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suzdin · 11 months

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Two For One: Ch. 3

Part One | Part Two

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, pre-vampire Max, pre-Equalizer 2 Dave, familial drama and angst, mentions of drug use/abuse, fingering, oral (f receiving), spitting, oral (m receiving), dom!Dave, soft!Dave, dom!Max, unprotected p in v, degradation, choking, voyeurism.

Word Count: 10k+

Notes: I don’t even know. Max is an asshole as usual but also kind of sweet at one point, Dave is his normal creepy self but that’s why we love him. Reader has a magical vagina apparently

——

Dave barely slept without you next to him.

He could still smell you on his sheets, his skin. It was driving him insane, his proximity to you. So close yet so far. There were several times he debated getting out of bed and going to you, but he willed himself to stay. Dave knew he wasn’t a good man—a fucked up man, even—but there were lines even he wouldn’t cross.

Still, dreaming about sneaking into your apartment in the middle of the night to fuck you senseless was making him hard as ever. You made him feel young again.

He settled for fucking his hand to the video he took of you instead, hot tendrils of spend soaking his stomach as he honed in on the faces you made, listening to your pretty noises. It was nowhere near as good as the real you, but it was all he could do to alleviate the ache, the constant yearning he felt.

He wakes early the next day. Before sunrise. He knew you were unlikely to be up at this hour, so he tries to preoccupy himself with packing for the trip, neatly arranging his clothes in a small weekend bag, packing a smaller separate bag for toiletries. Lastly, in its own case, his trusty Beretta M9A1, which he tucks into the larger of the two bags.

He sips on a cup of tea, extra strong, his head fuzzy from only having gotten a couple of hours of consistent sleep at best. He googles the hours of your coffee shop, uncertain if you would even be there, to find it doesn’t open for another hour and a half.

He settles for walking to the 24 hour store on the corner and purchasing a can of Monster, toying with his phone, wondering if he should try messaging you despite how early it is. As he’s rounding the corner back to his building, glancing up at your window which is still dark, he finagles his phone out of his pocket and opens his texts.

There’s already one there from you, a simple “Hey”, when you’d texted him last night so he would have your number. It tugs at his chest seeing the lone message.

Dave: Morning. You up?

He hits send and instantly chastises himself for being so needy. It’s done now, though. Nothing he can do about it. He’ll worry about it later.

He goes back to his apartment and chugs the cocktail of pure sugar and caffeine, tossing the can into the trash, but it does little to curb his exhaustion, only elevating his heart rate. Finished packing, and complete with his intel gathering on Jonathan for the time being, he isn’t sure what else he can do before he needs to leave for Virginia. He can, of course, depart early, leaving nothing to the fate of traffic and other unknowns. But he doesn’t like that idea. He would much rather see you.

He starts to think of last night again, his dick hard again, and he grunts, annoyed with his never ending horniness at this point.

He tries to ignore his slew of persistent thoughts by turning on the TV to watch the early morning news, slumping into his couch and propping his feet up on the coffee table. The weatherman is currently reciting the 10-day forecast. Supposed to be nice weather into next week. That’s good news, Dave thinks.

He leans back and makes himself comfortable, rubbing his ever present erection over his pants, trying to take his mind off of you. He doesn’t want to jerk off again. He wants the next time he cums to be with you. In you.

“Jesus,” he mumbles to himself, wiping his eyes.

He checks his phone even though he’s sure you haven’t responded. Still nothing. He frowns and tosses the offending piece of technology onto the couch and shuts his eyes.

With your face the last image in his mind’s eye, Dave drifts off.

——

He startles himself awake, sleep deprived brain in a panic, concerned that he’s running late, concerned that he missed his window to see you.

He checks his phone for the time, breathing a sigh of relief. It’s only been half an hour, but it feels like he slept for half a century.

There’s also no texts from you. You’re probably still asleep. But part of him also worries that you’re dodging him.

He cards a hand through his hair, groaning in frustration. He needs to shower. And then he needs to eat. Food is the last thing on his mind right now, though. The only sustenance he wants—needs—is you.

It’s just after 5 AM. He could get in another cat nap in, if he wanted, but he’s worried he might not get so lucky a second time. He decides not to risk it, urging himself to get off the sofa and into the shower.

As he strips down to bare skin, stiff cock springing free, he can’t stop thinking about how the wet press of your body would feel against his. How you would feel sandwiched between himself and the shower wall as he drives himself into you over and over until your throat is raw from screaming his name.

He wishes you were here.

——

The edges of consciousness start to blink into existence. You can see sunlight filtering through the flesh of your closed eyelids, hear the distant sounds of the city that drift in through the window by your bed. You hear a dog barking somewhere and the grind of a garbage truck a block down.

And then another noise, foreign to your ears, breaking through the song of the city and the fog of your mind: a loud, aggressive buzzing from somewhere inside your apartment.

What the fuck?

You jerk awake, early morning sun too bright to your sleep-wasted eyes, and the buzzing is bellowing at you again, making your head throb. You grumble in aggravation.

You scramble out of bed, tripping over your comforter as you do so, to locate the source of the invasive sound. It doesn’t take you long to find it, a bronze panel on the wall with a speaker and button by the door that you’ve largely ignored until now, thinking it was defunct when the landlord never took the time to explain it to you.

You go over to it, cautiously depressing the button under your finger, mumbling a sleepy, and slightly irritated, “Hello?”

There’s the faint scratch of static and then a voice, tinny and distorted, but clear enough to understand and recognize: “Hey. Sorry if I woke you. It’s Dave.” His tone is apologetic.

You blink, rubbing your eyes. What time is it? Why is he here?

“It’s okay. Morning, Dave.”

There’s a pause. Then: “I brought you some breakfast. Can I come up for a minute?”

You let go of the button and sigh. You should really say no, but he went through the trouble of getting you something—your people pleasing nature rearing its ugly head once again—even though you were just going to eat the baklava you both forgot about last night for breakfast.

You press the button again. “Yeah, sure. I don’t think I have a way to buzz you in so I’ll be right down…” you say.

“No, no, it’s okay, I see someone coming down now,” Dave responds, followed by more static and what you think is shuffling. “What’s your unit number?”

It’s all a ruse on his part, of course, because he already knows the unit number and no one is actually coming. But he has to make it believable. He has to see you, take care of you—in more ways than one.

Before he left his apartment, he pocketed a piece of technology left over from his CIA days, a small spy camera roughly the size of a golf tee. Part of himself thinks he should feel guilty for even considering what he’s about to do. It was an invasion of privacy, surely, something most often reserved for criminals and terrorists. You were neither—far from it—but he knows he needs to keep you in his sights as often as possible. He’ll go mad if he doesn’t. Especially while he’s gone.

“Be right up,” he replies when you give your unit, tapping in the door code from memory and letting himself into the building.

He clutches the bag with your everything bagel and bottle of orange juice and heads up the stairs. He deliberated on getting you a coffee, but considering where you work, you probably have your own coffee at home, so he settled on orange juice for the vitamin C to cure the undoubted hangover you surely have.

He reaches the landing and finds you already standing in the doorway of your apartment, waiting for him, a cigarette already perched between your fingers, smoke curling to the ceiling.

You’re not exactly dressed to impress in your dark blue camisole, pink plaid pajama bottoms, fuzzy black slippers and sky blue house robe covered in fluffy white clouds. Your hair is a rat’s nest and everything about you screams disheveled and just rolled out of bed, barely having the energy to shower last night and then going to sleep with wet hair, but Dave slows when his gaze lands on you, taking in the full sight of you. Forcing himself to maintain composure.

“Hey,” he says quietly, a warm smile pooling across his face.

“Hey,” you offer back, mirroring his smile. You can’t help it—he looks good—damn good—in his slate gray tee and black sweatpants that don’t leave a lot of room for interpretation.

You blush feverishly and he responds in kind, averting his gaze and rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. The audacity of this man to act bashful after what he did to you. Your stomach flutters full of butterflies.

“Is that Sal’s?” you query, pointing at the bag and diverting your wandering thoughts. “I love them!” You’re pretty sure Sal’s is one of the first places you ever noticed Dave.

“Yeah. Everything bagel with extra cream cheese,” he responds. “I’ve overheard you order it before. I hope that isn’t weird.”

Maybe it is a little weird, but it’s fine. At least he pays attention. Jonathan lived with you for months and still couldn’t remember a damn thing you liked.

“No, I think it’s sweet. Thanks,” you say, taking the bag from him and peeking inside.

“And orange juice for vitamin C and hydration. Good for a hangover,” Dave points out, hooking one corner of his lips into a lopsided grin.

You smile at Dave. You aren’t sure if you should ask him in or what the custom even is for a situation where you just met a guy and he fucked you into another dimension.

Your head adjusts slightly and you meet his gaze. A look is shared between the two of you—Dave giving you the same look he gave you last night, dark eyes and tightly pursed lips—arousal sparking hot between your legs as your mind starts to replay all the events from the previous evening. A blaze licks through you like unchecked wildfire.

Dave takes a tentative step towards you at roughly the same time Mrs. Tobin’s door starts to click open over his shoulder, your eyes going wide as you gather a handful of his shirt and yank him into your apartment, quickly shutting the door behind you before she can see the cigarette still smoldering in your hand, ash slowly flitting to the floor in a rush of movement.

You start to tell Dave that the old bitch has already reported you for smoking in the building, but the words don’t have a moment to leave your mouth, broad hands spanning your waist to walk you backwards, lips crashing into yours as you both share a desperate moan.

You grunt into Dave’s mouth when you feel the kitchen counter collide with your ass, still very much sore from the night before. He plucks the cigarette and bag from your hands, snuffing the carcinogenic stick out in the sink next to you and placing the bag on the counter for you to indulge later.

He undoes the binds of your robe to let it splay open, hands slithering around to your backside to cup both cheeks in his hands, kneading, pulling you apart.

You keen in reverence of his touch. You and Dave are an incendiary mix, fire meeting gasoline, your only time spent together so far a need to be so close your fibers might as well be fused at the seams.

“I missed this ass,” Dave whispers, giving it a small slap. “Couldn’t sleep because of it.” Because of you. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get over being the first to pop your ass cherry and how well you took it.

He kisses you again, tongue dragging the cavern of your mouth, lashing against your own. You don’t even give it much thought as you slip your arm down the front of his pants to find he isn’t wearing anything under his sweats, hips bucking into your clutches as your fingers circle and stroke his shaft.

“Fuck,” he pants into your mouth. “I don’t have much time.” His eyes drill into yours, wild and chaotic, lips parted in a savage, carnal snarl. He should have been on the road fifteen minutes ago, but he couldn’t resist leaving without seeing you. Especially not now.

“We need to be fast, then,” you suggest, and that’s all the confirmation he needs. He removes your robe and lets it fall to the floor, fingers digging into the sensitive meat of your ass as he lifts you up to carry you to the bed.

You link your legs around his waist and hold onto his wide shoulders to steady yourself as he carries you, your back making contact with the mattress a moment later.

He rips your pajama bottoms down your legs, revealing that you, too, are not wearing any underwear.

“Prettiest fucking cunt I’ve ever seen,” he surmises, spreading you open, bending down to spit directly onto your sex. He doesn’t have a lot of time to prepare you, but he needs to give you something, gliding two of his fingers through the mixture of your arousal and his spittle, pressing said thick digits into your opening, pumping.

“Do you remember the safe word?” Dave asks you.

“Yes,” you say quietly. Your tunnel tightens around his fingers, sucking him in, your body already in pursuit of relief.

He lands a sharp smack to the top of your cunt with a growl, your walls squeezing even harder around his fingers. “Say it. And address me as sir.”

“F-foxglove, s-sir,” you reply, your voice wavering. He rewards you by curling his fingers against your sensitive patch of nerves, making you keen.

“Atta girl. Are you ready to take me?”

“Dave—I mean, sir—I have condoms

—“

He stretches an arm over you to slap a breast, this time. The sensitive one that he did a number on last night, causing you to choke on a gasp, your core flooding with arousal at the rush of pain.

“That’s not what I asked, sweetheart. Our rules from last night still stand. You need to trust me.” He deliberately slows his fingers, bringing them nearly to a stop as he looks up at you with not-quite-innocent, expansive brown eyes, awaiting your answer.

“Yes sir. I’m ready to take you, sir,” you acquiesce, rubbing your sensitive breast. He doesn’t reprimand you this time.

He pulls his fingers from you and stands, sliding the sweat pants down his legs and kicking them out of the way, revealing smooth, well muscled thighs; engorged sex flared red and weeping.

He spreads your legs apart and doesn’t give you any additional time to ready yourself, notching himself at your entrance and then shoving himself forward all the way until he bottoms out, exhaling a long breath as he does so, hips shuddering with pleasure.

He fills you in ways you didn’t think were possible, flaying you apart, making you feel every last centimeter of his length and girth, even with the initial shallow gyrations of his hips.

“Shit,” he rumbles, leaning onto his calves so he can watch you swallow him. “So good at taking me, sweet girl.”

He could watch you like this all day, split open and keening on his cock, but time is a mournfully pressing issue. He lifts your legs to rest your calves against the wide breadth of his shoulders, parting you even more as he wastes no time in breaking into an unrelenting sprint.

It sends you spiraling, the small of your back coming off the mattress with a loud cry that vibrates your lungs.

“Touch yourself,” he commands. “Make yourself cum.”

You don’t need to be told twice. Your hand finds your swollen clit just shy of the press of your bodies, gathering some slick on the pads of your fingers, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves.

“Still so sore,” you plead, your fingers flicking lightly between your legs. “Don’t know if I can, sir.”

Dave clicks his tongue. “I don’t care. You will cum for me. Or I’ll flip you over and fuck that sweet ass of yours again if you don’t,” he threatens, causing your asshole to pucker at the mere mention. “Make you leak my cum two days in a row.”

“N-no,” you mumble, your words rising and falling with every hard slam of his hips. “Please don’t.”

“Then cum for me,” he snarls, the bridge of his nose creased in a sneer, bottom lip jutted outward in concentration. He slaps one side of your hip to aggregate his point. “Cum on my cock or I’m filling your ass again.” His dick thrums just at the thought.

Your fingers move faster, circling and strumming at your clit, a definite sting of discomfort ever present but fading gradually as your pleasure begins to build, the tell tale sensation growing deep in your core. You never thought of yourself as a person to enjoy pain, or being so carelessly manhandled, yet here you are.

“Oh, Dave…” you whine, cupping your unmarked breast with your other hand, rolling the nipple between your fingers.

His grueling pace doesn’t falter. Your noises are driving him to the brink and he isn’t sure how much longer he can hold out, but he wants you to cum. Needs you to cum.

He’s poised on his knees, gripping handfuls of your upper thighs, slamming into you as deftly and expeditiously as he can manage at his age, with a back destroyed by years of hard physical labor.

You let out a high pitched moan and he grunts, fingernails digging into your flesh, leaving behind tiny pink crescent moons of himself there. Another stake in his claim to you.

“Alright baby, alright baby. Come on now. Cum for me.” His voice is soft and deep, eyes trained on your face. He can feel your walls tightening around him, and he knows you’re close.

The tight coil in your lower abdomen unfurls and your climax suddenly works its way through you, a cry rolling from your lips, back arching as you clamp down and strangle him, sucking him deeper. He growls, guttural and worshipping, as you peak.

He rears back to spit on you, a hot globule of saliva landing on your stomach and pooling in the hollow divot of your belly button.

“That’s right, you fucking whore, fuck— sit up and open your mouth,” he snarls in a deep timbre from the depths of his chest.

He doesn’t give you a moment to respond or even comprehend, pulling out of you and yanking you upright to the edge of the bed, digging his fingers into your hair at the base of your skull to pull your mouth onto him, and you part your lips subserviently.

He presses the slick, engorged head to your lips and pushes himself forward into your mouth. He’s so girthy, stretching you beyond what you’re used to, but you let your muscles slacken, everything relaxing to better accept him.

He groans and pushes deeper, a trek through the wet heat of your mouth, holding your head in place as he finds his way.

“That’s it, sweet girl, open up for me—“

He begins to thrust, shallow at first, working you apart centimeter by centimeter. He reaches the back of your throat and it is a struggle not to gag, tears breaking at the rims of your eyes, but you push through it, exhaling through your nostrils as you peer up at him through your lashes.

His hand finds the outer bend of your throat, collaring you, gripping snugly as he begins to rut faster, feeling himself moving in your esophagus in the cradle of his hand. It’s all too much, too much and somehow not enough to diminish his never ending thirst for you, cock twitching and balls pulling tight in his scrotum as he starts to empty himself down your throat with a loud groan, panting your name on his lips.

“Fuck!”

He keeps you there for several moments longer, everything from the waist down shivering and shuddering with exertion, until he starts to grow soft between your lips. His cock slips wet and heavy from your mouth, a thin line of spittle connecting and then breaking as he moves away.

He falls into bed next to you to catch his breath, landing on his back, one large hand settling on your thigh as he shields his eyes from the rays of sunlight with the other. “Thank you,” he says quietly, broad chest rising and falling with every breath.

You tilt your head at him. “No, thank you,” you counter.

You look down at Dave, the sharp cut of his jaw and plush lips peeking out from beneath his hand. An unexpected scorch of anxiety moves through you as it occurs to you that you’re liking Dave a little too much and too quickly, making you feel nothing but unsettled, your stomach doing flip flops. You don’t want a repeat of Jonathan.

“I should, um. Go clean myself up,” you say, pushing yourself off the bed. Dave’s hand slides from your thigh with a heavy thud against the mattress, and he watches you go, disconcerted at your apparent and sudden unease. But knowing this is likely his only chance to plant the camera, he lets you go.

“I’ll join you in a second,” he calls out. As soon as you disappear into the bathroom, he slowly scoots off the bed, quietly as he can to not arouse suspicion. He hears the creak of a faucet being turned and water spilling out.

He rises to his feet and glances around. Your apartment looks as much as he imagined it would, faded blue walls with a few pictures hung of what appears to be family, along with several pieces of art. You seem to like dark and semi-abstract, one of the larger pieces a bloody skull on a black background, daisies placed in the skull’s eye sockets, paint strokes appearing to be scratched together with a palette knife rather than an actual brush.

It stirs something in his soul, if he has one. He is the skull and you are the flowers. He steps closer for further examination but doesn’t see an artist signature anywhere. Did you paint this? Did your ex?

His jaw ticks.

You have a few plants in the window sill, some of them thriving and some not. The apartment is cluttered and unkempt but not trashy. You aren’t as fastidious as Dave, but he likes that about you. It compliments him, balances him out. He notices a few empty bottles of alcohol in the trash bin next to the kitchen.

He dips to grab his pants where the camera is stowed, reaching into the pocket to grab it as he continues to look for an optimal location. And then he finds one: a bent slat in the vent by your window, which directly faces the bed. The gap is just wide enough to slip the camera in between.

He moves to the vent and tucks the camera inside, between the slats, the lens pointed directly at your headboard. He maneuvers it into place until he’s satisfied with its placement, hoping it will stay put. He’ll be able to control it from both his phone and his computer.

As he turns to join you in the bathroom, he notices your own laptop propped precariously on a folding table in the corner, screen open to what appears to be a word document, cursor still visibly flashing. A work in progress of sorts. Curiosity gets the better of him and he moves over to the screen, bending to read the words written there:

Raye found herself in what appeared to be a pasture, grass as high as her chest, which was bathed in a gentle pouring of pale golden moonlight. Her shirt clung to her sweat-damp skin and her chest heaved with effort, legs pumping as quickly as she could move them, propelling her forward into the tall grass.

She was alone as far as she could tell. No cows or horses that she could discern, nothing that could act as possible interference for the creature in pursuit. No buildings in sight. Only a line of trees in the nearby distance, and swarms of june bugs that smacked into her face and body as she ran.

She knew there must be a road somewhere beyond the trees. She had gotten lost after running out of gas in the middle of her road trip down south, turning down the wrong kind of country road in the middle of Louisiana at night, which had landed her smack dab in the middle of the woods, her bearings and sense of direction scrambled, the thing chasing her still snapping at her heels. She had only glimpsed the massive animal for a split second before she bolted, her instincts telling her to run.

And then the inevitable happened. Her foot found a well in the soil, her momentum so great that she tumbled ass over teakettle into the dirt and grass, a cry of pain escaping her lungs as her shoulder made contact with the hard packed earth.

She only had a moment to look up before she saw it, the massive wolf-like monster’s jaws descending on her, fangs flashing silver in the glow of moonlight. Patchy tendrils of black fur streaking out of its dark, greasy skin.

It ends there and he hums to himself. You hadn’t talked about writing before, and he’d found no evidence of it otherwise. It’s good. Really good. You continue to intrigue him.

He makes it to the bathroom and you’re just starting to towel off, smiling at him with your eyes. There’s a damp rag on the edge of the sink. He reaches for it.

“May I?” he asks, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiles.

The audacity of this man.

“By all means,” you reply, taking a step back, stumbling on a pile of dirty laundry. You watch and blush as Dave runs the moist towel over himself. Even soft, his size is impressive.

“So, what are you going to Virginia for?” you query, making conversation. His eyes meet yours and his expression grows somber.

“To see my two girls,” he answers honestly. “My ex and I… well, I get to see them twice a month. It… it’s a fucked up situation.” He doesn’t elaborate. This man is a fucking enigma.

You aren’t sure how to process this new snippet of information. Two girls? Ex? You must be making a face because he reaches for your hand.

“I’m sorry. I meant to tell you last night—it just wasn’t the right time.”

“It’s okay,” you offer weakly. “I mean, kind of a shock, but it’s fine.”

He brushes his fingers over the back of his neck, regretful that he didn’t tell you sooner, so consumed in his desire of you he didn’t want to send you running for the hills. “Yeah, I get it. It’s a lot.”

You cross your arms. “What are their names and how old are they?” you inquire.

“Mollie is six and Alice is four,” he replies.

You nod. “It is a lot,” you confirm, a vicious knot twisting its way around your stomach. You weren’t a big fan of kids. Maybe this could actually be what prevents you from falling for Dave, a fact you couldn’t help to admit you were a little grateful for. “But it’s okay. I understand.”

His countenance darkens into a sad smile, those dark brown eyes gazing at you, shiny and big and apologetic. God, why does he have to look at you like that?

“I’m sorry,” he says again, and pulls you into his chest, arms circling your back, hands finding the swell of your ass and softly squeezing. He bends to kiss you, and in spite of yourself, you let him. It’s a tender kiss, delicate and gentle, reminding you once again that Dave is a man of many faces.

He breaks the kiss a moment later, staring into your eyes, brushing your hair back from your face. “I really don’t want to, but I need to be going. Will you walk me to my car?”

——

You walk Dave down. You don’t bother putting on real clothes, wearing exactly what you had on when you woke up. The only difference is you briefly ran a brush through your hair.

He walks with his arm linked around your shoulders. He’s proud to show you off even in your current state. You try not to think about it. You don’t need more reasons to get attached. You need less.

“This is me,” he says, pointing to a sensible black Elantra, which you’ve definitely seen around before.

“I hope you have a nice trip. Have fun with your girls,” you say.

“Always do.” That was a lie. As much as he appreciated spending time with them, it was always full of undue stress and bone numbing exhaustion, two weeks worth of anxiety crammed into a single weekend. If only he could take you with him to ease some of the suffering.

“We’ll have to go out again sometime when I get back,” he suggests. “I’ll call you.”

“Yeah, sounds good.”

He smiles. Kisses you, again, more passionate than the last, but not at all salacious. You break the kiss, this time.

“You’re beautiful,” Dave says, his hand resting against the column of your neck. “So beautiful.” His thumb traces your pulse point.

You playfully shove at his chest. He doesn’t budge an inch because he’s an immovable wall of flesh. “Stop it. I look like shit. And you need to go.”

“You don’t look like shit. But I do need to go.”

He goes to kiss you one final time, cradling your jaw. The last for who knows how long, depending on how long the hit takes.

A sound registers at your six. And then barking, loud and shrill, a familiar voice attempting—and failing—to calm the offending dog.

“Good mornin’, dear,” Mrs. Tobin says in a thick Irish accent, and you turn to find her coming back from her early morning walk with her Yorkie, Jack.

“Morning, Mrs. Tobin.” Your hand goes to your neck, doing your best to hide the dark marks on your skin.

“Morning,” Dave offers. He pretends not to be bothered by the interruption.

“Come now, Jackie boy, it’s just our neighbor and her friend,” she says to the small dog with a knowing wink, still trying to settle him. Her eyes track where your hand is. “Or maybe more’na friend. You don’t have to hide those from me, dear. I was young once too, yeh know,” she says with a short laugh.

You blush. Dave blushes, too. God. This man.

“Well, hope yeh have a nice mornin’. Let’s go, Jackie boy, give ‘em some privacy,” she says, tugging at the leash.

“You too,” you reply with a touch of annoyance. Dave lifts his hand in a wave. As soon as she’s a reasonable distance away, he finally gets to kiss you. Again. And it’s nice. Too nice.

Okay, maybe you are falling for him.

——

After hastily shoving the bagel down your throat, you end up going back to bed for a few hours. No work, no responsibilities. You put your phone on Do Not Disturb. If there’s a work emergency, they can call Maury or they’ll just have to figure it out themselves. You can’t always hold their hands for them. You’re going to take advantage of the opportunity to get some rest.

You wake later in the day to several missed texts and four missed calls from your mom. And one from Dave, from before he showed up at your door.

You groan and hesitantly open the texts from your mother. You let out a sigh of exasperation when you read what’s got her so spooked, deciding it isn’t worth it to call her back right away. At least not before you have some coffee to lift the haze from your mind. She’s waited this long; she can wait longer.

Mom: Ur brother is back in jail. Call me when u get a chanse ok?

Of fucking course he is. You toss the phone down with a roll of your eyes. Garrett has had so many run ins with the law since you were a kid, you’ve lost count at this point.

You brew yourself some coffee. One of the perks of managing a coffee shop is free bags of coffee, and this one is good—pumpkin pecan, one of the new seasonal flavors. You were as basic as they come when it came to anything pumpkin flavored.

You scarf down the baklava as you inhale your coffee, which you suppose is your lunch. You feel a little bad that you forgot to offer Dave half of it, but he got what he showed up for, so you don’t dwell on it.

Your mom calls again. You answer, this time, sighing as you place the phone against your ear. You don’t even bother with a hello.

“I already saw. Sorry to hear that, mom.” You really aren’t.

“Where the hell have you been? I was worried sick!” your mom chides. “Your brother’s in jail an’ you’re MIA?”

“Yeah, mom, I’m a grown woman with my own life in a different city. I was resting. I don’t have to be at your every beck and call, especially when it isn’t even that import—“

“The hell it ain’t! How’m I supposed to get him out of there? I don’t have bail money!”

You light one of your cigarettes and take a long drag before responding. “I’m not sending you money to bail him out,” you state firmly. “First of all, I don’t have it right now. And secondly, he’ll never learn if—“

“Then what’re we supposed to do?” she snorts.

“I don’t know. Leave him in there, or get a bail bondsman. Not my problem,” you say, your tone flat and apathetic. You’ve been numb to this issue since you were a teen. Since all the empty promises he made to you of coming clean.

“You’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding me!”

“No, I’m not. I’ll send you money for grandma’s medical bills, or groceries or rent, but I’m not sending money for this.”

“So, that’s it, huh? You just don’t give a shit about us?”

You roll your eyes so hard you’re surprised she doesn’t hear it through the phone.

“How’s grandma?” you question, notably changing the subject.

The line goes dead. You stare at the phone. She hung up on you.

Figures.

You don’t bother calling her back. There’s no point. You’ll never come to an agreement on the issue, anyway, and it will only stress you out more than necessary.

Garrett has always been your mother’s favorite. It used to bother you. As expensive as Boston is, and as much as you miss Texas and your grandma, you’re happy to be well removed from that life right now. Studio apartments are more your jam than living in trailer parks.

You decide that your anger with the issue is a good enough motivator to help you clean, which you’ve been sorely neglecting doing for far too long. You turn on your angriest playlist—Korn, Deftones, Slipknot, et cetera—and spend most of the day deep cleaning everything. The Deftones’ ‘My Own Summer’ comes on and you scream along to the lyrics. “Shove it, shove it, shove it!”

Not that it matters anymore. Two men have already seen your home in its state of disrepair, but it gives you something to focus on and decompress for a few hours, which is what you wanted.

You ponder texting Dave. Needing to vent to him or anyone since you don’t really have any friends that you talk to anymore. After some consideration, however, you change your mind. You don’t need to burden him with your bullshit. Least of all while he’s visiting his kids.

You settle on googling how to get rid of a hickey instead.

——

Max has never really dated anyone.

Not that he wants to date you.

He had tried to convince himself you were a one time thing. A quick and impermanent release of tension and little else. A means to put you in your place for publicly embarrassing him. So why can’t he get you out of his mind? Why have you been the first and last thing he’s thought about all day? He’s been fighting with his dick, trying not to think about yesterday, and failing miserably. He holed himself up in his office most of the work day.

It wasn’t just about the sex. It was more than that. But Max doesn’t date. He fucks and moves on. Simple as that.

But if that’s the case, why is he at The Beanery again, asking metal-face kid what your favorite drink is?

Vincent shrugs. “I dunno. She likes…cold drinks, I think?” he answers unhelpfully. Max isn’t a patient man. Or a nice one. But he’s trying, for you. He really is.

“You don’t know what she orders?” Max presses. His already paper thin patience is waning by the second.

“Not really,” Vincent responds. “Sorry.”

Max rubs his eyes with the pads of his fingers. He doesn’t want to show up at your door empty handed, although he isn’t really sure why it matters, or why he cares this much. He’s never wooed a woman in his entire life.

Flowers would be too romantic. He isn’t quite there yet. Not that he’ll ever be. But he needs to bring you…something, to make it less weird.

He’s fully aware he has no fucking clue what he’s doing.

“She likes the pumpkin fall latte. Iced,” another voice pipes up. A tall woman with brown hair that Max recognizes as the assistant manager steps out from behind a wall with a clipboard in her hands. Probably taking inventory, Max thinks. She doesn’t like Max—no one does, except Maury—but she wants to get him out of here ASAP.

“Thank you,” Max responds with a sigh of relief. “Thank you,” he says again, canting his brows in annoyance towards Vincent.

“I’ll take one. Large. And my usual.” He purses his lips, taking in a breath through his nose. “Please,” he adds, still trying his best, adding his signature crooked smile.

Sarah and Vincent don’t question why Max is asking after you or buying your favorite drink. They don’t care enough to know.

He runs the yellow tie around his neck through his fingers as he waits as patiently as he can manage, still struggling and failing to keep his dick on a leash. God, what the fuck is he doing?

——

God, what the fuck are YOU doing?

Max is at your door. And he brought you a gift.

He shoulders past you into your apartment without asking, causing your jaw to clench in frustration. He’s always doing that. Doing whatever the fuck he wants. It pisses you off to no end.

“You can’t just storm into my home, Max—“

“Here.” He hands you your drink which is partially melted due to the walk over, offering you his most flattering grin. He just wants to see you. He isn’t going to give up so easily.

You begrudgingly accept and take a heavy sip. It’s a nice reprieve from the rest of your day. You’ve been in a bad mood since the conversation with your mom, so sugar and caffeine are a welcome distraction right now.

You poured the time after you were done cleaning into your writing. Letting your anger guide your hand as you described the werewolf in your story tearing into Raye’s abdomen and slurping her entrails like meat spaghetti.

That isn’t where the story was going or what you had intended to write, but it helped to take some of the edge off. Until now, at least. You’ll change it later.

What’s more, you couldn’t find a good solution to your hickey problem, and you really hope they’ll be gone by tomorrow morning. You’re doing opening shift again. You wish Dave wouldn’t have left them in such an obvious, visible place.

Yeah, you really weren’t in the mood. Even if Max did somehow find out what your favorite drink is and bring it to you. What is it with men today, bringing you your favorite things…completely unprompted?

It’s baffling.

“Thanks, Max, for the drink,” you begin evenly. “I appreciate it, I do. But you need to go. I’ve had a weird day and—“

“What is that?” His eyes flash. He smirks, but it’s lacking mirth or humor. You don’t need to track their movement; you know exactly what he’s talking about.

“What do you mean?” you ask innocently, your hand involuntarily moving to your neck.

He grabs your arm to pull your hand away, stepping so close you can smell his cologne. His nostrils flare in anger. “Who did this to you?” he asks shortly, examining your neck.

The crass, cocky, self-important Max is gone. Now he’s just pissed.

“You did this to me yesterday, remember?” you retort.

“I didn’t do that. I did…this,” he explains, curving the back of his index finger against the vaguely incisor-shaped bruises on your neck. “But these? These aren’t my style.”

You step away from Max with a frown, taking another sip of your drink with your back turned. You aren’t beholden to Max. Or even Dave, for that matter.

“Did you fuck someone else?” Max accuses, stepping closer to you. “Who?”

“It doesn’t matter, Max. It really doesn’t.”

“It does matter.” He places his hands on his hips and stares you down.

“No, it doesn’t, unless it’s you, it’s none of your business who I fuck. And I’m not fucking you again, so get out,” you snap back.

Max isn’t going down without a fight. His lips twist into a grin, and he moves into your space, crowding you against the small table by your kitchen which you mostly use as a catch-all. It rattles as a result of impact.

“It was your white knight at the coffee shop. Wasn’t it?” he presses. He plucks your drink from your hand and puts it down on the table.

“No.” Your lips tremble. You’re a bad liar.

He raises his eyebrows in victory. He has you exactly where he wants you.

He isn’t sure why he cares. Or why he’s feeling so possessive over you. He barely paid attention to you before yesterday.

He cages you in with his hands planted on either side of your body on the edge of the table, nose bent to yours, looking down into your eyes. Brow wrinkled in disapproval.

“How does he fuck?” Max asks. Eyes burning holes through you, dick twitching in his slacks.

“Better than you,” you spit.

“Ouch, baby.” Max grabs the underside of your jaw, angling your head back, aquiline nose pressed firmly against your cheek. “Guess we’ll have to make a comparison then, hmm?”

Without warning, Max picks you up effortlessly and tosses you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. You squeak in surprise, your legs thrashing against his torso.

“Max, put me the fuck down!” you yell. He doesn’t listen, his hand firmly rooted in the small of your back until you reach the bed, dropping you face down on top of your bedding and pillows.

He mounts you from behind before you have a chance to wriggle away, his full weight pressed into you, erection dragging your ass. You can’t help it—you moan.

“How many times did he make you cum, sweetheart?”

“Max, that really isn’t any—“

“How many?” he growls into your ear, snapping his hips against the soreness of your ass.

“Five,” you admit in defeat. “Five. Can you let me up now?”

His lips pull back in snarl. “Mmm. I don’t know. It sounds like I have some catching up to do.”

You huff out a breath as he rises, flipping you onto your back and sliding your pants down your legs. You’d actually changed into something other than pajamas, for once, but you’re still devoid of undergarments. He eyes you hungrily, licking his lips.

“Did he fuck you rough or soft?” Max asks, undoing the cuff links on his jacket so he can shuck it off. He takes it off carefully, draping it over the back of your couch, and begins rolling up the sleeves of his shirt.

“Rough,” you answer, swallowing, watching him undress.

Max nods, eyes darkening with lust. He crouches in front of you, hands spreading your thighs apart. “That’s right. Whores always like it rough, don’t they?” You can feel his breath ghosting your inner thigh.

Fresh arousal seeps out of you, which doesn’t go unnoticed by Max. He grins up at you, visage remaining hard. “Looking real tasty for me, sweetheart.”

“Max…” you attempt to protest, but there’s little point. You’re fucked up as they come because you’re enjoying being used like this. Just a series of holes for both of them. One man didn’t want you, and now two men want you, at the same time.

It sure as hell made you feel a lot better about the entire situation. Empowered, even.

Your core throbs with more arousal as you imagine how it would feel to take them simultaneously; Dave pressed to your back with Max beneath you. Or Max fucking into you from behind as Dave spears into your mouth.

“Mmm. Such a good little whore,” Max coos, dragging two fingers through your slick. “Let’s start with the first of five, shall we?”

His fingers find your opening and he presses them inside, languidly rolling them inward, shallow to start and then traversing deeper. His fingers are already drenched in you by the time the meat of his palm reaches your entrance.

“She’s weeping for me,” Max muses, twisting his fingers to stretch you out more. “Isn’t she?”

“Mmhmm,” you moan, your hips mirroring the movements of his hand. “You feel so good.”

“Damn right I do.”

He opens you up further as he bends to lick a wide, slow stripe up your seam, a precursory taste, pausing at your clit to slowly circle it with the ball of his tongue. You’re impervious to stop your back from coming off the bed at the shock of it, Max’s arm sliding up to bar across your stomach to keep you pressed against the mattress.

“Don’t move,” he growls.

His mouth dips lower, hawkish nose grazing your clit as he does and you moan, writhing beneath him. His arm clamps harder.

His mouth finds your entrance and he begins fucking into you with his tongue. Your fingers dip into his dark, neatly groomed hair, twisting it, just to have something to grip onto while he works his magic between your legs.

Max finds himself grinding against the edge of the bed for some relief. He’s having a hard time not resigning himself to just saying ‘fuck it’ and sinking into your wet heat.

His lips move back up, tongue parting your seam, circling your clit again as he uses his other hand to slip three fingers into you.

Max hums as his lips close around your clit, the sound vibrating your bundle of nerves. You moan. “Oh god…”

Your fingers tighten in his hair. A simple action but one that spurs him on nonetheless, curling his fingers to fuck into you, lips suckling at your clit. It’s a struggle for Max to keep you against the bed.

He’s barely just started and you’re already about to lose it.

Max smirks between your legs. He briefly removes his arm from your stomach to free himself from his pants for some much needed relief, his cock swollen and aching as it springs free. He pumps himself a couple of times before moving his arm back to your torso, pinning you in place once more.

Max has always been more of a self-serving lover than anything. He had enough skill to pull at least one orgasm out of his partners, two if he was feeling generous — but five? He would never admit it, or even acknowledge it, but he’s more than a little anxious that he’ll be able to get that many from you.

He’s trying his damndest, though, as he applies more pressure to your clit, increasing the speed and force of his fingers inside of you. He ruts against the bed again, wanting nothing more than to fuck you into next Tuesday, but he can’t do that. Not yet.

There’s just something about you that makes him want to try. There’s also something about envisioning your white knight making you scream that’s driving him even further into a downward spiral of lust and longing.

His fingers curve just right, hitting the cluster of nerves against your cervix just right, lips suctioning just right, and you’re crying out Max’s name, chest heaving as you bear down on his fingers and cum hard.

He pulls his lips away, giving you some relief, riding out your high with his fingers until you whine for him to slow down. He does, but he doesn’t stop entirely.

“That’s one,” he chuckles, “Only four more to go.”

“Hey Max, um—“ you start, grabbing at the arm still barred across your stomach. It doesn’t move. “Before we continue, can we, establish a… safe word?”

Max pauses, lifting his face from between your thighs, to look at you. Really look at you. You’re serious. And it tugs at something in him. Sparks his imagination as to what your limitations could be.

“What did you have in mind?” The face he gives you is ponderous even as his lips still glisten with your slick and cum.

You look around. You don’t want to use ‘foxglove’, feeling that would be a bit convoluted and debased. You glance at the window sill, your eyes landing on the dead, brittle lavender plant you should probably get around to throwing out some day.

“Lavender,” you say. Because it’s dead. And because it’s also a flower, like foxglove.

He nods in approval. “Lavender,” he agrees. “If you want me to stop, you say ‘lavender’.”

He doesn’t give you time to process the thought before his head is back between your legs, lips sealing firmly around your clit, sucking hard. You buck your hips reflexively and Max pushes you back down with an irritated grunt, fingers marring your hip.

You resort to moving your legs when you’re unable to move your abdomen, and he pulls away from your cunt with a low snarl of disapproval, pinning your legs beneath his hands.

“Stop fucking moving or I will tie your limbs to the bed,” he threatens. You kind of want him to. And he absolutely would if he had a means to do all of them.

He goes back to lapping at your folds like a man starved, pushing you firmly against the mattress with all his might when your hips reflexively buck upward again.

It isn’t long before you peak a second time, your arms twisting the bedding because it’s all Max will give you the freedom to move.

“Good girl,” he praises, riding out the ebbs of flows of your orgasm. Watching your face, memorizing it.

His dick pulses hard and he can’t waste another minute without you sheathing his cock, all the noises you’re emitting in reverence of him turning him into some kind of feral, unchecked monster. He stands, removing the rest of his attire, no longer worried about being neat, tossing them wherever they happen to land as he rids himself of the hinderance.

He climbs onto the bed next to you, turning you on your side, resuming the same position from yesterday, sans tie. If he weren’t so desperate to cum, to make you cum, he would have taken the extra time. He likes you restrained and maleable.

But his yearning for you has rendered him restless and lacking patience.

If you and Dave are an incendiary mix, you and Max are a noxious one: two elements coming together to create an all consuming cloud of poison that steals your breath and chokes the person you once were right out of you.

He pulls your leg over his hip and slots himself between your thighs, palming himself as he glides the head of his cock through your slippery folds, gathering your slick and then pushing in until he bottoms out in a single thrust.

You are sore. Raw. Used. And you like it.

“Fuck,” he spits against your ear. “So fucking tight.”

He encircles your throat with a broad hand, tilting your head back and against his shoulder as he gives a few precursory slow thrusts, bottoming out and holding every third or fourth one, hips shaking with effort.

His grip tightens. Your vision swims and your core pulses hungrily around his length.

“You ready to get fucked like the little whore you are?”

All you can do is nod, unable to find your voice.

Max jerks your head back harshly. “Words, sweetheart. Fucking words.”

“Yes, I want you to fuck me now, Max. Please.” Your voice is pathetically small.

“Good girl,” Max commends, crooking his arm in the bend of your knee, splaying you open for him as he begins to rail into you with unbridled vigor.

You keen as he angles your head back even further so he can watch your blissed out face. Your mouth is hanging open in the shape of an O, a silent scream etched into your features. To his surprise, he almost finds himself kissing you, barely able to reel himself in from doing so. This is why Max doesn’t do face to face stuff—he doesn’t want his partners getting the wrong idea about him.

But with you he almost breaks.

Each slam of his hips is ludicrously loud. For a few moments you think you actually forget how to breathe.

He lets go of your leg and moves his fingers to where he’s currently cleaving you down the middle, dancing around your clit, flicking with expert precision.

“Yes,” you pant. “God, yes.”

“That’s right, baby. Wanna hear you,” Max praises.

He bites into the rounded hill of your shoulder, incisors bearing down, branding you with yet another mark in the shape of his teeth. At least this one can be hidden.

His pace doesn’t falter. While Max doesn’t share Dave’s calculating focus, he more than makes up for it with his tenacity and grit.

Your hips jolt when he touches a particularly sensitive nerve, your moans filling the air.

“That’s it, sweetheart. C’mon baby. Gimme another.”

You reach your third climax, your muscles briefly seizing under the duress of Max’s spell.

“Good fucking girl. Goddamn little slut, cumming as she’s stuffed full of my cock.” He presses his lips to the shell of your ear, whispering in a deep, dark timbre, “Two more.”

You whimper and shut your eyes. Max’s fingers never hasten their onslaught. Tears ring your eyes, body overwrought from the sting of overstimulation, but the last thing you want is to throw in the towel now.

“What would your white knight do if he were here right now? Do you think he would watch me fuck you?”

Max can feel your throat constricting under his palm as you swallow. “I- I don’t know.”

You already feel another orgasm building on the tail end of the last.

“Did he fuck you here? In your bed?” he presses.

“Yes,” you whimper.

“Mmmm,” he hums lowly. His dick twitches. He wets his lips, eyes trained on your face as he watches you. “Which hole did he fuck, sweetheart?”

“Max, don’t—“ Despite the humiliation you feel, you’re close, so close, to your fourth.

His fingers squeeze your face, digging in to the soft meat of your cheeks. “Answer me,” he tuts, gnashing his teeth.

“All of them,” you answer earnestly, honestly. “All of them… oh, fuck.” Your walls bear down hard, tightening around Max, vision pulling white as you pant his name on your tongue.

“You let him fuck your ass?” he barks into your ear. “You’re even filthier than I thought, you. God. Damn. Whore. Shit—“

Max can’t hold back any longer, scrotum tightening and cock pulsing as he pulls himself from your throbbing snatch in the nick of time, pumping himself in his hand and painting your inner thighs with thick tendrils of his spend. The groan that vibrates the barrel of his chest as he cums is inhuman.

He buries his face in the apex of your neck and shoulder, inhaling your post-coital scent. Savoring it. “Fuck. Fuck, sweetheart.” The edge in his voice is gone. It almost sounds affectionate.

He moves away from you, propping himself up on an elbow to admire the way his semen slides down the skin of your thighs. He swipes two fingers through the thickest part of it, bringing it to your lips. You open without hesitation, accepting him as he pushes into your mouth with a quiet murmur.

“Good girl.”

He grabs your hips, rolling you onto your back as he once again slithers to the lower regions of your body, eyes locked on your face.

“What’re you—“

Max shoots you a slanted grin. “You said five.”

——

It’s late. Too late, after a long road trip, after the stress and drama of picking up his daughters because Carol had insisted he was behind even though he’s sure he wasn’t.

Especially when you’ve been the only thing on his mind all day.

It’s later in the evening before he has a chance to check on you, his daughters already tucked away safely in bed. He sits at the table of his suite’s kitchenette and opens his laptop, dick already painfully hard and straining against his pants at the mere notion of seeing you.

Three clicks and he opens the camera’s live feed. The apartment is dark, and you’re curled up in your bed, watching television. He can’t make out what show it is at this angle, but from what he can hear, it seems to be some kind of reality medical show about weight loss.

He watches you like that for some time, palming himself through his pants, wishing he were there curled up with you.

After a while, when you don’t move, he clicks on the camera’s recorded footage and starts scrolling through.

Though you’re out of shot most of the time, he listens as you have the conversation with your mother, wishing he could pull you through the screen and into his arms. He can’t hear the full conversation, but he gets the gist of it, and it sends a dagger of pain through his chest seeing you so worked up.

He’s glad you’re well removed from that life.

After the phone call, you clean for several hours, before sitting down to write. He scrolls through most of that footage, pausing occasionally if something in particular catches his eye.

He stops scrolling when he notices your head lift toward the door. You get up from your chair, padding barefoot to the door to peek through the peephole. You sigh, shaking your head, reluctantly opening it for whomever is on the other side.

He can only partially see what’s happening, but he can make out enough to instantly recognize the man that steps inside.

Dave’s eyes grow a shade darker and his hand is in his pants before he even realizes what he’s doing.

He fast forwards to where Max already has you on the bed. By all accounts, Dave should be jealous. It doesn’t make sense that he isn’t, considering what Carol did. Considering that he nearly killed the man she was sleeping with with his own bare fists.

Given Dave’s skills and proclivity for killing, the man was lucky he didn’t.

But for some reason, with you, things are different. Everything with you is different.

Dave puts in his headphones as he continues to watch, letting out a quiet moan when Max’s face dips between your legs. The face you make is nothing short of euphoric.

He continues to stroke himself, precum leaking onto his wrist as he watches events unfold right in front of him.

He picks up his phone, thumbing the screen to get to your messages, opening it to type two words and hitting send.

Dave: Hey, you.

Your phone lights up a minute later.

—

Taglist: @ohheypedrito @kateispunk @survivingandenduring @annieispunk @awilderi @chronically-ghosted @onmysluttyknees @oberynslady @kellybelly1978 @sarap-77 @tb-gerschutz @daddy-dins-girl @alwaysmicado @morallyinept @guelyury @heavennumber2 @xxjigglynatxx @yippeeki-meow-motherfoster-blog

If I forgot anyone, please let me know! 🙂

#pedro pascal #writing #romance #smut #author #fanfic #pedro fanfic #max phillips #dave york

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galaxyedging · 11 months

Text

A little Halloween visit to my Pedro Boy motel.

Agent Ortega x f!reader, The Thief x f!reader

(My Ortega and Reader from Trust and my Thief from New Year's Eve.)

WC:3.9k

Warnings: Smut. Unprotected P in V sex. Cum eating. Blow job. Literal magical sex. Blood and gore.

Summary: The motel usually makes dreams come true. On Halloween, things get even more magical.

Part of And It Just Keeps Getting Better

Halloween Weekend

Mrs Lord pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. Her eyes were beginning to ache from going over paperwork. It just so happened that Halloween fell on one of their Fantasy Weekends and she was determined to make it memorable. Everything had to be perfect from the themed mocktails to the costumes, oh boy, would there be costumes. The thought of the guys all dressed up was almost too much. The clients would go nuts. Almost entirely lost in her vision she didn't realise that she was being watched. Something was stalked through the house towards her. It took its time, keeping its footsteps slow and gentle so as to not make a sound. It was only when it was right by her paperwork covered bed that she saw it

"I vant to suck your blood. Blah!" The creature announced as it pounced on her.

"Maxwell!" She playfully admonished. "You'll crumple my paperwork!"

"Sorry, Mi Vida. I just can't help it. You look good enough to eat." He managed to get out around his fake fangs.

"To eat, huh?" She raised an eyebrow at him.

That's how Max in his leather posing pouch and little black cape came to be face down between her legs for the next half an hour, thankfully minus the plastic glow in the dark fangs, while she deliberated over the food menu. Once she was satisfied in more ways than one, it was her turn to suck.

"Pathetic fallacy." Ezra mumbled as he looked out of his window.

Gregor lifted his head from the book he was reading. "Huh?"

"Oh nothing. It just seems like the weather has decided to join us in the festive mood. There's a storm coming in."

"I'm going to check the storm shutters just in case those clouds don't blow over. We've got enough food and water if we get cut off. Can you check the radios are all charged and handed out?" Joel asked Dave as he checked his tool box.

"Were you a survivalist in a past life?" Dave ribbed his friend.

"Something like that." Joel muttered heading out.

"Mrs Lord, I took down some of your decorations outside. If the wind picks up it'll rip through them like a tornado in a trailer park." Jack deposited the gathered decorations on the desk.

"Thank you, Jack." Mrs Lord gave him a half smile. It was all she could give him with the stress this weekend on her head.

Everything had been fine, all but one guest had checked in. All the preparations were complete. Then the sky started to darken. The weatherman had called for clear skies, it was unnerving to see anything but. With their location they had prepared for situations like this. They had a backup generator, emergency supplies, they were in a good position should the worst happen.

Mrs Lord let out a steadying breath. "It'll be fine."

Lightning flashed across the sky, it was almost lost against the lights of the reception room. The accompanying thunder was definitely lost against the sounds of the party in full swing. Almost all of the guests were happily paired with a partner for the night. Din, in his Knight costume, had a woman on each arm. Ezra in his best Pirate Captain threads had accepted a client. Oberyn was dressed as a god in golden robes, much to Dieter's delight, who was dressed, fittingly, as a housecat. His 'costume' consisted of a black jumper, black sweats and cat ears. It was almost as half hearted as Jack's Cowboy costume, which consisted of his normal clothing. Even Joel had put in a bit more effort with his pale face paint and neck bolts. He figured Frankenstein's Monster was fitting for him.

As the pairings filed out, ducking under the awning to hide from the driving rain, Maxwell noticed a guest, dressed in old wild west clothing, standing with both the Marcuses.

"Gentlemen." Maxwell greeted them. "What seems to be the problem?"

Pike spoke up "It seems that Mr Ortega here was booked in with Max Phillips but he's nowhere to be found. My client is missing and Moreno's was a no show."

Max thought for a moment. "I know we have one no show. So where is your client? And Phillips?" Max Phillips may be a brash jerk but clients liked him well enough. He always left them in a euphoric daze as they checked out. He didn't mix much with the other employees but he was a busy man. He worked in the city by day and spent his evenings working at the motel. Beyond that no one really knew much about him.

Maxwell did know that Max was very professional and had never missed an appointment. "Let's go look for him."

The short leather skirt creeping up her thighs was definitely out of her comfort zone.

"Come as you aren't night." She reminds herself as she hurries along to the party that she is late for.

Stopping once again to pull down her skirt, a voice from behind you makes her jump. "I think it looks great."

Spinning around, she found the voice's owner leaning in a doorway. His long legs crossed at the ankle as he leans against the frame. Taking in how strikingly handsome he is, she hopes that he's that man she's here to meet.

"Marcus?" She tries.

"And you would be…?" He holds out his hand.

For a second she wondered why he wouldn't already have her name, since the host assured her that he had discussed her desires with Marcus and set everything up for her. Maybe he didn't give him her name to protect her in case she backed out, she reasons. Giving him her name she shakes his hand.

"Come on in." Giving her an easy smile he leads her into his room.

Once inside, Marcus is a little more forward than she expected. His thick fingers dig into her thigh and scalp as he pins her to the wall. His lips don't leave hers until she's breathless. All her insistence on taking things slow was rapidly flying out of the window and into the storm beyond. There was no hesitation left in her when his fingers hooked under her panties to move them to the side. With the first swipe of his fingers across her now throbbing clit, she decides that she wants him now.

Taking a breath to gather her courage she manages to say the word that's been hidden in her fantasies. "Daddy, please make me come."

Marcus lets out a deep chuckle as his fingers breach her, stretching her in the most delicious way. "Don't worry, Sweetness. Daddy will make you come hard."

Marcus made good on his promise, his fingers pumped in and out of her relentlessly until that spot inside her couldn't take anymore. Her walls clenched around him, pulling his fingers in as he pulled her in to kiss her neck. He kisses and suckes on her pulse point so hard that she knows she's going to have marks later. He only stops to lick his fingers clean of her cum before returning to her neck and sucking harder than before. No, not just sucking, biting.

A scream cut through the air. It wasn't unusual to hear screams echoing around the courtyard. It was unusual to hear one so clearly blood curling.

"That came from upstairs!" Pike called before taking the stairs two at a time with Ortega hot on his heels.

The two men had been in the courtyard trying to sort out alternative arrangements if Max Phillips wasn't found. Pike was sure Oberyn wouldn't mind some more company for the evening. Ortega politely entertained the idea but Pike could see he seemed pretty set on Phillips. He thought this odd for a first timer but maybe Mr Ortega was just a man who knew what he wanted.

Pike ran down the narrow balcony zeroing in on the sounds of a struggle.

"You bastard!" A woman screamed before the door to the next room flew open. Out sprinted Max Phillips, the lower half of his face covered with blood. Pike was about to chase him when he saw the woman holding her neck, the red of her tank top darkened.

Ortega ran past "I've got him."

Pike had no other choice than to let the other man handle it as he administered first aid while waiting for Kyle. Joel had given the paramedic a call after hearing the commotion.

Once the woman was safely taken down to the small medical room, Pike tried to make sense of what he'd seen.

"He bit her?!" Moreno was stunned even with the evidence in front of him.

"It looks like." Pike sighed, still in disbelief.

"Was that some sort of kink he had? Did he take it too far?" Moreno mused out loud.

Pero had joined them when he heard the fuss. He muttered something under his breath in Spanish that only Moreno caught.

"You can't be serious." Moreno huffed a laugh. "A vampire?"

"We never saw him in the daytime. Or saw him eat or drink. His clients always checked out acting rather peculiarly. I have travelled to many places with such myths and seen things that I cannot explain."

Before either Marcus could react to Pero, a man approached them from the shadows. "Your well travelled friend is right. You have a vampire in your midst."

The man was very well dressed. He had on a white dress shirt, fastened with an expensive looking pair of cufflinks complimenting the even finer watch on his wrist. He wore a black bow tie that matched his vest in colour. Black dress pants and designer shoes adorned his lower half and the outfit was completed by a leaf pattern embroidered overcoat.

"Forgive me. I am Señor Ladrón. I have been searching for your vampire for a while. He had left quite the trail of victims." The man informed them as casually as if he had just told them to expect rain.

"Well, you found him. What do we do now?" Joel stepped out of the first aid room, closing the door behind him to give the recovering victim some privacy.

"We kill him." Señor Ladrón stated simply.

This seemed to be a good enough answer for Joel who simply nodded. Pero seemed satisfied too. Both Marcus's had seen some weird things during their time in law enforcement but a vampire would be pushing it. Nevertheless there was a bad guy on the loose and it was their job to stop him. The men paired off. Joel with Pero, Pike with Moreno. Señor Ladrón excused himself to gather some equipment from his car.

"Do you think we should be letting him walk around here by himself? The guy thinks vampires are real." Moreno asks Pike as they make their way through the motel.

"Max is my biggest concern. I'll have Din go check on our visitor." Pike edged his way around to the part of the motel that was under development.

The only light was the glow from the well lit side of the motel, the full moon and the occasional flash of lightning. Even Pike had to admit with all the vampire talk and it being Halloween night, the whole setup had him a little rattled. A little. That must be why he could have sworn for a second that he saw a light on in the last room on the block, even when they found it completely empty.

The cloaking spell worked perfectly as you watched the Chef and Superhero take a look around the room before walking off the way they came.

It didn't take much to lure the vampire into a trap. It was thirsty in more ways than one, so with your blood pumping and all that flesh on display, how could he refuse to follow you into one of the rooms that were closed for refurbishment. The spell you had cast on the room took effect almost immediately. The well-dressed vampire swayed on his feet. With a little support from you, he made it to the bed.

"What the fuc…?" Was all he managed before he was out like a light.

Studying his profile in the light of the full moon you thought it was a shame to kill someone so handsome. "Sorry, Gorgeous. I promise it's for a good cause."

Straddling him, you pressed the tip of the cedar stake to his chest lining up it before preparing to raise it. A flash of lightning was followed by the boom of the door being kicked open.

Ortega ran into the room, grabbing the stake in your hand. "Carrying out the ritual without me?"

"Just like you tried the last one without me." You snatch the stake back.

"I was going to include you but you seemed a little preoccupied."

"For the last time. That was a business dinner!"

"He didn't seem to think that. Even when I made it clear to him."

"What? That's why he reneged on the deal!"

"If he couldn't handle a six shooter aimed at his balls, he had no place in business."

A scream of frustration left you. "Aren't you bored of this?! A hundred and fifty years we've been at this. You betray me. I betray you. One hundred and fifty years and we're still both so stubborn that we can't trust each other. We can't love each other." You feel the weight of your words slip from your shoulders.

Ignacio Oretga usually presented an intimidating front unless he needed to turn on the charm. There was exactly one person and one person only who could bring out the soft demeanour he took on now. "Darlin', there hasn't been one second of the last a hundred and fifty years that I haven't loved you. Now trust is another thing entirely…" he grinned.

"Don't laugh at me." You pout.

Ignacio leans in to kiss your bottom lip poking out. "I'm not laughing at you. I would never!"

"Yes, you would!" You grin back at him, your fingers fiddling with his lapels. "I love you, too."

The first kiss between you in a decade sparks the old fire between you. The reason for you being in this motel is nearly forgotten as Ignacio lifts you as close to his body as he can. He's eager to refresh his memory of your body against his.

"Wait, My Love. We need to finish the ritual or our hundred and fifty years end here."

Ignacio's fingers lace between yours around the stake. "Allow me." He slips the wood from your hand.

Ignacio lines the stake up just as you did and prepares to raise to deliver the killing blow. Just as it had with you, the door bursts open. A familiar figure is back lit by the lighting outside from the worsening storm.

"Thief." You spit in its direction.

"Oh, I'm so much more than that." He laughs. "For example, tonight I'm a trader."

"What is it you want to trade?" Ignacio's eyes narrow on him.

"The vampire and the secret to securing a few more years of life for you both, in exchange for allowing me to feast on the energy from the ritual."

"But we have the…" You trail off as you see that the vampire is gone and all that remains on the bed is a faint mist. The potent tang of magic settles on your tongue.

"When you say 'feast on the energy'...?"

Ignacio presses, keen to get rid of your uninvited guest.

"It's simple. To increase the longevity of the ritual you must make love in the blood of the creature rather than just bathe in it. I simply wish to watch and feed off your passion." The Thief sat himself in a chair at the end of the bed as if the whole thing was a done deal.

"You're an Incubus?" You wonder aloud.

"Among other things." His brown eyes glint red with amusement.

Turning to Ignacio, you could see him weighing up the deal.

"We've done more exotic things in bed." Your lips quirk up at the memory. "Prague."

"Hmm. California in the 70's." Ignacio smiled, stepping closer his hands finding your hips as if he was engaging you in a dance.

"Amsterdam." You swayed to the old melody supplied by your memories.

"So we are in agreement?" The Thief snapped his fingers and the vampire reappeared.

"Yes." You say in unison with Ignacio.

Neither of you so much as glance at The Thief as you let muscle memory take over until the two of you are naked. A wispy tendril of red mist winds its way to you from the hand of The Thief. It licks up your bare skin increasing the sensitivity of every nerve it touches. When it pushes between your legs it almost brings you to orgasm in an instant. Ignacio seems similarly affected as his cock flushes red and weeps.

"Just a little gift from me. For being so gracious in accepting my offer." The Thief undoes his belt as he speaks before cupping the large bulge below it.

Ignacio presses a single kiss to your bare shoulder, it's enough to make your knees weak. With shaking hands the two of you manage to wield the stake. The weight of the two of you tumbling into bed pushes the stake into the vampire's heart. An explosion of thick, crimson blood covers you as you sink down into the bed. Ignacio is inside you before you know it, filling you with his cum as your convulsing body milks it from him.

The Thief moans in contentment as he strokes himself through his clothing. "Again."

The tang of copper rolls over your tongue as Ignacio kisses you. It takes only a fraction longer for the two of you to come this time. Your heels dig into the meat of his pert ass as you draw him deeper. His warm release drips out on the bloodied sheets below. He seems to have even more for you than usual.

"Again." The Thief groans as he starts to stroke his now bare length.

Ignacio fights through the fog of his mystical arousal to position you where he wants you. He now has you on all fours. After all these years there is still something primal about spearing you on his cock from this angle. He manages to last a little longer this time. Enough that he gets to enjoy the arch of your back as he pulls on your hair and the jiggle of your ass as he smacks into it. His cum gushes into you as he stutters out a groan. Each climax feels electric. He wants to fuck you over and over. Not just because of the spell but to make up for lost time. How had he been so stubborn as to miss so much as a day with you?

Gripping the bed frame you try to compose yourself as the last orgasm fades. Each one hits like plunging into the ocean. It hits hard before consuming you in its depths. Making the mistake of looking up you see The Thief with his head thrown back in pleasure. His hips chase his hand as his fucks into his fist. The sight of him so freely chasing his pleasure has you coming again.

Ignacio's hand lands firmly on your ass cheek. "I forgot my naughty girl likes to watch. Thief!"

The Thief still carries on jerking his cock as he acknowledges Ignacio.

"Why don't you join us? My wife has a very talented mouth." Turned on by his own words, Ignacio Jackrabbits into you hard until he comes again.

The Thief moves with inhuman speed pressing the tip of his cock to your lips before you realise he even left his chair. "Would you like a taste?" He strokes your cheek gently until you open up for him.

The precum gathered on his slit is like nothing you've ever tasted before. You find yourself sucking and bobbing your head in earnest just to get more. When Ignacio starts snapping his hips into you from behind, the force causes you to gag on The Thief's swollen head. The sound makes Ignacio throb inside of you. His wife choking on a cock while he fucks her from behind prompts another load of his seed to fill up your warm cunt. The warmth of him triggers another orgasm from you. Whatever this magic is, you want more of it. Not just for the sex but for how your husband feels inside and against you. Ever touch is heightened. You couldn't get any closer to him than you are right now. It soothes the ache in your heart from spending years without him.

The Thief utters something in an unrecognisable language as you swallow around him. He then pulls out with a slick pop. "I will still let you have a taste but I'm afraid I might be too rough while I chase my end."

The Thief proceeds to wrap his hand around his thick girth.The noise of his balls slapping against his fist while he groans deeply is enough to even affect Ignacio. Flipping you over, he mouths at your blood soaked tits. Sucking on each nipple until it aches. Each suck and bit builds another climax it only takes his fingers pressing to your clit for you to achieve it. You watch in fascination as Ignacio's cock spurts another load across your thigh without even being touched. Running your fingers through it, you greedily stuff them in your mouth.

"I've missed you so much." You pull your husband in for a kiss that evolves into a slower pace of love making. Slower, but no less satisfying as you both come twice in each other's arms.

The laguid, comfortable satisfaction that The Thief drinks down reminds him of his own love at home waiting for him. He's almost full and his cock aches for release. He starts to withdraw his magic from them. It's harder than he anticipated as they were already so much in love and lust. He finally does so as Ignacio has his wife's legs spread wide in the air to thrust impossibly deep inside her. Reaching out, he grips her ankle to steady himself as he prepares to finish himself off. He's so close, he can feel the heat in his spine. Looking down, he watches Ignacio's thick cock splitting his wife's tight pussy open. Her folds glisten with both their releases. Her puffy, pink cunt looks throughly fucked still it pulls her husband's cock deeper. He can feel their love and passion fueling the spell. The magic in the air ripples over his skin, his nipples tighten just before his balls do. His fist works incredibly fast to pump his overdue spend over the face of the beautiful woman underneath him. As he covers his face, her husband paints her insides. The scream that rips from her leaves her mouth open to catch The Thief's seed. She rides out her climax on his husband's cock while licking The Thief's cum from around her mouth. The Thief thinks that he got the better end of the deal. As the heavy energy in the room lifts, The Thief prepares to leave.

All the years you'd seen the man as nothing more than an annoyance. Someone who turns up now and again when your agenda's crossed. Now you were seeing just how powerful he was.

"Wait. That was…" All coherent thought leaves your brain as you look up at your husband practically glowing. Your eyes trace a bead of sweat from his forehead down the curve of his beautiful nose before dripping onto your bare chest.

The Thief chuckles. "If you think I know how to celebrate Halloween, wait until you see how I celebrate New Years."

Author's Note: I had a completely different vibe planned for this one but I'm just so happy to have finished something after going through a dry spell.

Tags: @kirsteng42 @prolix-yuy @thegreenkid2 @hquinzelle @fangirl-316 @gracie7209 @jedifarmerr @doommommy @scorpio-marionette @sturkillerbase @harriedandharassed @aynsleywalker @mswarriorbabe80 @rise-my-angel @adancedivasmom @kinda-nobody @movievillainess721 @munsonownsmyass @mandoloriancookie @faceache111 @elegantduckturtle @manazo @simpingcowboy @pedrit0-pascalit0 @yourcoolauntie @pedrostories @geekrenaissance @its-nebuleuse @sherala007

#pedro pascal character fanfiction #agent ortega #agent ortega x f!reader #the thief #the thief x f!reader #max phillips #maxwell lord #marcus pike #marcus moreno #joel miller #kyle hartley #mojo dojo casa sex house #the motel

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vanhelsingapologist · 9 months

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I am submitting my formal request for folk music ~opinions~ ❤️

Folk music is another one of those genres that’s hard to pinpoint. It’s basically been merging with country and Americana for years. Further, are people asking for traditional folk? Folk metal? Indie folk? Baroque folk? But it’s all folk! Folk, folk, folk. I’ve written it so many times that it doesn’t look like a word. Anyway, I went contemporary/indie/roots folk for this. Started with more woodsy stuff, too.

• Empty Northern Hemisphere by Gregory Alan Isakov. Gregory Alan Isakov is one of those artists I adore and I think he pretty consistently nails it when it comes to folksy themes and instrumentation. His Weatherman album is pretty fantastic. He’s probably considered indie folk, if I had to put a finger on it.

• My Gal, My Guy by Darlingside. The first song I ever heard by them was called Harrison Ford, which is also pretty good, but there’s just something about this song! Also indie folk.

• Oats In The Water by Ben Howard. He has another great one called In Dreams. His earlier music sort of feels like standing in a dead forest. I can’t really explain it beyond that. His newer stuff is a bit more atmospheric, but it’s good.

• Bavarian Porcelain by Sea Wolf. His song Dear Fellow Traveller got some fandom airtime, but his whole discography is pretty good and soaked with forest imagery. My favorite album is probably White Water, White Bloom, but Cedarsmoke is very kind to me.

• Let This Remain by Alana Henderson. Henderson keeps making her way into my playlists. She sort of reminds me of Enya, sort of reminds me of something reminiscent of the Dresdon Dolls, but it’s just enough that she’s got this incredible unique sound.

• Francis by Haley Heynderickx and Max García Conover. This is another one that I have to physically restrain myself from looping. Their voices blend really well, and I’d also consider it my official endorsement of both their music. Heynderickx’s No Face and Show You A Body kill me and Conover’s collaboration on the everything in winter album is worth a listen.

• Deep Green by Marika Hackman. I feel like we can call Marika Hackman folk. Her voice is haunting, her lyrics stick, and she does really neat stuff instrumentally, and she had the folk sound. Not coffeehouse music, so I had to look to see what she’s categorized as. Alternative, it was. Her new album is less folksy, but We Slept At Last definitely is.

• Darlin Corey by Amythyst Kiah. If you haven’t heard any of her work, go listen as soon as possible. She’s got this deep, beautiful sound and writes about isolation in a way that really resonates. It’s hard to find artists who make folk that sounds a hundred years old, but she nails it every single time.

• Love Me Like You Used To by Lord Huron. Lord Huron is an old favorite, and I do think their Long Lost album is my favorite, despite Strange Trails being so well-known. Nothing makes you wanna awoo the way these guys do.

• Traveling On by The Decemberists. I’m a Decemberists fan first, person second. Sometimes I go about my day and “street side smokers, holy rollers” pops into my head at random. Hopefully, you will share my plight.

• Ofelia by Kiltro. Kiltro plays a mixture of shoegaze and Chilean folk. If that doesn’t sound like the best fucking time ever get AWAY from me. Creatures of Habit bumped all year before I graduated.

• The Weight by Amigo the Devil. Darker folk. I think he’s on a playlist called Murderfolk, which just about sums it up. I might put Amigo the Devil in the same camp as AJJ in terms of sound. Slightly different in lyricism.

• Northern Wind by Liza Anne. Their new stuff isn’t folk, but their old stuff is definitely indie folk. I sometimes describe them as drinking cold water, and I think that definitely sticks with their Two album.

As always, I have no idea what I’m talking about. Hope this is good!

#music recs #asked and answered #indie folk #other artists like Nick Drake and Sibylle Baier may be more your speed #I went back and forth putting FJM’s fear fun album on here as a whole bc of folk rock #but it felt contentious putting him on and not fleet foxes LMFAO #And he’s fully not folk HAHAH #anyway! I’m silly about music

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onboardsorasora · 4 months

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Daniel is the head anchor at WRBR TV, an FIA affiliated network. He just got the promotion to the prime time slot after killing it in the Good Morning slots.

Well he wasn’t the head anchor yet. But it was happening.

And he isn’t the biggest fan of his co-anchor. She’s a bit of a bitch and he dreams about her going live on air without catching the stray evidence of her morning pick me up. Coke does not look the same as setting powder. It doesn’t

Max is the new weather guy who is passionate about clouds and topography maps.

They click instantly and Daniel is actually sad to leave his morning show bubble now.

During his last week in the AM show, Daniel jokes on air about not having to leave home at 3 am any more and Max quips back about missing the moons on his way to work. Because it’s a full moon this week.

Daniel finds himself looking up at the moon in a way he never did during his 2 years commuting in the morning before sunrise. Max’s lisp in his ear telling him it’s lovely.

He’s excited to go into prime time. Excited to finally be able to do the pieces he really wants to, interview the people he really wants to. And interview them well, direct questions and not flowery fluff pieces. But suddenly he’s sad to be leaving Max.

On his last day Max brings him cheesecake and a scrunchy eyed smile. Daniel tells him that he saw the moon and grinned softly while Max launched into a short monologue about moon facts, about what this month’s full moon is named and why it got that name.

He blushed when he realized he’d been rambling on. Daniel asks him out to lunch. The one time of the day when their schedules technically overlap.

They’ve been dating for two years now. Daniel is the head anchor with his own show in the prime time slot. He still gets moon facts and has a favourite cloud type.

#two in one day? peak procrastination #maxiel #max/daniel #newsroom au #love me my weatherman Maxy

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random-imagines-blog · 10 months

Text

Struck Blind {Steve Harrington x Reader, Part 6}

Wordcount: 2641 Chapter Summary: There's some strangeness around Billy. Steve-free chapter.

Previous Chapter can be found here. Next Chapter can be found here.

Something was going on with Billy. You couldn’t quite put your finger on what it was but he was spending more time out than usual. He was yelling back at Neil more than usual. He wasn’t playful with you or Max, he wasn’t teasing or offering to spend time with you. He only really came home to sleep. At first, you thought perhaps he found himself a girlfriend rather than fucking around all the time, that could be an explanation for being out at all hours of the night. But not the surly attitude. And not him ignoring you like this. He had never done that before. What if he had found out about your date with Steve - what if he had overheard Max asking you about it when you got home afterwards? No, even that wouldn’t account for this. He’d be mad but he’d most likely try to lecture you about it, to remind you of what a piece of shit Steve was. He wasn’t the type to keep it bottled inside - he took it out on the world.

But it also wasn’t as if Billy was the kind of guy who would let loose his feelings if he was pestered to. So you just watched him from afar, and hoped for the best. There was nothing else for it.

You grabbed a Popsicle and sat outside on the front porch, trying to catch any of the breeze that was supposed to be out here, according to the weatherman. But there was no breeze - just clouds starting to form, threatening a storm. You sighed and went over my options for the day - bus to the mall, bus to the library… all involving buses because Billy was MIA. There was only a small oil patch on the ground where his Camaro usually was. You licked the cherry Popsicle and stared at it, thinking about the night that we got into that accident. And how that really showed Billy’s character. That he just took off after that. Left you there because you wanted to help. Maybe you didn’t know your cousin as well as you thought that you did.

“Do you know where Billy is?” Max’s voice hit you. You looked up to see her and Eleven starting to walk up towards the house. Their expressions were extremely serious. Much more serious than someone their ages should be.

“No idea, he was gone before I was awake,” You said, looking between the two. “I don’t even know if he came home at all last night.”

Now the two girls looks at each other.

A moment later, after filling you in about what they had done last night, Eleven with her astral projection or whatever it’s called, you were in Billy’s room with them, keeping a look-out though everyone was at work. “Why do I get the feeling we’re going to find all kinds of wrong in here?” Max asked.

“Just don’t touch any tissues, they’re not used for sneezing,” You advised, wishing you had thought to put on some dish washing gloves. But you were too curious not to be in here. Too concerned not to.

Billy’s room was messier than it usually was - not that he kept it clean exactly but this was the room of someone that had been distracted. Dirty clothes spilling out of his laundry basket and onto the ground; his radio still on and playing metal music; his ashtray overflowing and so he started using a plate that still had sandwich crumbs on it. You remembered making him that sandwich. That was days ago.

Max went to his night table, opening it up and peering inside. “Ugh, gag me with a spoon,” She said, closing it back up quickly. You didn’t have to ask what was in there. Teenage boys. Disgusting.

You don’t find anything in the bedroom, other than the signs that he hadn’t been cleaning, so you three went into the bathroom. It had changed since you had taken a shower yesterday afternoon. The bathtub was filled with water, and empty plastic bags were swimming on the surface. Bags of ice from the corner store. The ones used to fill coolers and the like.

“Max?” El asks. Your redhead cousin stepped forward, grabbing one of the empty plastic bags.

“Ice,” She said, reading the bag. “It’s just ice. It’s probably for his muscles or something. He works out like a maniac, right y/n?”

“He does,” You had to agree with that, but the fact that he would just leave the mess in there despite knowing that Neil would get on his case about it … that was a bad sign. And then your eyes caught on another one. Blood. You definitely hadn’t noticed that today. El noticed too. Her breath was trembling, and you lightly put your arm around her, trying to reassure her that everything was going to be okay, that there was an explanation for this, a reasonable one, there had to be. But she pulls from you and opens up the cupboard beneath the sink. She pulls out the garbage bucket that was in there. The one that you cleaned a few days ago, emptying into the trash bin.

“What is it?” You ask with a tremor.

El pulled out the red lifeguard first aid kit, and then there was a lanyard, with a bright yellow whistle. Or it had been bright yellow. Now, like the lanyard, it was blood stained.

“Well shit,” You sighed.

And somehow, you ended up in the locker room of the pool, after discovering that Billy wasn’t there, and that the lifeguard first aid kit, and the whistle, belong to Heather Holloway. The locker room smelt like wet clothes and unwashed feet, something that was noticed by Max too as her nose curled up once you were in there. But there wasn’t much time to waste.

You start flooding the locker room, turning on showers, sink taps, everything that we can in order to help El find Heather. Find Billy.

“This could just be .. jerk Billy behavior right?” You asked Max, as El was putting duct tape over a diving mask. “You don’t think it’s…”

“I don’t know. He’s always been weird,” Max said, which you could understand. “But he was doing a lot better since you came here so…”

Although that was a really nice thing to hear, it didn’t help that much right now. “Wish it worked enough that he would actually talk to me when something is wrong,” You mumbled.

The two of you fell into silence when El put on the blacked out diving mask, and began to look for Heather. You sat on one side of her, Max on the other, your shoes becoming soaked by the flooded floor. You just looked at her. Her powers were fascinating to you. This was the first time that you had ever seen her use them.

“What do you see?” Max asked.

“A door. A red door.”

After another minute or two, El takes off the mask. Her nose bleeding. You immediately get up to find a towel while El collapses in Max’s hands. Your cousin and yourself look at each other, and you're both thinking the same thing.

Whatever this is - it’s not good.

She comes around a short time later, and she tells everything that she saw. The red door. Heather, the missing lifeguard, she’s screaming, she’s reaching to El for help, but then she gets quickly taken away by … something. And if it wasn’t something to do with the Upside Down, then El should have been able to see it. But it wasn’t clear what it was. Something was stirring in Hawkins again, and you were apparently going to be here for it.

In your still wet shoes, you flirt with the manager of the pool, and you get him to tell you the address of Heather. It took some eyelash batting but you got the job done, thanking him for being so helpful, and how he’s such a good man to do this favor, and you even wink at him, sticking your tongue out as you turn back around.

You take the address with me back to Max and El, who are getting ready on their bikes.. “Let’s go,” You said, jumping onto the back of Max's, holding on to her shoulders.

The streets aren’t flooded yet but if the rain continues, they just might be.

Max knew the city better than you or El, but the three of you were squinting through raindrops, trying to read the numbers on the mailboxes to find the right one and then - red door.

“Is this it?” Max asked.

El nodded and together, you three walked up. You felt responsible for these kids now. Was this how Steve had felt, when he watched over them at the junkyard? When he nearly sacrificed himself to take care of the demodogs, as Dustin had called them? Whatever, you just knew that you were going to go through everything that they did. Not leave them alone in the off chance that there was something, anything that you could do.

Especially if Billy was somehow involved.

We didn’t bother knocking. Or rather, El didn’t, since she somehow unlocked the door with her mind. You walked in behind them and noticed that the interior made everything really look like it was the perfect family home. As you walked down the hallway, you saw a large family portrait. Professionally done. Mother, Father, Daughter, happy posing smiles. Looking like something straight out of Leave it to Beaver.

You hear a laugh and the three of you looked at each other. It was the last sound that you expected to hear, if Heather was really in trouble. And then seeing the happy family together, with Billy sitting there, was the last thing that you had expected to see.

“Isn’t that cute, huh?” Billy was saying.

“He’s too funny,” Mother was saying to Father.

And that’s the scene that we walked in on. And just because we were in the shot of it now, didn’t mean that it was over, apparently. Billy saw you. He saw Max. He said your names out loud.

“We didn’t mean to barge in,” Max said, speaking for the three of you. El and Max both looked like they were in disbelief. You were studying Billy, trying to figure out what was so different about him. “We tried to knock, but maybe you didn’t hear us over the storm.”

“I’m sorry, who is this dripping all over my living room right now?”

“I’m sorry,” Billy said. That was one of the startling things right there. He didn’t apologize for anything. Not unless he was being forced to and even then, it only ever came out as sarcastic. “Janet, Tom, this is my sister Maxine, and my cousin Y/N.”

He stood up, and started to walk over to you, El and Max. You stood your ground, dripping but not moving, and you were looking straight into his blue eyes.

You had known Billy all of your life. You spent time together in the same crib. The same playpens. He was at almost all of your birthday parties until they had moved here to Indiana. He was the one that you went to when you were angry, because he either helped hype up that anger until you burnt yourself out, or he was able to help you, when he didn’t even know how to help himself. He was the boy that was only scared of his dad and of dark places, like caves, or even the tubes inside of McDonalds play-places when the lights were dimmed.

So essentially, you knew Billy. Better than his father did, better than Max did. The only person who might have known him better was his mother. The person whose eyes that you were looking into right now - you knew that it was not Billy. It might have looked like Billy. But it was definitely not him. Like someone made a doll of him, a puppet. There might have been a trace, far back, but right behind those eyes was someone else. Something Else.

“What on earth are you doing here? Is something wrong?”

Your immediate reaction was to protect these girls, despite the fact that Eleven was an actual weapon and that Max could definitely handle herself, as she showed Billy last fall. You are the adult here. You need to act like it. So you pushed yourself between the two girls, standing in front of them, even as they spoke.

“We just wanted to make sure everything was okay,” Max said, her confusion showing through her voice. And now here was fake Billy with his fake concern.

“Okay, why wouldn’t it be okay?”

“Where is she?” Eleven asked.

“I’m sorry, where is who?”

Coming out of the kitchen, carrying a tray of cookies, the smell hitting you before the realization of who it was that was carrying them, came Heather. Not a scratch on her. Almost too squeaky clean. Not at all the way that Eleven had described.

But because of how Billy was acting, you believed Eleven. There was something not right going on here.

“Well, they’re a little burnt, I’m sorry-” Heather said, in her usually sweet voice. It was definitely her own voice, her own face. But whether it was actually Heather, you didn’t know. This whole scene was looking a bit too.. domestic bliss.

“Heather, this is my cousin y/n, and my sister Maxine,” Billy introduced. “And I’m sorry, I did not catch your name.”

“That’s not important,” You spoke, staring at Billy. “What are you doing here?”

That’s when El spoke, not to say her name, but to stare at Heather. “I … saw … you -”

“Your manager, at the pool,” Max said quickly. “He said you guys didn’t come in to work today, so we got worried.”

“Heather wasn’t feeling so hot today, so we thought we’d take the day off to nurse her back to health. But you’re feeling just fine now, aren’t you Heather?”

“I’m feeling so much better,” Heather agreed.

Billy looked past you at Eleven. And the look that was in his eyes - it proved to you even further that this was not your cousin. This was not the Billy that you had grown up with. There was something else in there, wearing his skin. Pretending that this was Halloween and that this boy was simply a costume. The three of you were offered cookies by Heather and her mother but you weren’t going to take them.

You didn’t want to leave without Billy. “Could you drive us home?” you asked him, pleaded with the Billy that still had to be inside of there somewhere. You couldn’t believe that he was gone. “It’s raining pretty hard out.”

“I can’t be rude,” Billy said, which was … not true. Billy could be rude. Billy was rude. The light drained from your eyes then, and you turned to the girls behind you. “Let’s go.”

The three of you in disbelief, you headed back outside into the rain. You didn’t skateboard this time. You just tucked it under your arm and walked along with the girls as they moved slowly, not able to see too much as the fog rolled in with the pelting drops. You took one last look over your shoulder at Heather’s house, and saw Billy, watching through the window. The look that he exchanged with El was more chilling than the cold rain.

“That wasn’t him,” You said, as you made your way back to Max’s house. El looked at you, like she believed you. Like she had seen it for herself, even if she didn’t have the most experience with Max’s brother. But your red haired cousin - she didn’t look so sure.

#Steve Harrington x reader #Steve Harrington story #Steve Harrington #Stranger Things #Stranger Things story #x reader #Struck Blind #SteveH

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perceivedregret · 1 year

Text

so it continues

written for @thefreakandthehair lex’s spicy six summer challenge! prompt was hurricane for a ronance centric fic. i'm super excited to be part of my first writing challenge! i hope folks enjoy this stand alone work that's set in the supernatural creatures au i've created. i was super lucky to have the prompt available to help motivate me to complete this idea that's been nagging at me for months. this fic takes place later in the timeline but works well enough on its own. feel free to explore the rest if you'd like, but for now!! have werewolf!nancy and witch!robin

tomorrow is closed (part one of two)

Nancy has this thing with the weather.

She’ll wake up naturally with the rise of the sun by the internal clock, or the damn wolfy-senses as Max likes to begrudgingly call it. Whether or not she got a good night’s rest the night before is besides the point. The habit only calls for a single peek between the blinds, doesn't require more than a squint behind bleary eyes to know what kind of day to expect.

It's become a sort of game for her. Every morning she makes a bet with herself. She tunes in to the local news and weather as she gets ready for the day, waits for weatherman Frank to confirm her guess.

And today is no different.

Nancy raps her knuckles lightly against the glass of the window as she watches the huddle of birds in the nest. She takes a moment to study the horizon where flashing lights illuminate the shadowy clouds, moments later accompanied by a distant roll of thunder.

Static cuts from the junk radio that sits haphazardly along the edge of her desk and Nancy flinches, the radio's feedback piercing. Fiddling with the knobs she turns down the volume until the hum of music no longer rings harshly in her ears, shifting the station to the local news and weather.

Finding the station is easy, has become an ingrained muscle memory as she only teeters back and forth between the one and the most tolerable music station she could find in college town.

Another display of flashing lights and she celebrates her win preemptively, the room further dimming. It comes in today , she thinks with a knowing grin, fingers sweeping deftly across her lashes and clearing away the sleep.

“Today's the day, huh?"

Nancy jumps at the sudden voice, hand to her chest as she spins towards the source. Robin's head peeks out from behind the door of the bathroom that connects their rooms, the upturned corner of her mouth covered in blue-white foam.

"Dammit, Buckley, you can't keep doing that, the whole…" Nancy motions vaguely between themselves, exasperation apparent in the movement. Somehow Robin smiles around the toothbrush. "It's not fair, this one-sided mind connect… thing ."

"D'as no’ 'ow id wo'ks 'nd– gib muh sec." Robin chokes out, free hand rushing to cup her chin as she tilts her head back. A raised pointer finger is the last thing Nancy sees before Robin disappears behind the door entirely, the sound of Robin spitting and the sink running sneaking through the gap.

Nancy rolls her eyes, the line of her mouth thinning as she tries to hide an endeared grin. She makes her way across her room, quick to comb her fingers through her hair. She knocks once before stepping inside but the door that leads to Robin’s room is shut, the bathroom empty. Nancy takes the opportunity to inspect herself in the mirror before going through her usual routine, not bothering to do too much since classes had already been canceled for the week.

She’s trying to tame the final loose strands of her hair when a loud thud comes from Robin's room, followed by low muttered curses one without superhuman hearing would miss. Nancy considers checking on her, gives up on the flyaways that are at constant war with the humidity and sets the hair clip just above the nap of her neck when Robin’s throat suddenly clears.

“No, it's okay, I’m fine! I’m fine, it’s just, this damn cat,” Robin mutters, followed by another succession of low ushered dammit's.

“Robin, seriously? Get out of my head!”

“Sorry, sorry!”

“No you’re not,” Nancy mutters quietly around a smile, leaning into the sink to collect water in her palm. There was never any real venom behind her words, but this other game she plays demands at least a response.

Like the weather, Nancy has this thing with Robin Buckley. A back and forth, one that Nancy still doesn’t entirely understand but one she enjoys, nonetheless. But like her thing with the weather, this thing with Robin involves a game.

Nancy isn't altogether opposed to the constant intrusion that comes with the mind thing. If she’s honest with herself she finds that she rather enjoys it, delights in the fact Robin has this bit of access to her, this connection.

But if she's honest with herself on this then she'd have to further investigate why she doesn't mind. Why the constant reminder that comes in Robin’s one-sided replies sends a familiar warmth through her. A sense of longing that has itself raveled so snuggly around her it nearly smothers her.

She doesn’t have to dig too deep to know the why. The path to truth is as shallow as the empty faux-graves Hopper and the Suits had dug up for their group back in Hawkins.

Except she isn’t ready to delve into it, not after Steve or Jonathan, especially not after Barb, not yet at least. Robin is too important. After everything, the thought of ruining anything between them, most importantly their friendship, would surely kill her the way the wolf-turned-werewolf bite was meant to do all those years ago.

Instead she hides it, buries it as deep as her heart allows and hopes it's deep enough to ignore and not be uncovered, especially not by the one who is privy to her thoughts and capable of uncovering said truth.

So, Nancy has this thing with the weather and Robin Buckley. Another game, one she's determined not to lose.

Even if she's the only one playing.

Another series of thuds this time accompanied by a disgruntled yowl. Nancy eventually hears the unmistakable click of Robin’s window being unlocked and opened, followed by the scattered footsteps of the stray Robin has been so determined to save.

Satisfied with her reflection Nancy starts to make her way back to her room, now actively making an attempt to be less attuned to all things Robin and her current spout of rambling apologizes. She chances a glance outside where the growing clouds cast a shadow over the adjacent buildings, thinks she sees a white-tipped tail disappear around a corner.

Nancy has tried to befriend the grey-white Manx but her attempts to do so have proved unsuccessful. She hasn’t been able to get closer than a few feet before he’s hissing at her, the fur along his spine and tail puffing up with each spitful warning. It doesn’t help when the werewolf part of her instinctually reacts, eyes flashing a defensive yellow, the bed of her nails going numb as her claws prepare to extract.

She hopes he finds somewhere safe to hide, especially today. The cat would rather brave an incoming storm than share a space that houses four other supernatural creatures and a human witch he barely tolerates. She tries not to think about him getting caught in the coming storm.

At the sound of Robin’s door opening her heart flutters in her chest. She tries vehemently to not think about that either.

"As I was trying to say." Robin sidesteps into the room, the hinges of the door whining as she shuts it with a fuzzy-socked heel. Nancy makes an attempt to not stare as Robin leans heavily against the door.

It was a valiant two second attempt, but an attempt nonetheless.

She can’t help but let her eyes wander when Robin gives her the opportunity. Robin tips her head and her hair falls forward, presenting the crown of her now nearly blonde head that has ever so slightly lightened from the constant Florida sun.

Robin's knees knock together as she sinks against the wall, seemingly trying to make herself small under Nancy’s attention. Nancy’s eyes slowly trail up Robin's exposed legs, still surprisingly pale after all these months, her gaze coming to a stop just before she reaches her face. She takes in the oversized shirt that nearly drowns her frame, one she safely assumes belongs to Argyle for its bright colors and assortment of oddly shaped leaves.

When Nancy’s gaze does finally reach the other girl’s face, she feels her own cheeks flame pink. She doesn't need to be able to read Robin's mind to know she's been made.

Instead of calling her out on it Robin’s smirk shifts, her nose scrunching and her hands coming up defensively in front of her chest. "We've been over this, the mind thing–"

There’s a hint of nerves behind her words. Why?

"–that's not how it works, Nance. If–"

She didn’t notice, how did she– no, don’t. Stop, don’t think. Don’t think .

Robin's eyes narrow as her mouth snaps shut. Before she can start again Nancy cuts her (and herself) off with a dismissive wave and what she hopes is a reassuring smile, begs her voice to not come out as tightly as her chest feels.

"I know, you don't have to say it." Nancy directs her attention towards her desk, eyes darting over the mess of her recent project that clutters the surface. "I think of you, I end up in your head, and it makes you think of me. 'If we're both thinking about each other hard enough, we meld ,' or whatever the hell you and Steve used to call it."

“Yes, exactly! Except… no, no, not really. Me and him, that's a little different.” Robin sucks air between her teeth and Nancy looks over her shoulder, watches Robin’s head tilt left and right in consideration. “It’s just a little bit different, we–”

"I know . You two have a back and forth, we don’t. Regardless, it doesn't mean I'm used to you having access to my thoughts."

Cheater she thinks, and this time tries to think it as loudly as she can. She spares a final glance over her shoulder if only to glare teasingly before focusing on opening the lockbox that conceals her gun. A strong gust slaps against her window, the quick flash of lightning making the double action revolver she holds in her hand shine.

A mock offended gasp followed by an incredulously low muttered "I don't cheat, " from behind just barely pulls Nancy's attention. Nancy tries to suppress a chuckle as nimble fingers run over the cold metal, trigger finger aligned with the barrel.

Thumbing the release, she flicks the cylinder out of the frame to inspect the circle of wooden bullets in the chamber. Blowing air through the exposed rear of the barrel, she picks away the splinters of wood that litter the opening.

They're still not as good as Argyle's. Dammit, how does he make them so perfect, I don't– Nancy bites her tongue, uses the sting to try to rein in her thoughts again as she continues to inspect the revolver and the bullets inside.

"Ever the sore loser, Wheeler," Robin sighs as she leans back against the door, still across the room.

"Shut up, no I'm not. Besides, this is different."

"Different how? You against the weather, you against Fred and the school paper–" Nancy winces with a silent rest in peace “–now you against Henry. Well, I guess it's now you against Argyle against Henry.”

"The difference is that this is actually important. If we're ever going to take down Henry and his hounds I need to get just as good, if not better at this. The wrong sigil or the wrong shape and weight of the bullet is life and death, and death is not an option. I need to get this right."

Robin whistles low. Nancy can picture the scrunch of her nose without having to look back. "Okay, yeah, you're right. That– it's different."

I'm always right, cheater, Nancy thinks with a smirk, knows not to speak or else expose her amusement.

"Except I don't cheat, so you're not actually always right. But, honestly, this weather game you've got going on… I don't know Nance, this one feels a little teeny-tiny bit like cheating. The weather man's been talking about this storm all week."

"No! I mean, yes, technically he has, but they're still not sure if it’s going to hit us as a tropical storm or a hurricane. I obviously don’t want it to be anything more than a storm, but my bet is hurricane.

"It's been light showers and tropical storm force winds all week, but today is the day. They’re going to announce it picked up over the Atlantic, you watch. Florida weather is already so unpredictable and–"

As if on queue the emergency alarm system blares through the speakers of her radio and Nancy nearly jumps out of her skin, making Robin cackle.

"Shut up. You know my hearing is different from yours," Nancy mutters around her own fit of giggles, lowering the volume as Frank's static voice cuts through. He announces fervently the list of counties that are under tropical storm advisories, including theirs, urging everyone to begin any last minute prep for the fast approaching storm if they haven't already.

"Tropical storm? What- I was so sure it was going to upgrade overnight. I mean, obviously I’m not saying I want a category five or anything, but not even a CAT one?” Nancy mutters with a pout, turning the volume down to a low buzz.

“I know it’s not the Once in a Lifetime Hurricane you were expecting, but a storm is coming in today. As your unofficial ref, I say you won today’s bet.”

“Yeah okay,” Nancy says with a self-deprecating roll of her eyes, the corners of her mouth slipping into a sheepish grin. It's dumb, I know.

"Nothing you do is dumb, Wheeler," Robin says quietly around a chuckle, her hands rising preemptively in apology. But, Nancy doesn't comment on it, can't bring herself to act peeved at the intrusion, instead allows herself a genuine smile.

Nancy’s amusement is only short lived. She redirects her attention towards the gun still in her hand, knocking the wooden bullets out of the extractor and onto her desk where she rolls one of the crudely carved bullets underneath her fingers, unimpressed by her own work.

Another crack of lightning illuminates the room, this time the accompanying crash of thunder following sooner than it had before. With a resigned sigh Nancy reaches out to change the station, today’s bet against the weather officially over.

Dreams starts sifting through the speakers and Nancy tenses, looks over in time to catch the look that masks Robin's face the moment the song registers. Her fingers are immediately back on the dial.

"It’s okay. You don't have to change it, it's fine," Robin says, voice soft.

Nancy hesitates. "Are you sure? I don’t mind changing it."

"No… I mean, yeah? Shit." Robin mutters. After a moment that feels like an eternity passes her eyes slip shut, a pained wince shadowing her features as Stevie Nick's floaty vocals carry their way around the room.

Nancy's fingers twitch, itching to reach out and turn the radio off all together. Instead she waits, barely flinching at the crack of thunder that seems to shake the entire complex. Robin exhales a shaky breath with another low muttered curse. Eventually she nods, opens her eyes as the instrumental breaks and her gaze immediately locks on Nancy.

Nancy watches as the harsh lines between her brows melt away with the slow guitar bridge, Nancy’s own heartbeat moving with the faster drum beat. Robin takes a shallow breath, steadier, and she clears her throat.

"Honestly, I’ve kinda missed this. It used to drive me absolutely bonkers trying to understand how two complete flower children like my parents could have ended up stranded in a town like Hawkins. I used to dream of life after seventeen, ya know... Bella Donna promised a life of adventure.

"But then I turned seventeen and our lives went to shit... What I’d give to come home and find my mom in the middle of our living room, stoned, dancing to Fleetwood Mac."

Robin sniffs quietly with a quick succession of teary blinks that makes Nancy’s own heart ache as she thinks of her own family back home. She wants to take the steps that will carry her across the room, wants to take Robin's hands in her own, help carry the pain that's all too familiar, to hold her.

She doesn't. She musters up what she hopes is an encouraging smile. Robin grins back, line of her mouth tight before she resigns herself to looking out the window. Nancy takes it with a quick swipe to her nose before she turns back to her desk.

They remain silent for a while.

Nancy goes over the carvings, jotting down notes for later. The only noise that fills the space is the music from the radio, her pen scratching along the paper, and the occasional clank as she snaps the barrel of the revolver in and out of the frame.

They remain content in the quiet as the chorus of thunder continues to crack in the distance.

After some time Nancy turns her head to prop her chin onto her own shoulder. In the safety of shadowed light, she allows herself to look.

Robin is looking out the window, watching the angry dark clouds continue to creep in across the sky. The coming storm casts shadows and light across her face. If Nancy focuses hard enough she can almost see the reflection of it in her eyes.

Heavy rain starts to fall and the room darkens even further, heat from the little bit of sun the day had to offer slowly dissipating. The wind howls and Nancy can only just hear the birds in their nest, their silent chirps nearly hidden behind the sound of the wind as the tree that houses their nest trembles.

"I'm not cheating, by the way."

Nancy speaks suddenly, her voice soft. Robin turns to look at her. When her brows pull together and her lips pout in question Nancy has to look away. She focuses on Robin's hands, her fingers interlocked and laid against her stomach.

Nancy chokes on a swallow, attempts to hide it with a cough as she turns back to her desk. “Today, the storm. I'm using context clues, taking the hints nature has to offer. It’s Journalism 101. ‘Don’t just ask if it’s raining; go look .’

"You, though, hearing my thoughts with all your witchy magic? That's definitely cheating."

"Fair point,” Robin murmurs with a chuckle. "In my defense, Wheeler, if you don't want me to have access to your thoughts, have you considered…"

Nancy hums when Robin doesn't continue, half focused on cleaning up the mess of her desk. She shuffles note cards of the sigils she's been learning and stacks them neatly atop a book of supernatural studies.

She continues to skim the titles of cut out newspaper articles she's been using to track Henry and his pack as she waits. After no response she shoves them unceremoniously below the pile of neatly handwritten pages dotted with information she's picked up about the hybrids from Argyle.

She's inspecting the edge of her blade when she hums again. A nudge. The other part of her, the most demanding part, is still waiting, reverted to being completely attuned to all things Robin Buckley. She tampers the fluttering in her chest, or at least she tries to as she sets down the dagger and unearths a random article, tries to settle her nerves and focus on the words on the page.

The door creaks as Robin finally pulls herself away from it and Nancy’s stomach swoops as the energy shifts inside the room, mirroring to the torrent that plays outside.

She can hear the pop as Robin pulls on her fingers, the way she shakes her hand out. Robin spins the ring on her thumb as she makes her way across the room with a ghost of a smile on her lips, one Nancy knows is there without having to look back.

Another passing moment and Nancy clears her throat. Have I considered what? She thinks, doesn't trust her voice to not give her away.

"Have you, Nancy Wheeler, considered…" Robin's voice is low, scratchy, and it sends a shiver down Nancy's spine. The articles crinkle in her hands as she makes a desperate physical grab for control of her nerves.

The lights flicker and Nancy shudders. Nancy inhales deeply as Robin approaches from behind. She closes her eyes, sinks into the familiar scent and warmth that washes over.

"Have you considered not thinking about me?" Robin's voice is barely a whisper.

Nancy nods, perfect brows pulling together with a dazed shake of her head because- "Of course I have."

"So, why don't you?"

I can't.

"Why not?"

Because I'm pretty sure I’m in love with you.

part two soon!

#LexsSummerFanworksChallenge #ronance #ronance fic #nancy wheeler #robin buckley #it's a hurricane of emotions is what it is #god im so excited to break them soon <3 (im lying im actually dreading it)#supernatural creatures au #3.4k words #my*stuff

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