over the salt line.

The vent was tight, your movements slow and awkward. Every shift of your body sent a metallic groan reverberating through the duct, but you kept going, forcing yourself to crawl forward. The smoke was creeping up, the acrid smell stinging your eyes and throat.

From your cramped hiding spot, you could hear them fill that room, it echoed down the metal tube. “Do you like nursery rhymes?” she said, her voice echoing in the silence.

"I think I'll sing you one"

You held your breath, the weight of her presence pressing against your chest like a physical force. The fire crackled louder, and you could hear the scrape of furniture being moved, the demons tearing apart the room in search of you.

And then, silence.

You didn’t dare move. Every muscle in your body was coiled tight, your breath coming in shallow, quiet gasps.

When she spoke again, her voice was softer, almost sweet. And she didn't speak, really, she hummed something.

You heard the scrape of her shoes against the floor, the sound growing fainter as she moved away. The demons’ voices followed, their footsteps retreating into the hallway. The smoke had done its job, disorienting them just enough to mask your escape.

You waited, counting the seconds in your head. Five. Ten. Fifteen. The air in the vent was stifling, your lungs burning with the effort of staying silent, the smoke had now entered the vent, making it hard to breath or see.

Finally, when the only sound was the distant hum of the fire below, you started moving again. Your fingers scraped against the metal, your breaths shallow as you crawled toward the faint light spilling through a vent cover ahead.

When you reached it, you pressed your face to the slats, peering out into the darkness. You took a breath; The hallway was empty. Quiet. But you knew better than to trust it.

You pushed the cover loose, sliding it aside as carefully as you could, and dropped down into the shadows. The school was a labyrinth, the hallways twisting and turning in a way that made it impossible to orient yourself.

But you had to keep moving.

You slipped into the darkness, your steps silent, your breathing steady. You didn’t know where you were going, but one thought kept you moving forward: You weren’t going to die here

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

As they turned the corner, the faint tendrils of smoke curling into the sky caught Sam’s attention first. He stopped mid-stride, his brow furrowing. “Dean,” he said, pointing toward the plume. It was coming from the direction of the old school.

Dean’s head whipped around, his eyes narrowing as he followed Sam’s gesture. “That’s not good,” he muttered, already picking up the pace toward the smoke.

Sam jogged after him, his heart pounding. His mind was racing with possibilities. What if it was you? What if you were in there? The smoke wasn’t thick enough for a full-blown fire—yet—but it was enough to make his chest tighten with dread. And then he caught something else. A faint, sickly-sweet scent that made his stomach churn.

He slowed for half a second, his brow furrowing as the scent grew stronger. It was familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. He’d smelled it earlier in the town, faint and fleeting, but now it was unmistakable. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut: demon blood.

His stomach twisted, the craving clawing its way up his throat before he could shove it back down. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to focus on the smoke ahead instead of the nauseating pull of temptation.

As they approached the edge of the schoolyard, a figure stepped out from behind one of the houses. It was one of the older women they’d seen earlier, her neat apron and floral dress a sharp contrast to the chaos hinted at by the smoke. She waved at them, her smile bright and disarming.

“Well, hello there,” she called, her tone syrupy sweet. “You boys lost? It’s not safe to go near that old school. There's a small fire”

Dean slowed, his hand instinctively reaching for the pistol tucked into his jacket. “Thanks for the warning, ma’am,” he said, his voice clipped, but he didn’t stop walking.

“Oh, no, no, no.” The woman’s voice turned sharper, her steps quickening to block their path. “I insist. You really shouldn’t be here.” Her smile widened unnaturally, her eyes almost too bright.

Dean stopped dead, his jaw tightening as he glanced at Sam, whose face was pale, his sweat-soaked shirt sticking to his back. Dean frowned, noticing the slight tremor in Sam’s hand as he rubbed the back of his neck. The sweat, the shaking—it wasn’t just the heat or exhaustion.

Sam didn’t meet his brother’s gaze, his hand tightening on the strap of his bag as the scent hit him again, sharper this time. Demon blood. It was clinging to the woman, faint but present, like she’d bathed in it. His stomach churned again, and he forced himself to swallow the rising nausea.

Before Dean could speak, the woman’s smile faltered, and her expression twisted into something darker. Her head tilted slightly, her teeth flashing in a grin that was far too wide.

Sam tensed, his hand going for the knife tucked into his belt.

“Oh, you’re not going anywhere, boys,” she said, her voice dropping an octave, the saccharine sweetness replaced by a low, menacing tone. And then her eyes turned black.

“Demon!” Dean growled, pulling his gun in a flash. The woman lunged, unnaturally fast, her fingers clawing at him. Dean fired a salt round straight into her chest, sending her stumbling back with a shriek.

Sam rushed forward, grabbing her arm before she could recover, and slammed her into the side of a tree. He whipped out a flask of holy water, splashing it across her face. Smoke hissed and rose as she screamed, writhing against his grip.

“Where is she?” Sam snarled, his voice ragged and trembling. “Where’s the girl?”

The demon just laughed, the sound guttural and mocking. “What girl?” she hissed, her black eyes narrowing. “We have so many here”

Dean strode up, his blade gleaming in the sunlight as he pressed it to her throat. ““Speak, Grandma—use your words. Or I'm going about to go full Bundy on your ass"

But before they could get another word out of her, the demon’s eyes rolled back, and her body slumped, lifeless.

“Damn it!” Dean hissed, shoving the corpse aside. “This place is crawling with them.”

Sam wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, his fingers still trembling as he shoved the flask back into his pocket. That scent was still lingering in the air, faint but pervasive, making his skin crawl.

“We need to get to that school. Now,” he said, his voice tight.

Dean didn’t argue. They took off running toward the smoke, weaving between the rows of dilapidated houses and across the overgrown schoolyard. The closer they got, the thicker the smoke became, its acrid scent stinging their noses. Sam could barely focus on anything other than the pounding in his chest and the way the demon blood seemed to hang in the air, taunting him.

The school loomed ahead, its windows shattered and its exterior weathered with age. Smoke curled out from one of the lower floors, the faint flicker of firelight visible through the broken glass.

Dean’s grip on his gun tightened as they approached the door. “Alright, Sammy. Let’s find her and get the hell out of here.”

A horde of black eyes were headed their way.

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

The fluorescent lights above flickered erratically, casting long, jittering shadows across the hallway walls. Your breathing was ragged, every inhale dragging through the sharp pain in your chest. Blood seeped through your shirt, leaving a dark trail on the scuffed tile floor behind you—a trail you knew she could follow.

Lilith’s voice echoed softly down the corridor, calm and melodic, chilling in its childish cheer. She was humming a tune, something eerily familiar but twisted, like a nursery rhyme gone wrong. Her footsteps were slow and deliberate, the sharp click of her shoes on the tile sending shivers down your spine.

You glanced over your shoulder, but the hallway stretched empty behind you, the hum growing louder, closer. Your legs felt like lead, every step a struggle, but you pushed forward, turning down another corridor, your hands brushing against the cold, peeling walls as you stumbled. You'd been bleeding, a lot.

The school was a maze. Every hallway looked the same—endless doors, broken lockers, and darkness that seemed to creep in from the edges. You couldn’t find the exit. All of the rooms were locked, Panic clawed at your throat, but you forced it down, focusing on the sound of your boots against the floor.

“Are you tired yet?” Lilith’s voice rang out, echoing in the empty space. She sounded almost amused, like a child playing hide-and-seek. Ring a ring a Rosie She began so sing again, sweetly.

You didn’t answer, biting back the scream that threatened to rise. Your hands were slick with blood, your vision blurred from exhaustion. You turned another corner, and that’s when you saw it: the door to the swimming pool. It's open.

You pushed it open with what little strength you had left, stumbling into the vast, cavernous room. The air was damp and heavy, carrying the faint scent of mildew. The pool itself was massive, its tiled depths empty and cracked, while a towering wall of glass stood on one side of the room, stretching from floor to ceiling. Through it, you could see the schoolyard outside, the faint glow of streetlights filtering in.

Your gaze darted around the space, searching for something—anything—that could help you. But the room was barren save for a few scattered chairs and broken tiles.

You needed time.

Ashes, ashes. They all fall down

Behind you, the door creaked open, and Lilith’s silhouette appeared in the frame. Her pristine white dress swayed as she stepped inside, her shoes padding softly against the tiled floor.

“Hide and seek,” she said brightly, clapping her hands together. “That’s what we’re playing, right? I’m really good at it, you know.”

You staggered back, your grip tightening around a chair you’d grabbed earlier. Your knees buckled slightly, the blood loss making your head swim, but you refused to let yourself fall. Not yet.

Lilith tilted her head, her expression innocent but her eyes glinting with something dark and monstrous. “But you’re not playing fair,” she said, her voice dipping into a childish whine. “You keep running away. Don’t you want to have fun with me?”

She took another step forward, her smile widening. “I promise, it won’t hurt for long. Just a little bit. And then we can be best friends forever!”

Your heart hammered in your chest as you backed toward the pool, your gaze flicking to the glass wall. Maybe—just maybe—you could break it and get outside.

“Stay back!” you warned, your voice hoarse, as you lifted the chair, holding it between you and her.

Lilith’s giggle echoed through the room, sweet and sinister. “Oh, look at you” she cooed, her tone dripping with mock affection.

You turned and hurled the chair at the glass with every ounce of strength you had left. The impact sent a dull thud reverberating through the room, but the glass didn’t even crack. Desperation clawed at you as you grabbed another piece of debris and swung it at the glass, again and again, each strike more frantic than the last.

Nothing. Not even a scratch.

“Uh-oh,” Lilith teased, her voice sing-song as she stepped closer.

You turned back to face her, your chest heaving, your vision growing hazier by the second. The world seemed to tilt, the edges of the room blurring as exhaustion and blood loss dragged you down.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus-" You chant. Your back pressed against the glass, gripping the edge of a railing for balance as your legs threatened to give out.

Lilith stopped at the edge of the pool, Laughing. “You’re not looking so good,” she said, her tone dripping with false concern. “Maybe you should lie down”

"omnis legio, omnis congregatio et-" It's not working.

Your fingers fumbled at your belt, pulling out the scissors you had. You didn’t have the strength for much, but you weren’t going to make this easy for her. If this was your last stand, then so be it.

"Ergo, draco maledicte, ecclesiam-"

A gunshot rang in your ears. And that’s when your eyes caught movement at the window. You frown, maybe your blood loss had finally reached the level of hallucinations.

Sam. Dean?

Outside the glass, through the harsh fluorescent glare, Sam and Dean were there. They were fighting—tearing through a horde of demons with a ferocity you’d never seen before. Dean’s movements were sharp and efficient, his blade flashing in the dim light as he fought with all the reckless determination you knew so well.

But it was Sam who stopped you cold.

He was covered in blood—too much blood. You couldn’t tell how much of it was his or theirs. His face was twisted with something raw and desperate, his swings more brutal, more ruthless than you’d ever seen. He fought like a man possessed.

And then his eyes locked on yours. You couldn't help the beat of relief inside you.

The noise and chaos around you faded for a moment, drowned out by the pounding of your own heart as you stared at each other. His lips moved, shouting something, but the sound didn’t reach you through the thick pane of glass. His face twisted with frustration as he slammed his fists against the unyielding surface, trying to break through, trying to reach you.

They can't get to you.

You hand grips your makeshift weapon tighter as you heard her shoes come to a halt. You didn't look at her, only them.

You let out a soft, defeated smile, the kind that said, It's okay without words. You didn’t have the strength to shout back, didn’t have the breath to explain or reassure him. All you could do was stand there, bleeding and tired, and hope he’d understand.

Lilith tilted her head, noticing your gaze and following it to the scene outside. Her face lit up with delight, her hands clasping together like she’d been given a gift. “Oh, how sweet,” she cooed. “We have an audience.”

She stepped closer, her shoes making clicking sounds against the tile as she approached. The sound of Sam and Dean’s shouts grew louder as they slammed against the glass, desperate to break through.

You heard the creak of Bobby’s porch swing, the faint clink of his glass bottle resting on the rail, the wood groaning softly under his weight.

You could see Dean hacking at the surface with his blade, his jaw tight with frustration. Sam was yelling something, his voice hoarse and frantic, but the words were lost to you.

You smelled the faintest hint of old paper and ink, Sam’s hand resting on a dusty lore book between you. The bitter taste of coffee lingered in your throat.

The lights above you started to flicker, you could feel the heat of her presence, the suffocating weight of her power pressing down on you as she reached out, her hand stopping just shy of your face.

You felt the weight of Dean’s jacket draped over your shoulders, heavy and warm against the night’s chill. His hand had lingered for just a moment after settling it around you..

“Thank you for this” Lilith murmured, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You don't know how helpful you've been”

The glass behind you shook violently, the sound of impact reverberating through the room as Sam and Dean threw everything, they had at it. You glanced over your shoulder, your vision blurring, and saw Sam scream something, his face contorted with anguish as he pounded against the glass. You were so tired. Your grip slackened on the scissors as you started to slide down the wall. You were to weak.

You felt the sting of warmth on your cheeks, sunlight filtering through Bobby’s kitchen window as he handed you a plate of pancakes. “Eat up,” he’d grumbled, though his voice held that familiar undercurrent of care.

And then, in a flash of blinding white light, the room shifted.

You saw the soft glow of the Impala’s headlights cutting through the dark as it pulled into Bobby’s yard, Sam and Dean leaning against the hood, their laughter quiet but warm, a sound that felt like home.

The demons outside cried out as a new presence descended, their forms disintegrating into smoke and ash under the sheer force of its power. You blinked against the brilliance, barely able to process what was happening as the heavy thud of something filled the air.

Lilith’s smile faltered for the first time, her white eyes narrowing as she turned toward the source of the light. A silhouette.

Castiel? The last of your strength slipping away as the adrenaline burned out of your system. The world tilted dangerously, and you felt your knees buckle beneath you.

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

AN: Yeah... Don't kill me. I feel severely disturbed at how fast I wrote this. Anyway, hope you enjoyed guys. Feedback is always welcome

Tag list:

@youdontknowe @theamuz @mysteryenchatress @craycraycraic @craycraycraic @variant-zee @ur2moms @ambiguous-avery @steviespookie @s0urw00lf @bewr0210 @mostlymarvelgirl @dear-bambi2 @yeehawgiddyup13

#fanfic #supernatural #x reader #x you #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #imagine #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester

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chrisbitchtree · 5 months ago

Text

Robin was standing behind the counter at Family Video, complaining about the weather as she fanned herself with a pad of paper. Steve stood beside her, staring absently out the front window as she rambled on.

“…then it was 53° yesterday, with that crazy wind, and now today it’s 80°. I’m sweating my ass off because I have no clue how to dress! I’m sick of this. Aren’t you?”

Outwardly, Steve nodded in agreement as he picked up a stack of videos that needed to be returned to the shelves, but inwardly, he couldn’t say he was frustrated at all.

See, it was the middle of September, so it should have been consistently cooler by then. Along with the loss of summer weather, Steve had mourned the loss of Billy Hargrove’s tanned, muscled legs in shorts. But, with this up and down weather they’d been having, Steve was getting the best of both worlds, Billy in shorts some days, and others, his ass on display in the world’s tightest jeans.

Billy was a frequent presence at Family Video. Steve had no clue whether he frequented the shop before Steve and Robin started working there a few weeks back, but he can say that the other boy was there almost daily now.

As if on cue, the door to the shop opened, the bell above it jangling, and in sauntered Billy Hargrove, clad in a white t-shirt and cutoff denim shorts. They were way shorter than what was appropriate for school, but Steve definitely wasn’t complaining.

From inside his book bag, Billy produced two VHS tapes, and Steve looked over at Robin, expecting her to be at the cash to accept the return, but she was suspiciously absent from the front of the shop. He peeked into the back, but didn’t see here there either. Steve sighed, setting down the last few tapes he was holding and preparing himself for Billy’s teasing as he headed to the till.

“Hey Hargrove,” he said by way of greeting as he took the tapes from Billy’s hands, scanning the first one.

“Hey, pretty boy,” Billy replied. “I like your hair today. It’s even bigger and fluffier than usual. Was that for me?” A wolfish grin covered his face as he moved to touch it, but Steve swatted his hand away before he could.

Billy was right, Steve had taken extra time and care when doing his hair that day because he knew he’d most likely see the other boy at the shop, but he hated being called out on it, especially by Billy himself.

He wished he could just be left alone with his stupid crush until it fizzled out, but Billy kept feeding into it, and sometimes, late at night, Steve would be able to convince himself that Billy felt the same way about him, but by light of day, it was clear that he was just having a great time making Steve feel like an idiot in ways that he hadn’t been able to since Steve had graduated in May.

After Steve had processed the return, Billy took his time perusing the shelves, this time in the comedy section. With how frequently he was there, Steve figured he was going to run out of ones he wanted to watch soon, but he must have found some, because before long, he was heading back up to the front with two movies in hand.

Steve looked around for Robin, but of course she was still nowhere to be found. Where the fuck was she?

Steve scanned the new movies and told Billy his total. As Billy pulled out his wallet, he dropped it to the ground. “Oops”, he said, catching Steve’s eye for a second before turning around and bending over to grab it off the floor. For five blissful seconds, Steve had a perfect view of Billy’s ass. Sadly enough, that small window of time totally made his day.

Billy stood, paid, grabbed his movies and left, not saying anything else.

“You know he likes you too, right?” Robin asked, appearing out of thin air as the door closed behind Billy.

“Really?” Steve replied before he caught himself. “I mean, no he doesn’t. And what do you mean too? I don’t even like guys, let alone Billy Hargrove.”

Robin laughed. “First, sure, tell yourself you don’t have a massive crush on him, but I see the way you look at him, and the panic on your face every time he comes in here. You’re crushing hardcore. Second, all the teasing is just to get your attention, Dingus. He just wants to get to you, he doesn’t care how he has to do it. And those shorts, they’re not what he was wearing at school today. He changed into them just to come here. He’s down bad. So please do something about it before you drive yourself, Billy, and me insane.” With that, she grabbed a stack of returns and headed to the shelves.

Steve just stared after her, speechless. He was an expert at getting the girl, but something told him wooing Billy Hargrove was going to be a whole other ballgame. He sure hoped he was up for the challenge.

#harringrove #billy hargrove #steve harrington #billy x steve #harringrove fic #chrisbitchtree writes #just felt like writing something silly and sweet #the weather has been up and down here lately #and I have no clue what to wear most days so I was inspired

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ginnsbaker · 2 years ago

Text

prophylaxis

Summary: The most powerful Avenger is afraid of one thing: dental appointments, or the one where you're a dentist and Wanda is a baby about seeing one

Word count: 2.6k | Warnings: None. This is just good ol' fluff

Ship: Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader

Author's note: This has been sitting in my drafts for some time, and while this is a one shot, I might follow up with more :)

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Next part: the follow up

Steve and Natasha are barely done with their own routine dental check-ups when the notification of an emergency mission comes through. The Avengers' annual dental visit is typically swift and uncomplicated, but the arrival of their urgent mission turns the day into something far more chaotic.

“Where is Wanda?” Steve asks, scrolling through the mission details on his phone.

Natasha shrugs, sipping on her post-check-up glass of scotch. “I haven't seen her since breakfast.”

Vision appears in the room at that moment, his face expressing the closest thing to exasperation an android can manage. “She’s only now on the chair,” he says, glancing at Steve, whose eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

“Now? But everyone else is done!”

“I had to convince her to come,” Vision sighs. “I found her hiding in the back library. It took me the better part of an hour to persuade her to face the dentist.”

Natasha rolls her eyes at the revelation, trying to suppress her chuckle. The most powerful Avenger, avoiding a simple dental prophylaxis. “We don't have all day, Steve. The mission is critical.”

Steve nods, sliding his phone into his pocket. “We'll leave a note for her. She should meet us ASAP once she's done.”

Natasha gets up from her chair, glancing one last time at Vision, as she quips, “Good luck to whoever is the dentist working on her this year.”

As you approach the dental chair, you take note of the apprehensive figure occupying it. You've already seen a dozen Avengers today, each with their unique quirks and idiosyncrasies.

But Wanda Maximoff, her gaze filled with clear distaste for the situation, seems to take the cake. She's curled in on herself, making her seem smaller than she actually is. The sight of her alone would have been enough to unnerve you, but the intermittent quivers of your dental tools due to an unseen force send a cold shiver down your spine. You can't help but wonder if you've drawn the short straw when they assigned you the patients for today.

You try your best to project an air of calm. Inside, though, your nerves are jangling like alarm bells.

“Wanda, right?” you confirm, trying to keep your voice steady.

She nods, her eyes wide as saucers.

“I promise this won't hurt,” you reassure her, even as your tools continue to rattle on the tray. “It's just a routine check-up.”

A skeptical glance is thrown your way but it's at least some reaction. Her gaze is piercing, and it takes every bit of your collected facade to keep from faltering. An absurd thought flashes across your mind: if you were to meet an untimely demise in your line of duty today, who on earth would inherit the numerous houseplants that have taken over your apartment over the years?

With a nervous smile that Wanda can barely make out behind the surgical mask you wear, you gently ask, "Shall we begin?" Your tone is soothing, carefully modulated to put her at ease.

The poor Avenger takes a deep, long breath before giving you the go-ahead to proceed with the checkup.

For her part, Wanda begins to concentrate on anything other than the feeling of your gloved fingers in her mouth. Her gaze settles on your oversized prescription glasses that lend an air of professional yet friendly vibe. And there’s something about the clean, familiar scent wafting off your white coat that comforts her more than she's willing to admit.

She can’t help it when her mind starts drawing comparisons with last year's dentist—a gruff, no-nonsense man whose hands always seemed cold and who lacked any bedside manner whatsoever. You, on the other hand, are like a breath of fresh air with your calming demeanor and reassuring approach. Wanda blushes at the thought that, admittedly, you’re kind of a nice upgrade.

You begin the examination with meticulous care, your movements deliberately gentle to assure Wanda of your sensitivity to her obvious anxiety. As you carefully check her teeth and gums, you're acutely aware of how much trust she's placing in you, despite her apparent discomfort.

Glancing into her eyes as you angle your dental mirror to inspect her molars, you're suddenly struck by the piercing green of her irises. Even under the harsh clinic lights, they appear incredibly vibrant. Framed by the dark eyeliner she wears, her eyes are sharp and arresting. They follow your every move, staring up at you with an intensity that causes your skin to perspire under your uniform.

You've dealt with many patients over the years, some with eyes equally as fascinating, but something about Wanda's gaze is different. It's as if she's not just watching you but reading you, understanding you in a way that makes you feel exposed.

Your focus starts to waver under her scrutiny, and that's when you notice something strange. The dental tools on the tray beside you begin to quiver more violently, vibrating with an unseen force. Your heart skips a beat, realization dawning on you that Wanda's powers are reacting to her nervousness.

But it's not just her nervousness; Wanda's face takes on a look of surprise, her eyes widening momentarily. You can almost feel her presence in your mind, a subtle brushing against your consciousness.

She's read your thoughts, albeit accidentally.

She knows how captivated you are by her eyes.

Catching yourself, you quickly shift your thoughts to a safer topic–your plants. The vibrant green of Wanda's eyes morphs into the various shades of green gracing the leaves of your beloved indoor jungle. Your Monstera, your string of pearls, your peace lily–

And yet, none of them are a match for the pair of green orbs that your mind keeps going back to. A flush of embarrassment creeps up your neck as you meet her gaze, the unspoken understanding between you making the air in the room feel charged. Wanda's cheeks take on a hint of color, and her control over her powers seems to falter, your tools–and a chair behind Wanda–now levitating a couple of inches from where they originally sat.

“I'm sorry,” she stammers, wide-eyed and apologetic. You barely make out what she’s saying with her mouth still wide open. “I didn't mean to…”

“It's okay,” you reply in a comforting murmur, pausing your examination. The room fills with the soft humming of the overhead light and the subtle scent of sterilized equipment. “I'm here with you. We'll go at your pace. Just breathe.”

Giving Wanda a few moments to calm herself, you pull back, placing the dental tools on the tray beside you. You keep your eyes on Wanda, a soothing smile hidden behind your mask. Her chest rises and falls steadily as she follows your instructions, taking deep, calming breaths.

However, you can't help but glance at the floating items around you, fearing that one of them might go straight for your heart that’s thudding loudly in your ears now. They seem to be suspended in mid-air, almost like a magic trick. Wanda catches your gaze, following it to the levitating objects. The already present color on her cheeks darken, and with a flicker of her gaze, your tools reintroduce themselves to gravity once again.

You don't comment on it. Instead, you simply offer another encouraging smile, masked by your surgical mask, but visible in your eyes. You extend your gloved hand towards the once again earthbound dental tools, feeling the cool metal against your palm.

“Are we good to proceed?” you ask in a soft voice, patiently waiting for her agreement before picking up where you left off.

Wanda doesn’t move, seemingly hesitant to say yes or no.

“Will it help if I talk to you?”

She gives you a small nod in response this time.

“Alright,” you say with a hint of a chuckle. “Don't judge me if I start to sound silly, okay?”

And so you start to speak as you get back to work, recounting random memories and thoughts as you continue with the examination. You talk about funny incidents at work, share stories about your beloved plants, and even admit to that time you almost killed your favorite fern with coffee instead of water. At first, you feel slightly ridiculous, babbling about the care of succulents to an Avenger, one of the most powerful beings on the planet. But as the minutes tick by, you see a change in her. The initial terror in her eyes fades into curiosity, her body relaxes, and she even smiles at some of your sillier anecdotes.

You get lost in talking to Wanda, feeling both delighted and somewhat ridiculous that you're enjoying this one-sided conversation. You're fully aware that she can't respond with an excavator in her mouth, but it doesn't feel like she's just tolerating your chatter. Her eyes are attentive, following your movements, reacting every now and then. Her body language is open, receptive, almost as if she's hanging onto every word.

As for Wanda, something unexpected is happening. She finds herself liking your voice more and more, feeling an unfamiliar pull towards it. It's warm, comforting, and filled with a sincerity that she didn't expect. She even finds herself slightly attracted to it. But it's a foreign feeling, one she doesn't quite understand, especially in this setting.

As you conclude your examination, you realize that one of Wanda's molars needs a filling. It isn't urgent, a situation that could be deferred to another appointment if she wishes.

“Looks like you have a small cavity,” you inform her, meeting her eyes. “It's not of immediate concern, but we should schedule another appointment if you'd like to have it filled.”

To your surprise, Wanda agrees, not just with a polite nod, but with a subtle hint of anticipation lighting up her eyes. She agrees to another date, another round of you poking around her mouth with your scary dental tools. And yet, there's a hint of eagerness that surprises even her.

As you finish your work, you lean back, pulling off your surgical mask and gloves. For the first time, Wanda gets a full view of your face. It's like a silent reveal, one she hadn't been expecting, and it takes her aback.

She finds herself caught in a subtle admiration, a feeling that quickly intensifies as she takes in your features. There's something about your face that she finds herself drawn to, the warmth of your eyes, the curve of your lips, the soft contours of your cheekbones.

And when you smile, her breath hitches slightly. It's a simple gesture, but one that lights up your face, reaching your eyes and causing them to crinkle at the corners. It's genuine, open, and a little bit contagious.

“Thanks for your patience, Doctor...?” Wanda voices, feeling a tad awkward. It occurs to her belatedly that she didn't have the foresight to ask for your name before you started the check-up.

“Just call me Y/N. It's my pleasure,” you reply, your smile deepening, unaware of the effect it's having on the Avenger before you. “I'll see you for that follow-up appointment, then?”

As soon as Wanda is escorted outside by Vision, you release a breath you didn't know you've been holding. Leaning against the counter, you try to calm the racing of your heart, which beats as if you've just run a marathon.

Wanda Maximoff is... quite a surprise. Her beauty, her vulnerability, the way she seemed to really listen to your inane chatter–it's all unexpected, disarming even. You find your mind drifting back to the way her eyes softened, the almost shy smile that graced her lips.

You quickly shake your head, trying to dispel these thoughts. This is unprofessional, you think. She's your patient. A patient who just happens to be one of the world's most powerful individuals. It's nothing more than that.

You glance at the clock on the wall, realizing you've spent more time with Wanda than any other patient today. You should be moving on to your paperwork, getting ready to call it a day.

But as you sit down at your desk, the fluttering feeling in your stomach doesn't subside, and Wanda Maximoff's haunting green eyes remain etched in your mind.

Walking down the corridors of the Avengers compound, Wanda finds herself in step with Vision. As they pass various agents and fellow Avengers, Vision turns to look at her.

“Wanda,” he starts, his voice taking on that concerned lilt that she's grown accustomed to. “I'm detecting unusual signs in your vitals. Your heart rate is elevated, your body temperature has slightly increased, and your pupils are dilated.”

Wanda blinks, feeling an unexpected heat crawl up her neck. Her palms are also feeling slightly clammy, and she has this weird fluttering sensation in her stomach. She tries to brush it off. It must have been the anxiety, right?

“Are you not feeling well?” Vision probes further, halting in his tracks to face her. His eyes scan her face, looking for any visible signs of discomfort. Wanda's mind races, trying to figure out how to downplay her seemingly irrational reaction to a denti–a dental appointment.

“No, Vision. I'm... I'm just fine.” Her voice sounds surprisingly steady to her own ears. She forces a smile onto her face, aiming to reassure her friend.

Vision doesn't seem fully convinced but doesn't push further. They resume their walk, but Wanda can't shake off the feeling that something has changed, something she doesn't quite understand yet. And for some reason, her thoughts keep drifting back to a certain dentist with a soothing voice, warm eyes, and a love for plants.

How did it happen that a dental appointment, of all things, has turned into the highlight of her day?

The kitchen is dimly lit when Vision enters, the only illumination coming from the withdrawn overhead lights. Natasha is there, assembling her favorite late-night snack, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. She looks up as Vision approaches, her eyes curious.

“I trust the mission went well?” Vision inquires, noting the subtle signs of fatigue in Natasha's posture.

She offers a half-smile, nodding. “It did. It's all sorted now. How's Wanda after the check-up?”

Vision's eyes narrow slightly, and he hesitates for a moment before responding, “She is... well. The new dentist was quite effective in putting her at ease.”

Natasha smirks, spreading the jelly onto the bread with precision. “Told you a change would do the trick. I still can't believe you managed to convince Tony to switch dentists.”

“And find the perfect replacement,” Natasha adds after some thought, licking the jelly from the knife.

“It was a logical choice. The previous dentist was less than satisfactory, particularly with Wanda.” He pauses, considering something. “But this one... she seemed to have a rather profound effect on her.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow, looking up from her sandwich. “Profound effect?”

“Yes,” Vision says thoughtfully. “I detected unusual signs in her vitals afterward. Increased heart rate, heightened body temperature, a certain... excitement in her demeanor. It was quite unexpected.”

Natasha's eyes widen slightly, and a mischievous smile begins to form on her lips. “You don't say?”

Vision gazes at the digital interface on his palm, a soft hum of approval in his voice. “Indeed, she has also filed for a leave of absence a week from now. She has another dental appointment, but this time at the doctor’s private clinic.”

Natasha pauses, her sandwich halfway to her mouth.

Vision meets her gaze, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. "Do you think it could mean something?"

Natasha shrugs, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Who knows, Vis?” she says, taking a huge bite of her sandwich. “Maybe it's just a good dentist.” And then with a wink and a knowing smile, she adds, “Or maybe…”

She leaves the thought hanging, deliberately ambiguous, and exits the room, her satisfied crunching echoing down the hallway.

Vision is left standing in the kitchen, confusion etched across his synthetic features. He considers the day's events, attempting to analyze how Wanda suddenly managed to conquer her most irrational fear.

Humans really are something.

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff x you #wanda x you #wanda maximoff #unbetad #my writing #my fic #elizabeth olsen x reader #elizabeth olsen #wanda maximoff fanfiction #natasha romanoff #wanda maximoff x female reader #vision #steve rogers

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sugar-coat-it · 11 months ago

Text

Body piercer! Matty

Part 2 , Part 3

May I present my pride and joy (and first AU), body piercer Matty <3, based on the 2020 NOACF mohawk era

Fem! reader

****CW! Needles, pain****

Contains: Matty piercing reader’s nipples*, lustful fantasies, praise, Matty has a tongue piercing, HELLA tension and pining, Matty being a sweetheart through the whole thing

*note, I don’t have nipple piercings lol, apologies if any of this is inaccurate.

Word count: 5313

—------------------------------------------

PART ONE- Fate lands you in Matty Healy’s capable hands when looking to get your nipples pierced. Tension ensues.

—-----------------------------------------

The thought of getting your nipples pierced had been in the back of your mind for what felt like years. It nagged at you every time you saw a pretty girl with barbells poking out under her tank top, you wanted to be her. You’d done all the research, article after article on the healing period, the pain level, and the kinds of jewelry you can get. You also knew fairly well how they enhance sexual encounters, which had a whole draw of its own. You’d done everything except actually make the appointment. That is, up until a few days ago. Fresh off of a breakup and tired of feeling sorry for yourself, you’d called your local tattoo parlor and scheduled a slot with a body piercer named Maddie, then hung up feeling rather pleased with yourself for finally getting it done. The anticipation of the leadup to the appointment had you biting your lips raw. You’d gotten other piercings before, but never in a place so intimate. Never one that required taking your top off, that’s for certain. But friends had been encouraging you nonstop, telling you what a “hot girl” move it was, and who were you to argue?

Finally, the day comes, and you’re swinging open the parlor door a little too hard, evidently very tense. The bell that jangles when the door opens clanks against the wall, making the man behind the counter startle. Wide-eyed and wincing, you shoot him an apologetic look, embarrassed that you’d practically ripped their front door off the hinge. Great start!

Slowly, after making sure the door is safely shut, you approach the counter, absentmindedly toying with the rings that adorn your fingers, twisting them between your thumb and your forefinger. The man at the counter is exactly who you’d expect to be working at a tattoo and piercing parlor, but an even more stunning rendition if you were being honest. His slightly sleepy-looking eyes brighten a little at the sight of you, a fluffy mohawk of chocolatey waves sitting atop his head. He’s adorned with inked patterns along his skin, a patchwork of symbols across his arms that you restrict yourself to only glancing at for a moment. His eyes crinkle at the edges when he greets you with a warm smile, offering a little wave before you start to explain why you’re here, your voice uncharacteristically high-pitched.

“Hi, I’ve got a 1:00 appointment?” you explain before providing your name, trying your hardest to stop fidgeting.

Your mind is in about 20 places, and it doesn’t help that your heart just fluttered at the eye contact he’s holding with you. The man nods at you, a low hum rumbling in his chest as he picks up the scheduling book, sifting through the pages with black polished nails. When he turns his head, you catch a glimpse of the single silver hoop earring that he’s sporting quite well. Curiosity creeps up like a slinking cat, making you wonder what other modifications he might have. His narrowed eyes scan the book, toffee-colored irises flicking over names until he finds yours penciled in, jabbing his nail against the page.

“Yeah I see you, you’re with me then. And, you did your paperwork and payment stuff, it looks like,” he says, snapping the schedule closed definitively.

“Oh, no I don’t think…” you start to correct, tilting your head at him with confusion until you trail off into quiet.

That’s when it catches your eye, the nametag on his white tank top reads “Matty”. Then it clicks. Matty. Not Maddie. You’d scheduled your appointment to get your tits pierced with a guy. A very attractive guy that was now going to watch you squirm like a child. Your jaw drops slightly, a sinking feeling in your gut starting to fester as you realize your mistake.

“Everything alright there? Second thoughts, perhaps?” Matty prompts, raising an inquisitive eyebrow at you.

“No… no second thoughts. To be honest, I thought I had an appointment with a female piercer,” you answer, preemptively grimacing before you’d even finished your sentence.

“Oh, shit. Well, that’s not ideal. Listen, we can get you in here another day then, no problem. Tell me what works for you,” he says, already scrambling for a pencil to put your name elsewhere in the book.

“Actually, I think it’s fine. I’m already here, right?” you offer, shrugging to try and appear more nonchalant about the whole thing (your palms are sweating).

“Are you sure? Seriously, I don’t want you uncomfortable on my watch. It’s not a big deal to get you a different appointment,” he frowns, absentmindedly twirling the pencil between his fingers.

His eyes are strangely soft for someone with such an intimidating job, you can only describe the feeling they give you as melting. You can’t quite place why, but his presence alone is somehow quelling your nerves, even if it’s just a bit. Your hands start to still, dropping to rest at your sides as you decide to let him do it anyway. He looks trustworthy, right?

“Yeah, I’m sure. But thank you, truly,” you say, a soft smile pulling at your lips at how keen he seems on making you comfortable.

Matty nods slowly, rising from the chair while eyeing you like he’s not sure if you’re going to turn on your heel and run out the door if he looks away. He asks you to follow him to the back, you’re trailing close behind as he pulls his baggy camo pants further up his hips by his belt. The room he leads you to is small and fairly chilly, but only in temperature. The space itself feels homey, plastered with stickers and posters of various punk bands, it doesn’t feel like some sterile hospital room.

“Stay standin’ for me, just need to get some things,” he instructs, turning to reach for his supplies, including the jewelry you’d selected over the phone, “and, whenever you’re ready you can take your top off, okay?”

Without the pressure of his eyes on you, it takes a moment before you slowly ease your shirt up and over your shoulders, setting it beside you. You take a slightly uneven breath as you reach to fumble with the clasp of your bra, suddenly forgetting the muscle memory from doing it for so many years. The moment it’s off, the rush of cold air instantly sends a shiver licking up your spine. You lean back against the counter, trying to appear as casual as you can as you eye the piercer. Your eyebrows slope with admiration, softening your expression as you realize that he’s now aimlessly fishing through a drawer, trying to give you time to ease into undressing while he’s still turned around. He stays with his back to you until you clear your throat, signaling that you’ve finished. His expression is unphased as he turns around on the heels of his platformed lace-up boots. God, he really is beyond cool, isn’t he?

“Right, I’m gonna put these on, and then I’ll mark the placement,” Matty explains, holding up a pair of latex gloves.

Matty pulls the gloves over his sizeable hands, the bulging veins catching your eye as he flexes his fingers to test that they’re taught. He’s taking a few steps closer to you, now only about an arm's length away as he explains that he’s not going to touch you without the gloves, though of course, your first unfiltered thought is that you wish he would. His eyes hadn’t strayed from your face for even a second this whole time, being remarkably neutral despite the fact that you were topless. Though, you suppose that sort of thing must not phase him since he’s probably pierced tons of nipples. That doesn’t stop the odd tinge of disappointment that he hadn’t even glanced at your body. You swallow the feeling like it’s bile, knowing that it’s totally unreasonable to want him to gaze at you with anything but professionalism.

“Is it okay if I put my hands on you? Need to clean the area,” he asks, his eyes searching yours for any sign of discomfort, it’s making you slightly weak in the knees, he’s just so fucking gentle.

You nod, rolling your shoulders back in preparation for him to touch you while he pours solvent on a cotton pad. His disciplined, gloved hands reach out, and only now does he allow his gaze to dip down to your chest. You could swear his breath hitches just a little, the quiet room allowing for the smallest sounds to be heard. Maybe he is just a man after all. The thought makes pride simmer in your chest, but you’re not dwelling on it for long, your mind going blank the moment he starts to swiftly swipe the pad along your nipples, sanitizing your skin and also effectively making them harden from the stimulation. You tense up, standing straighter than before as you bite back any semblance of a reaction. Matty throws you a glance to assess your discomfort, soft brown irises following the slopes of your features. He places the sanitizing supplies to the side, now uncapping a purple skin marker. This was going to be a long process if he kept looking at you that way.

“Nothing's happening yet, okay? Just gonna draw on where they’re gonna go,” he says, holding it up while raising his eyebrows as if to say “Look, it’s harmless”.

Matty leans in again, his eyes narrowing with concentration, gloved knuckles brushing the side of your breast as he marks a dot on the side of your nipple. Watching Matty stare at your tits with such laser focus has your cheeks flushing just slightly, heat prickling at the bridge of your nose. He runs the tip of the marker from one side of the hardened bud to the other, marking a symmetrical dot. Tingles spread under your skin like wildfire, he’s barely touched you and yet you can feel yourself buzzing at the slightest sensations. His pretty brown eyes meet yours and he just smiles at you sympathetically, knowing how hyperfocused on his every movement you must be.

“You’re not breathing,” he whispers, playfully jabbing the capped end of the pen against your arm.

Your eyes widen as you realize that he’s absolutely right, you’d been holding your breath this whole time. You release your bated breath, your chest heaving slightly as Matty keeps looking down at you, giving you a moment to regain your senses. You swear the eye contact while being inches away from him is making you more lightheaded than the lack of oxygen. With a satisfied nod, he resumes, repeating the same process of drawing the dots at the peak of your other breast. Then, he takes a step back, biting the cap of the marker between his canines while he evaluates his work. This allows you another moment to admire him as he eyeballs the symmetricalness of his markings. Your mind is wandering, perhaps trying to distract you from how intently this man is studying your breasts. You’re wondering what it would be like if he wasn’t so gentle with you. What if he touched you instead with greed, the need to satiate himself? In your head, you imagine the warm, honey tones of his eyes darkening like tinted glass as he drinks you in not as his client, but as something to desire, to want to feel flush beneath his calloused fingertips. This version of Matty doesn’t try to limit every graze of his working hands, he’s starving; groping, and mapping every part of your skin that he can reach. You’re jumping the gun now, the image flashes through your mind like a ricocheting bullet: Matty’s got you pressed up against the wall, his hands are mean as he grabs a handful of one of your tits, his thigh is hitched between your legs, keeping your thighs parted. His head dips down, his shaggy mohawk tickling at your neck as he tugs on the silver barbell through your nipple with his teeth, pain melding with pleasure till they’re impossible to separate. And, oh, fuck, does he have a tongue piercing? Your eyes flick down to his mouth now, mind reeling as you spot the silver stud on his tongue revealed by the way he’s chewing on the cap of the marker. You are losing yourself, and fast, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Alright, looks just about even. Would you go ahead and lie down there, darlin’?” he asks, cocking his head towards the reclined padded chair next to him.

Now is where the nerves are starting to kick in, it’s all fun and fantasizing about your body piercer until you actually have to sit in the chair. You were hardly able to mentally fawn over the pet name as you took unsure strides to situate yourself in the cold, plastic parlor recliner. Matty busies himself with preparing various metal objects while you stare up at the ceiling, squinting at the fluorescent lights and wondering why you wanted your tits pierced so badly in the first place. Then, his unreasonably darling face is in your field of vision, peering down at you with a consoling smile.

“Comfy?” he prompts, a needle in one hand and a small pair of forceps in the other.

It’s not a comforting sight, no matter how lovely the man holding them is.

“Sorta. I’m actually kind of a chicken about these things,” you admit with a wobbly smile in return.

“No… really?” he grins boyishly, clearly being sarcastic with you.

You shoot him a look for that, but it melts away into a little laugh, you can’t seem to even fake a cold stare around him, it’s sort of pitiful. Standing over you, Matty raises the forceps close to your breasts but doesn’t touch you with them just yet. You bite your lip, lifting your head to get a better look at what’s happening, even though you’re not entirely sure you even want to watch.

“Now, this is just going to feel like a little pinch, shouldn’t hurt,” he says, his voice lowering a little before he slips in a: “You’re doing really good.”

The praise tears your gaze away from his hands and onto his face, blinking in disbelief at the way he’d caused a fizzling pang of desire inside you so effortlessly. That feeling doesn’t get any weaker the moment you feel the cool metal clamp around your nipple, your lips parting with a soft gasp, hands tensing with the urge to hold onto something, to hold onto him. Matty’s pierced tongue darts out past his lips in concentration, soothing over his bottom lip as he lines the needle up next to the hardened bud. You jolt at the sharp tip of the object against your sensitive skin, your hand shooting out to grab onto Matty’s bicep in a moment of pure reaction. Both of you seem equally shocked that you’d suddenly clutched his arm, your nails slightly biting into his skin amongst the spattering of pretty freckles that mark him. There’s a moment of the loudest silence you’ve ever heard, his stare feels like it’s searing you. You’re about to rush into apologizing, but then he’s placing his tools back down onto his tray of supplies, tentatively reaching to rest his larger hand over yours, enveloping it in a way that makes your heart skip a beat.

“It’s alright, sweetheart, I’m just lining up my shot. I’m gonna tell you when it’s time, okay? Just breathe with me for a moment,” he reassures, his thumb rubbing tenderly over the back of your hand.

He takes an exaggerated breath, encouraging you to do the same, his chest rising beneath his white tank top. You mirror Matty, taking a deep breath in of, well… him. He smells like a dizzying combination of Marlboros and woody aftershave because of course, he does.

“That’s it, much better. It’ll be a whole fuckin’ ordeal if you pass out on me, so stay with me here. Can you do that?” he questions, raising his eyebrows at you.

“Yeah… yeah, I can. Thank you,” you say softly, trying to disregard the sparks radiating under Matty’s palm.

You stay like this for a few breaths longer, Matty doesn’t look away from you and you’re not so sure that it’s only because he doesn’t want you to conk out. His gloved hand gives yours an encouraging squeeze before letting go slowly. The heat still lingers as he retrieves his tools a second time, the flexing of his bicep under your grasp reminds you that you should probably let go of him now. But, the moment you start to retract your hand, he glances at you and speaks in that silky tone of his.

“You don’t have to let go, s’okay. You can use me like a stress toy, or something. I don’t really care,” he shrugs, winking at you.

You just nod dumbly, your eyes going a little wider as you settle your hand over his bare arm again, right over the top of his Newcastle United seahorse tattoo. You’d like to use him in other ways too, but that’s not very appropriate, now is it?

You let out a sigh as you come to the same point in the process again, Matty lining up the needle diligently while keeping your nipple clamped with the metal forceps, but this time, you get to cling to his arm. You don’t want to distract him, because it would be your loss in the end, but there is a sense of satisfaction when you feel his bicep flex slightly as you trace your thumb along the symbol inked on his skin, following the curve of the seahorses mane with your nail.

“Okay, love. Here’s what’s gonna happen, I’m going to do it on three, and when I say three, I need you to take a sharp breath in for me, like this,” he instructs, then shows you what he means with a harsh inhale through his nose.

You breathe out a weak “okay”, already gripping his arm harder from the anticipation building up to a high. You decide it’s best not to watch, especially since you’d promised you wouldn’t pass out. You let your head rest back against the chair, your nose scrunching as you squeeze your eyes shut tightly. Matty begins to count down, increasing the pressure of the clamp. 1. 2. 3. You inhale sharply through your nose at the same time that an unprecedented amount of burning pain reverberates through your chest, your eyes snapping open. You’re clawing at his arm, a cry ripping past your lips while tears well up and blur your vision. It’s a feeling so intense that it’s seeping through you to your stomach, crawling like the meanest sunburn. Of all the piercings you’ve gotten, you can say without a doubt that this takes first prize for the most painful.

“Oh, fuck!” you sob, the sound being embarrassingly close to a full-bodied moan.

Matty slides the jewelry through while swiftly retracting the needle, trying to stifle the way the sound you’d made was affecting him, echoing in his skull in a way he knows it shouldn’t. He doesn’t even flinch despite the way your nails are leaving angry, red crescents marred on his skin. He quickly screws the barbell together before completely retracting his hands from you, taking one more glance at his handiwork before consoling you, his heart seemingly aching for the pretty girl in his chair.

“I know, I know. Hurts like a bitch, but you’re halfway done. Doing so good, you’re alright,” he murmurs, reaching the gloved back of his hand to your face to wipe some of the stray tears on your cheeks.

You just whine, the radiating pain only now starting to subside as you keep your hold on his arm, now smoothing over the marks you’d left with your fingertips as if you’re kissing them better. His thumb grazes along your cheek for a little too long for it to be accidental. Matty’s praise while he wipes away your tears is making your mind fuzzy, it’s like he’s numbing the pain; the sweetest morphine.

Your gasps for breath are slowing, the pain like a dull pulse, easing its grip on you. Mortification is starting to sink in now that you’re not reeling from shooting pain. One of the most attractive men you’ve ever seen just watched you in one of your most vulnerable moments, and there’s still one piercing to go, much to your dismay.

“Fuck, this is embarrassing,” you admit with a breathy laugh at your own expense.

“Nah, don’t be embarrassed. You could’ve done much worse, probably,” he says, looking amused as he shakes his head at you.

“Like what?” “I dunno… like, socked me in the face as a fight or flight response.”

You laugh at that, a bright sound filling the room that makes Matty’s smile grow fonder as he gazes down at you with those pretty, sparkly eyes. The moment lingers on for a few beats, tension blooming between you that almost makes you forget about the throbbing ache of your left breast (almost).

“You do know I have to do the other one right? Unless you’re a bit odd and like the one-piercing look,” he reminds cautiously over the clinking metallic sound of him picking up his tools.

“I know,” you sigh, “can you do it fast?”

“Erm… I’ll do it as quickly as I can without making it cockeyed, but I reckon you’ll be fine. Besides, the second one’s always easier from what I’ve seen.”

He doesn’t seem like the type that would elude you for the sake of false security, so you take his word as gospel, settling in to prepare yourself for what’s hopefully a more tolerable experience. His next words have your heart thrumming against your ribs.

“Can you handle it?” he asks, more of a challenge than a question.

You nod at him quietly, absentmindedly drawing little feather-light swirls on his bicep. The incentive of his praise is becoming all too tempting. You want to handle it, you want to show him that you can do it. There’s a new, honeyed kind of heat seeping into your bones.

“Good girl. You’re a strong one, love,” he praises, sensing just how eager you are.

The next pulse you feel doesn’t come from your chest. Good girl? He has to be fucking with you. Jesus, does he talk to all of his customers like this? Does he wipe all of their tears too? Something in you wants to believe he doesn’t. He watches as your lips part slowly, your lashes fluttering as you look up at him. You have to know.

“Do you call all your customers that?” you whisper, blinking up at him coyly.

“Not really, no. Only the pretty ones who deserve it.”

Your breath comes out as a shudder, it’s unfair how easily he leaves you stunned. He clicks his tongue casually before getting back to work, all too pleased by the look on your face. You know the routine by now, Matty makes quick work of clamping your nipple and arranging the prodding tip of the needle just so. You’re still clinging to his arm, or your personal stress toy, something you’ve grown very familiar to the feel of throughout your time here. The countdown starts, he’s not giving you as much time to prepare. 1. 2. 3. What was more like a shriek from earlier comes out as a whine this time, a high-pitched, whimpery noise spilling from you. You don’t curse or practically maul his arm this time, but it’s still painful, you can’t say you’re fond of how vividly you can feel the needle go in and out amidst the burning sting.

“Beautiful, atta girl,” he whispers, screwing the end of the barbell on before leaning back to admire his work, his eyes unabashedly glued to how the jewelry sits prettily on your breasts.

You have no clue if he’s talking about you, your tits, or the job he’d done, but it makes your skin warm all the same.

Finally, you allow yourself to look at your chest, gently sliding your hand off of his bicep to prop yourself up on your arms and get a good look at the two new adornments. Shit, they look good on you, better than you’d hoped, and perfectly symmetrical thanks to him. He smirks when he notices the way you’re gawking at the piercings, knowing that the pain is barely a thought in your mind now, too distracted by how newly desirable you must feel. Matty likes knowing that one, he’s good at his job, and two, that he’s just helped you feel sexier. He’s really enjoying watching you admire yourself and in turn, his work. There’s a slight stir beneath his baggy pants, which he knows should never happen while he’s with a client, but you might just be the sweetest thing that’s ever been in his chair. He’s allowing himself a pass.

“Shit, Matty, they’re really nice,” you gape, your stomach swooping when you glance up to see the smug look playing on his lips.

“Yeah, they came out mint. Suit you nicely, don’t they?” he says, daring to dance along the line of being unprofessional as he then glances down at your tits and whistles.

What a boy.

“Thank you… for everything I mean.”

“Don’t mention it, you were great,” Matty smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he waves off your gushing.

Butterflies are rampaging in your stomach, god, why does he have to be so lovely? He looks like he has something he wants to say, but it goes unspoken, rattling around in his head instead. His expression is hard to read, but would you be deluding yourself to say there’s a tinge of longing? A few beats of quiet tick by, and you’re now becoming acutely aware of the fact that you no longer have a reason to be topless, awkwardly crossing your arms. Always so attentive, Matty suddenly straightens up and reaches over your body, his chain dangling in front of your face as he grabs your shirt and bra from the counter. He places them on your lap and politely turns away as if he’s never seen you undressed, clearing his throat like that will clear the thick tension in the air.

You wince as soon as the cups of your bra meet your immensely tender breasts, sucking in a sharp breath through your teeth as you power through clasping it. The sensitivity is something you’d been warned about, and now you get to joyfully experience it firsthand for the next however many weeks. Your eyes are on Matty’s back as you slip your shirt over your head, taking note of how rigid he seems as he gathers the after-piercing care papers for you. But maybe it’s in your head. You haven’t known him very long at all, it’s a dangerous game to assume any of the tension of this afternoon was real when you were freaking out for more than half of it.

“Right, any questions for me?” he asks, striding over to hand you the pages.

Are you single?Can we go out?Should we make out right now?How are you real?

“No, I think I’m alright.”

“Okay, well, if you’re not woozy, you can go ahead and stand up when you’re ready,” he says, clasping his hands together as if he’s wrapping up his job well done.

With the care pamphlet in one hand, you start to slowly swing your legs over to the side, noticing the way Matty stands at attention like he’s ready to catch you if your legs give out. But they don’t, you’re able to stand with minimal wobbles, shaking out your hands to try and relax your poor, recovering body.

The walk back to the front of the parlor is quiet, the both of you trying to grapple with the tension you couldn’t quite leave behind in the chair. There’s not much else to say, is there? You’re both standing next to the door now, and Matty retracts one of his hands from within his pockets to hold it out to you. Nothing says “I just blurred the lines of professionality while piercing your tits and now this is goodbye” like a good old handshake, does it? You try to keep your expression neutral even though this all feels quite bittersweet, grasping his hand with a firm shake. It’s the first time you’ve felt his hand without the latex glove between you, they’re soft, but you can tell he works with his hands, the callouses on his fingertips grazing your skin.

“Lovely to meet you, sorry I wasn’t a chick,” he chuckles, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Yeah, you too. And don’t worry about that, I’m glad it was you,” you reply, perhaps being a little too sincere, but it feels right to say.

“... well, listen, get home safe, alright? Take care of yourself, call if you have any problems,” he says, once again seeming like he’s biting his tongue, keeping himself from saying something to you.

You reach for the handle of the door, but you don’t open it. You look back at him like you’re giving him one more chance to tell you what you’re hoping to hear, but he doesn’t, he just offers a nod with an unreadable expression on his face. Heartache.

“See you, Matty,” you nod in return, opening the door and shutting it behind you.

You evaluate your situation on the walk back to your car. You’ve rid yourself of the urge to get your tits pierced, and they look fantastic, but your new problem is that you have a massive crush on your body piercer that you’re likely never going to see again unless you get another piercing. It’d be a rather expensive hobby to get a piercing just to see his face, so scratch that. Your only option is to be reminded of him every time you take your shirt off, how miserable is that?

Little do you know, the moment the shop door closed behind you, Matty groaned with his face in his hands, mentally kicking himself for not asking you out, or at least getting your number. Sure, you were a client, he had to be careful, but shit, you weren’t just any client, now were you? What was wrong with him? Something about you left the body piercer stiff and tongue-tied, replaying every moment of your encounter back in his mind. Never in his life had Matty Healy felt anything for a customer.

—---One month later—----

After a hellish month of healing, scabbing, and getting your piercings caught on things, you’ve decided that there’s no real point in having nipple piercings if no one gets to see them but you. You’d like to tell yourself that you don’t think about Matty as much anymore, but that would be laughably dishonest. Dating apps are just about one of the most aggravating wastes of time ever, and you’ve had no luck meeting people naturally, so here comes the next best thing: blind dates. Your close friend fancies herself to be somewhat of a matchmaker, she’s been talking up this guy to you for days now, telling you how funny and totally your type he is, and nothing could possibly go wrong if she set you up. You have your doubts, but still, you find yourself in a cafe waiting for your mystery man to sweep you off your feet with his supposed punchy one-liners. What you don’t expect, however, is to watch a very familiar mohawked man stride into the place, the eyes that have patronized your dreams every night scanning across the cafe until they lock onto you.

—----------------------------------------------

Don’t you worry, I won’t leave you hanging with just tension, ofc there’s going to be a smutty part two <3

Thank you very much for reading, I hope it wasn’t underwhelming! And thank you to any other writers that I reached out to to consult about my ideas, ily, mwah!

#oh god I’m nervous about this one #matty healy smut #matty healy x reader #matty healy x you #the 1975 smut #the 1975 x reader #matty healy fic #body piercer!Matty

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 7 months ago

Text

make you mine 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, age gap, possible abuse, alcoholism, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your father is strict but his authority is challenged by the boy in town and the man at his door.

Characters: Arvin Russell, Lee Bodecker

Note: you know what, why shouldn't I?

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

You keep your head down as you near the store. That group of boys is smoking at the corner again, their stained white tees and dusty old flannel jackets smell of sawdust and oil. Your daddy always tells you not to talk to strange men and except for him, they're all strange.

"Hey, doll, where you in a rush to?" One of them flicks a cigarette away as he breathe smoke behind you.

You hurry up as he whistles, "yeah, walk faster, girl. Wiggle them hips."

"Quiet," another hisses and you hear the heavy thump of a slap against his shoulder, "ain't no way to talk to a lady."

Footsteps rush after you and before you can reach the door, it opens, the bell jangling above as one of the men pulls it back. You look at his boots, grimy, laces fraying, slouching around the ankles. His other hand dangles by his side, cap folded in his grip.

"I'm really sorry about Jethro, miss, he's got a real nasty mouth," he says, "you alright?"

You nod and say nothing as you continue inside.

"You're scarin' her, Arv," another man calls over, "look at her shaking in her shoes."

He sighs and lets the door close between you as he turns back to respond. His words are muffled as you take a basket and flit into an aisle. Mr. Canavan is behind the counter, flipping through a newspaper as the radio crackles. You pick out the few staples running low in your pantry and add on a bottle of rum for your pa.

"Afternoon, miss," Canavan greets in his piggish snort. You return the sentiment as you wait for him to tally up your order. "How's your daddy?"

"Good, good," you answer as you peek towards the window. The men cross the street and disperse, some still walking in pairs.

"He got a thirst?" he comments on the bottle.

"Doesn't he always?" You count out the money and hand it to him.

"Yeah but he usually takes care of that down at Hal's."

"Lost too much on the table last time," you shake your head as he gives you back the change.

He packs up a paper bag and you thank him, sliding it off the counter. It's heavy and makes your shoulders ache. You shouldn't have waited so long.

You push the door open with your hip and turn, nearly colliding with another. The same man chuckles as he puts a hand on your elbow to keep you from toppling. You bite your lip and his eyes fall to his touch, dropping his arm guiltily.

"Sorry, miss," he says as he sweeps back a curly lock that droops down his forehead, putting his cap over his hair to hold it back, "didn't mean to scare ya."

"It's fine," you nearly whisper.

"I wanted to say sorry again for my friends, if I can call them that. They don't see ladies often and they forget their manners."

"Really, it's okay," you insist with a squeak.

"Nah, it isn't," he counters, "but I told 'em to leave you alone."

"Oh, thank you," you look past him.

There's a pause. Awkward as he digs his heel into the ground. He chuckles and rubs his hands together.

"That looks heavy, can I help ya with that?" he asks.

You look at your armful. You don't know if you should. Would he be mad if you say no? He hasn't been mean.

"Just halfway," he offers, "not tryna creep on ya or nothing, I'll just walk you to your corner."

You press your lips together. Your daddy wouldn't see him at the corner.

"I really feel bad about those other jerks," he continues, "so least I can do is carry your groceries."

"Okay," you utter.

You stand stupidly as he grins at you. You catch a glimpse of his dark eyes and crooked smile before your eyes return to the ground. He gently reaches to shift the bag out of your arms and lifts it easily. He steps back and you feel his gaze hanging over you.

"Which way am I goin?" he asks.

"Oh, uh," you point past him.

He turns and waits for you to come up beside him before he starts off. He's shorter than the others but his shoulders are broad. He's still got a couple inches on you, though he's much trimmer. You catch up and focus on keeping pace with him.

"I'm Arvin," he says.

"Um," you breathe and muster your name in return.

"I like that. It's pretty. Hope you're husband wouldn't mind me sayin' so."

"Husband? I'm not–"

You stop at the corner as you wait for several cars to pass before crossing. A brown and white cruiser rolls past and you watch the bumper disappear down the next street. You continue on as Arvin kicks a pebble unwittingly.

"Not married?" he finishes for you.

"I live with my pa," you answer.

"Course. You must be young then."

"I'm grown," you insist.

You hate how your daddy teases you in the same vein, especially when he has friends over. It felt worse coming from someone nearly your own age, or looks to be.

"Ah, just wonderin'," he assures.

You're quiet as you carry on. You know you shouldn't still be at home. Lots of girls in Knockemstiff marry before they finish school. You haven't even had a date, not a kiss, or a look in your direction.

"Just up here," you point to the next corner.

He nods and carries on, stopping at the end of the street as he turns to you, "you sure I can't walk you all the way?"

"My pa wouldn't like that."

"He loves you, huh?"

"He's my pa," you shrug and reach for the bag. He hands it over reluctantly.

"I hope I see ya around. I work down at the mill. For Mr. Haroldson. Case you're wonderin' where to find me."

"Thanks," you hug the groceries.

He gives a tight-lipped smile. Disappointment twitches in his cheek.

"See ya ‘round then."

"Maybe," you answer as you turn away.

You continue down your street. Halfway, you look back. Still watching you, he waves and slowly walks back the way you came. You spin back along the old country road, houses speckled over flat fields. You pass the rusty old brown truck at the edge of your pa's property, the sheriff's cruiser parked closer to the shed.

You didn't expect company tonight. It must've been the same cruiser you saw at the corner. Your dread bubbles up but you quickly tamp it down. The sheriff always makes you nervous. He's talkative and you're... not.

As you go inside, you hear your pa grumbling. You put down the groceries as the screen door clatters and take off your tweed jacket. You hang it as you step out of your boots.

"You know we miss you down at the station," Bodecker's voice nears as his footsteps lurk, "there she is."

Before you can retrieve your haul, he has it in his arms, "how ya doin', baby girl?"

His usual pet name makes you squirm. Your pa says it's just him being nice. You never say anything against it.

"I got it–"

You try to take the bag but he holds it away from you.

"Nah, what kinda man would I be, let alone a sheriff, if I didn't help a lady?"

He winks and turns away from you, leading you past the doorway of the front room. You peer over at your father as he scowls and gulps from a can of beer. The sheriff likely brought the appeasing six pack to ease his presence.

"What's for dinner tonight?" Bodecker asks as he puts the bag on the counter, peering inside.

"I'm making a meat pie," you explain as you go to the fridge, "be more than enough for company, if you like?"

"Now, how'd such a sweet thing like you come from that old coot?" He smirks over as you take out the beef wrapped in brown paper.

You shrug and take the cutting board from against the wall. He doesn't move as you set up around him. You hate how his eyes follow you. Every time he's around.

"You don't gotta work?" You ask as you reach for the bag. He pushes it towards you as he steps closer, looming over you.

"I'm off duty for the night. Think I might indulge with your daddy," he reaches into the bag, his belly brushing your elbow as he lifts out the rum, "good brand."

"Pa likes it," you step away as you search the cupboard.

"You're old enough, you could join us after dinner–"

"I don't like the taste and my pa don't want me drinking," you kneel to pull a pan out from the drawer.

"Good habit not to take up," he clunks the bottle on the counter and rests his hand on the neck, "that boy you were walkin' with, he your friend?"

"Boy? No, he was being helpful is all."

"Was he, now?" He comes closer as you stand, "I know that boy, he ain't helpful."

You glance at him. His blue eyes cling to you and you don't miss how they wander to the top of your blouse. You put the pan down and turn to grab your apron.

He comes up behind you and takes the string, tying them tight as you wince in surprise.

"Well, you're young. I'm sure you're fixing to find a husband soon. I'm just lookin' out for you."

"I'm not looking for a husband," you draw away from him, "thank you, sheriff."

"Well, your daddy won't live forever. Who's gonna take care of you, then?"

You face him and frown, "I don't wanna think about that, sheriff, and I got dinner to make."

"I'm sorry, baby girl, I worry about you. How long have I known you? I can't help it."

"Thank you, sheriff, for worrying, but I'll be just fine."

He tilts his head, bemusement sparkles in his vibrant irises, "I'm sure ya will be, baby girl… very fine."

He sidles away and you return to the counter, pulling a knife from the block. The sooner dinner's on the table, the sooner you can go hide.

🍽️

You clear your plate first, dinner’s made less appetizing by the sheriff and his leer. Your father doesn't help as he drinks more than he talks and you're left to entertain Lee's comments about your cooking and the same blouse he'd seen you in a dozen times.

As you stand, the sheriff slurps from his beer and watches you. His lips shine as he puts the can down and smirks, "baby girl, you mind gettin' me the ketchup?"

You swallow and nod, "certainly, sheriff."

You turn and carry your plate into the kitchen, clunking it down on the counter before pulling open the fridge. You take the glass bottle of Heinz and return to the dining room to set it down.

"Pa, you need anything?"

"Dammit, Marcy, leave me be. I told ya… patrol's been busy," he waves his hand at you dismissively, your mother's name giving you pause. Lee hesitates as he twists off the metal lid.

"I… pa, I…"

"Is this what you're gon' do? Pester me?" Your daddy slurs, "'cause what? She was only being nice, ya know? I was too, I couldn't say no–"

"Jack," Lee reaches over and pats your father's arm with his knuckles, "ain't there a game on soon? That old radio still work?"

Your father blinks drunkenly and scowls. He shakes his head and hiccups, swearing as he tries to drink from his empty can. He tosses it so it bounces off the edge of the table.

"Course it does," he sneers.

"You got twenty on the home team?" Lee goads, "I should lock ya up for gambling."

"Ah shut up," your father glowers into a dark chuckle, "it's you that's gon pay me fifty anyhow. Can't lock a man up for winning."

"Ah sure, Jack," Lee stands and claps your father's shoulder, "come on. We’re missing the first."

You don’t miss how the sheriff shifts his grip and lurches your father out of his chair. He gives him a nudge toward the front room and glances back at you. You should be grateful for the redirection, yet the leer in his eyes only makes you nervous. You know he’ll be wanting thanks for that for a long time to come.

“How about you bring some of that rum out with dessert?” Lee smirks as he follows your father towards the den.

You don’t mention that you didn’t have anything planned for dessert. He doesn’t wait for you to say so. He chuckles and teases your dad again about the wager.

You’ll have to come up with something. You might be able to spare enough for cream puffs. Those were always ma’s specialty.

#arvin russell #lee bodecker #dark arvin russell #dark lee bodecker #dark!arvin russell #dark!lee bodecker #lee bodecker x reader #arvin russell x reader #the devil all the time #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #make you mine

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rafecamerons-national-anthem · 4 months ago

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𝒞𝐻𝐸𝑀𝐼𝒮𝒯𝑅𝒴-𝒟𝑅𝐸𝒲 𝒮𝒯𝒜𝑅𝒦𝐸𝒴

𝕤𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕪 Drew Starkey and Y/N’s romance ignites the moment they meet at an audition, each drawn to the other by a magnetic connection that feels like fate. As they’re cast as romantic leads in Love Amongst the Lines, their on screen chemistry mirrors the real bond blossoming between them.

✮♥✮♥✮♥✮♥✮♥✮♥✮♥✮♥✮♥✮♥✮♥✮♥✮✮♥✮♥✮♥✮♥✮♥✮♥✮♥✮♥✮♥✮

The moment their eyes met across the crowded room at the audition, it was as if time had stopped. His heart skipped a beat as he took in her radiant smile and the way her eyes sparkled with excitement. She felt a warmth spread through her body, the kind she had only read about in her favorite romance novels.

Drew, a rising star in the film industry, had seen countless faces in his auditions, but none had ever captivated him quite like hers. Y/N, on the other hand, was a newcomer to the world of acting, her passion for the craft burning brightly and her nerves jangling like a thousand bells.

Their hands trembled as they reached out to shake for the first time, the electricity between them palpable. "Hi, I'm Drew," he murmured, his Southern drawl sending shivers down her spine. "And I'm Y/N," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "It's so nice to finally meet you in person."

Drew couldn't help but feel that this was more than just a chance encounter. The chemistry between them was undeniable, a force that seemed to pull them closer together despite the chaotic environment. They exchanged nervous laughs as they talked about their shared love for the art of storytelling and the thrill of bringing characters to life.

As the audition process rolled on, they found themselves stealing glances at each other between takes, each one more meaningful than the last. It was during a break in filming that Drew mustered the courage to ask her out for coffee, hoping to get to know her better outside of the intense pressure of the audition room.

"You know," he began, his voice a little shaky, "I think we could really make a great team." Y/N felt her cheeks flush at his words, the hint of a smile playing on her lips. "I'd love that," she replied, her voice filled with hope and excitement.

Their first date was nothing short of magical. They talked for hours about their dreams, their fears, and the movies that had inspired them to pursue acting. The connection grew stronger with each shared laugh and secret revealed. It was as if they had known each other for a lifetime rather than a few short hours.

As they walked back to the studio the next day, the air was charged with anticipation. They had both received the news that they had been cast in the lead roles of the upcoming romantic comedy, "Love Amongst the Lines." Their hearts raced as they thought about the journey they were about to embark on together, not just as co stars, but as a couple whose love had blossomed in the most unexpected of places.

The first day on set was a whirlwind of activity. The director, a seasoned veteran with a keen eye for talent, noticed the palpable energy between them and knew that their real-life romance would translate beautifully onto the screen. As they rehearsed their scenes, Drew couldn't help but feel a thrill every time he was close to Y/N. Her touch, her scent, her laugh, it was all so intoxicating.

Their on screen chemistry was undeniable. The way their eyes met, the way their fingers brushed against each other's, and the way they delivered their lines as if they had been written just for them. It was clear to everyone on set that this was more than just acting, it was true love unfolding before their very eyes.

But as the days turned into weeks and the script grew more intimate, Drew and Y/N began to feel the weight of their newfound feelings. Was it possible to keep their personal lives separate from their professional ones? Could they handle the scrutiny of the media and the demands of the film industry? Or would their love story be nothing more than a fleeting moment in the spotlight?

Their conversations grew more serious as they grappled with these questions. Yet, every time they looked into each other's eyes, all doubts disappeared. They knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, they had found something special, something worth fighting for.

And so, as the cameras rolled and their characters fell in love, Drew and Y/N couldn't help but feel that their own love story was playing out alongside the script. With each kiss they shared, each tender moment they created, they fell a little deeper. The lines between reality and fiction blurred, leaving only the raw, unfiltered emotion that came with falling in love for the first time.

"Cut!" the director yelled, snapping them out of their daze. They pulled back, their faces flushed and their hearts racing. The crew around them applauded, but their minds were elsewhere.

"That was…amazing," Drew whispered, his gaze never leaving hers. Y/N felt a blush creep up her neck. "You really brought it to life," she said, her voice trembling slightly.

Their relationship grew stronger as the filming progressed, each intimate scene only serving to strengthen the bond between them. Off screen, they found themselves rehearsing their lines together, discussing character motivations and plot points, but mostly just lost in each other's company. It was as if the universe had conspired to bring them together, and now they were inseparable.

But with every public appearance and interview, the pressure mounted. They had to be careful not to let their real feelings show, to keep the magic of their budding romance contained within the confines of the set. The paparazzi were relentless, searching for any hint of scandal or a juicy storyline to sell to the tabloids. Yet, they remained steadfast, choosing to keep their love a secret from the prying eyes of the world.

One evening, after a particularly grueling day of shooting, they found refuge in a quiet corner of the set. The lights had dimmed, and the only sound was the soft hum of the air conditioning. Drew took her hand in his, his thumb tracing circles on her skin. "You know," he said, his voice barely audible, "I never thought I'd find this kind of connection on a movie set."

Y/N looked at him, her eyes filled with emotion. "Neither did I," she confessed. "But here we are."

They leaned in, their lips meeting in a soft, tender kiss, a kiss that spoke volumes about the depth of their feelings. It was a moment that seemed to exist outside of time, a secret shared between the two of them amidst the chaos of production.

As the weeks turned into months, they grew more comfortable with each other, their love story weaving itself into the very fabric of the film. And though they knew the end of filming would bring an end to their shared secret, they were determined to make the most of every moment.

But little did they know, the universe had more surprises in store for them. As the final scenes were shot and the director called for the last take, the cast and crew gathered around to congratulate them. The whispers grew louder as rumors of their off-screen romance began to spread. And when the cameras stopped rolling, it was no longer just their characters who had to navigate the choppy waters of love and fame, it was Drew and Y/N themselves.

Their gazes held, filled with a mix of excitement and trepidation. They had taken a chance on love in the most unlikely of places, and now they were about to find out if their love story could survive the glare of the spotlight.

The premiere of "Love Amongst the Lines" was a star studded affair, with the who's who of Hollywood eagerly awaiting the debut of the film's dynamic new couple. Drew and Y/N walked the red carpet together, their arms entwined, every step a silent declaration of their feelings for each other. The flashes of cameras and the screams of fans only served to amplify the butterflies in their stomachs.

As they took their seats inside the theater, Drew leaned over to whisper in Y/N's ear. "Remember, we're in this together." She nodded, her eyes sparkling with unshed tears. The lights dimmed, the film began, and their love story played out before an enraptured audience. Each shared glance, each tender touch, each whispered "I love you" resonated with an honesty that could not be faked.

After the credits rolled and the applause died down, they held their breath as the reviews began to pour in. Critics raved about their on screen chemistry, dubbing them the new "It" couple of the industry. But amidst the glitz and glamour, they held onto each other tightly, knowing that the real magic was in the love they had found off screen.

Their relationship became the talk of the town, with fans eagerly following every detail of their blossoming romance. Interviewers threw in sly questions about their real-life counterparts to the characters they played, hoping to catch a glimpse of the truth. Yet, Drew and Y/N remained professional, always giving just enough to keep the mystery alive.

Through the press junkets and the award season, they grew more in love with each passing day. Their secret had become their shield, allowing them to keep their relationship pure and untouched by the often harsh realities of the entertainment business.

But as the whispers grew louder and the rumors more insistent, they knew they couldn't hide forever. The time had come to decide if they were ready to take the next step, to share their love with the world and see if it could withstand the scrutiny of the public eye.

Their hearts pounding in unison, they made the choice to go public. Hand in hand, they faced the media, their love for each other shining brighter than any Hollywood spotlight. The announcement sent shockwaves through the industry, but Drew and Y/N only had eyes for each other, their bond unshakeable amidst the chaos.

The journey ahead was uncertain, fraught with challenges they had never imagined when they first met in that crowded audition room. But as they looked into each other's eyes, they knew that together, they could conquer anything that came their way.

Their love story had become a real life fairytale, and as they stepped out into the world as a couple, ready to face whatever came next, they had one thing in common with their on screen counterparts, they were ready to write their own destiny.

#drew starkey #drew starkey x reader #drew starkey imagine #drew starkey x y/n #drew starkey x you #drew starkey x female reader

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jinglingeyes · 1 year ago

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Rhea and Philyra

(Rhea is the earthly-colored one pointing an accusative finger at Philyra (brightly salmon-colored one in brown covers) nervously sweating at a pissed off Mother Goddesss)

I picked a salmon cause they are known for giving birth to their young and dying. Also I wanted some of the nymphs to be actual fishes cause it’s fun, so why not lol?

Rhea is threatening/warning Philyra about Kronos and how he cares not for her. Deeming Philyra possible traitor trying to overthrow her (Rhea).

Surprise, surprise Philyra isn’t, she’s just in love with Kronos and was kind of a gossip/info reporter for him. (Philyra has more of a role here in this than compared to her OG counterpart, I start to daydream and I end up with a whole vague storyline for them, anything in general lol)

She gives birth to Chiron and two other egg thingys, (Chiron was also a egg baby but he hatched kind of early so yeah, also the other two is Aphros and Dolops)

Kronos actually does care somewhat about Philyra albeit not to the equal mutual aspect like Philyra did but still he turns her into a linden tree.

On the right middle/bottom side you can vaguely see two horses running and a salmon with three eggs a bit farther behind

Thats all I think ???? I can’t remember the description from my instagram post so hopefully I didn’t miss something

Posting when nobody here >:D

(Lowkey miss the GM designs and stuff I have but my brain is rotting for another as of late so another time perhaps.)

#already posted on my instagram #fuck you instagram for making me try to log in /nsrs /hj #old art #Philyra fanart #i don’t know how to tag and I don’t want to clutter them so uhhh #greek mythology retellings #??#greek mythology fanart #I love my Rhea and Philyra designs #I need to draw them both again holy shit I love them #jangle-bell eyes #my vivid eyes

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saturnville · 11 months ago

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candy bling, joe rantz.

pairing: joe rantz x black fem oc (cleotha jean). content: cleotha jean reminisces on her relationship with joe rantz. warning: more "modern" approach to their relationship. suggestive content. song: candy bling by mariah carey (I suggest you listen as you read). tag list: @neeville @turn-thy-paige @ihe4rtisa @ineedafictionalman @lovebyceleste @alliewassobonum

In the solitude of her room, Cleotha found herself surrounded by fragments of a past she had long tried to forget. She sifted through the contents of a dusty old box, memories flooded her mind with an intensity she hadn't felt in months. Each item she unearthed struck her heart in ways that made her uncomfortable, a relic of a love once consumed by every thought and emotion.

Among the treasures she tried to forbet lay a delicate silver anklet, its tiny bells tinkling softly as Cleotha held it in her hands. Memories of lazy summer days and whispered promises rushed back to her, painting vivid scenes of youthful romance and boundless dreams.

“What’s this?” Cleotha asked as she was handed a small, velvet bag. Her movements were sluggish as she peeled herself off the pillow she and Joe shared. The soft moan she pushed out was enough to make his insides stir again.

Joe pulled his arm behind his head and drummed his fingers against his sheet-covered thigh. A small smile pulled on his lips as he shrugged. “Open it.”

Cleotha held the sheet to her chest and shook the bag. Jingle, jangle. Her eyebrow quipped as she opened the bag and dumped the content in her hand. Two thin gold chains fell out, shining under the gaze of the sun. She hummed in awe as she fingered the chains delicately. “Two bracelets?”

“Bracelet and anklet,” Joe replied with extra emphasis, a teasing tone underlying in his words. Cleotha, who knew exactly why he bought it, threw her head back in laughter. She muttered, “You’re disgusting.” Still, she held her wrist out for him to place the bracelet on it.

Joe pulled the sheet back to reveal her brown legs. He readjusted their positions so he was in between her legs, her foot against his bare thigh. Cleotha watched intently as he hooked the gold chain around her ankle. He smiled in pride.

“You like it?” Cleotha asked, rotating her foot in a circle. Joe hummed and palmed her thigh, hooking her leg around his waist. He brought his lips to hers, nipping and sucking at the plushness there. Then, he made his way back down, pecking at her collarbone down to her calf once more, placing her leg over his shoulder.

“I do. I’ll like it even more in a second. Lay back.”

He made her feel so beautiful that day, glistening like jewels beneath the sunlight. Next to it, a necklace adorned with the initials 'J' gleamed in the dim light. She tried to smile as she recalled when she first received it.

“Joe!” she gasped. “This is beautiful! Will you put it on me, please?”

“Of course. Turn around for me.”

The smile on her face was childlike as she stood back to chest with her lover. His warm hands pushed her hair over her shoulder then wrapped the chain around her neck. The gold complimented her skin beautifully. He connected the link to the clasp and tapped her hip when he finished. “Let me see, sweetheart.”

Cleotha Jean grinned as she posed in front of him, the J on her chest smiling back at him. Joe nodded in approval, “Looks pretty, baby.”

“You think so?” she gushed, running her fingers off the pendant. “Want a closer look?” Cleotha pulled him in by his belt loops and pushed him against the bed, climbing on top of him. SHe wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pressed butterfly-like kisses all along his face. His cheeks were stained red from her lips,

Joe’s eyebrow raised in amusement as he welcomed her affection, His eyes dropped to the pendant that swung against her chest. “Yes ma’am.”

But it was the worn envelope nestled at the bottom of the box that stirred something deep within Cleotha's soul. With trembling fingers, she traced the creases of the paper, feeling the weight of years of unspoken words and unanswered prayers. As she unfolded the letter, the words spilled forth like a long-forgotten melody, each line a poignant reminder of a love that had once defined her very existence.

The park was their favorite place to be. Especially during the month of September. The sun still hugged them, but didn’t suffocate them with her warmth. Nature sung its harmonious song, the animals danced with each other amongst the trees, and the grass was still a bright green. It was a peaceful place to be.

It was like every other weekend; Cleotha Jean and Joe were sprawled across a picnic blanket with a basket of food propped open in front of them. Joe was lying on his back while Cleotha sat upright munching on strawberries and coloring in her book.

“Cleo,” Joe said. Cleotha hummed and continuing coloring her flower. “I wrote you a letter.”

Her coloring stopped. She swallowed the remainder of her strawberry and dropped her colored pencil. Joe reached behind him for a white envelope that he managed to tuck under the blanket without her noticing. He extended it to her, which she took with thanks.

Joe watched as Cleotha curiously peeled open the envelope and retrieved the letter. It was folded in threes, and was filled from top to bottom.

My forever sweetheart, Cleotha Jean,

You don’t understand that I wake up everyday and give thanks that you walked into my life. I felt that I was nothing but a poor kid with seemingly nothing to offer the world until you showed me otherwise.

I didn’t think it was possible to love someone more than I loved myself. Your existence proves me otherwise.

I often wonder if you know that you are a gift in human form. Wrapped in a brown shell, garnished with gold. I wish to keep you with me forever, as long as you’ll have me.

I often think about our future together. How I’m going to marry you as soon as we graduate. We’ll buy a house, travel the world, and have children. I’m still banking on 3, but whatever you want, I’ll be content. As long as I’m with you, I’ll take anything.

I want to be yours forever, if you’d have me.

Will you marry me?

The letter flew from Cleotha’s hands as she screamed loudly. The birds above her croaked at her sudden outburst. Her hands flew over her mouth and she finally made eye contact with her lover, who’d positioned himself on one knee with an open box in his hand.

The ring was beautiful. It was dainty, just as she liked, and a rich shade of gold. His eyes were hopeful as he awaited her reaction.

“Will you—“

“Yes!” Cleotha replied gleefully. She threw her arms around him so wildly that he fell backward into the grass. His laughs were music to her ears. “Yes, yes, yes! I’ll marry you.”

Joe smiled, “Yeah?”

Cleotha bit back a teary smile and nodded. “Yeah. It’s you and me forever.”

Her sweet baby. She hadn’t realized she’d been crying until she finished the letter and a puddle of tears smudged his neat handwriting. Cleotha folded the letter and put it back in the box, right next to the ring she took off months prior. It stared back at her and she forced herself to look away. She didn’t want to keep it, but Joe insisted she did, saying “it’s yours. I will never take back what rightfully belongs to you.”

With each memory unearthed, Cleotha found herself transported back to a time when love was pure, and the future seemed to be filled with promise. Yet, as she traced the contours of her past, a sense of longing stirred within her, a yearning for the man who had once held her heart in his hands.

She should’ve been over him by now, she scolded herself. Their union had ended more than a year ago; what was she holding onto? Well, another side of her probed. A three year relationship that began in college, an engagement, wedding planning, house hunting, and a planned future. It all dimished at the blink of an eye. It would take more than a year to recover from such emotional trauma.

Cleotha befriended a bottle of red wine after that. It was sweet and savory, just like him. She chuckled lowly as her fingers dapped away the drop that fell from the corner of her lips. She should slow down, she figured, but it was the anniversary of a love that she cherished more than herself. She owed it to herself to get wine drunk and eat popcorn, right?

She tucked her feet under herself and poured another glass, humming a tune, though nothing particular, to herself. Just as she brought the glass to her lips, a knock sounded on her door. Her eyebrow quipped as her eyes darted to a nearby clock. It was 9:32 on a Saturday night, who could have been at her door.

“Hold on!” she called out, glass in hand as she stumbled lightly to reach the door. She cursed as she stepped on a shoe that she kicked off in the entryway, toyed with the locks, and peeled the door open. “Oh…”

If anyone would have told her he’d be standing in front of her right now, she would have called them a liar. The communication had been severed eons ago, only having heard from him when she got the job promotion she had been praying for. Any other conversation, interaction, or moment of desire, was a faction of her imagination. Yet, here he stood, a ghost from her past, with sorrow etched in his eyes and regret weighing heavily on his shoulders. And she had no clue how to handle it.

She didn’t know whether to cry, scream, or throw herself in his arms. He looked so different than when she last saw him. He was broader, presumably from working out to keep in shape as he moved on from his athlete days. His hair was still platinum, but it was slicked back rather than messible touseled, though she loved it that way. His eyes, so gorgeous and blue, were so sad and empty.

“Hi, Cleo…”

Cleotha’s eyes welled with tears. She’d yell, scream, and put him in his place in the morning, but right now, all she could do is throw her arms around his neck and cry woefully into his shirt. With a voice choked with an emotion, she found the strength to say, “I missed you.” Her voice trembled with vulnerability. “I missed you so much.”

And in Joe's eyes, Cleotha saw a flicker of longing that mirrored her own. They stood in the doorway of her home without the exchange of words. The tears and gentle touches spoke loud enough. Maybe in due time, what was broken could be repaired, and the union that began years ago, could be recovered. Just maybe.

—

likes are great, but feedback is desired as well, friends! thanks for reading!

#saturnville #black!reader #black reader #the boys in the boat #tbitb #callum turner #callum turner x reader #callum turner x black reader #callum turner x reader #joe rantz x cleotha jean by saturnville #joe rantz x reader #joe rantz x black!reader #joe rantz #major john egan x reader #john egan x reader #Spotify

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wynnyfryd · 1 year ago

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Trailer park Steve AU part 20

part 1 | part 19 | ao3

"Eddie! Hey!" he brightens. Tells himself to take it down a notch; schools his face and voice into something a little less pathetically eager. “What’s up, man?”

“Not much, dude,” Eddie teases, one dimple popping out. He looks good. Dressed up. Red and black flannel with the top buttons undone; light dusting of chest hair on pale skin, the edge of a tattoo Steve’s never seen. He’s got his black leather jacket and black jeans with no holes and black riding boots on. All he’s missing is a motorcycle helmet tucked under his arm.

“What’s with the, uh…?” Steve gestures to his outfit, because he realizes he’s sort of just been staring at the dip of his throat. Eddie raises an eyebrow. Steve clarifies, “You got a date or something?”

“Oh, this?” Eddie laughs. “Uh, no. Nope. Can’t say that I do.”

He hops up backward onto the counter, his ass right next to Steve’s elbow, legs dangling over the edge, and he ignores Steve’s protests to get down from there as he leans in to ask in a mischievous hush, “Can you keep a secret?”

Steve’s breath catches in his throat, twists into a bitter twinge of nerves. He can keep a lot of secrets. Maybe he learned that from his dad.

“Yeah…?” He leans in on his elbows.

Eddie moves in closer still, cups his hand around his mouth and whispers, “I totally forgot to do laundry last week.”

Oh, my god. “You’re an idiot,” Steve laughs. “That’s your big confession?”

Eddie’s smile widens. “Yeah. I got distracted with rehearsals. This was the only clean shit I had left.” He kicks one leg out straight to show off his boot. “I’m only wearing these so you can’t tell I don’t have socks on.”

“Gross!” Steve laughs harder and shoves at Eddie, who tumbles theatrically over the edge of the counter, flinging himself to the ground and rolling onto his back so he can fake a couple death spasms and then lie there with his tongue lolling out of his mouth like a fucking weirdo. “You’re so weird.”

“This night sucked before I showed up, and you know it,” Eddie says from the floor. He opens one eye to wink at Steve, then he gives one final death twitch and drops the act, popping back up to mirror Steve’s pose, elbows propped on the counter between them.

Steve’s arm hair stands on end. “How was your show, anyway?”

“Oh, it was greeeat,” Eddie says. “Drunk assholes yelling slurs at me, Gareth barfing in the bushes. Standard Hideout gig.”

"Was someone harassing you?" Steve frowns. He knows the Hideout's a shithole — a ‘dependable dumpster fire where we practice for the gigs that actually pay us,’ as Eddie had put it — but he thought the people there were, like, accepting, or whatever.

Surely Eddie's style isn't any more out there than the rest of the regulars.

"Holster your eyebrows," Eddie sighs, "it was fine. Really.”

“Holster my— dude, what?”

“Your eyebrows,” he repeats. He reaches out with the tip of his pointer finger and gently prods the space between them. “At ease, gentlemen.”

“So weird,” Steve says again. He rolls his eyes and swats Eddie’s hand away, and Eddie just laughs and says ‘There we go!’ because his antics actually did get Steve to unfurrow his face. Little bastard. “Were you gonna rent something, or…?”

“Hell no, my late fees are fucking ridic—”

Eddie cuts himself off, his eyes darting over Steve’s shoulder.

He goes skittish all of a sudden, starts backing toward the exit, stammering, “Ridiculously non-existent. Is, uh, is what I was gonna say. Obviously. Um. Right.”

His back hits the front door, the bell jangling overhead, and before Steve gets a chance to ask what the hell his problem is now, Eddie starts rambling at triple speed that “Dustin wanted me to check in on you and now I have checked in on you so okay-gotta-go-bye” and practically sprints out of the store.

Doesn’t even look back to give Steve a parting wave.

What the fuck?

“What. the fuck…” Steve jumps a foot in the air at the sound of Robin’s voice. He whips around to look at her; realizes she must have been what spooked Eddie. Her nose and cheeks are bright red from the cold, her eyes bugging out of her head, and her jaw is halfway to the floor as she gapes at him, “...was that?”

—

part 21

tag list part 1 below cut comment if you want to be added tomorrow

@heartsong18 @hellion-child @hiimlevi @hotluncheddie @jackiemonroe5512 @jaytriesstuff @littlebluejane @lololol-1234 @marklee-blackmore @melonmochi @messrs-weasley @mrsjellymunson @mugloversonly @nburkhardt @nerdyglassescheeseychick @noodle-shenaniganery @notsopersonalcharlie @novelnovella @nuggies4life @pending-dope-username @perseus-notjackson @ppunkpuppyy @questionablequeeries @remosdeerica @runninriot @sadcanadianwinter @shamelesspatrolshepherdcowboy @silver-snaffles @singmeyoursimpsong @slowandsteddie @slutforcoffein @solalasoforth @spookednsaucy @steddieas-shegoes @steddie-island @stevesbipanic @steves-strapcollection @taleah-bonnick @teatimeeverybody @th30ra3k3n @thealwithnoname @thespaceantwhowrites @thestarslittleking @thesuninyaface @trensu @violetsteve @wormdebut @yourmom-isgay @zoeweee @zombiecreatures

#trailer park steve au #steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #robin buckley #st fic #my writing #my fic

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fruitcoops · 1 month ago

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Do They Know It's Christmas?

Happy holidays, lovelies! And most importantly, happy noot fic exchange/ secret Santa to @itsaash --you're a legend, a sweetheart, and a friend I hold near and dear to my heart. I hope everyone is staying safe and sound! You've made it through the shortest day of the year; it's only up from here! Thanks to @veryspacecowboy for coordinating the exchange and @lumosinlove for the characters!

TW for implied smut and mild Vaincre spoilers

Here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus, right down Santa Claus Lane…

“Fourth line, take it left!”

…and all the fun we had last year…

“Good work, boys, remember we’re working clockwise.”

Run, run, Rudolph, Santa’s gotta make it to town…

“I know, I know, but we need to get that down before we break today.”

…come on, it’s lovely weather for a sleigh ride together with…

“Keep those crossovers clean in the corners, Sunny!”

…the very next day, you gave it away…

Arthur frowned at his clipboard. An ache had started up along the inner corner of his eye, and not even the steady working of his thumb brought relief. The song changed to something bright and tinny with silver bells; the things he would give for a nice, quiet O, Holy Night right about now. Something soft, with minimal jangling. A saxophone would be lovely.

They had a schedule. They always had a schedule. The boys were used to rotation exercises—he had even taken pity and not added anything new or complicated to the roundup. The whole damn thing was laminated and taped to the damn glass around the damn bench on both damn sides of the goddamn rink.

Arthur’s eyes ticked typewriter-smooth down the list, but his ears alone would have told him it was a lost cause. Messy crossovers. From Sunny. Crunchy, scratchy steps from skates of perfect sharpness. Low muttering, barks of laughter, rollercoaster-arcs of chatting when they were supposed to be focusing. Cap did his best, but Harzy looked about two laps from chewing his way out through the boards.

Well. It was almost Christmas. He could be kind.

The whistle broke through Brenda Lee’s second chorus; 20 heads popped up.

“Revision!” Arthur called across the ice, drawing a steady line through the end of his list. “Bring it in.”

Their rush to the bench was the cleanest they had sounded all day.

“We’re going to finish a little early today—”

A wave of cheers cut him off, then petered out at his unimpressed glance.

“We’re finishing a little early,” he repeated when the Christmas spirit had released their souls at last, leaving only a faint ringing in the upper levels of the bleachers. “Because I’m taking off the last rotation.”

Arthur slipped his pen back into the clipboard clamp. Olli raised a tentative hand. “So…we can go…?”

Arthur frowned. “What? No, we’re going ‘til noon, if you just—guys, the schedule is right there—”

“Nooo—”

“But Coach—”

“—Christmas!—”

“I haven’t even—”

“—been here so long—”

“—like you don’t even love us—”

“—mom’s gonna kill me if I don’t—”

Unbelievable. Simply beyond words. Arthur looked over Nado’s pleading hands, hoping for an ounce of solidarity from the one person besides himself who was literally appointed for this duty, and was met with only a beleaguered, whale-eyed stare in return.

Arthur raised his eyebrows.

Sirius gazed back.

For such a large person, he could really pull off ‘sickly Victorian child begging for gruel’ when he wanted to.

“Alright,” Arthur muttered. It was lost in the sea of writhing and wailing. “Alright!”

The team (finally) fell somewhat silent.

“I am very sorry,” he began, pausing to slide his clipboard onto the bench hook. Their anticipation was delicious. “That I assumed a group of grown men playing their favorite game for millions of dollars would be able to handle one morning practice for their last competition before a holiday break.”

Pots’ eyebrows pitched as if he had been stabbed. “But Coach, it’s Christmas.”

“It is December 22nd.”

“I haven’t even found something for my dad yet!” Walker piped in.

“Sounds like a personal problem with time management.”

Pascal—the traitor—shuffled on his skates. “I was going to make holiday cookies with my children,” he said sadly. “They grow up so fast. We might not have many years of it left.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “I’m letting you go at noon, not locking you in here overnight. And I know you make cookies on Christmas Eve, because you put them on my doorstep every year.”

Pascal tsked, but didn’t deny it.

“You get cookies?” O’Hara perked up, craning his neck to look at Pacal. “How come we don’t get cookies?”

“Because I don’t need you to like me,” Pascal said with a smile.

“What if we need to catch flights?” Knut interrupted.

Arthur squinted at him. “Knut, we have a game tomorrow. You better not be going anywhere.”

“Well, no, but the sentiment stands.”

“No, it does n—you know what, fine, if you make it through…” Arthur leaned around the glass to squint at his beautiful, crisp schedule. “Your next two—TWO, I don’t wanna hear it—rotations before 11:30, I will let you out then.”

“And no lift tonight?” Kuny asked hopefully.

“Don’t push it.”

“Veto.”

Budding protests froze over in one collective puff of breath.

…the stars are brightly shining…

“What?” Arthur asked at last.

A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices…

Sirius licked his lips, shifting from one foot to the other. “Veto.”

Arthur opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Every eye in the room was fixed on their captain. He rested his chin on top of his hands, folded on his stick. Lupin’s gaze flickered back and forth.

“But I…” Arthur faltered, gesturing at the schedule.

“I get three.”

“It’s not even 9:30.”

“No questions asked.”

“We have a game.”

“It’s snowing outside.”

“How do you know that?” Arthur asked despairingly.

A grin skipped across his face. “I’m Canadian. I can smell it a mile off.”

“Also, Tremzy texted everyone right before practice,” O’Hara added.

“It’s snowing, have fun at practice, you fucking losers, ha-ha,” Knut recited with a grave nod.

“No, no,” Sirius corrected. “My bones are made of snow and I was born with hockey skates in one hand and a thermometer in the other.”

“That, I believe.”

Arthur waved his hands between them before the already-unbearable situation could get any worse. “Let me just…” His headache was coming back. Going home early was starting to sound less terrible by the minute. “You, as captain, get three vetoes across the span of your contract.”

“Ouais.”

“Which you can use to veto any practice you want, for any reason, with no questions asked by me or other staff.”

“That’s what I signed, yes.”

“And you’re using it on a snow day? With barely two hours left of practice? Before a game and a week off?”

Sirius smiled. “Veto.”

“Lupin.” A last-ditch effort. Perhaps a dirty play, but it was warranted. “Lupin, don’t you have anniversary plans? Birthdays? Anything else he can use this on?”

The captain’s barely-contained mischief was bad enough. Lupin’s mild bemusement was worse. “I’m sorry, Coach, but I can’t question a veto from my captain.”

Arthur scanned the crowd of hopeful faces. Sometime in the last minute and a half, Knut had slipped his phone off the bench and was doing his best to text under Winter’s elbow. Kelly Clarkson sang along to his imminent defeat. He sighed, shook his head, and opened the gate. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Nobody moved.

Arthur blinked. “Merry Christmas?”

Not a twitch.

“Ho-ho-ho, get out.”

The dispersal was the most active they had been all day, surging forward in one mass of whooping red and gold. Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur saw Moody turn the music up a notch before hustling back into his office.

The herd had vanished down the tunnel in a matter of seconds. Arthur shook his head, turned his smile toward the empty rink, and pulled out his phone.

The locker room was a disaster.

“Don’t pull so hard!” Leo grunted as he fought to wriggle out of his jersey, hopping on one socked foot while Finn tried to help him out of his remaining skate. “I’m gonna fall, I’m gonna fall, Kasey—”

An elbow to the ribs righted him. “Yeah, no, I’m on my way out,” Kasey called over the ruckus, sandwiching his phone between his ear and shoulder. “Yeah, lemme get my shoes on. Al’s driving? Jesus, maybe I’ll just walk.”

“A tie is bad, right? That’s a bad gift?”

“T, I’m sure your dad will love anything you get him.”

“But I got him one for his birthday.”

Remus grimaced for just a moment, but it was enough. Thomas dropped his head into his hands with a groan.

“No, hey, it’s a good gift!” Remus tried, patting his shoulder. “Does he have a lot of ties?”

“He’s more of a sweater guy.”

“T.”

“I know, I know, I know.” Thomas sighed. His head fell back against his stall, then rolled toward Remus as his lip slid out in a pout. “I don’t even know where to start.”

Did Remus have to give him a minute with this one? He was a little afraid he did. “T,” he started. “Your dad likes sweaters.”

“Yeah.”

“So get him sweaters.”

“But what if he doesn’t like them?”

Remus took him by the shoulders and gave him a gentle shake. “He likes you.”

Thomas made a desperate sound and rolled his head the other way, then heaved himself upright. “I need to go outside. The cold clears my mind.”

“Way ahead of you!” Finn shouted over his shoulder, one hand clasped in Leo’s and the other on the doorknob with his skates teetering dangerously over his shoulder.

Leo hoisted their duffel bags, shuffling through the narrow doorframe with all the grace of a newborn giraffe. He gave them one last clumsy wave with a glove half-on. “Lo sends his love, even if he’ll never say it!”

“Yes, I’m coming,” Kasey laughed, presumably still to Natalie. He caught the door with his foot just as it was beginning to close; Remus grabbed the edge of it from him and waved off both his grateful look and mouthed thank you. “Yes, baby,” Kasey repeated. “Usual spot. On my way.”

It was a disaster, and then as fast as they had all tumbled in, everyone flooded out. A few of the newer guys remained, muffled by the hum of the showers. Dumo ruffled up Sirius’ hair as he passed, preoccupied by Celeste’s rapid-fire French on the phone and the hustle of his light jog. Remus was pretty sure he caught some mention of the park; there was one near their house with a pond that froze around this time of year. He was a little surprised Logan wasn’t already staking his claim on it.

Sirius’ arm was around him before he even started to sit. It made for the perfect guide and counterbalance, settling him firmly on a denim-clad thigh with a kiss to seal it in seconds. “Hey,” Sirius mumbled against his shoulder blade.

“Hi, trouble,” Remus laughed.

Sirius hummed, obviously pleased, and gave him a squeeze around the waist. “That felt good.”

“Using your powers for evil?”

“Mhm.” Another pulse, this time with a cheeky pinch to his hip. “And you.”

Remus scoffed, swatting at him, but couldn’t help leaning back into his warmth all the same. He was lucky Sirius couldn’t see the heat of his face, too preoccupied with nuzzling his way across the span of Remus’ back to leave a kiss at the top notch of his spine before burying his nose in the divot below. Odd creature, that one. Remus liked him far too much. “What are you doing?”

“You smell good.”

“I haven’t showered.”

“I noticed.”

Remus bit the inside of his cheek for a moment. He gave the room a cursory glance—the stragglers were just finishing up, too engrossed in whatever wisdom James was bestowing on them to notice the graze of Sirius’ teeth over the arch of his shoulder. “I was thinking,” Remus started, then lowered his voice. “Was thinking we could do it at home instead.”

Sirius’ smile pressed bright and devious to his skin. “Yeah?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Am I invited?”

“Unless I’ve started using the royal ‘we’,” Remus teased, digging his elbow lightly back into the curve of Sirius’ rib.

His laugh was soft, but the pat to Remus’ outer thigh was perfectly heavy with promise. “Get your bag.”

News of their early departure had obviously reached the ears of the rest of the training staff, because the halls were stark in their emptiness on the way out, after many goodbyes to James and promises of dinner tonight. Remus had been dying for some actual holiday time—he had planned gifts months in advance, dedicated an entire Monday to wrapping, agonized over delivery times and game schedules and delays.

But he was craving the substance of it, the literal meat and potatoes of people coming over to ooh and aah at the ornaments over dinner by the fire. Most of all, he wanted some time that was theirs. A brief moment to enjoy the lights and the smell of fir with just himself, Sirius, and the dog. It had been…three weeks? More? Since they put the wreaths and boughs up around the house. He was pretty sure that was the last time they had been able to do holiday things that didn’t involve obviously sneaking off to get gifts for each other.

Sirius seemed to feel the same. They had hardly made it past the PT room before he was pulled into an empty hallway for a kiss that melted in his mouth like butterscotch. He hummed, pushing into it, but Sirius just took him by the hips and pressed him back against the wall. Okayokayokayokayokay came the giddy whirl of the end of his thoughts.

“This.” Sirius’ mouth moved against his jaw, threatening a mark above his pulse point. “This is what I was after.”

“Cancelling practice just to kiss me,” Remus said, breathless already. His throat caught at a flash of teeth under his ear. “So irresponsible.”

Sirius’ eyes were bright and playful. “And I’d do it again.”

They got away with another minute��or five—before footsteps sounded down the other hall. Remus took him by the hand and pulled him toward the parking lot at a brisk, tumbling clip, sneakers pattering on the floors Filch was waiting to wax until they were all gone for the break. Hooligans, he called them. It echoed in Remus’ head as he kissed Sirius stupid in the hall beside the display cases. If only he could see them now.

The air bit his face as soon as they stepped outside, hot and kiss-fresh. Remus could hear voices around the corner but Sirius’ hand was sliding ever-lower and he just—“There’s people!” he hissed, fighting his grin with a blind bat backwards.

Sirius was too fast. A firm grab made him hoot, startling a laugh from both of them. “The entire world has seen us making out in a car, loup,” he snorted. “I think that’s worse.”

It was only the Cubs, after all, and half a snowman wearing a disjointed collection of gear. Leo’s oh-so-subtle text must have done the trick to summon Logan out of his holiday relaxation. He had only flown in that morning after the Rangers’ last game, but he seemed plenty awake despite the journey.

“You’re making me cold just looking at you,” he argued, adjusting his beanie over Leo’s ears while Finn finished rolling the head beside them. “You’ve lived here for years, and still you forget a hat?”

“Merci, baby.” Leo tried to sound begrudging while he obediently bent to let Logan work, but it only came off as fond. Remus could relate.

“And Fish just lets you walk out of the house like this. Unbelievable. It’s snowing.”

“It wasn’t snowing when we left,” Leo pointed out. “I seem to remember a ha-ha, losers text informing us of the change.”

Logan’s tsk was sharp as black ice while he tenderly tucked Leo’s curls under the hat’s knitted edge and kissed each of his cheeks. “Completely frozen over,” he informed Leo. “You’re welcome.”

“Now you’re going to get cold.”

Whatever disbelieving expression Logan made was lost to Remus as Sirius ushered him around the back of the car, but his scoff was plenty audible. “I’m Canadian. I don’t get cold.”

Sirius’ forehead hit the steering wheel the moment their doors closed. “I want to be home,” he complained.

“You’re in the right place to get there.”

“I don’t want to drive.”

“I can do it.”

A pathetic sigh heaved his back and shoulders. “I don’t want to wait fifteen minutes.”

Remus tugged on the back of his hat. “Not that I’ll ever say no to a little New Year’s action, but I feel like we just covered why that’s not a great idea in broad daylight.”

Sirius groaned, grumbled, and turned the car on.

Between salt and the morning commute, the roads were mostly clear. The familiar crunch of snow under tires pulled half of Remus’ brain from the rink; the other half followed at a sluggish pace, coaxed away by radio carols and the mindless chatter the two of them somehow managed in spite of spending eighty percent of their time together. The window was cold on the side of his head. Remus never liked freezing, but there was something about a snow day that always felt like home.

The house lights cast red and green glimmers over Sirius when they pulled in. They were working on getting decorations he liked; things he actually wanted, not just what Instagram said he should use. It wasn’t a lot yet, but it was a start. The icicle lights above the door had been a particularly good find.

They were greeted by a loud bark and the scrabble of paws. Hattie careened around the corner from the living room (she had taken to dozing under the tree) and spun herself at their feet in a few tight circles for maximum petting efficiency.

“We’re home so early!” Sirius cooed, gathering her wiggly body up in his lap like she was still tiny. “Oh, you’re so excited. Did we surprise you?”

“We were so mean to poor Coach,” Remus agreed as he dodged her lolling tongue. “Yes, baby, so mean, but now we’ll be home all day.”

Hattie keened and whined and nibbled on everything in reach for a tolerable thirty seconds, then launched herself out of Sirius’ lap and made a beeline for her toy box. She had hardly made it halfway to them when a cardinal flitted past outside—her ears spiked up, body puffing on a low bwoof. Remus barely got the screen door open before she was off like a bird-seeking missile, cutting through the snow in leaps and bounds.

They dumped their gear in the mudroom, made a snack, planned lunch, played with the dog, dried the dog, cleaned her paws, and finally—finally—they were standing in the same room, with nothing to do for another hour at least.

“Hi,” Remus said, heart kicking.

Sirius smiled. “Hello.”

Hattie’s teeth squealed on her peanut-butter-filled toy.

They wasted no time for foolishness on the stairs. A sweater on the ribbon-wrapped banister; socks in the hall. Sirius’ pants didn’t even make it across the bathroom threshold, belt clattering on the floor. Remus turned the shower on with his eyes closed because he quite simply could not be bothered to spare more than one hand.

“C’mere,” he murmured into Sirius’ mouth, even as he stepped backward under the spray. “C’mere, don’t move.”

Sirius’ response was wordless and perfect.

Steam built around them, chasing off the chill. The house was decorated. The presents were wrapped. Meals were planned, the dog was busy, and Remus was tired but he was so, so awake now, with ink-black hair wound around his fingers and a boy that held him so the hot water never left him.

Sirius rested his head on Remus’ shoulder and went lax at the drag of a soapy hand over his back. “So good.” His mouth rested at the curve of Remus’ jaw. Every word cooled his skin. “So good to me.”

“Doing my best,” Remus joked with a scritch to his nape.

Sirius raised his head, blinking sleepily around the water that spilled down his face. “I don’t remember the last time I wasn’t scrambling for gifts this time of year.”

“I do.”

“Mm?”

“Last year.” Remus smudged a few soap bubbles down the bridge of his nose. “Shopping for you.”

Sirius’ forehead wrinkled. “Me?”

“I was being cranky,” Remus assured him, running his thumbs over Sirius’ collarbones. He didn’t have a lot of soap left, but he would be shameless and greedy about touching like this. “Lily knocked some sense into me.”

“She’s good at that.”

“The best.”

“And she’s lucky to have you.” A kiss pushed the side of his hair into a cowlick; Sirius grinned as he smoothed it down with one hand. “Trop mignon.”

Hot hot hot hot hot. Remus wrapped both arms around his waist and sank his teeth into the knot of soft muscle above Sirius’ heart. Sirius’ laugh jostled him, but that was fine. He was used to it. “I love the holidays with you.” One last little kiss to his neck, to the spot he had bitten the other night and made Sirius’ leg tremble. “I love you.”

“I’m going to veto every single practice forever.”

“No,” Remus laughed, swaying them back and forth. He covered Sirius’ wicked smile with his hand and kissed the back of it. “No, non, not allowed.”

“But I get kisses and showers and I love you’s and dinner—” His hands skimmed up and down Remus’ sides, running over wet skin with the expertise of someone who knew all his soft spots. “—and you bite me and our dog loves us and we get to see James and Lily tonight—”

Remus cut him off with his lips this time. “Your perfect day,” he whispered, though it was just them in the house. “Sounds pretty close to mine.”

“Copycat.”

“Maybe we should just stick together,” Remus offered. Sirius’ fingertips found his own, lacing together all too easily. “For maximum perfect-day concentration, you know.”

“Nothing else, of course,” Sirius agreed.

“Oh, nothing.”

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

“I put mistletoe above our bedroom door when we were decorating.”

“Amateur. I put it on the ceiling above our bed.”

#remus lupin #sirius black #arthur weasley #james potter #leo knut #finn o'hara #logan tremblay #sweater weather #vaincre #lumosinlove #my fic #fanfic #winterfic #secret santa #fluff #team shenanigans #lions

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thehomelybadger · 1 month ago

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Vertical slice of my Godfather AU (tentatively titled "This thing of ours"

basically, Caitlyn is the youngest of four children of Cassandra Kiramman, who is known as "The Dame" in Piltover. She's one of the five families that have controlling interests in Piltover's criminal underworld, and Caitlyn is something of a black sheep - going off to war with Noxus (called The Big One in the fic) instead of being a part of Cassandra's criminal empire. Vi is Caitlyn's bodyguard and Cassandra's triggerman (basically a soldier or a paid killer, depending on what the family needs), and has been since they were both kids. you see the vision - criminal empire AU with bodyguard pining.

the slice takes place roughly a third of the way through the fic. there was an attempt on Vi's life that Caitlyn got caught in the middle of, and Caitlyn had to carry Vi eight blocks to an ER nurse's apartment - Mel Medarda.

hope you enjoy, let me know what you think.

-------

To Sevika’s recollection, this was the most unkempt that Caitlyn Kiramman had ever been.

Her eyes were ringed with red from lack of sleep, she had a bandage plastered to the left side of her face - a shrapnel wound, Sevika had heard. Bullets that had smashed masonry in their attempt to end her and Vi’s life. She was using her cane again - and apparently she hadn’t touched it since she’d come back from The Big One with bullet scarring in her thigh and the weight of the world on her shoulders.

Sevika hadn’t spent a lot of time with Caitlyn. Sunny had been the daughter that Sevika had been charged with protecting, alongside other odd jobs that the Dame of the house had requested. The youngest daughter had been mostly Vi’s responsibility, and it was one that Vi had applied herself to with gusto.

Those early years were fading from her memory. She’d been doing this shit too long.

But Caitlyn still snapped upright when Sevika entered her room, cane at her side. She still nodded with that Kiramman grace - the grace that said she was in control, and that you had stepped into her world. Sevika had to admire that - the Dame had taught her youngest well.

“Ms. Kiramman,” Sevika nodded, pulling off her flat cap and crushing it in her good hand, “glad to see you up and about.”

“Same to you, Sawed-Off,” Caitlyn replied. Her voice was crystal clear. Her left hand held a bottle of brandy, and she raised it in question after a moment. At Sevika’s nod - grateful, because her fucking nerves were jangling in her stomach like Christmas bells and she was irritated about it - Caitlyn poured her three fingers, sat at her small table and gestured for Sevika to take a seat across from her.

Sevika closed the double doors to her room, sat across from her, and cupped her good hand around the brandy.

“I was surprised,” Caitlyn said, “when Jayce passed along that you wanted to speak to me. Even moreso when you requested that it be alone.”

Sevika nodded, sipped at her brandy. “It’s important.”

“I’ve gathered. Would you like to start at the beginning?”

Sevika lifted an eyebrow. “I thought you’d dance around it more.”

“The faster we finish with our business, the faster I can see how Vi’s doing at Mel’s. Forgive my speeding the process of negotiation along, some.”

Sevika snorted. “Negotiation.”

“All conversation is negotiation. Because you want something, and because you want it bad enough to come to me and not my sister, who is the current head of the organization and much more capable than I of dealing with what you want, I absolutely consider this a negotiation.”

Sevika swallowed the rest of her brandy in a single gulp, and Caitlyn was already pouring her more.

“I’ve never seen you nervous,” Caitlyn said.

“It’s not a common sight,” Sevika admitted, figuring it was useless to pretend. The youngest daughter was always perceptive. “If this is a negotiation, I’m entering on the backfoot. I hope what I’ve done for your mother, your family, negates that.”

“I’d never take advantage of you, Sawed-Off,” Caitlyn replied, gently, “tell me what you want.”

“It’s Sevika. Can you - can you call me Sevika?”

Caitlyn nodded. “Sevika.”

“It’s - you fucked up last night,” Sevika said, “you fucked up with Mel. You need to make it right.”

Caitlyn’s eyebrows shot to her hairline. “Excuse me?”

“Mel’s not in the game. She doesn’t have any skin in it. They tried to kill Vi, and now that you brought Vi there, then the Verazas - they’re going to see her as Kiramman aligned. You put her in danger.”

Caitlyn’s left brow lowered, leaving her looking skeptical. “Why would the Verazas care about an ER nurse taking care of a gunshot victim?”

“Nothing,” Sevika said, “but the men you left standing outside her door will cause questions.”

Caitlyn grunted in displeasure. “I told Sunny to put them inside, not display them. Damn it.”

“Sunny’s all about shows of force,” Sevika said, quietly, “she’ll think it makes us weak to hide our soldiers. She’s claiming Mel, whether she knows it or not, and that means Mel’s in a lot of trouble - a lot more than if Vi doesn’t pull through.”

“Nothing’s going to happen to her if Vi doesn’t make it,” Caitlyn said, softly.

“You say that now,” Sevika began, “but if Vi doesn’t-”

“Sevika,” Caitlyn said sharply, “I don’t break promises. She has my word, and since it matters to you, you do too.”

Sevika exhaled lightly. “The Verazas won’t care, though.”

“We can fix it,” Caitlyn mused, tapping her thumbs, “Sunny probably didn’t tell the door-men what they were protecting. Mother would’ve told her to keep it separated. Who did she send?”

“Pistol and Lo-Jack.”

Caitlyn hummed. “Then they know nothing. I’ll fix this - leave it to me. Do you have a recommendation as to who you’d prefer guarding her?”

Sevika watched Caitlyn for a few beats. “Yeah,” she said, softly, “yeah, one.”

Caitlyn sighed, smoothed her fingers along the edge of the tabletop. “This matters to you,” Caitlyn said, “it matters a great deal. Why?”

Sevika opened her mouth, closed it, shrugged. “She’s not in the game.”

“Neither was Seraphine’s producer,” Caitlyn pointed out, “and you got the name Sawed-Off after that job. Why the distinction now?”

“There’s not much of one,” Sevika said, “not really.”

“You must think me an idiot to swallow that,” Caitlyn said. “I thought you had more respect for my intelligence.”

Sevika ran her bad hand along her jaw, the prosthetic cool against her face. “It isn’t enough that she’s an innocent, that she’s not in the game?”

“Once, it would’ve been,” Caitlyn said, not unkindly, “but when the most dangerous triggerman in my mother’s organization comes to me and wants to be removed from my sister’s protection detail to sit in the apartment of a nurse, then yes. It matters.”

This was Dame Kiramman’s daughter, Sevika said, and couldn’t hide something akin to a proud smile from leaking through her lips. Sunny was certainly as tough as Cassandra, and Mira had the natural charm that Cassandra had displayed when she was up and coming, but Caitlyn had the steel silk, the flinty eyes, the commanding voice.

If Sunny wasn’t careful, Caitlyn could steal this whole thing - if she wanted it.

Sunny should be very grateful that Caitlyn didn’t.

“More,” Caitlyn continued, “I know the reason already - but I want you to say it to me.”

And now Sevika hated her.

“You know the reason,” Sevika repeated, incredulous.

Caitlyn nodded, sipped her brandy, swallowed.

“How long have you been seeing this nurse, Sevika?”

Sevika grunted, rose abruptly, smashed her flat cap on her head. “I’ll find a way to do it myself. Fuck this. I’ll take vacation time.”

“Not on the eve of a war you won’t,” Caitlyn said, “Sevika, sit down.”

“I don’t need to take shit from you. I don’t take shit from anyone. You’re the youngest fucking daughter - fourth in line to take the reigns. Scared little war hero playing at being the big Mafia boss.”

“All true,” Caitlyn replied, “you’re still going to sit down.”

“Why should I?” Sevika snarled, “I’m not going to sit there and have a fucking kid go through my affairs like it’s her business.”

“Because I’ll help you,” Caitlyn said, calm, relaxed, “and you’ll get everything you want - but you need to sit down, and you need to listen.”

Sevika thought of Mel - of her fucked up apartment, of her crime lord mother and all the things at stake. She thought of her alone in that apartment, with two dumb goons on her doorstep which may as well have been a sign that said Someone Important Is Here on it to any of the many Kiramman family enemies.

She thought of her, and so she sat.

“You don’t trust Sunny to protect Mel properly,” Caitlyn said, “I don’t trust Sunny to protect Vi, and we both don’t trust Peter and Max to protect them against Veraza interests. We don’t want Sunny finding out about your relationship with Mel, and we’d much rather have you in that building, protecting both of them. Have I summarised effectively?”

“There’s no relationship between me and Mel,” Sevika said, stubborn and stupid and in fucking love.

“Yes, of course,” Caitlyn replied, waving that away. “I’ll fix this for you. No favours owed. I want to - for everything you’ve done for this family, for my mother, my cousins - you deserve to be happy. Your people are our people.”

Sevika grunted. “My usefulness to your mom was that I had no people.”

“Everyone has people,” Caitlyn soothed, “that’s what makes us human. I’ll fix this for you. Go to her, and if you don’t mind - call the house from an outside line when you can, let me know how Vi is. I imagine I’ll be too busy to check on her today.”

Sevika stared. “I can do that.”

“Good.”

“How, exactly, are you going to fix this for me?” Sevika asked.

“I’ll tell Sunny you’re working on something for me that’s taken you out of the city for a week. Enough time for us to be sure about Vi either way, and then move Vi and Mel if needed. We won’t leave her out in the cold.”

“Sunny won’t like that,” Sevika said.

“No,” Caitlyn replied, and Sevika saw the silk steel flash, “I imagine she won’t.”

Sevika exhaled, thought for a moment. “Be sure about Vi either way. You don’t seem all that broken up that your bodyguard got shot up.”

“She’s a good bodyguard,” Caitlyn replied, “it would be a shame to lose her. The sooner I have news, the sooner I can select a replacement - no offense, but you’re a little long in the tooth for my needs.”

Sevika chuckled. “Right. You know, I used to think you two were sweet on each other. I guess I was wrong.”

“Don’t blame yourself,” Caitlyn replied, patting Sevika’s hand, “most did. It’s natural when two single and healthy individuals spend such a long amount of time together to speculate. She’s a loyal person and my mother owes her a great debt, from my point of view. It would be a shame if she never got to collect.”

“You’re a pretty cold person, aren’t you,” Sevika said, watching her.

“When I need to be,” Caitlyn replied, “you’re wasting time. Go to Mel’s, send Peter and Max home - that’ll mollify Sunny some.”

Sevika watched Caitlyn, watched the prim and proper Mafia princess - silk steel over her features. She thought about the way Caitlyn shrugged off her relationship with Vi, thought about her own inability to do that with Mel. Thought about Vi’s lost puppy look whenever Caitlyn entertained a suitor, the hardness that had stolen over Vi when Caitlyn went to The Big One, served and got shot and fought for her country.

Caitlyn might not care, Sevika thought, but Vi sure did.

She hated having shit in common with the young pup.

“Alright, kid,” Sevika said, pushing herself to her feet. “Thanks.”

Caitlyn raised a glass in salute. When Sevika closed the doors behind her, Caitlyn was up and moving to her window, cane thumping rapidly. She didn’t move until Sevika was in her car, driving towards the gate of the estate, her heartbeat slamming against her ribs.

As soon as the gate opened and Sevika’s black car was around the corner, Caitlyn sat down on her bed - right next to the phone.

She put her cane between her legs, rested her hands upon it, and waited.

#fanfiction #caitvi #this thing of ours #badger writes

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