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zepskies · 7 months

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Smoke Eater - Part 6

Pairing: Firefighter!Dean Winchester x F. Reader

Summary: Dean Winchester is the cocky, but well-respected Lieutenant at Firehouse 25. He leads by example, but he’s also known to break a few hearts. He’s starting to crave something he’s never had, though. Something stable. Something real.

That’s when he meets you, on a truly terrible day, trapped in a rickety old elevator.

🔥 Series Masterlist

Word Count: 7,000 Tags/Warnings: Fluff, jealousy, angst, hurt/comfort

Part 6: “Just Casual”

A few days after the house fire that claimed the life of Paul Richardson, father of two, Chief Bobby Singer was joined in his office by Detectives Winchester and Novak, along with his resident Squad Captain and Truck Lieutenant, Benny and Dean.

“The Richardson fire has officially been determined an arson,” Bobby revealed.

“They found a time-delay incendiary device hidden in the attic. No fingerprints. But that’s not even the odd thing,” he said. “The medical examiner found a brand mark on his wrist that was inconsistent with his other burns. Which is why you’re here, I reckon.”

Bobby directed his gaze at both John and Cas, who didn’t look surprised to hear this news.

Dean raised a brow. His gaze shifted to his father, but John only met his stare for a moment before he answered Bobby’s unspoken question.

“We’ve been investigating a series of murders in the area over the past six months,” John said. “Each victim died in their home, with the same brand somewhere on their body. Typically the wrist, or the back of the neck.”

“So we officially have a serial killer turned arsonist on our hands,” Bobby concluded. His attention shifted to Benny and Dean. “Keep this close to the vest, but keep your eyes open.”

“Arsonists are hard to catch,” Dean said, looking to the detectives. “What do you know about this guy?”

Cas glanced at John. The older man could feel his stare, but had to ignore it for now.

“Not much as of yet,” John said. “Right now he’s a coil of smoke, if you’ll pardon the phrase. Our psychologist says he’s most likely a white male, statistically speaking. College educated, or at the very least intelligent, efficient, and so far, he thinks every step through. Like he said, no prints. But the brand is a message.”

“To who, and why, is what we’ve been trying to figure out,” Cas added. “We think that’s the key to pinpointing a suspect.”

“Really,” Dean said. He raised a brow and crossed his arms. “Six months, and that’s all you’ve got?”

“Dean,” John started, but the Lieutenant shook his head.

“Come on, Dad. I know you. Who is this guy?”

“Dean, this is the best I can give you right now, but believe me, we’re working on it,” John said, that tone that boded no further argument.

Bullshit, Dean wanted to shoot back. But he held his tongue for now. He knew that John wouldn’t budge. Instinct still told Dean that his father was holding something back though.

As the men filtered out of Bobby’s office, Dean held Cas back for a moment.

“Watch the old man’s back, all right,” Dean said. “He’s got a penchant for being reckless.”

Cas gave him a wry, pointed look. “I’m doing my best. Winchesters are a stubborn lot.”

Dean smirked and walked out with him. Meg was headed inside, having just come in from an ambulance call. She smiled when she saw her boyfriend.

“Hey, lover,” she greeted. And she smacked his ass in front of God and the entire Rescue Squad, who liked to sit outside the firehouse and play cards at their table.

Ramirez and the others smirked and called out their customary whoops and cat calls. Dean smirked at the actual blushing discomfort that tightened up Cas’s face and shoulders.

“Dinner tonight at Casablanca’s, right?” Meg asked, unfazed by the catcalling peanut gallery.

“Right,” Cas said stiffly. But he still brushed her cheek with his thumb in affection. “See you later.”

“Yep,” she nodded, though she shot Dean a wry brow. “What? I stole your boyfriend. Get over it.”

She continued on her path back inside the firehouse, leaving Dean and Cas to stare after her in annoyance and begrudging fondness, respectively.

Dean turned to his friend and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Good luck and Godspeed, my friend. That woman’s fuckin’ terrifying.”

Cas gave him a lazy salute as he walked away. He found that John had already started up their police car. He was in the driver’s seat, as always, with a hand resting casually on the steering wheel.

Dean typically sat in much the same way. Cas thought both men were more comfortable in a car than anywhere else in life. Except, maybe, the precinct and the firehouse.

Cas slid into the passenger seat and gave his partner a knowing look.

“I still think you should tell Sam and Dean what’s really happening here,” he said.

John looked over at him with an almost unreadable expression. But they had been partners for a few years now; long enough for Cas to get a read on the older veteran.

“I understand why you want to keep them out of this, but now this guy is starting fires. Here, in Dean’s district,” Cas pointed out. “Wouldn’t it be safer for him if he had clearer eyes walking into the next one?”

If, God forbid, something should go wrong on the next call Dean responded to, John would never forgive himself. Both he and Cas knew this, but John never answered his partner’s question. He didn’t want his sons getting their noses in this just yet, even if it meant the worry he saw in Dean’s eyes.

So he put the car in “drive” and peeled away from the firehouse.

Trying to match your schedule with Dean’s was a challenge you two were trying to figure out. Though you’d fallen into a pattern of talking on the phone to fill the void when you two couldn’t meet.

Even after almost two more weeks and a third date, you were pleasantly surprised that you and Dean still had plenty to talk about. You told him more about your childhood with your grandparents, while he told you funny stories about him and Sam growing up with their dad, though he was often gone while working on cases.

It was family friend and Fire Chief, Bobby Singer who looked after them whenever John couldn’t, or his old partner Jody Mills, or even Ellen Harvelle, owner of the Roadhouse.

The more you learned about Dean, the more invested you became. And he listened to you when you went on tangents about new recipes you wanted to try out (as long as he got to be your official Taste Tester).

You two argued, playfully and fervently, about music. And you’d been creating a list of old shows the other hadn’t seen, but absolutely needed to.

Dean had suggested Dukes of Hazzard, for example, while you suggested Smallville. You each only agreed to put up with this list if you two watched it together. (Needless to say, there would be some marathon binge watching in your future.)

You particularly took notice though, when Dean invited you to join him at the Roadhouse to meet Cas, one of his best friends, and his girlfriend Meg. You’d invited Andréa to come along, and even Dean’s friend Benny, who she’d also been seeing ever since that night at the Roadhouse.

Apparently, the couple had their own plans.

You tried not to feel some type of way about her brush-off, but your friend had been increasingly distant since she met Benny Lafitte. However, you supposed you couldn’t judge. You hadn’t been calling her as much either, ever since you met Dean.

You knew that if you kept dating him, some adjustments would have to come in your life. You also promised yourself that you’d never be someone who forgot your friends for a man…even for a man like Dean Winchester.

Tonight, however, you’d come directly from work to meet him at the bar. It made more sense than to make him come pick you up from your house, so you sat with a ginger ale while you waited. He’d promised you via text that he was on the way, just stuck in traffic.

Okay, drive safe. 😘 Don’t speed, please.

You knew how he liked floor the Impala with that damn lead foot of his.

No promises. 🏎️

You wanted to roll your eyes, but you were smiling unconsciously as you read his reply.

You were soon knocked out of your thoughts when a smooth voice said your name. You looked up and to your right, and there stood a familiar face. The man greeted you with an easy smile as he sat down next to you.

“I thought that was you,” he said. He reached out his hand and re-introduced himself. “Gordon Walker. Not sure if you remember me.”

“Oh, yes! Of course I do, Gordon,” you smiled and shook his hand.

“It’s good to see you again,” he said. His dark eyes subtly took you in from head to toe in your skirt, heels, and blouse. “Though I’ve gotta admit, I’ve never seen you here before.”

“Ah, right,” you said. “Well—”

Before you could explain, Gordon held up a finger as he noticed your drink of choice.

“Oh, wait a sec. Let me get you something stronger than soda,” he said. He started to flag down Jo, but you shook your head and made a cutting motion with your hand.

“Uh, no, that’s okay,” you said. “I’m waiting for someone.”

“What?” Gordon asked.

It was getting busy in the bar, making it loud enough that you could understand why he hadn’t heard you. You leaned over towards his ear.

“I’m good for now, thanks,” you said, raising your voice a bit. Gordon leaned in even closer and chanced resting a hand above your knee.

“You sure?” he asked. He gave you a smile that was all smooth sex appeal and confidence, without being arrogant.

It was undoubtedly attractive, but you were more shocked than charmed in your blush. You instinctively leaned back when you felt his hand on your thigh. Your hand clenched on the counter.

While your brain scrambled to figure out a response that would successfully remove it (without snapping rudely like you were itching to), a hand slipped along your lower back.

You jolted a bit in your seat with a flare of unease, until you turned your head and found Dean.

“Hey, baby,” he greeted, and dropped a kiss at your hairline. He also clapped a heavy hand on Gordon’s shoulder and squeezed. The other man graciously got the hint and leaned back, withdrawing his hand from your thigh.

“Hi,” you said, finally able to breathe a bit easier. You gave Dean a smile, and he returned it.

He looked over at his friend with a sharper smile. “Hey, Gord. How’s your night goin’?”

“Good.” Gordon nodded, now with a knowing gleam in his eye. “Though I’m sure your night’s gonna go better.”

You weren’t sure how to take that remark, considering the way Dean reacted with a tighter expression and pursed lips. Then, they flickered at a smile.

“Well, we’re meeting up with Meg and Cas in a minute. You should join us,” Dean said. Even though his tone wasn’t so very inviting. The two men seemed to have a wordless conversation between the lines that you couldn’t decipher.

Gordon shook his head, but raised his drink. “No worries, you guys hang. I’m leaving in a few.”

“All right. Let us know if you change your mind,” Dean said. He thumped Gordon once more on the back, more friendly this time.

Dean’s other hand slipped around your waist. He tapped you on the side.

“Come on, I’ve got us a table. It’s quieter,” he said.

You nodded and slid out of your seat. You offered Gordon a polite smile, even if you’d rather not.

“Have a good night,” you said.

The other man’s smile was less flirtatious and more polite this time as well.

“You too,” he said.

Dean helped you onto your feet, like the gentleman he was, and he continued to lead you away from the bar with a hand on the small of your back. You instinctively pressed against his side to squeeze past the throng of patrons.

When you reached a high-top table in the corner, he pulled out your chair and held your hand as you climbed up in your skirt. You thanked him with a more genuine smile. Though once he was seated next to you, you leaned towards him and laid a hand on his arm, which rested on the table.

“I tried to tell him I was waiting for you. He took me by surprise,” you whispered.

Dean’s brows rose, but his face soon evened out with a smile. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Don’t worry about it. He didn’t know about us,” he said. “He was shootin’ his shot…a bit aggressively. Sorry about that.”

“Oh…it’s okay. Nothing I haven’t dealt with before,” you replied. Though butterflies ran through your belly when you considered what us meant.

You noted his frown at what you’d said though, and so you aimed to change the subject.

“But Cas and Meg know, right?” you asked.

Dean nodded. His frown started to lift. “Yeah. Cas is one of my best friends. Meg is…well. She’s the little sister I wish I didn’t have.”

You shook your head in amusement. Then you let out a squeal as Dean hooked a foot around the leg of your chair and brought you closer. He stopped you from becoming too unbalanced by wrapping an arm around your waist. You clenched your hands into the open panels of his plaid shirt, and his charming smile greeted you.

“Hi,” he said.

You laughed. “Yeah, you mentioned that earlier.”

“Well, I’m doing it right this time,” he said. And he dipped down for a lingering kiss.

Across the bar was Jo Harvelle, doing her job behind the counter. She poured five shots in succession and doled them out to a party of frat bros without even looking.

Her eyes were drawn to the back corner of the bar, where you and Dean sat closely together, exchanging whispers and the occasional steamy kiss.

“Mind your business,” came Ellen’s whisper in her ear.

Jo whipped her head to glare softly at her mother, but she saw Ellen’s point. It was both obvious and pathetic of her to stare.

Despite the unease making her feel a bit sick to her stomach, Jo went over to Gordon down at the end. His sympathetic smile bothered her; she knew then she hadn’t just been caught by her mother.

“Interesting, isn’t it?” he remarked.

“What?” Jo said. She began wiping down his area of the counter. “Would it kill you to keep it in the glass?”

Gordon gave her an amused look as he sat back in his seat. His tumbler of whiskey was drained.

“Look, I’m sorry, all right?” he said.

Both of them knew he wasn’t apologizing for the spill.

Jo’s brows knitted together, mostly in annoyance. “Again, for what?”

“I know it’s gotta be hard to see him actually moving on,” he replied.

Her lips pursed, and her eyes darted to the back of the room again. She stared for a moment at the side of your face.

“Knowing him, whatever it is won’t last,” she muttered.

Gordon hissed at the "burn," with a deep chuckle. She knew her words weren’t kind, but it was how she felt.

“That may be,” he allowed. “But he’s not just chasing tail anymore. That’s what scares you.”

Gordon dropped a nice tip for her next to his glass. He grabbed his coat off the back of his chair and left Jo with the churning in her gut.

Cas and Meg finally arrived a few minutes later.

Dean knew you’d been to the Roadhouse before, but this was different. You were meeting some of his friends, and he realized how much he wanted you to. He felt…comfortable around you. And he wanted his friends to know you, and to like you.

“As you know, Meg’s our Paramedic in Charge over at 25,” he began, gesturing at the woman as she got settled in her seat.

You admired her long brown hair, tall boots, and black leather jacket. She seemed to ooze confidence and dark charisma as she tossed you a smirk.

“Guilty,” she said.

You smiled back. Dean gestured at her boyfriend next, clad in a beige trench coat, slacks, and blazer.

“And Cas, who bravely suffers being my dad’s partner on the job.”

Cas nodded wryly at the introduction. His dark hair and blue eyes were striking, you could admit. His tie was loose and slightly rumpled. Along with the stubble coating his face, he was handsome, if a bit scruffy. It was hard for you to believe he’d earned the top scores his year in the Police Academy, but you supposed that looks could be deceiving.

“What’s that like?” you asked with a smirk. “From what I’ve heard about John Winchester, he sounds like he’s a bit of a hard-ass.”

Dean barked with a dry laugh. “An understatement.”

“He has a crab-like shell,” Cas agreed. “But he has a soft center where it counts, not unlike his sons.”

You turned to Dean with a more teasing smile. “Aww…”

He rolled his eyes, even though his arm, which had been draped across the back your chair, now dropped to curl around your waist.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever, Columbo,” he remarked at his blue-eyed friend.

Always had to get the last dig in, it seemed, but you couldn’t help but laugh a little along with Meg at Cas’s expense.

“You guys all seem really close,” you said. It was nice for you to see.

Dean shrugged like it was no big deal. Or rather, like it was commonplace.

“Well, maybe family ain’t just about blood,” he said.

Meg rolled her eyes. “Ugh. What a friggin’ sap.”

“You love it,” Dean grinned. She smiled, begrudgingly.

Family ain’t just about blood.

You liked that sentiment as well. It seemed to be true here.

Even Ellen Harvelle treated Dean like a son when she came over to greet your table. She kissed his cheek and gave Meg and Cas’s shoulders a squeeze. Even you got a warm hand on your shoulder when she introduced herself.

“Welcome, hun. I understand it’s not your first time here, but if you got any questions on the menu, you let me know,” she said.

Dean shot you a conspiratorial smile, and it got you wondering what he was about to do.

“I mean, I don’t know why you don’t put the order in for chili fries the second you see me come through the door,” he teased. “Come on, Ellen. How long’ve I been coming here? Since before I had a license?”

Ellen narrowed her eyes and flicked the side of Dean’s head, regardless of his flinching protest.

“Don’t you go sayin’ that so damn loud,” she reproached. “You never drank underage at my bar.”

His eyes averted with a smile, in a way that told you Ellen was a damn liar. You bit your lip to try and hide your smile.

“Anyway, I’ll get your damn fries—”

“And a beer,” Dean interjected. She rolled her eyes.

“And a beer. Four?” she pointed at the rest of you, and you, Cas, and Meg nodded in agreement.

“All right, four beers. Anything else, darlin’?” She looked at you with a mother’s charm.

You looked up from the menu and unconsciously smiled.

“Um, sure. Can I get the chicken sandwich?”

She patted your shoulder. “You sure can.”

Ellen then took the rest of their orders without writing a thing down. You were impressed by her memory. At the end though, Dean didn’t let her go without a hand on her arm.

“Thanks, Ellen,” he said with a more sincere smile.

“A-huh,” she replied, with all due sarcasm. But there was a fondness in her eyes that was hard to miss when she playfully grabbed the back of his neck. “Knucklehead.”

A giggle escaped you, and Ellen tossed you a wink before she went to put in the orders and get the drinks.

Conversation flowed easier when the alcohol came. One beer became two, and even three (four, for Meg). By then, you were sure it was one beer too many for yourself, but you didn’t want to be the odd one out. You were mostly listening to the three of them bounce back and forth between reminiscing with old stories and roasting one another mercilessly.

It was hilarious and entertaining, but you were trying not to get caught in the crosshairs of the volleying. Inevitably though, Meg’s attention turned to you with a certain sly smile.

“You must be real special,” she remarked, gesturing at Dean. “He usually doesn’t bring his girls around here, where he actually likes to hang out. Guess that’d mean he’d have to see ‘em again with the lights on.”

You blinked in surprise.

“Meg,” Dean’s voice cut like a warning.

Your eyes widened as you took in the change, his deeper voice, his more serious gaze, versus Meg’s nonchalance. Even Cas gave her a chiding look.

“Not sure I want to know what that means,” you tried to joke.

But you could guess. It was fairly obvious.

You glanced over at Dean, whose lips pursed. Before either of you could say anything more, Meg chimed in.

“Oooh, is this gonna be your first fight?” she teased.

Dean’s brows furrowed with a glare. “That’s enough.”

“And that’s our cue,” Cas nodded. He’d already slipped out his wallet as soon as his girlfriend started talking. He left a generous few bills to cover their half of the night, plus tip, and got up out of his seat. He claimed his coat and then encouraged Meg off her chair.

“What? I’m not done with my beer,” she protested.

“I think you are,” Cas said.

Meg scoffed, but she allowed his manhandling as he wrapped a supportive arm around her waist.

“You’re not the boss of me, Clarence,” she snipped.

“Certainly not,” he agreed. “But you’re a lightweight. Time to go home, before you insult the entire bar.”

“You’re no fucking fair,” she groused, hitting his chest over his jacket. Cas leveled you and Dean with a long-suffering look of apology.

Dean waved him off with a “no sweat it” look and a shake of his head. Meg annoyed the shit out of him sometimes, especially when she was drunk. He turned to you with a sigh.

“Again, sorry about that. I didn’t think I’d have to apologize for my friends more than once tonight,” he said.

You shook your head. “It’s...okay. Overall, they were really fun.”

Dean scoffed. “I don’t think Cas has been called fun even once in his life.”

You smiled in amusement, but Meg’s words still swirled around in your head like heady wine.

“Dean,” you began, but your attempt to broach the issue was cut off by his cell phone ringing. He gave you an apologetic look and fished in his pocket for his phone. His brows rose when he saw the caller ID.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I gotta take this,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

“Oh, okay—” You’d barely nodded when Dean was up and out of his chair, heading out of the bar. You could still see him through one of the faded glass doors as he held the phone up to his ear.

It was late, and quieter now. A blonde server came to take your plates, and you actually remembered her.

“Oh, hi! Jo, right?” you asked. She hesitated when you spoke, but she bobbed her head.

“That’s me,” she said. “Can I get you anything else?”

“No, I’m good. Thanks,” you said with a smile. “I met your mom. She’s really nice.”

Jo uttered a wry laugh as she stacked the plates and silverware. You helped her collect the silverware and empty beer bottles.

“Yeah, when you get her good side,” she replied.

You smirked at that, remembering how Ellen snapped back and forth with Dean. You had no doubt that woman could be a pistol if you pissed her off.

“Well, it's nice here,” you admitted, once again taking stock of the décor. The music, the warm lighting, the good food… “It’s cozy.”

Jo’s smile quirked to one side as she paused.

“Well, it’s been in my family for three generations of Harvelles,” she said. “This was my father’s favorite place in the world.”

You caught the note of melancholy in her words, in her eyes.

“Was?” you echoed. She met your gaze and nodded.

“He was a firefighter,” she said. “He died on the job.”

You dimmed considerably. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Jo only nodded.

“How did he…” Your curiosity got the best of you, but you soon shook your head and backtracked. “Never mind, you don’t have to explain.”

“It was a fire that wasn’t properly vented,” Jo answered your half-spoken question. Her blue eyes were heavier. “He got caught in an updraft…but he actually worked at Firehouse 25. He was their brother. That’s why this’ll always be their place.”

You processed that with a slow nod of wonder.

“It’s good that you and your mom will always have that support,” you said eventually. “Even though…it might be hard too, to always be reminded.”

Jo’s lips quirked again. “It’s more the first one, but…sometimes the second one. A lot of these guys have known me since I had braces. It’s hard to shake that perpetual little sister thing.”

You smiled at that. “Yeah, I’d imagine that gets old real quick. A bunch of over-protective older brothers.”

“Overbearing, more like,” she scoffed. You laughed.

Unconsciously, you glanced over to the front of the bar, where you saw Dean still on the phone. You remembered the second date you were meant to have, when he was late due to a five-car pileup his team responded to.

You remembered that night he called you for the first time, after a long day he didn’t want to tell you about. He’d let you distract him instead. All the while, it had you wondering what he’d seen. What he’d responded to that day.

Had it been another car accident? A fire? What made someone as upbeat and funny and smooth as Dean seem to lose all the life in his voice?

Though while you were lost in your thoughts, Jo was watching you.

Jealousy roiled inside her, unbidden. She didn’t want to hate you, because unlike the girls Dean usually messed around with, you had some self-respect. Jo heard Meg’s snide clips at you earlier, and no one could fake the surprise in your eyes. Unless you were just that good a damn actor…

But no, she didn’t get that vibe from you.

It didn’t mean she had to like you though.

“You’re right to think twice,” Jo said, earning your attention back with a swivel of your head. “What Meg said…she wasn’t wrong. Dean’s broken a few hearts, if you catch my drift.”

Just a few well-placed words, Jo thought. She realized then that she had the power to twist the wrench here, widening the gap between you and Dean. Feed your doubts.

She didn’t have to feel bad about it if it was the truth.

And yet…she saw the way your gaze fell. The disappointment setting in, the anxious clench of your hands on the table. You glanced over at Dean again out of the corner of your eye.

Jo realized then just what she was doing, not just to Dean, but to herself.

You’re not some petty bitch, she dully reminded herself.

“But,” she found herself adding. You raised your gaze back to her. Jo let out a subtle breath.

“It’s not always his fault,” she admitted. And maybe she was speaking a bit too much from experience. “The job demands a lot from him.”

Slowly, you nodded. You looked pensive, but not like you’d made up your mind.

Fine, Jo thought, as she collected the dishes and left your table.

She didn’t know if she wanted to sway you one way or the other on taking a chance on Dean Winchester.

While you were talking to Jo, Dean was taking his father’s unexpected call.

“Hey, Dad. What’s up?” he said.

“Hey, son. How are ya?” John’s voice was gruff and tired. Dean frowned to hear it.

“I’m good. I’m out right now, but did you need something?”

“Have you responded to any fires lately?”

“You mean like the Richardson fire?” Dean asked pointedly. “No, haven’t had one since. And no cattle prod brandings either.”

“All right, good. Just checking in.”

Good? Dean thought. John would be chomping at the bit for a new arson. If he was “just checking in,” then he was worried about something. Is he worried about me?

“What’s going on? Is there something I need to know?” Dean asked in suspicion. This was why he had taken the call. “Seriously, you can tell me. I’m not even gonna bitch at you like Sam does.”

John chuckled. But then he hesitated. Dean knew he’d hit on something.

“Dad?” he pressed.

John’s sigh was a heavy one. “Okay. What I’m about to tell you, you don’t fucking repeat. Not to anyone, you understand me? Not even your brother.”

Dean’s brows furrowed in trepidation. “Okay, fine. What the hell is it?”

“Richardson, the father of two?” John reminded. “He was a lawyer, linked to a money laundering scheme through a company called Stull Storage. It’s an old company, dates back to the seventies.”

“Okay…”

As John continued to explain, the more confused Dean became…

About 30 years ago, John Winchester had been a young, but promising officer in the Narcotics division. He’d married young, and by then was just barely clearing the five-year mark. Already he had the house he’d inherited from his wife’s parents, a four-year-old son, and a newborn.

Stull Storage’s units were used by a drug ring that John had been trying to infiltrate, undercover. Those units had stored cocaine, illegal weapons, and other flavors of contraband, mostly from South America (and back).

“We got close to breaking that case, once, but after the fire…I transferred out of Narcotics, as you know,” John said.

Dean knew the real story there. After his mom died, his father went into a spiral, trying to find whoever set that fire—even after the Fire Department found no evidence of arson. John had eventually been forced out of Narcotics. He requested Homicide.

As he’d told Dean once when he was extremely drunk: I seem to do better at my job when the bodies are already dead.

“Now I know that I was right about your mother’s death,” John said.

Dean released a shaky sigh. “Aw, man. Not this again, Dad. For Christ’s sake.”

“There was something wrong about that fire, Dean,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over Dean’s objections. “I just didn’t find the connection…until now.”

Dean muttered a curse under his breath. His gaze fell to the ground. Sam was usually the one who drew a hard line at hearing any more about their mom’s supposed murder, but now Dean had reached the end of his tether. It was too much.

He glanced back through the glass doors to make sure you were okay. He saw you talking to Jo, and he frowned at himself.

Here you were, waiting on him back in the bar, and his dad was calling him in the middle of the night, chasing ghosts again.

“Look…it’s been my whole damn life with this.” Dean held the phone to his ear with one hand, and rubbed at his forehead with the other. “I just can’t do this with you anymore.”

“Dean, listen,” John urged. “You wanna know what I’m digging into, this is it. I got Mary’s file unsealed.”

Dean’s eyes widened. “What? Thought you couldn’t do that without new evidence and a court order.”

“Well, I’ve got the evidence…maybe I was a bit impatient with the court order.”

Dean rolled his eyes. His father liked to play a little fast and loose with the rules.

“At the time, the medical examiner dismissed it. She’d been burned…” John paused on a deeper breath. “But I saw it. Mary had a burn on her wrist. It was the same brand found on Richardson. On Jerry Stillwell, CPA. Amanda Waller, journalist. It’s all connected, Dean. How they’re connected to one another, I’m not sure yet. We’re still digging…but I do know this. Richardson was a message.”

Dean’s back hit the wall of the Roadhouse. His brows furrowed as he struggled to digest everything John was saying.

“A message?” he asked. “To who?”

“To me, I think. Those kids, and their mother…you got ‘em out alive, but they weren’t meant to,” John said, his voice sounding heavy. "The wife told me her husband was erratic when he got home, holding his wrist. He'd been burned before the fire. He wouldn't say what happened...then they smelled the goddamn smoke."

"Shit," Dean replied. He leaned heavily against the wall, pressing a hand to his forehead. There was an ache starting between his eyes.

“Yeah," John agreed. "The drug ring I was investigating, when I was in Narcotics. I was getting close. And I mean close. I was about to get the Big Kahuna. The kingpin of the whole operation…and then the house fire.”

Fuck. Dean wiped at his mouth anxiously as he realized what John was saying. Fuck.

“He burned me, Dean. He must have,” John said. Meaning, the drug lord he was trying to pin down somehow discovered his identity. “Your mom paid the price of that.”

“Who is this guy?” Dean asked. His hand holding the phone was starting to tremble.

“I still don’t know his real name. Workin’ on that one too,” John said. “But they called him Azazel.”

When Dean eventually hung up with his father and returned to you at the bar, he saw you brighten. But you soon dimmed with a tinge of worry. Something of his thoughts must’ve shown on his face.

Shit. He tried his best to school his features.

“Hey, sorry about that,” he said, grasping your shoulder. “I’ll take you home.”

“I met you here, remember?” you asked.

Dean paused, then shook his head. Get it together, asshole.

“Right," he said. "Well, I’ll walk you to your car. Let me just pay real quick.”

After he sorted out the bill (he didn’t know that you’d slipped in an extra $30 in Cas’s stack for your part), he led you out, saying goodbye to Ellen and Jo while you went.

You hesitated when the two of you got to the car. Something wasn’t right with him. And both Jo and Meg’s words still rolled back and forth through your head.

“Dean, are you okay? Who was it on the phone?” you asked.

“I’m fine. It was just my dad, called to have me take a look at his car. We were just arguing about our schedules…I’m sure you can relate,” he replied, trying at a smile.

You weren’t sure if you believed him. Though he was nearly convincing, he was also shifting on his feet, hands in his pockets. His gaze roamed away from yours, above your head and over your shoulder.

“Um, I might’ve had a beer too many,” you said with a half-chuckle. “Could you walk with me for a bit? Just until my head clears enough to drive.”

“I could take you home,” Dean offered.

“And leave my car here?” you asked. In a public parking lot behind a bar?

You shook your head and pointed down the road.

“Just there and back…but if you need to go, I guess I could just sit in my car for a while.”

Dean shook his head with a frown. He couldn’t tell you that a damn serial killer was on the loose.

“No, it’s okay,” he said. “It’s a relatively safe neighborhood, but not so much at night. Not by yourself.”

He laid a hand on your back to start walking with you, but his hand soon fell back to his side. You glanced at him, but he looked straight ahead, unusually quiet and reserved.

It felt like he was checking out of this night with you. Like he just wanted to usher you into the car and leave. Did he just not want to deal with what Meg said?

Letting out a breath, you tried to see if you could broach the subject.

“It was nice to meet some more of your friends,” you said, and with a nervous laugh, “even if it did get awkward there at the end.”

Dean finally looked over at you.

“We never exactly talked about what each of us was looking for,” you said. “What we were really doing here.”

You stood your ground, but you tried not to look censuring. Just open to whatever he might have to say. Even so, unease churned inside you.

Dean sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “Look, she wasn’t exactly wrong about me.”

You considered that with a nod, biting the inside of your lip.

“When was the last time you were in a relationship?” you asked. Dean gave a humorless huff of a laugh. This really was the last thing he wanted to get into tonight, but he had a feeling he had no choice.

“A few months ago, for about a minute,” he said. “But uh, before then…never.”

Together, you began to cross the street while the cars on either side waited at the red light. Pedestrians had the right of way for the next 30 seconds. You looked over at him and steeled yourself.

“Dean, is this is something casual for you?”

“Define casual,” he attempted to joke (or to deflect). Though the bravado fell the moment he saw that look on your face: tight and disappointed…and hurt.

He reached for your hand, but you weren’t having it. You slipped away from him and continued walking at a more brusque clip, even in those platform heels.

“Okay, hold on.” He quickly followed after you and tugged you back by the hand. It had you both stopping in the middle of the crosswalk.

Dean squeezed your hand and peered into your eyes.

“Look, I’m sorry. Don’t close up on me,” he implored. “…Please.”

Despite your better judgment, and your pursed lips, you waited. Something told you this man didn’t often say please.

“The truth is, I’m trying to do something different here with you. I don’t think we would’ve made it to date #4 if we were just casual,” he said. “I’m not playing games either.”

You wanted to trust that he was serious. Once again, your mind and your heart were at odds; the former told you to be wary, while the latter told you to trust the earnestness in his eyes.

Your heart won. “Okay, Dean.”

“Yeah?” he asked, with hopeful brows raised.

“Yeah,” you nodded.

You finally smiled. And you leaned up, resting a hand against his chest, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. His stubble was coarse, but familiar against your lips.

Dean turned his head and leaned in for a proper kiss. His hands found the curve of your waist and brought you closer against his chest. You both sunk deeper into it, your lips gliding as your head tilted into the kiss…

Until a horn honked loudly, making you both jolt at the sound.

The streetlight was green, and several cars were waiting for you to cross. You snorted in amusement, leading Dean to grin down at you. He tugged you back into step with him across the street.

Again, you hesitated at your car. Dean was more himself as he’d held your hand all the way back.

He now held your car door open while you threw in your purse. But when you turned back to him, you still saw something brooding behind his eyes.

You drew near and grasped the open edges of his shirt. This man wore a lot of plaid when he was out of uniform, always with an undershirt. Tonight it was green plaid on gray, complete with some faded jeans and a pair of boots. This was the only “casual” way in which you wanted Dean.

“Hey,” you started.

“Hmm?” he replied, holding you by your arms.

“I get that we haven’t known each other all that long. So you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” you said. “But did something happen when you stepped out? When you talked to your dad?”

Dean paused. His eyes, a pale green under the streetlamp, flicked to yours.

“I just want to know that you’re okay,” you said. “And if you’re not, that’s okay too.”

After a moment to blink in surprise, your earnestness got to him. His grip moved down your arms, and he took one of your hands. His dad’s warning echoed through his mind.

What I’m about to tell you, you don’t fucking repeat. Not to anyone, you understand me? Not even your brother.

Dean knew his dad didn’t make demands without a reason, even if he wasn’t typically so forthcoming with them. But Dean drew enough courage to be as honest as he could be. You deserved that much, after everything you'd put up with tonight.

“My mom died...when I was about four,” he said. “It was a house fire.”

Your eyes widened. All this time, you’d assumed his mother had passed away. You hadn’t expected that, though. You squeezed his hands.

“I’m so sorry,” you said, and you meant it. Dean just shook his head.

“It was ruled an accident. Really they just didn’t have much evidence either way,” he continued. “But uh, my dad’s been obsessed with the idea that it wasn’t. That someone started the fire on purpose… Well, today, he might’ve found his proof.”

He held your gaze for as long as he could, but in the end, he just couldn’t. His chest was tight. Saying those words out loud made them real, and he wasn’t sure of how to handle it.

“Oh, Dean,” you said, starting and stopping, as you struggled to formulate a response that wasn’t just “I’m sorry,” or “Are you okay?”

He clearly wasn’t. You also didn’t want to give him platitudes like, “That’s crazy,” or the ever-inspired: “Wow.”

Or some other variation of what you’re supposed to say. You wanted to give him something honest. Something real.

So you curled your hands around his arms, earning his gaze.

“You must be reeling right now,” you said. “Do you think he’s onto something this time?”

“I don’t know what to think,” said Dean. “I’ve been pressing him for answers, but…honestly? I wish he hadn’t told me a damn thing.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. You were surprised that he actually confided in you with this. But the only thing you could think to do was lean up on your toes and slip your arms around his neck. You hugged him, warm and tight.

You couldn’t even imagine what he was feeling, but you just wanted him to know that someone was there for him. You were there for him.

Dean eventually hugged you back. He held you, reassuring you as well as himself. He blew out a cathartic breath, and his hand came up to cup the back of your head. His lips tugged upwards.

“You’re a sweetheart, you know that?” he said.

A smile spread across your face. Your fingers soothed through his hair gently. You pressed your lips into his neck.

“I aim to please,” you said against his skin.

Dean smiled more fully at that. The new warmth in his chest warred against the roiling in his stomach. Despite his best efforts, his smile faded.

His mom’s killer was still out there.

The thought was haunting his mind, and he knew it probably would for many nights to come.

So for now, he’d just hold you a bit tighter.

AN: 🥲 I honestly didn't mean it to end so angsty, but Dean finally got some much-needed hurt/comfort there! What did you think of how Jo handled her jealous side? And Gordon "shooting his shot" lol.

Coming soon in Part 7, we finally get to a huge milestone between these two lovebirds, with a side helping of baking shenanigans. 😏❤️‍🔥

Next Time:

“Ey, ey!” he raised a warning finger with his free hand. “You’re about to take this to a new level.”

You met his gaze through your lashes with a playful smile. “So?”

Dean raised a brow at you. He could admit, you had audacity. All he could do was call your bluff.

He took one of your battered fingers into his mouth. Your eyes widened at the feel of his soft tongue swirling around your finger, sucking it clean. All the while, his eyes never broke from yours.

Lord have mercy, you thought. Really, it was the only coherent one in your head.

Keep Reading: PART 7

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Series Tag List (Part 1):

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@vanillawhiskeyflavoredkisses @roseblue373 @this-is-me19 @emily-winchester @spnexploration @deans-spinster-witch @deans-baby-momma @iprobablyshipit91

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#Just Casual #Smoke Eater #Part 6 #dean winchester #Firefighter!Dean Winchester #dean winchester x reader #Dean Winchester x female reader #firefighter!Dean Winchester x Reader #dean winchester x you #firefighter AU #dean winchester AU #spn #supernatural #zepskies writes

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macabr3-barbi3 · 2 months

Text

A Practical Demonstration (Alastor/Reader)

The deal you made with Alastor leads to an unexpected demonstration.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/54229351/chapters/137324059

(ayyo I never posted the first and second chapter of this so: here we go!) Chapter 2 Chapter 3

Tags: Sex Toys; Non Sex-Repulsed Alastor; Reader-Insert

“What in the nine rings is that shit?”

“Hi, Angel,” you greet him as he came into your room, not bothering to close the door fully behind him. “As always, nice of you to knock.” You’ve got a wide spread of documents scattered across the desk, various color schemes and books on light studies and all sorts of shit that Velvette had asked you to look into for her. You don’t mind helping out where you can but you had been at this for hours, and Angel showing up unannounced was always a good way to distract you when you were trying to work.

The demon shrugs. “Eh, ya get used to it,” he says with a grin, his sharp teeth coming into view, the gold one glinting in the light from your desk. “But for real, what is that thing?” He points to your nightstand, where the rose toy you neglected to put away sat on proud display.

You flush and race across the room, throwing the toy unceremoniously back inside. “It’s really nothing,” you tell him, and when he approaches you spread your arms out to try to keep him back. “Angel, come on-”

He’s sprouted his third set of arms to reach around you, opening the drawer and pulling your newest gift out from the top. “Come on now, ya don’t gotta be ashamed if it's a sex thing!” He lets it sit in his hand as he poses with the rest of his arms, blinking coyly at you in his new position. “I basically am a sex thing, baby, it don’t bother me none!” He holds it up to inspect, and when he brings it a little too close to his face you drag his arm back away. “Where’d ya get this thing?”

It was a gift from Velvette, something new that Vox and Valentino had created together that your friend had felt compelled to shove into your hands one day. “Keep it on the low, yeah?” She had said, an eyebrow raised and a cocky smirk on her face. “New product, can’t be lettin’ it get in the wrong hands but Satan knows ya ain’t gettin’ any action in that rickety joint of yours.” You had blushed and stammered and protested but ultimately had taken the damn thing, placing it on the nightstand in your room when you returned that day and not touching it beyond the one time you turned it on- just out of curiosity- and saw the force of the suction that it could generate.

“Velvette gave it to me, and it’s a sex toy,” you tell him, and he gives you a knowing look.

“Ahh, she’s still tryna get ya laid, huh?” You close your eyes and give him a tight nod. “She still doesn’t know about your thing for tall and freaky?”

You slam your hands over his mouth, eyes darting to the partially open door, not noticing the shadow that slipped into the room mere moments before. “Angel! Shut up!”

“Whaaaat?” He complains, pulling your hands away from his mouth. “It’s not like it’s a secret- pretty much everyone knows except the Strawberry Pimp himself, and-”

“And,” you interrupt him, taking the toy from his hands and throwing it back into the nightstand, “I would like to keep it that way. And don’t call him that,” you add as an afterthought.

Angel groans as he started walking away. “Spoilsport,” he calls over his shoulder. “Ya never let me have any fun.” He exits the room and purposely leaves the door fully open this time, and with an eye roll you follow him, sure that Charlie and Vaggie have dinner ready by now.

Alastor is there when you stroll into the dining room, his customary smile in place as he looks at the two of you. “Evening, friends!” He greets you, and you give him a smile back. “I’ve saved a seat for you, my dear,” he says, and pulls out the chair to the right of the one he normally sits in.

Your face flushes, and Angel snickers beside you as he goes around the table to sit by Husk. “You don’t have to do that, Alastor,” you tell him, and his grin sharpens dangerously.

“But of course I do,” he says smoothly, quietly, fanning out his napkin to sit across his lap as he sits. “What would dear Velvette think if she knew we weren’t getting along?”

Your spine stiffens, and a glance around the room confirms that no one else had heard him. It was the only point of contention between the two of you, really, the deal that you had made with him to keep Velvette safe from the insanity of the other Vees.

He owned your soul, and any of your knowledge of the more recent aspects of technology on Earth that could potentially help him in taking down Vox. In return, he would not specifically target Velvette when the final confrontation with the Vees took place, content with simply obliterating Vox and Valentino- provided that Velvette did not take any actions directly against him.

Velvette knew about your deal and the part you played in ensuring that when the Vees fell she would not be part of the carnage. They had thrown her under the bus not long before you came to the hotel, placing the blame for a series of footage and info leaks on her social media platforms, and she was more than happy to let someone else seek her revenge for her. She kept the benefits of working with the Vees- ‘no harm done,’ she had told them- and had the extra reassurance that when they fell she would remain on top. She knew you seemed happy enough to work with Alastor when he asked it of you, and was pleased that the deal didn’t seem to be a hardship on you.

He didn’t often use that against you like this though, like her safety was a bargaining chip that went hand in hand with his personal happiness or mood. You hadn’t even said anything bad! Just that he hadn’t needed to save you a seat beside him. You were thrilled, honestly, and just mostly nervous about him catching one of your looks or blushes when you watched him too closely.

You gave him a smile regardless. “Right. I appreciate the gesture then,” you say, and don’t see the way that his grin extends as he watches you sit and start reaching for the food laid out on the table.

Dinner is a strange affair. Throughout the night Alastor seems to keep finding excuses to turn his attention to you, only to harshly refute or ignore what you say in response. His leg is twitchy under the table and keeps knocking against yours, to the point that you turn essentially sideways in your seat to stop it from happening and talk to Vaggie and Charlie instead. At the end of the meal you walk yourself to your room slowly, tired beyond belief, confused and a bit hurt by Alastor’s behavior.

To your surprise, the Radio Demon is in your room when you close the door behind you. You startle a bit, not expecting him, and at the sound he looks up from where he sits at your desk, the documents you had for Velvette organized into a neat stack. “Hello, my dear!” He says, and rises from the chair to approach you. You look to the floor, not wanting him to see the hurt you’re sure is reflected there, but he places a sharp tipped finger under your chin and raises your head to look at him. His smile is softer, his eyes lowered a bit as he gazes down at you.

“I want to apologize for my behavior at dinner,” he says, and you heave a relieved exhale. “Upon reflection I do see that my manners were abysmal, and there was no need to treat you in such a fashion.”

“It’s okay, sir,” you say, but when you start to take a step back more of his fingers come up to grip your face, holding you in place. “Um-”

“Ah ah ah,” he admonishes. “I wasn’t finished. In addition to my apology, I did have a query for you in regards to our deal.”

“Of course,” you tell him, and your heart has started beating a bit harder in your chest now with the way he’s looking at you. It’s impossible to tell when he’s angry with the smile most of the time, but his expression is even more unreadable now than it usually is. “What is it?”

He pauses for a moment. “Is there any form of technology that you are uncomfortable with the thought of showing or demonstrating for me?”

You blink slowly a couple times, the way you’ve seen Lucifer do when he doesn’t understand something that someone has said to him. “Uh. No, sir, I don’t think so.” Part of your ‘job description,’ as Alastor put it, was sometimes showing him non-television style technology and demonstrating its uses for him. You had gone over flip phones, Walkman's, CD players, pagers, and more recently some small tablets and compact computers. Digital cameras were out of the question, as were actual televisions whether they be old or new.

He didn’t like any of them, would have rather not bothered with the whole idea by his own admission. But he felt it necessary to understand what he could about the things that gave Vox so much power over people, and being the most recently dead at the Hotel you had the most up-to-date information. You were also one of the few who didn’t begrudge Alastor his preference for older tech- you had died while AI was a big thing on Earth, and that had freaked you out enough at times that you could appreciate hardwiring that didn’t talk back to you unprompted. Usually he stood a few feet away, far enough back that he could still watch without interrupting any frequencies, and allowed you to walk him through the various uses of the device.

“Lovely!” He says at your response, and then straightens up and crosses the room towards your bed of all places. “Now, I noticed at dinner that you’ve seemed quite out of sorts lately. Are you getting enough rest?”

What?

“Yes, sir, I think so,” you tell him, eying him warily. “I’ve been doing a lot of studying for Velvette to help with her shoots- light composition and all that, but-“

He makes a noise at you, something that sounds like an admonishment. “Come now,” he says, “you mustn’t be neglecting your beauty sleep for a Vee, even if she is the most tolerable of the lot!” He takes a seat on your bed- what? - and gently pats the pillow at the head. “In you go, my dear. I can’t have my little assistant lacking.”

You raise your eyebrows but decide not to argue on the matter. He’s been in a weird mood all night, and you really are quite tired at this point. You approach cautiously, climbing into bed the opposite side of where he sits. “If you say so, Alastor.” You lay back against the pillow, not bothering yet to get under the covers. “I’ll see you in the morning?” You glance towards the door, hoping that he will rise and leave you.

“Hahaha!” He laughs instead, rotating his body so that he can face you more fully. ‘No, I think not my dear! I’ll stay to make sure you get some proper shut-eye.”

Your heart beats faster. No way would you be able to actually sleep with him in the room. “That’s really okay,” you try to tell him, but when you sit up he places a hand gently on your shoulder and guides you back down to the pillow.

“Naughty girl,” he admonishes, and the words send a rush of heat across your face. “I truly insist! You rest up, and I’ll be right here to ensure that you do!”

“Oookay,” you finally agree, and lean back against the pillows stiffly. It's torture for a long few minutes, where you try to regulate your breathing and not focus on the fact that he’s so close to you, in your bed. Eventually though, despite your heartbeat in your throat, you do start to relax a bit.

“Hmmm.” Alastor hums where he sits in the bed next to you, and while his smile is, of course, still present, his eyes have a kind of far off look in them.

“Alastor? Is everything okay?”

“Oh, quite alright!” He says in his typical fashion. “But I must admit I find myself rather curious about something, and I was hoping you could help me gain some enlightenment.”

“Sure; however I can help.”

“Splendid!” He claps his hands together. Your nightstand is enveloped in shadows, and when it re-emerges your rose toy sits front and center on top. You choke on your spit a bit, sputtering as Alastor looks at you. “I heard you mention to Angel Dust that this is a ‘sex toy’ earlier, but you didn’t go into any further detail! What exactly is the function of such a thing?”

You were going to drop double dead right here in your bedroom, with Alastor sitting atop your sheets and looking curiously between you and the toy. “Oh God, uh…” He raises an eyebrow, prompting you to continue, but you can’t seem to find the words. “Shit, um, that’s not really- it’s kinda a private thing,” you sputter out, but he just continues to smile at you as you attempt to sink through the bed, through the floor, into a special kind of Hell reserved for moments as awkward as this one.

“I confess, my dear, a contribution to my terrible manners earlier stemmed from the idea that you might be holding back information.” He plucked the small device off the night stand and turned it this way and that in his hand. “When I thought about how you mentioned to Angel that it was a ‘sex toy,’ though, I realized that we had never established any sort of boundary as far as what kinds of technology you would show me per the confines of our deal!” He placed a hand to his forehead, an exaggerated face palm. “Which was quite silly of me, of course.”

You were going to stop breathing.

“Naturally I wouldn't want to make you do anything that would make you uncomfortable,” he continued, tucking the hand not holding the intimate technology under his chin to look at you thoughtfully. “And really, I doubt this is any kind of device that could do any true damage in the coming battle between myself and Vox. But one can never be too sure!”

He holds it out to you, and though you take it with trembling hands you are still trying to explain. “Sir- Alastor - this is very much not the kind of technology that you would be interested in.”

“Oh but I am!” He assures you, and he sits cross legged now beside you. “I am quite interested in learning more about such a strange device. And did you not say that there was no technology that you were uncomfortable with demonstrating?”

“Well, yes, but-”

“And- pardon my eavesdropping, of course- did you not also tell Angel Dust that you received the device from Velvette, a known ally of my personal enemy and a demon bent on destroying me?”

You close your eyes tightly. This was too much. “Yes, I did. But-”

He makes a noise at you, like a parent would to an unruly child. “Well now, how am I to know that the device was not planted on Velvette by the others? Not merely a gift to a friend but something orchestrated by Vox to destroy me and everything I care for?” He reaches out a hand, brushing his fingers against your cheek. “I would so hate to see you harmed, my dear. Will you not show me how it works to ease my worried thoughts?”

Your breath is stuck in your throat as you swallow hard. You… suppose he raised a valid point, as awkward as you felt about it. You knew that despite your deal he felt some apprehension about allowing you to spend so much time with Velvette, even with what you were providing him with in return. If this was what it would take to ease some of the tension in his mind…

“I… okay,” you said finally on an exhale, and looked back down at the toy. Your voice trembled as you held it up for him to see. “Do you… I mean, usually you stand a little ways away, sir.”

His grin stretches up his face, eyes glowing red as he watches you fiddle with the object in your hand. “Oh no, darling, I’m quite content right here.”

“Right.” The blush on your face nearly permanent at this point, you rotate the device so that you can reach the button on the side. “There’s this little, um, button on the side to turn it on.” you press the button and the noise immediately starts, subtle but all too loud in the space between you and Alastor. Your cheeks are burning. “There are a few different uh, strength settings. For the. Suction.” The smile on Alastor’s face is etched in stone, and he leans closer to you as you cycle through the different speed settings. You can’t look at him anymore, dropping your eyes into your lap as you hold up the toy. “Next, uh…”

“What is the suction for, dear?”

When you look up you nearly jump back in shock; he’s moved even closer, his face right in front of yours when you’ve brought it up. “I- what?”

He places his hand over yours on the rose. “The suction. Whatever could it be for?” You try to lean back and he follows you, bent nearly in half as he does. “You could use-”

“No!” You push the toy into his hands, desperate for escape from this situation, but his smile doesn’t waver. “I mean, not no no, but- you don’t want to see that-”

“My dear.” He sets the device to the side, using one of his hands to bring your face up to look at him. He comes even closer, essentially crawling across the bed and hovering over you- what the fuck what the fuck- while you do your best to sink into the pillow. “As entertaining as it is to see you so flustered, I truly was looking for a more practical demonstration. Won’t you show me?”

If your heart flutters any harder it will burst from your chest. But he’s being so insistent that he doesn’t mind the nature of the device and that he wants an actual showing of how it’s used. You take a deep, shaky breath and commit to it- he’s asked, and you’ll indulge Alastor anything he asks of you. You reach to the side of him and take hold of the toy. “I haven’t, uh. Used it before,” you tell him.

His eyes flash red and the smile stretches as he leans back the slightest bit. “No time like the present then!” He chirps, the static in his voice more pronounced that it had been thus far. When you move your hand to your waistband you hesitate, but his eyes zero in on the movement. “By all means,” he says, “don’t stop on my account.”

Another deep breath and you clench your eyes shut, not able to make eye contact with him as you remove your bottoms. With your eyes closed you don’t see the way that his widen; so focused on your own breathing that you don’t notice his sharp inhale at your movements as you settle back into the mattress. You keep your eyes closed as you bring the toy to your lower body, debate for a moment, and decide to position it before switching it on.

You’re hyperaware of Alastor’s gaze on you even without being able to see it. Your hands tremble as you place the small gap in the top over your clit, spreading your legs slightly for a better angle. A hand on your thigh makes your eyes fly open, and when you make eye contact with Alastor you clench them shut again, unable to do this knowing that he’s touching you-

Without realizing, your hands have tightened their grip on the toy and pressed the button to turn it onto the lowest suction strength. The sudden strong sucking on your most sensitive spot has a harsh moan tumbling from your lips, your head tossing back into the pillow and Alastor’s fingers tightening imperceptibly on your skin, claws digging in ever so slightly. It's so much and so sudden, almost overwhelming, and you’re not sure if you should curse Velvette or send her a gift basket.

“What does it feel like?” The static is gone from Alastor’s voice, and when you find the strength to open your eyes he’s much closer to your… demonstration than you would have expected him to be. Close enough to taste, not that he would, but the thought of it alone has your hips lifting from the bed, desperate for more that you know he won’t give you.

“It’s so- ugh, fuck,” is what you manage, and his eyes are hooded and focused so intently on you. You hope that this is giving him whatever information he was hoping to gather, because there was no way in any of the nine rings of Hell that you would ever be able to look him in the eyes again after this.

“Eloquent, darling,” he says, still no static to the words, and then his spare hand is placed over yours on the rose toy and jumping the suction up by a couple levels.

Another unbidden moan rips itself from your chest, your free hand clenching the sheets on the bed as Alastor holds your other to the toy on your clit. You’re soaked by this point, arousal dripping onto the sheets below you, and you’re so close already without the added stimulation of the harsher suction. “Fuck fuck fuck, God,” you get out between your panting, and his chuckle brings your gaze back to him, not realizing that your eyes had rolled back as you rode the waves of pleasure.

His other hand, the one that had been on your thigh, is now posed by your entrance, his glove discarded somewhere on the bed and his fingers mere centimeters away from where you suddenly, desperately want them to be. “There’s no God here, my dear,” he says darkly, “but perhaps I can be persuaded to worship you instead.” The suction increases again, his pressing of the button subtle, but it's too much, too much-

Your vision goes dark with the strength of your orgasm, the coil in your stomach snapping as you arch up with a drawn out gasp of his name. There’s static in the room, drowning out the sound of your cries as you ride through your release, and you can just barely see Alastor through your half-closed eyes, his own eyes lidded and his pupils blown wide as his smile is stretched as far as the sudden green stitches would allow.

He holds down on the power button to turn the device off, pulling it- and his hands- away from your body. You allow your eyes to drift shut, breathing heavily as you lay back into the pillows. You can hear the vague sounds of something moving around, your nightstand opening and closing though the space on the bed is still dipped down from his weight. You’re trying to gather the strength to say something, to explain yourself maybe- because how could you let yourself get so far gone that you said his name mid-orgasm, Jesus- when the dip in the mattress disappears.

“Well, that was quite enlightening!” You hear him say, and when you drag your eyes open he’s standing on the other side of the bed, his expression totally normal aside from the permanent smile. “I do so appreciate your compliance, my dear, in helping to ease my mind about such a strange device.”

“I- yeah, sure,” you manage to get out without stuttering too much, and how composed he is now, while you are still half naked and heaving from your release, has your face flaming. “Anytime. Happy to help.”

His eyes lower. “Funny you should say that! I did notice a few more devices in your drawer- were these items gifts from Velvette as well?”

You had forgotten about the variety of other toys you kept near your bed, and your blush renews, your face hot at the thought of what he had seen. “No, sir,” you tell him, and he makes a little humming noise similar to the one he had earlier.

You think about how his pupils had been so dilated, his fingers poised and ready to join the fray while you used the toy, and add as an afterthought- “Some of them are uh, VoxTech brand though.” You hoped you weren’t wrong, and the positively lecherous look that his smile takes on confirms it for you.

“How interesting!” he exclaims. “I suppose there may be other demonstrations in order then, hm? After all, it never hurts to be thorough!” He holds a hand out to you and you place your own into it, allowing him to bring it to his lips for a soft kiss. “And I do plan on being quite thorough, darling. I hope we can find the time to reconvene soon- in the meantime, sweet dreams.”

With that he melts into shadows and vanishes, and no sooner than the black puddle on the floor disappeared have you whipped your phone out of the pocket of your discarded bottoms. You text Velvette first, a series of emojis that she has no hope of deciphering- her response of ‘TF r u on about???’ confirming that thought- and then Angel, asking for recommendations before pulling up the VoxTech website and taking a look at the options you don’t currently have in your drawer.

Like Alastor said- it doesn’t hurt to be thorough!

#hazbin hotel #alastor x reader #ao3 fanfic #ao3 writer #alastor #alastor the radio demon #alastor hazbin hotel #alastor smut #x reader #to quote the tag from ao3 #jfc what is wrong with me #my stuff <3

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gauloiseblue · 17 days

Text

And at every table / I'll save you a seat

(Gaz × Reader)

[+18 | Adult Content MDNI]

Tags: fluff, smut, family issue, friends to lovers, slow burn, [A bit of warning] tradition view on virginity and marriage, piv sex

Words: 9.8k

It all started with a little request

"Will you take my virginity?"

He's taken aback by the ask, but he quickly regains his composure.

"No." He replied.

You look at him for a while, before you mutter out, "I understand."

"Wait," He grabs your hand before you could turn around, "Let's talk about it."

He observes the hesitation rising from your face when you look away, "I don't think you'd understand."

"You haven't tried yet." He smiles gently, "Try me, (Name)."

"... It's a long story."

"I got time for it." He told you, "Tea?"

With that, he invites you into his place.

You're silent when he offers you a seat, and he lets you sit with your thoughts as he works on the drink. It's not your first visit to his apartment, since you've been here quite often. But you never came with a somber mood, and he didn't know what to say to cheer you up.

He hands you the cup, before he pours the tea from the pot. He hears you murmur something, and though he doesn't quite catch it, he can roughly guess it.

"So," He began as he sat down across the table, "Would you mind telling me why you suddenly wanna lose it?"

You had blown the steam away from the cup, before you took a sip. He watches you take your time with the drink, until you're ready to talk.

"I know that I said I'm keeping myself until marriage, but I don’t think it's possible now." You bit your lip, as you fidgeted with the handle of your cup, "Because I'm going to be wed to someone I didn't know."

He raises his brows at your statement, "That practice still exists today?"

"Yes, it still does." You begin to explain the outline of the story. "My family came from a community that still holds an orthodox belief. My parents aren't conservative, but they can't escape the tradition either. When they told me about the engagement, I begged them to call it off, yet they asked me to go with it. But I don't want that. I don't want to be trapped in a loveless marriage." Your eyes shift as you hold back tears, "I know that they love me, if they don't, I won't be here. Away from home."

You quickly wipe your cheek before you continue, "The man who'll be my husband is highly respected in the community, but he's at the same age as my mother. I don't know why he asked for my hand, we barely talked. But for the last few months, he began to send me gifts. It's customary for a suitor to give the girl presents as a way of courting. Anyway, I won't bore you with the details."

He waits for you to gather your thoughts, before you start again.

"To be a bride, it's common for a girl to go through a ceremony, to see if the girl is suitable for marriage. I have to fulfill all of certain criteria to be recognized as a proper fiancée." You snort when you mention it, "Ky, you're a smart person, you must've known what that means."

He crosses his arms when you subtly ask him to make the conclusion. "If you fail the virginity test, then you're ineligible to be a bride."

"There are other factors that can annul the engagement, but yes, purity is the most important aspect for the bride to have." You stated, "If I fail that test, then I can be free from the custom."

"Won't you be shamed for… not being pure?" He carefully asked.

"Yes, but It's better than the other option."

You went quiet after the confession, as if you've retreated back to your shell.

He gazes at you long and closely, while a sense of familiarity comes to rest on him. The way you carry yourself reminds him of the old you—who couldn't look him in the eyes when you both were strangers.

"Say," He begins, as he rubs his face, "If I were to help you, what then?"

"Nothing, we can pretend it never happened."

"You know it's not possible, right?" He frowned, "We can't go back like we used to, at least I can't see it that way."

"I know, but I don’t have a lot of choices." You replied with a sigh, "I can never sleep with a stranger, and I can't do it myself either." You told him, "I have to lose it somehow, but I don’t know how. And the reason I asked you this because you seem to have a lot of experience, so—"

You stop when he presses his hand against his lips. While it's impossible to tell if he blushes or not, you swear you see a red tint on his cheeks.

"You're not…?"

He scratches his neck, as he coyly replies, "My ma raised me well, (Name). Of course I'd save myself before marriage."

"Oh—" You cover your mouth in shock, "I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have asked you—"

"It's alright." He smiles, "How much time you have left until the ceremony?"

"About a month." You answered.

"I'll help you then." He said with such ease, that it made you stare at him wide-eyed, "But let me take you to a date first."

"What," You gulped, "What do you—Why? I thought… you said no…?"

"I hate seeing you like this, and I don't want you to resort to one night stand." He told you, "Besides, you didn't force me into this."

"But I did make you sympathize with me." You shook your head, "That's why you changed your mind."

"I said no because I knew you're saving yourself for marriage."

"But you said that you did too."

"That makes us even then." He tilts his head, "I'll take yours, and you'll take mine."

You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out of it. Not because you're at loss for words, rather, you have too many questions in your head.

"You can decide how many dates we'll go before you decide if you want to do it." He reaches out to squeeze your hand, "How's that sound?"

Although you're still unsure at that time, you can't help but nod at the offer.

The first time he takes you on a date, it's on Sunday, 07:20 PM, at an independent cinema. He phoned you earlier, telling you that they're going to play an old romantic film.

"I thought you like mystery?"

"Yeah, but you wouldn't pick that on the first date." He grins, "Besides, the movie has Binoche in it."

By the time you arrive at the cinema, you spot him talking to another man by the ticket booth. He turns his head when he hears your call, before the other man leans to the side to see you.

"You're early." You told him.

"I could say the same to you." He said with a smile, "The movie's starting in 10, c'mere."

He extends his hand towards you, and you take it with a little bit of apprehension.

The man whistles when he drapes his arm around your shoulders, "I see ya bringing a date tonight."

"Yeah," He turned to you, "Ain't she pretty?"

His friend chuckles when your face turns red, "Can't argue with that."

"Well, we'll talk later. I'm gonna show her around for a bit." He gives the man a pat on his arm, "You still have that shrine of yours?"

"'Course!" He warmly retorted, "Wouldn't close it for ya."

He mutters something back to him, and the man gives him a thumb up. When the two of you part with him, you ask him about the shrine.

"It's just a room full of merchs." He explains, "He's a movie fanatic, so when he liked a film, he'd find any of the collectibles."

"Like graphic t-shirts?"

"More than that." He grins, "You'll see."

At the end of the hall, there's a door smaller than the theater one. He opens it for you, and guides you inside.

The room is roughly the size of a humble apartment, but it's filled with many posters and other things you have to see up close to know what they are. Your eyes scan the movie posters that are mounted on the wall, before you turn to a doll. It's a porcelain doll, adorned with old-fashioned clothes. You lift the little paper beneath it and begin to read.

"It's from 'Interview With The Vampire'." You hear him say, "It's one of the collections that he's proud of."

"I've seen that movie years ago." You murmured, while tracing the edge of the paper with your finger, "I didn't understand what the story was about, until I read the book."

"You read the novel?"

You nod, "I still read it from time to time. Oh, would you look at that." He turns his gaze towards the spot you point at, "Didn't we watch that movie together?"

"Mulholland Drive?" He rubs his chin, "Didn't you say you hate it?"

"Well, I did. But it's been stuck in my head since then." You turn on your heel and skim through the titles of the posters, "I see a lot of foreign movies but not french." You commented, "Isn't he a movie fanatic?"

"He is. Just not a hypocritical one." He replied, "He told me that many of the French directors are lecherous, and they like to put their fantasies into their movies. Guess what caused them to earn a good rating?"

"I don't know, affinity bias?"

"Precisely." He grins, "He likes a few French films though, like Plein Soleil, Amélie, Playtime,"

"Léon?" You smirk.

"He'd berate you if you ever mentioned that name in front of him."

You laugh at his playful warning, "I think I like him."

"Too bad, he already has a wife." He circles his arm around you, "Why don't I introduce you to someone else?"

You roll your eyes at him, as you're so used to hearing those words.

"Yeah, his name is Kyle Garrick, and he's currently single."

"Come on, you loved it the first time you heard it."

"Well, I did laugh at it, but it's getting old." You jest as you poke in his ribs, "Try something else, and maybe I'll fall for it."

And he gives you a response that gets you burst into a laughing fit. You shove him away as you retort back, ignoring the quiet tension that begins to hang in the air.

When the two of you enter the theater, he places his hand on your back as he guides you to your seat. Though it's just a small gesture, it sends a warm feeling to your stomach.

He settles down beside you, and his arm brushes against yours. The seats are quite broad compared to the commercial cinema, but still, there's not much space left between you and him. You try not to think about it too much, as you rest your hand on the same armrest as his.

The opening of the film with the scenery of a small town, before it shows the greetings between churchgoers and the neatly dressed gentleman. It then cuts to a standing crowd, who begins their worship with singing. You frown when you listen to the narrator, as she portrays the minds of the villagers as singular. As the hymn comes to an end, the parishioners bend down to sit on the pews, before the pastor climbs up to give a sermon. The colors of the scene contrasts with the next bit, as it cuts to two figures in the middle of the snow. The figures are covered with red hoods that they hold tightly as they walk against the wind.

The movie soon changes right after the wind blows the church door open. It focuses on the two figures earlier—a mother, and a daughter, as they begin to settle down at their new house.

Scene after scene, the narratives begin to blur into one, and you let yourself be immersed into the flow of the film. Instinctively, your body leans forward as you watch the chocolate and the store begin to take form. Yet in doing so, you missed the look your friend gave.

When the first conflict happens, you can't help but show your dislike towards the man—the well-dressed man from the beginning. But it soon dissipates when the woman invites her guest inside.

They talk for a little while, and the way she—her guest behaves, the clumsiness that she shows—that makes her look like a cornered cat, it almost looks surreal, as if you're watching yourself from the future scope. You press your hand against your lips, as the crease between your eyes deepens.

Perhaps it's just the right moment, or perhaps your thoughts spill over into his, that he decides to push your head gently onto his shoulder.

You were taken aback by the gesture, but you welcomed it. You murmur something to him, as you wrap your hand around his arm.

"What?" He asked in a low tone.

"Nothing." You told him while hiding your smile.

Kyle Garrick. You wonder if kind has always been his middle name. If it's not kind, then it must be thoughtful. It must be nice, to receive such affection from a man like him. In the midst of thoughts cartage, you begin to ponder, if it's alright for you to keep them from someone who's more deserving.

At the end of the movie, you slip your hand from his arm, as you stand up from your seat. You still remember the way he understands, and doesn't push further. He keeps the rest of the night in a lighthearted mood, though his hand lingers on you a little longer, and his gaze doesn't stray further from you, even just a little bit.

That night, you lay down on your bed with your thoughts as your lullaby. It doesn't help you sleep, but it does keep you company for the night.

The next day, you ask him if he's free on Friday.

It's curious how fast he responded back, considering that he still got jobs to do, particularly reports. When you read the message, you bite your lips as you type a new one.

'Wanna have dinner together?'

A new chat pops up in a second.

'Sure'

And another one after.

'When?'

'Today' You reply, 'Takeouts?'

'Let me cook for ya'

And it's settled.

When you show up on his doorstep, he opens it up the first time you ring the bell.

"Hey," He greets you with a grin, and you notice a red stain on his shirt, "Come in."

"Smells good." You commented as you stepped in, "What are you cooking?"

"Bolognese." He replied, "I haven't decided on the pasta yet. What do you want? Pappardelle or spaghetti?"

"Fusilli?" You said, before a smile betrays your lie, "Anything's fine, really."

"Pick a color then. Yellow or blue?"

"Yellow."

"Pappardelle then."

You thought it's just a random decider, until you saw the color of the packaging.

"Guess you're used to people who say it's up to you." You remarked while you climbed on the bar stool.

"You can say that." He chuckles as he drops the pasta into the pot.

"Were they your dates?"

"Pshh, no. Just my little brothers and sister. You know the story."

"I know." You trailed off and looked away, "But you must've had those moments in your dates."

"Like what you did earlier?" He smirks and you groan at him.

"Come on, you know I'd never complain about your choice."

"I know, that's why I like you."

"You always say that."

The conversation ends with a quiet chuckle, as he goes back to watch over the boiling water. You sense a reply from him that should be laid bare, but he left it at surmise.

"Dinner's ready." He announced, as he lifted up the plates from the counter. You follow him to the dining table, and you pull a seat while he places the dishes on the table.

As the two of you dig in, you quietly bite on the broad pasta. You might not be aware of it, but you always chew on your food longer when you're preoccupied with your mind.

You hear his voice as you snap out of your thoughts, but not clear enough for you to grasp.

"What?"

"It's alright if you wanna back down." He repeated, as he swirled the pasta with his fork, "I agreed to help you because you asked me to, but I know it might make things awkward between us, so."

"Oh, that's not—it's not about that, it's just," You chewed on your lip, "It's just that, when I think about you, I can't help but think that… I'll end up stealing something from you." You shook your head, "You could wait for the right person, you're not obligated to help me—"

"Well, I want to."

"I know, that's why I feel bad because I knew you wouldn't hesitate to help." You frown, "You're too kind for me, Ky. Sometimes I'm scared that I might get the wrong idea."

You almost jump when he holds your hand, and witness the fortitude that reflects in his eyes. "Go ahead then, go on and get the wrong idea. Because it might be true after all."

The way he said it—with a clear, unmistakable voice, drags you into silence. You can't find the words to say, nor the right response for his statement. While you're not entirely sure about the truth, you can see the trace of it on his face.

Your throat begins to tighten, and you try to swallow down whatever's in the way.

You know that he's hopeful that you'd give him some kind of clarity, but you don't. You couldn't.

After the dinner, you don’t extend your visit as you excuse yourself from staying.

"Let me take you home."

You shake your head, "I'll be fine."

"Are you sure?"

You shoot him a smile, "Yes, don't worry about me."

He seems hesitant for a moment, but it disappears the moment you pull him into a hug.

"I'll call you when I'm home."

He picks up the phone at the second ringtone, and asks you if you're home. You give an affirmative answer, before the line turns silent.

The words that had wrapped around your throat came back to the surface. They beg to be let out of your tongue, but you bite them down. Not now. Not yet.

The call ends not long after, as you both say goodnight. As you sit down on the vanity stool, you look at the reflection of you in the mirror. It's the shape that you've known so well, and yet, you don't recognize it at the same time. Has your face already been like this? Is this what he always sees whenever you're around?

Absent-mindedly, you reach up to touch your lips. What would you taste like, if he ever kissed you?

Unfortunately, you can only imagine for now.

Four days would pass, and you soon find yourself waiting for the bell. He had messaged you earlier, telling you that he'll pick you up at your place.

The destination of your date is still unknown, since you only asked him to take you to somewhere quiet. Somewhere you can talk without the presence of curious ears. Of course, the first thought that came to your mind is the privacy of your home, but he got another idea, and kept it as a surprise.

"Bring a jacket with you." He told you on the phone, "You might need it."

But you don't know how cold it'll be, so you stick with a cardigan.

When he gets to your place, he doesn't ring the bell. Instead, you hear your phone rings, before a honk of a car announces his arrival. You walk out of your place and lock the door behind.

"Where are we going?" Is the question you asked him after you got into his car.

"You'll find out." He replied with a grin.

He doesn't give you any clue, other than the paper bag on the back seat. He also told you that it's a one-hour drive, so it's alright if you want to rest your eyes.

"I'm fine." You said, as you turned on the radio.

The ride is predominantly filled with songs, and the occasional chat between you and him.

On the other day, you either wouldn't stop talking, or you'd sit in comfortable silence. But that morning, both options seem unreachable.

"I'm sorry." You uttered quietly.

"What?"

"Sorry that I dragged you into this." You muse, "And I'm sorry that I made such a big deal out of it. I made things worse, didn't I?"

"Why'd you say that?"

"Because things have already changed between us, even when we haven't done anything."

"You think so?"

"Yes," You divulged, "When you said those things, I couldn't help but think that maybe you really meant it. But then again, you never told me anything before. Anything that could… indicate something."

"Are you sure?" You frown at his reply, "Think again, (Name)."

"What—?"

The car comes to a halt, and you snap your head towards the window. The usual view of the city has been replaced with trees. You stare at the board near the entrance, and you notice the words 'National Park' on it.

"We're here." He stated while unbuckling the seat belt.

You soon follow him as you push the door open. The cold air rushes inside, and makes you shiver.

He offers you his hand when you step out of the car. "Let's take a walk."

The trail that he chooses isn't as rough as you thought, and you can easily keep up with his speed. Though you knew that he slowed it down for you.

As you walk by his side, you feel a tug on your hand. It was his hand, and he wrapped it around yours. He smiles when you turn to him, and mutters out the same line he used whenever you're out with him.

"Wouldn't want to lose you here."

And it just clicked. Every piece of the puzzle just falls into the right place, and you begin to see the whole picture. He never changed at all, it was you who's changing.

"You like me."

You feel his hold tightens, before he loosens it up a second after.

"Like is an understatement."

"I'm afraid to use the stronger word."

"I know." He spoke softly, "That's why I never said it."

At the end of the path, a quiet lake waits for the two of you, providing a place for a silent conversation. The water is calm, but the breeze is colder than before. You hug yourself, trying to savor the little warmth that your cardigan provides. It doesn't take seconds before you hear a rustle, and feel yourself wrapped in a parka.

"Told you to bring a jacket." He murmured, as he held the garment for you.

His coat is warm, as if it has absorbed the heat of his skin. Your hands slip into the sleeves, before you roll up the cuffs. You watch his face as he zips up the parka, before he returns your gaze.

Perhaps it's him who leans closer, or it's you who wraps your hands around him first, but in the end, your lips meet with his. The kiss you both share is soft, and filled with longing. It's impossible to tell who's feeling it belongs to, but it envelopes around you like a mist.

When the two of you part, you smile as you murmur against his lips.

"I like you."

He softly chuckles as he cups your face, "I'm glad."

You both recognize the nuance of it, but no one speaks of it louder than a heartbeat.

I like you. What an understatement.

—

"Why do you like me?"

He lifts his head from the magazine when he hears your question.

"I could tell you all of the reasons, but at the end of the day, I simply like you."

"Really?" You roll your eyes, "Is that your way of saying you don't know?"

He lets out a small laugh, while he closes the mag. "Fine, I'll tell you." He begins, "I can't remember when it was, but we're pretty close at that time. We were just talking that night, and you asked me if I chose to be the giver because I felt uncomfortable receiving. I never thought about it, but it made sense. When I said yes, you told me, if I don't learn to receive, then I'd end up hurting other people. Because I denied their affection."

You lift your brows at the recount, "Did I really say that?"

"Yes, but it's not your words that got me the most. It's the way you broke my logic, and helped me see things from a new perspective." He stated, "It felt… nice, to be understood by you." He rubs the nape of his neck, "Well, what about you? Why do you like me?"

"I'm not sure." You pucker your lips, "I think I've always liked you. Because you're thoughtful, and it's something that's easier to say than done."

"Just that?"

"What? You want more?"

"Yeah," He smirked, "Go on."

You look at him long and hard, before you decide, "No."

"Why?"

"I'd say something embarrassing."

"Like what?"

"... I'm not telling."

He jumps on the sofa as he seizes your body. You squeal when he digs his fingers on your waists, and you shout, "Cut it out!"

He chuckles when you try to slap his hand away and fail, "C'mon, tell me." He grins, while his hands don't stop tickling you.

"Stop—I'm not telling—!"

When he had you pinned down, you kicked around to get him off you. Which, unfortunately, ends up knocking the empty glass on the table. You both watch in horror as the glass falls off the surface, and into the floor.

But it doesn't shatter. Instead, it bounces twice, before it rolls in a half circle. When it stops moving, it takes about five seconds before the two of you burst into laughter.

"That's the second time you almost broke it."

"Sorry." You muttered through your giggle, "But whose fault was it?"

"Me." He grinned, before slowly bent down to kiss you.

Just like the other kisses you've shared, it goes on for more than a minute. He gently guides you as he cups your cheeks. Your arms find their way around his neck, and keep him close to you.

He leans his forehead against yours, as he catches his breath. You observed the way his chest rises and falls while you follow the same rhythm. Maybe you soften at the sight of him, or maybe a kiss'd really loosen up someone's tongue, that's why the words fall out of your mouth so easily.

"I like your kisses."

He raises his head as he turns his gaze on you. "Was that the thing you're embarrassed to admit?"

You give his shoulder a punch.

"Hey." He retorted with a chuckle, "'M just kidding."

He presses his lips on your cheek, before he lays down on your side. You shift your body to give him space, and settle your head on his arm, while the other one is wrapped around you.

"Comfy?"

You nod, "You're warm."

"Glad to be your heater."

You bury your face into his chest as you giggle.

"I just wish you're portable," You jest, "So I could use you whenever I'm cold."

"Who says I'm not portable?"

"Well, you can't be with me 24/7."

"Careful what you wish for." He smirked.

You raise your brow at him, "Is that a warning?"

"Maybe."

"Mmm," You rested your finger on your chin, "Didn't sound like one."

"Really?" He teases, "Then you won't mind if I keep you here for the night."

"I'm busy tomorrow, so no." You hold your chuckle when you see him pout, "But I'm free next weekend, you can keep me until Monday if you want."

A glint of mischief crosses his eyes, as he pulls you into a kiss.

"I can't wait."

But waiting doesn't feel longer than you expect, since you meet him for dinner almost everyday. If one of you couldn't make it, you both would be on the call that night.

Talking has been a part of your relationship, even when the two of you still carried the friends title. You could talk with him for hours, and bring up every topic into it. Doesn't matter how random or strange. But there was a line that you both couldn't cross, something that kept the two of you in circles. And you thought it'd stay that way, until you stepped into the other side.

It's a wonder how a familial issue could push your relationship to this point, since you wouldn't think twice about him for the sake of friendship. Now that you've crossed the line, you have nothing to hide from him.

While it might be a good thing, it also leads you to unknown territories. When you're with him, you can no longer ignore the tension that fills the room. Any time that he kissed you, or held you tight in his arms, you couldn't help but think if this would be it. This would be the right time for it. But you couldn't bring yourself to ask.

Maybe that's the reason why—after the 2:01:31 mark on the call, you bring up the obvious question to light.

"Y'know Ky," You start, "I don't have much experience with sex, and neither do you. So how exactly are we gonna do it?"

The line goes silent for a moment, before you hear him draw a breath in. "Are you afraid it'll hurt?"

"No—I mean, yes. But that's not my point." You sigh, "I just—I don't know, I feel like I need to learn about it before getting to the act."

There's a subtle hint of a rustle that you could only guess coming from the papers, "It'll definitely help if we do some research beforehand."

"But where do we start?" You asked, "Porn?"

"I wouldn't recommend that. It's… unrealistic."

"What then? 'A guide to sex' book? 'Sex for dummies'?"

You catch the sound of his chuckle from the speaker. "Only grandmas would read that."

"I would read that if it helps me prepare."

He hums, and your ear picks up the sound of clink, like a metal is placed against a wood. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"How far have you gone with your partner in the past?"

You hum as you think back, "I think I stopped at heavy petting. I was in high school back then and I was curious. But it hurted, and I was bleeding after the session." You snort when you recall the moment, "Of course I freaked out, but when I secretly tested myself out, I found that I'm still a virgin. I could only guess that he tore something with his nail. That's why I bled."

"I see."

"What about you?" You asked, "How far have you gotten with it?"

"Same as you." He responded, "Fingering, oral, hand job, all the foreplay stuff."

You bite your lip as you hear his tone becomes heavier with each word, something that you notice whenever you dive into a risky topic.

"Should we give it a try?"

There's a pause from the other side of the call, before you receive a reply. "You sure you want it?"

"Yes." You breathe out, "We gotta start somewhere."

Your fingers toy with the hem of your shirt, as you wait for him to answer.

"Alright." He mused, and you felt the warmth creeping up from your lower belly. "Is the plan still on?"

"What plan?"

"You staying over for the weekend?"

You smile against the phone as you reply, "Of course."

"I'll be waiting then."

Friday evening, you arrive at his door with a bag of clothes and other necessities. When the bell rings, it takes about three seconds before the door swings open.

He greets you in the usual manner, except this time he speaks in a softer tone.

"Hey." He smiles upon seeing you, "Come in."

He steps aside when you walk in, before he takes the bag from your hand. You mutter a small 'thank you', and wait for him in the living room while he puts your things aside.

"You want something to drink?" He offered, but you shook your head.

"I'm fine."

You watch him come near you, before he bends down to his knees. You raise your brows when he tugs your hand towards him, and presses a kiss onto your palm.

"Can we talk?"

"About what?" You asked.

"Your boundaries." He squeezed your hand gently, "What's your preferences, what you're not comfortable with,"

"Oh." You look down to your lap to hide your blush, "I don't have any preference yet, I think." You shrug, "I have to experience it to know what I like or dislike, but I think I'm fine with everything you do. Just… don't treat me rough, because I don't think I can handle it."

"Wouldn't dream of hurting you." He pecks on your cheek. "Come,"

You stand from your seat as he pulls you up, and your body follows him naturally as he drags you with him. As he closes the bedroom door behind, your heart leaps when he lifts you up with his arms to kiss you. Your legs wrap around his waist, while you keep your hands on his chest.

When he lays you down on the bed, you push his body away for a little as you mumble, "My, aren't you eager."

He observes your face before he chuckles, "You don't know how long I've waited for this."

You moan when he presses his kiss on your neck, and you feel his hand slip under your garment. Soon, the elastic band of your underwear is dragged down on your skin, and you instinctively close your thighs together.

"Let me taste you, (Name)."

He tugs your pants down until they reach your ankles, he takes his time to unhook them from your feet, before pushing your legs apart. You call his name as a protest, but any attempt to cover yourself from him is useless.

"Ky—" You stare at him wide-eyed as he lowers his head to your core, to the point that you can feel his breath against your labia. Your body tenses up when he gets the first taste of you, before he buries his tongue into your core.

"Tell me if I hurt you." He told you, and waited until you nodded to continue.

You gasp when he presses his tongue against your clit—not out of pleasure, but foreign feeling as the rough texture of his tongue latches on your nub. Your hand shoots up to grab his hair, while your legs clamp on his head. He grunts when you squirm away, and links his arms around your thighs to keep you still.

At first, you only feel a strange sensation every time his tongue swipes against your bundle of nerves, but soon it builds up into a familiar surge. Warmth begins to spread from your lower region, and you muffle a moan when he flicks his tongue on your sensitive clit.

"Ky—!" You hissed when it hit the right spot, "Keep going—"

Your hips bucks involuntarily as he sucks on the swelling bud, it sends an electricity through your body, before his lips detach from you. You whine at the loss of contact, but it doesn't take a second before his elastic muscle returns to its previous place.

The grip on his hair tightens as he picks up the pace, and soon the pleasure starts to coil inside your stomach. Your brows are knitted as you focus on his tongue, chasing after the high that's been hanging in front of you. It's not until you tilt your hips, that you finally reach it.

You cry out as your back arches, your eyes snap open as the wave of pleasure hits you. It was different, more satisfying than what you did on lonely nights. As you slowly come down, your body relaxes under his touch.

When he reaches up to kiss you, you chuckle as you taste yourself from his lips. "And you told me you're a virgin." You mused.

"I don't need to lose it to be good at oral."

You roll your eyes and hold him off by his chest, "Yeah right."

He seems taken aback when you push him to the side, before straddling him between your legs. Your hands work on his pants, as you loosen up the drawstring. "What are you doing?" He muttered out.

"Returning the favor." You replied with a smirk, while you tugged down his pants.

You've seen the outline of his member when he's still dressed, but now that you strip him off, you finally get the full view of it.

You sense his gaze on you as you stare at his cock. Your hand reaches out to touch the tip, and it twitches under your fingertips.

"Are you just gonna stare?"

"Patience." You shot him a teasing look, "I was just admiring."

He props himself up to watch you bend down, taking his length into your mouth. You look at him through your lashes, as you slowly drag your tongue along the shaft. Your fingers wrap around his base, and begin to give it a pump.

His breath becomes shallower with each stroke of your hand, while you wrap your lips around his cock. The tip feels hot on your tongue, as if it's filled with impatience. He groans as you sink your mouth deeper, "Keep going, baby."

You perk up at the nickname he used, but it needs to wait before you can bring it up to him, since your mouth is occupied at the moment.

He places a hand on your head, and runs his fingers through your hair before they settle on your crown. You grunt when he begins to rock his hips gently, while his hand gives you no room to pull back. He's careful enough not to push too deep, but he still overwhelms you.

"That's it—" He panted, brows knitted together as he focused on you. "Fuck—"

His heavy breath, his gentle grip on your hair send warmth through your body. It's not the first time you've done this, but it's the only time you felt desired. He's eager, but he's careful at the same time. He doesn't rush things, he fixates on the moment instead. When you place your hand on his thigh, he slows down as he loosens up his grip on you.

"You alright?"

You nod before you pull away from him.

"I want to ride you."

His brows are raised as you climb on top of him, slowly lowering yourself onto his lap. He takes a sharp breath when your core touches the base of his member, leaving a wet trail as you grind on him. You hear a quiet groan from his sighs, and it becomes heavier each time you pick up the pace.

You bite your lip as you feel your core throb at the sight beneath you. The way his head digs into the pillow, half-lidded eyes and panting, and the way his muscles tense as he chases after pleasure. His hands settle on your waists, keeping you from moving too far from the right spot. Your breath comes out as a huff when the friction starts to get to you. It almost feels real, as if he's really inside you.

"I'm close." He chokes out a moan, and you feel his fingers dig into your skin. "(Name)—"

Your lips curl into a grin when you hear the urgency in his voice. You lean down to kiss him, and he eagerly returns the favor. You grunt against his mouth, as you struggle to move with his arms wrapped tightly around you. But he doesn't seem to mind the erratic pace, since his hips move on its own.

His body shudders and he throws his head back as he groans, loud enough that you can feel his chest rumble through your palms. His member twitches against your core, spilling the white release onto both of your and his clothes. It takes a moment for him before he registers your lips on his neck, which he tilts his head and leans his cheek against yours.

"That was…"

"Good?" You grinned as you gave him a kiss.

"Great. Amazing. Ten out of ten." He chuckles, "Are you sure you're a virgin?"

You playfully pinch his cheek while you laugh, "Shut up."

He shoots you a coy smile, before he gently rolls you down with him on the bed.

"We should take a bath."

"Later." He muttered, wrapping one arm around you.

"Come on." You protested while tugging his hand off you, "We can cuddle after that."

"Fine," He lets you go, "Let's take a shower."

And he said it in a not-so-innocent voice.

The two of you end up prolonging the bath time, as he's taking you for a second round. If he's eager the first time, the second time must be worse. Since he's got the taste of it. You knew that he's exceptional, that he's a quick-learner, but you didn't expect it'd apply to sex as well.

The thing is, you never came with fingers alone. But when he cornered you in the shower, knuckles-deep in your core, he had you screaming as the sweet shock from the orgasm went through your body. He doesn't give you much of a break, as he bends you down until your ass touches his hip. You gasp in horror when you feel the tip of his dick against your drenched hole, he teasingly rubs himself on your labia, before it slips down to your clit.

He had your thighs pressed together, which made the friction even stiffer. You groan as he begins to thrust, hitting your throbbing bud everytime without mercy. He pins both of your wrists against the wall with one hand, while he keeps your body still with the other. It's almost unfair how strong he is to hold you down like this, and how cruel he is to tease you as he whispers dirty words into your ear. By the time you come, you have no energy left, even for standing.

He catches you right before your legs give up, holding you up while he sneaks a hand under the back of your thighs. You yelp when he props you up in his arms, carrying you out of the bathroom.

You land on the bed with a bounce, and receive no privilege to get up as he holds your legs together, before placing them against his shoulder. The color in your face is drained the moment his length rests on your thigh, fervent and heavy.

"I hope you're not tired yet," He grins, and you swear you see horns growing from his head the moment he says it, "Because I'm nowhere done with you."

—

Kyle Fucking Garrick.

You take back what you said about his middle name. It's not kind or thoughtful, it's fucking Prick.

It should've been obvious to you, after all the gossip you heard from your friends about him. Something that you thought as a baseless fact, a Lavater-physiognomy type of bullshit, but somehow they got it right. He's not as innocent as you defended him to be. He is freaky, and he's good at keeping it a secret.

After he exhausted you the night before, he decided that the best way to wake you up was with his mouth. Your clit was already swollen from yesterday's activity, and he abused it again in the morning. You stirred in your sleep, before your eyes snapped open at the sharp tug on your sensitive bud.

"G'mornin'." He greeted you the moment you woke up, still disoriented. "How's your sleep?"

You narrowed your eyes, as you tried to turn your vision focused. "Wha—" You slurred.

"Shh." He pushed you down to the bed, while his hand worked its way to your fold. "Let me take care of you, baby."

And thus you started your day with an orgasm.

Of course it's only the beginning, since it's him that you're talking about. He could make you faint in the bathroom if you didn't lock the door behind, and he could certainly numb your mind with his fingers if you didn't cut two apples for breakfast. But once you ran out of excuses, you're pretty much doomed.

While you knew he'd stop right away if you told him so, you couldn't bring yourself to say it. Because once he puts his hand on you, you just melt. The irritation that you carry in mind dissolves the moment he wraps you in his arms, and every curse you hold on your tongue comes out as a whimper, as his mouth latches onto your nape.

It's a game of self-will, and he plays it underhandedly. You both know what you want, but no one speaks of it, no one takes the initiative. You grit your teeth as frustration begins to take over you. It's pretty clear he wants you to say it, with the excuse that it's yours to decide. But he lures you with sweet words, and waves your much-needed release in front of you. Close enough for you to see, but far away from your reach.

And finally, after three neglected orgasms, you swallow your ego and beg. "Please Ky—" You cried out, "Please, just fuck me—"

His hand ceases to move, as he pulls it out of your sopping core. You whine at the loss of contact, before he muffles it with his kiss.

The trip to his bedroom is quite messy, with a lot of thrown clothes and sloppy kisses. When you find yourself on his bed again, you crawl up to give him some space. He follows after you, and presses his lips against yours with impatience. Faintly, you hear the sound of a wrapper being ripped, before he pulls away to roll down the rubber on his length.

He comes back to your side, locking his lips with yours again, while he slots his hips between your legs. Your hands find the purchase on his back as you cling to him, digging your fingers into his skin the moment you feel his tip against your hole.

A gasp escapes your lips when he pushes himself in, stretching your pussy open with his dick.

"Shit, you're too tight." He hissed, as your walls tightened around his glans.

Your face contorts in pain, as he tries to squeeze himself deeper.

"No good." He mused, pulling himself out of you. You whimper as your hole clenches around nothing. "On your side, baby."

He gently rolls you to the side, sliding his arm below your head as he lays behind you. He places a hand under your cheek, and guides your lips back to his. You wince when you feel the nudge against your core, before it slowly sinks deeper into you.

It doesn't hurt much, compared to what you endured earlier. But it still stings, and you smack your palm against his hip when he begins to thrust. "Ky—" You moaned against his lips, gripping onto his skin as you felt yourself stuffed to the brim.

"Just a little more, baby." He places a kiss on your shoulder, while his hands find their way to wrap around your body. "Just a little more."

No words could form in your tongue, as your mouth snaps open at the steady thrust of his cock. It was slow, torturous, and left you wondering if you've underestimated his size.

But it soon comes to a stop, as his lower stomach touches the curve of your bottom. Your heart is beating against your chest, and you try to catch your breath while he showers you with kisses. The push of his hips comes to a halt, and you take it as a chance to rest. You lean your head back to his shoulder, giving him access to your neck, which he soon decorates with love marks.

"You alright?" He murmured, tenderly stroked your arm.

You hum as an answer. "You can move now."

"You sure?"

"Yes." You breathe out, "Please."

You sense a hesitation in his touch, before he presses a kiss on your temple.

"Tell me if it hurts."

You nod, giving his forearm a squeeze as a reassurance.

He shifts your body closer to him, readjusting the position to make it more comfortable. You raise your head a bit while he moves, before he guides you back to his arm. A grunt escapes your lips the moment he drags his member out, before he thrusts it back in. Your core flutters around him, as the numbness slowly fades into pleasure.

Perhaps your body is still sensitive from all the teasing he did, but you can't deny that he's good. Every stroke of his cock just hits right, as it grazes you in the place where his fingers couldn't reach. You grip his arm when you feel his pace quickens, filling the room with the wet slaps of the skins. And when his tip nudges the tender part of you, your body reacts in a way you don't expect.

He seems to notice it, as he lifts his head up to see your face. "Does that feel good?" He whispered in your ear, and you yelped when he snapped his hips against yours.

"Oh God—" You scrabble at his body, trying to find something to grab on. "Do that again."

"Gladly."

A warning comes up to your throat, before it dies down as soon as he moves. You squirm against his strong grip, digging your nails into his thigh like a claw machine. When his cock grazes the right spot within you, you cry out a strangled moan. And the second time he does it, the suspicions you had in mind are all erased. He's no longer teasing you, because now he really intends to make you scream.

When he rolls on top of you, you feel your legs being spread apart with his knees. Stretching your pussy open for him to go deeper. With him on top of you, and your stomach flat on the bed, you have no room to crawl away.

His hand snakes around your shoulder, propping you up into a half-arched position. A whimper comes out of your mouth the moment he slams himself into you, while his lips are busy with your neck. Niping and sucking on your reddening skin. Your hand reaches up to the back of his head, gripping the curls of his hair as you moan.

"I'm close." You hissed, "Kyle—"

"I know, baby." He presses a kiss on your nape, "I know."

He raises your hips slightly, before slipping his hand between your thighs. Your body jerks when he touches your clit, rubbing it in a circle motion. The fact that it's already swollen doesn't help you either.

"Ky!" You claw his hand in panic, "I can't—I can't—"

"You can." He grunted against your ear, "Let it go, baby."

Your grip on his wrist tightens, as every muscle in your body tenses up. You could barely hold it when he fucked you slow, and now with his finger on your clit, you just break.

A loud cry fills the room as you come. Hard. Your eyes roll up, hands gripping tightly on the sheet until your fists turn pale. And for a moment, you forgot how to breathe, until you gasped for air. Which comes in the form of short and trembling puffs. The moment of bliss and numbness only descends for short seconds, before you realize he's still inside you.

The burning sensation in your core comes back to you, although weaker than before. You whimper against the sheet, as he prolongs the high you just reached. His fingers no longer slotted between your folds, as they move to grip your waist. In daze, you begin to wonder when it'll end. Until you feel a shudder from the body on top of you, and a strangled moan falls from his mouth.

He rests his head on you, catching a breath, before he slowly rolls down to the side. You watch him as he wearily pulls off the condom, and throws it aside.

The two of you lay down still, mustering the energy that's left after the laborious session. Although you doubt if it's the same case for him, since he has no trouble getting up to fetch the tissue box.

As he wipes himself off, you mutter out with a low voice, "You've ruined me for other men."

He turns his head to you, before a grin spreads on his face. "Already thought about leaving?"

You know from his tone that he's not serious, but neither of you can carry the usual banter. At least not now.

"You know what I mean." You mused.

His face softens, as he bends down to kiss you. "I know."

You smile against his lips, and carefully shift your body until you lay on your back. He climbs on top of you, planting each arm on your side as he latches his lips on yours. You reach up to cup his face, pulling him closer as you part your lips, giving his tongue the access to dive into your mouth deeper. The two of you relish in each other's taste, before you feel something on your thigh.

"You're hard." You let slip what you saw, and he flushed.

"Sorry." He rubbed his neck, "You just… turn me on."

You observe his face for a moment, noting how he avoids your eyes whenever he's shy. His expression, and his candid confession set something in you, as you feel the warmth in your lower belly.

"I think we can go one more time."

"Aren't you tired?"

"A little." You replied, "But it's nothing I can't handle."

His eyes search into yours for a second, before he gives in.

"Alright." He uttered, "Let me grab the condom."

—

Now that you've gotten the taste of it, you can understand why sex is often called forbidden apple. Because once you put your teeth to it, you can't go back to what you're used to. No more friendly cuddles, and no more innocent kisses that won't lead to something.

While it's easy to get swept up in the new pastime, you can't help but worry. As a lot of 'what if's fill your thoughts. You never doubt him, no. But you'll never know what the future's like. For you and him.

One day, when the two of you lounge on the couch—with your head on his chest, as it rises and falls in a slowing rhythm, you divulge a question that's been eating you up.

"What if it doesn't work?" You brood, "What if he still wants to marry me despite of everything?"

You watch the subtle change in his face as he meets your gaze. "Do you want me to come along?"

"No," You muse, "It'll make things worse."

He hums, "Have you talked to your parents?"

"... No." You looked away, as you chewed on your lip. "No, I haven't."

"I think you should." He gives your arm a squeeze, "Talk to them, maybe they'll help you."

"They didn't help me at all." You said bitterly.

"You wouldn't know that, (Name)." He let out a quiet sigh, "Parents don't usually tell what they've done for their children. And that could be the case with yours."

"They didn't stop the engagement."

"Maybe they couldn't." He replied, "Hey, look at me." He gently pulls you to face him, "I know it's hard for you, and I can't imagine how you feel about it. But your parents love you, you said it yourself." He reassured you, "Maybe they didn't stop it because they're powerless, but they knew that you'd find a way out. After all, they're the one who told you about the ceremony, right?"

While you're still frowning at him, you begin to soften up in his hold. "... Yeah, they did." You muttered.

"They knew that you're against it and you'd deliberately failed one of the tests, so they just told you what to do and what you shouldn't. It's their way to tell you which one to break, and which one you should keep in mind." He sighs, "And I hate to say it, but I'd do the same if it's the only choice I have."

Though his words have put you at ease, you can't help but sense a new doubt entering your mind. "Will they… will they be okay if I fail the test? Won't it give them a bad name?"

"I think it's the risk they're willing to take." He smiled softly, "Talk to them, (Name). You need it."

You follow his advice two days later.

You've been mulling over the talk for days, going through all of the possibilities over and over again in your mind. You've prepared for a whole speech, but it all disappears once you hear their voices. Just like that, all of your thought falls from your mouth, as they flow out like a stream.

There's a lot of talking, a lot of 'sorry's, and maybe a few of tears. But in the end, you feel better.

As the conversation slips into a mundane, but comfortable chat, you slip his name between your life update. Though you have your doubts about it, it's worth telling in spite of all.

"You should introduce him to us." Your mother chirped, "Bring him with you the next holiday, I want to meet the lucky fellow."

You chuckle as you tell her alright, but no promise.

Four days later, on the evening at the airport, you reach up to kiss him before you say the words. You almost laugh at how easy it was, to say such words with such ease. And he'd laugh with you, if he wasn't struck by it.

"I thought you're afraid to use that word."

"Not anymore." You said with a smile, "Not with you."

He seems confounded for a moment, before he shakes his head, grinning from ear to ear.

"I hope you won't regret it, because I'll say that to you everyday from now on."

"Well, why don't you start now?"

You both chuckle, before he wraps his hands around you and pulls you into another kiss.

"I love you, (Name).

"Come home to me soon."

#it's finally DONEEEEE #alright. I'm officially done with long fics #it's not healthy for my sleep schedule #gaz cod #gaz mw2 #cod #call of duty #cod mw2 #gaz x reader #kyle gaz garrick #i'm too lazy to tag more #enjoy

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rivetingrosie4 · 2 months

Text

What a Life (Morgan & Family: A Fluff Dump, Pt. 2)

credit to @foundynnel i believe for 2 of the edits above

𑁦𐂂𑁦

Summary: Part of a modern au (and post gang) fluff dump work. Just a scene in which Arthur and reader enjoy secluded family life with their very young son. Arthur is a cute and loving dad and is adored by reader.

Tags: fluff without plot, family fluff, romantic fluff, domestic setting, parenthood

Word count: 2,660

In the cool shadow of the cabin, thrown long by the late morning sun, you sit with your little son, watching him play in the sandbox. The mourning dove’s rounded, plaintive hoots are parried by the sharp, tinkling warbles of goldfinches in the nearby pine branches, and the fragrances of crisp mist and thick sod linger in the mountain air.

You watch the faint glimmer of day paint the crests of Gabriel’s cupid’s bow with light, his plump lips resting between his two rotund cheeks as he concentrates on the toys before him. The wispy feathers of his splayed lashes bow and rise with each blink. His beautiful, shimmering eyes inspect each toy, each color, each shape. Out of all the blocks, large puzzle pieces, rings, balls, and animal toys half-buried in the sand, he has landed on one. You watch the bulbous pads and segments of each tiny, clumsy finger curl to a strong, stable grasp around the edge of the object of his aim—a large block with an Appaloosa sketched and painted lovingly on the side.

“Just like your daddy,” you whisper to yourself.

Dipping your fingers into the sand and feeling its chill envelop your skin, you look up with a smile to gaze in the direction of the stables. In the distance, you catch sight of Arthur hauling a huge saddle and its accompanying tack, a moment before he disappears through the door and into the shaded interior.

You recall the quiet rustling of his rising this morning when he’d been up before the sun, as he often is. And the way he’d kept from waking the baby in his room, intentionally leaving you to reap the reward of your son’s customary gleeful smile, his bounce in his crib, and his lifting of his arms for you.

You turn back to your eleven-month-old with a burgeoning smirk. “Wanna come help Mama make some sourdough?”

“Yeah,” he immediately chirps, recognizing nothing but the lilt of a question in your voice. But he doesn’t look up at you, still captured by the blocks and puzzle pieces.

You stand and take a few steps away to prompt him. “Well let’s go!” you call.

He braces himself on the sand with his palms, a moment later lifting his tush into the air. When he straightens, his brows knot, and his lips dangle from between his cheeks as he gazes down confoundedly at the discomfort of sand stuck to his flesh.

You snort a laugh as you cover the sandbox behind him. “Just go like this, Gabe Baby.”

You show him your flattened hands and slowly brush them together.

His brows don’t budge as he looks back and forth from your hands to his own, unable to fully brush them.

“Like this,” you whisper, gently taking his wrists and swiftly brushing his palms back and forth over each other.

When the sand is removed, he toddles to follow you up towards the cabin, and you carry him when you reach the oak staircase to the back door.

As you turn onto the wraparound porch, you notice Arthur now hefting a huge bale of hay by its cords into the stable, his black leather hat shading most of his face in the distance. But you like to imagine he wears a subconscious smile, now enjoying a life of simplicity, filled with nature and horses and art and family and love, tucked away from the gnarled heartache that gang life had left in its wake.

“Sandy baby,” you mumble when you arrive inside and close the back door behind you.

You promptly remove both your shoes and strip Gabriel to his diaper, tossing his sandy clothes into the hamper.

“Are you dry?” you ask vainly as he starts to toddle away. “Wait, are you dry?” You deftly hook a finger down his back and into his diaper before he can fully get away.

Peering into his diaper, you find no present. You carefully squeeze his bottom to discover no liquid deposit.

When you release him, he immediately darts down the hall. You follow and walk into the kitchen, beckoning him to join you. When he does and you bend to pick him up, he whines to be allowed to remain standing on his own.

“Well how’re you gonna see from down there?” you lightly ask.

When he shakes his head, you half-frown. It was just a couple weeks ago that eleven-month-old Gabriel began walking. Since then, he’s always wriggling out of your arms and dashing across rooms, seemingly already excited to be as independent as he can be.

At first, it stung. With the love and special intimacy of mother and son—and with even the chemistry and well-being of your bodies both dependent on the other—the two of you had been closer than peas in a pod, glued at the hip for so long. It’s always been and still is a precious bond to you, though its daily aspects continue to gradually change. And it was hard to so suddenly feel a little unneeded. But Arthur has helped you find a comfort in the balance of realizing that your feelings are only natural, and that you’ve been raising a wonderful and healthy little boy, with this change as just another bit of proof.

As well as the fact that Gabriel still likes to cherry-pick when he’s carried and when he walks on his own. You suspect that like any human, his adamant desire for independence doesn’t do one thing to hinder his deep enjoyment and fierce need of being held.

So you turn and begin pulling ingredients and dishes from the cupboard, at last going to the fridge to retrieve your sourdough starter. You begin mixing ingredients in your big bowl atop the counter, when you hear a whimper and feel a few hard tugs at your palazzos. And you smirk.

You glance down to find him with arms outstretched and upheld for you, bouncing on his tiptoes with longing. You stoop and lift him to you, hugging him to your hip and pressing a few kisses soundly to his smooth cheek.

Describing each action aloud to him, you finish mixing, dust the countertop with copious amounts of flour, and turn the bowl with your free hand to dump the dough.

“Now we knead,” you almost sing, in hushed tones.

Perched on your hip, his plump little arm drapes with familiarity and utmost contentedness over the back of your shoulder. He watches your every gesture with a mixture of restful curiosity and heightened interest.

You push the dough away and pull it towards you again and again, tucking the edges underneath as you do, to form a smooth, rounded surface on top.

“You wanna feel it? You wanna knead?” you ask.

Leaning forward, you let him reach and press his tiny hand into the supple surface of the cool dough.

“Gentle,” you say, showing him the way you keep your fingers outstretched and softly brush and pat the surface of the dough with the pads of your fingertips. “No squeezing.”

The two of you watch his little fingers delve into the pliant mass of dough, leaving a mark of small craters. When they begin to slowly bounce back, you watch his face instead of the dough.

He releases a single cooed sigh of delight as he looks at you with a bright smile, which you heartily return.

How you love, you love, you love him.

You sprinkle the dough with flour and rest it in a basket for its turn to prove. After fetching a dough you’d left proving hours before, you carefully score it with one long slice for expansion, and several small strokes for a quaint wheat kernel design on the other side.

“Mama.” Gabriel pats your sternum and rests a couple fingers past his lips.

“You hungry?” you ask.

When he nods, you brush a hand down the slope of the back of his head and kiss his temple. You add as you set him to his feet, “Let me get this in the oven, then I’ll feed you.”

After setting the parchment-papered sourdough in its cast iron dutch oven and pouring a bain marie past the paper, you place the whole thing in the oven and set a timer. You glance at the oven window with a small smile, eager to see the crispy crust on your extra-sour boule. Since you first noticed its resemblance to Gabriel’s tummy, you’ve made a tradition of kissing the top of the boule, then indelicately turning Gabriel sideways in your arms and blowing a raspberry on his bare belly, making him cackle hysterically. These days, he’s even begun giggling when you turn him in your arms and before you ever kiss his belly, already tickled by the anticipation alone.

With Gabriel in tow, you walk to the couch in the living room. Gabriel rests both arms over the seat cushion and tries to lift one leg up over the edge, but you reach your hands under his arms and pull him into your lap.

Just before you unhook your bra from its strap to nurse, the two of you hear the back door open.

Gabriel’s eyes widen, and a grin begins to pull on the corners of his mouth. “Da,” he says.

He wiggles down off the couch, and as he toddles down the hall, you listen to his bare little feet patting quietly along the hardwood floor. You smile to yourself at the precious sound, so deeply dear to you.

As you hear Arthur’s rustling, jingling presence in the doorway and the naturally firm, heavy footfalls of his work boots, you imagine him resting his black hat on the wall as his small son comes around the corner in only his diaper, bared rounded belly and all.

When you hear the playful growl and the resultant squeal and cackle, your grin splits wider.

“You’re in your nethers, baby boah!”

You can detect the pinch of a smile in Arthur’s voice and the breath of laughter with the last couple words.

More little pads of bare feet as Gabriel comes running back around the corner and down the hall. He hesitates as he toddles, turning back to ensure Arthur’s tailing, eager to play this game with his father.

Still, when Arthur leans around the corner and pulls an exaggeratedly silly face with an outright grunt, Gabriel’s little body gives a tiny jump. His squeal and adorable laughter ring out into the air. He clumsily darts into the kitchen.

When his father follows with a few long strides and the sturdy clops of his boots, he brings with him the musty scents of alfalfa hay and tanned rawhide, of trail dust and undiluted sunshine. And the two subsequently begin an elaborate game of peek-a-boo, back and forth around the island. You can’t help but laugh along at the purest sound of undiluted joy—the beauty and innocence of your own child so easily tickled and contented by life and love—as you turn on the couch and watch the pair. No matter how many times Arthur jumps out to stop him with a silly face and a low hoot or growl, Gabriel instantly screams and squeals, his body utterly racked with tightly coiled cackles.

Arthur wheezes and snickers every time.

“Oh my God, listen to him!” you laugh.

It’s always another several seconds before Gabriel totally recovers and manages to catch his breath, his laughter smoothing with each heave of air.

With the next turn of their game, Arthur lingers behind the island when Gabriel rounds it, not jumping out even when his son takes reticent steps forward, looking for him. Arthur continues to linger, even quietly backing up to hide himself, watching his son for the right moment to strike.

Finally Arthur leaps out, and Gabriel jumps with the highest squeal and loudest cackles you’ve heard yet.

You and Arthur both burst with your own laughter at his reaction.

When your son’s breathing finally evens, you call, “Gabriel, I thought you were hungry?”

“Oh, were you about to eat, son?” Arthur asks in his deep timbre. “You hungry?”

Gabriel nods and pats a hand to his belly above the rim of his diaper.

“Well, better go see Mama,” Arthur quietly grunts as he picks his son up by the underarms and sets him on his hip out of habit. Arthur lifts him over the couch back and sets him down into your lap, then remains behind the couch himself, watching over your shoulder.

After cushioning your back and adjusting him in your arms, you reach beneath your tee, unhook the front of your bra, and gently bring Gabriel to your breast to nurse. He latches on immediately, very well accustomed to your routine. A certain profound peace washes over you as you watch him. His lips flange around you as he suckles; his quiet breaths through his nose briefly pause each time he swallows; and his plump little arm rests wistfully over your chest.

Many people may look away, abashed and discomfited, unable to fit something at once both so innocent and intimate into their world. But it’s always made perfect sense to you. And maybe motherhood was a dream too quaint, one not rebellious or modern enough, seemingly not daring or adventurous enough. But it was your dream.

When Gabriel spots Arthur’s face over your shoulder, he pulls away from your breast with a growingly wry grin, clearly expecting to continue the game from moments ago. Droplets of your milk spill between you and his mouth as he voices a syllable and lifts his arm, attempting to goad Arthur into another silly face.

Arthur silently complies with cross-eyes and a sideways tongue.

Gabriel promptly giggles, and the two of you smile and chuckle at the sound.

“Don’t while he’s nursing, he’ll choke,” you lightly say.

After softly cooing and corralling Gabriel back to his feeding, you continue watching him with a contented smile. You brush your hand down over the back of his head, into the growing downy hair that curls funnily at the base of his neck. As he closes his eyes, you brush the backs of your curled fingers down over his temple, and gently trail your fingertips across the velvet flower-petal skin of his plump baby cheek.

You hear the long, relaxed sound of Arthur’s husky breath over your shoulder, a sound you know very well, especially these days.

“What a life, huh?” he quietly says.

He means to facetiously point out Gabriel’s current lot—nursing at his mother’s breast with his father at the ready to make him smile and laugh. That is, a life full of love and joy, well taken care of, and absent of a care in the world. Just as he should be for now.

It doesn’t take you a few moments, and you’re turning to look into Arthur’s cerulean-sage eyes. A knowingness resides in your gaze. Because you yourself, as well as your husband, have been given all you’d so deeply and totally longed for—and longed, a word too weak—more than you could’ve ever imagined you’d actually live to get.

“Yeah,” you quietly, pensively respond. “What a life.”

The love of your life holds your gaze, and understands.

Your love and gratefulness are immeasurable and uncontainable, filling you and stretching past the bounds of your body and being, like fragmented granules of glittering dust floating from a burst star.

Strangely enough, even with all the joy and contentment and peace, the words and the shared gaze are not without a mingling of loss and ache.

They are not gone entirely. But you both have someone now, to join you in weathering them.

You are not alone.

Arthur leans to you, and you share a few kisses, soft as breath. You turn and close your eyes a moment as he rests his forehead to your temple. And you both gaze down at your son with contented smiles.

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okay-babe · 2 months

Text

Fallen - A Lucifer Morningstar x Reader Series Preview

Synopsis: Reader is a specific type of angel called a heavenly virtue, who was created around the same time as the fallen seraphim, Lucifer Morningstar. More than friends and less than lovers, our Reader feels betrayed by the decisions that her dear friend makes that later lead to his banishment, though she finds a few hundred years later that flying might just be harder than falling after so many centuries of grief. Tags: lucifer x fem! reader, lucifer x angel! reader, friends to almost lovers to strangers to lovers??, angst, pining

It hurt to admit, of course it did, but in truth, it was impossible to deny.

He had been everything.

The two of you had come to be together, grown up at one another's side in the closest thing two angels could have ever gotten to a childhood.

Created for good, created for more, there had been so little time to become someone before you had both been thrust into being.

And for the longest time you had believed so truly that this fact was what bonded you together, what made you feel whole when in his presence.

Until of course, you learned the truth.

That being forced into being had not bound you to Lucifer, and he to you...

But rather, it had damned you both to an eternity of suffering -

One quite literal in a fiery pit called Hell,

And the other something that your God had not, and would not have ever given,

The silent and agonizing torture of longing.

But you supposed it was fitting, in a way.

Lucifer had given man free will,

And an angel of virtue an emotion that their God had never intended for her to feel -

Loss.

His final gift to you, wrapped up in the memories of agony you could not escape.

His hand in yours, unyielding,

His lips on your skin, curious and yearning,

His warmth at your back each night for eons that were never enough.

And of course,

His laughter in Eden, unending,

His lips on hers, confident and eager,

The look on his face as they served him his sentence, eyes finding yours before averting again and again, as if unknowing, as if ashamed...

And from that day forward, you had known deep down that something had been taken from you, something essential yet unnamed that lived on within every other angel.

But to think that it might have lead to your own expulsion?

Well, you supposed that idolatry was a sin, wasn't it?

And what was your Lucifer to you if not a God?

Did he not hurt you so casually as a God would?

Did he not vanish as a God would?

Did he not love you as a God would?

"It does not have to be this way,"

The booming yet gentle voice called out, that desperate edge to it the only tell that its owner knew you as well as she did,

"Remember, dear remedial one, who made you. Who gave you life and embodies through you our eighth heavenly virtue, that which tips the scale away from a balance between us and those seven deadly sins, and instead allows us to exceed their damning weight."

The Seraphim's warning was clear, speak incorrectly again and you would surely be banished, and in turn Heaven, the land you had been created for, would lose it's unspoken eighth virtue, casting things back to the original seven that had been customary before your time, none of which had ever known a world where they and sin had been equally matched.

But even still, you were not a liar, and with every passing day you felt less and less like you could step up to the very virtue you were meant to embody, your persisting grief a constant reminder of what you could not do in spite of what you had been made to represent.

In spite of what you had been made for.

"Now, let me ask you again, loved one,"

The voice spoke up, eyes seeking yours all the while as if trying to sway your answer before you could give it.

"Who do you love more than any other?"

The grand jury of lower seraphims, ophanims, cherubims, and virtues watched on silently, eagerly awaiting your answer with baited breaths they had never truly needed to take.

The answer was meant to be God, of course, and you knew it.

But you suddenly found that it wasn't true, and perhaps it never had been in the first place, for you had not felt as if you had been touched by God since your creation, and even still, it was not his divine touch that you longed for each evening, but another entirely.

One that you supposed was divine no longer to anyone who was not you, anyone who had not held the face of the seraphim before his fall.

No, he was divine to them no longer, but to you...

Well, you had already admitted long ago that he was everything,

And you could lie no longer.

"The Lightbringer."

You began, the room growing tense in an instant, the silence somehow growing more thick the very moment those words passed your lips,

"Lucifer Morningstar."

The high seraphim frowned, the weight of what she had to do to one she'd called a friend for so long acting as a burden she wished she did not have to carry.

But alas, not all angels had been made defective, so it seemed.

She did as she needed to do.

"Then today I'm afraid that Heaven loses it's eighth heavenly virtue to the pits of Hell."

You flinched at her words in spite of yourself, the knowledge of what was to come causing your heart to hammer within your chest.

Angels were meant to fly, not fall, after all.

The seraphim stepped forward, her eyes slightly clouded with a grief you knew all too well. You hoped she would not miss you as you did him.

She placed her hand upon your shoulder, bringing your full attention back to her once more,

"It is a shame that God made you as he did."

She spoke gently, each word she uttered drenched in pity.

"He does not deserve this betrayal."

You nodded solemnly in response, and bowed your head, waiting.

The high seraphim took a deep breath.

"I hereby banish you, our eighth heavenly virtue, Forgiveness, from Heaven forevermore for your treasonous acts against our holy father. May you repent forever in the fiery depths below."

And with that, your halo disintegrated completely, its golden shimmers falling all around your head as you looked around at those you had been created with one final time.

Your eyes flickered back to the seraphim, mouth opening just as the ground began to split at your feet.

"Goodbye, Sera."

You said gently, watching a stray tear fall from your dear friend's face before suddenly, all light seemed to vanish, and you found yourself hurdling into the abyss so fast that the wind almost felt as if it were burning you alive the whole way down.

And yet, all that you could think about was how ironic it was, truly,

That your Lightbringer had only ever led you into darkness.

#lucifer x reader #lucifer imagine #hazbin x reader #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel x you #lucifer x you #hazbin x you #hazbin imagine #hazbin hotel imagine #hazbin hotel #requests #lucifer morningstar x reader #lucifer magne x reader #hazbin lucifer x reader #.writes

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the-possum-writes · 9 months

Note

could you do a detailed smut/fluff with adult!Finn after reader has been away on an adventure?

Long time no see 🔞

❥Character: Finn Mertens

❥Tags: NS/FW, gender neutral reader, private parts aren't specified, Face sitting, Oral, Established Relationship, Fluff, Vanilla, No beta,

❥Synopsis: Coming back to Finn after spending months climbing through snow covered mountains. As much as you love traveling, you love him even more.

❥Wordcount: 2400

❥Taglist: @watchingfromthefloorboards @foxpearlwilder

With the treefrort being no taller than a sapling it made it harder to find Finn's mobile home with how much he loves to move around without telling you, but the again, you can't say no to a challenge.

The air is humid, and the sky grows gloomier as clouds block off the day's final rays of sunlight. The trinkets on your backpack clink together as you hike uphill toward the parked metallic trailer, where the candy horses are already preparing for sleep; any doubts about no one being home are thrown out the window when orange light shines behind the solitary door. A single knock is made while speaking clearly. "Sir Mertens, we've come to discuss your expired warranty," you say as solemnly as you can.

Footsteps approach you as a muffled voice talks from inside the trailer. "A warranty? But I paid choose goose years ago." When the door finally opened, Finn was shocked to see you instead of some unscrupulous lawyer. Even in this temperature, he is dressed in just a pair of faded gray tank top and a pair of denim shorts. He is just as you remember, tall, chubby, but neither too skinny nor excessively jacked up, and his blond beard matches the blond hairs on his head that aren't covered by his customary bear hat. However, he appears to be immune to the autumn season since when he greeted you with a bear hug, you felt firsthand how naturally warm he truly is, with his body heat surrounding you even through the layer of clothes you dressed yourself for travels.

After a minute of hugging you, he laughs in your ear and releases you. "I should've known better; lawyers wouldn't bother trekking up this steep hill just to charge me with a stupid warrant."

"You obviously never met a lawyer then, they're more relentless than a honey badger with a grudge." you point out. This gained another laugh from Finn, "Come inside! you look like you've fought one yourself."

And he wasn't lying, expeditions didn't really leave you looking fresh like a cabbage.

As you step inside his cozy trailer you soon realize why Finn was dressed in light clothes, it's just as warm as he is with the orange lights coming from a heater in the corner of the main area that looks like a living room, a few more looks around the place hold the trademarks of a single occupant, empty pizza boxes stacked together in the trash bin, clean but unfolded laundry basket out in the open and countless trinkets, weapons and treasures mounted on every inch of the walls. You drop your backpack to the carpeted floor as you take in the details of the treasures, some look familiar to you while others are completely brand new. You make a mental note to ask about them later for now you only have one thing in mind as you remove your coat.

"I'mma hog the shower bit." you affirm, not really asking for permission but you do toss in a suggestion for good measure. "You could use one too, I may look the part but you smell more like a badger than me."

Finn scoffs at your jab until he caught a whiff of himself and agreed non verbally. The last thing you saw before closing the door to the bathroom was Finn grabbing two towels from the cupboard but not a pair of new clothes considering the basket was right there, it sent a shiver down your spine and settled in your stomach, but you choose to ignore it for now as you get your priorities straight.

The sigh you release when the warm water crashed on your body could easily be confused for something pornographic, but considering the rough terrain you've traveled through and the rough weather outside it's no brainier you'd feel so satisfied with something as mundane as a hot shower. Your hands are combing through the knots in your hair when you heard Finn follow you into the shower, you step aside to allow him some room under the shower head as he shakes his head like a dog. "Can you pass me the shampoo? it's on the sink." he asks, eyes closed as he lavishes in the hot water just like you did earlier. You poke your head out of the shower curtain to retrieve the bottle on the ledge of the sink, almost laughing your ass off when you read it's one of those '13 in one for men' brand. "For real? why not have a shampoo and conditioner like Jake did?" you snort.

"Hey, I'm a busy guy. Why waste my time with a ton of bottles if one has it covered?" is his defense, but you comply nevertheless as you squeeze the shampoo over his open palm as he washes his rowdy blond locks with it, you can't help but feel a twinge of jealously, Finn could use car shampoo and his hair would still look majestic and soft. Good genes i suppose. Your eyes went to the single hand washing his hair with his other shoulder leading to a scarred stump you've seen replaced with a multitude of weapons and robotic prosthetics but now it's just as nude as the rest of him. He helps you out with your own hair, scrubbing your back and even cleaning behind your ears like a cat grooming it's partner, and yet you allow him, let him satiate his touch starved need with these caresses on your body that don't necessarily lead to anything promiscuous under the shower head but knowing the two of you it's just a matter of time. He's the first to walk out of the bathroom, handing you your towel as he dries out his long hair in his bedroom. While you follow behind his steps it's like walking in on an undisturbed nymph bathing in a pond during golden hour, with the orange light casting striking shadows and highlights over every noteworthy angle on his body, from his sturdy thighs to his firm shoulders and lastly his prominent ass, it's like you're hypnotized when you slowly walk up to him to wrap your arms around his midriff and press your exposed body to his. "So, what did you bring me from your trip?" Finn asks softly while lowering his hand to meet with yours, caressing your scarred knuckles with his large thumb.

"Since when am i obligated to bring you stuff from my trips? there's not exactly any souvenir shops on top of freezing mountains." you jest, resting the side of your head against his back as your other hand trails up and down his hairy navel, feeling his muscles tense down south.

"You always bring me something," he snorts, "Either way, I'm glad you came back safely."

Finn tosses the wet towel elsewhere as he turns around to face you, expediently but suddenly smashing his lips against yours with a fervor you've only witnessed when he's fighting monster taller than himself, he doesn't leave any spot of your mouth untouched with drooling dripping from the corner of your mouth as you caress his tongue with your own in a cacophony of grunts and gasps that escape past your hot breaths. Finn drops himself back into the edge of his bed and brings you along with him with the only thing keeping you above him being your knee in between his parted legs, if his body is naturally warm like a radiator then the growing length nestled in his loins is overbearingly hot, you raise your knee to tease more of him in an attempt to seek more of the noises that were getting caught in his throat. Seeking more from him, you quit the teasing and get down to your knees, kissing the interior of his firm thighs as you make way to the bulbous pink tip eagerly twitching in your direction. You place one smooch on Finn's tip, before placing another, and another until you take his entire gland past your chapped lips, humidifying them with the droplets of precum slipping through his head as you take more of him with a needy groan.

Finn fidgets a bit in his spot, you raising your view to see him lovingly staring back at you through his gorgeous blonde eyelashes, compelling you to take more of him as you keep eye contact so the memory of you stuffing your mouth with his cock becomes engraved in every cell in his brain. Finn's mouth opens up ever so slightly to expel sighs, grunts and whines every time you bob your head up and down, focusing on the way your tongue swirls around his tip like a lollipop. He's so painfully close it has you aching for him more than all those nights you spent alone on snowy terrain, so you removed yourself from his cock with a final slurp and an audible pop, leaving behind a mess of saliva dripping down your tongue. "...ah, ah, not yet." you insist, ignoring your pained knees as you stand up in front of Finn, softly pushing him on his back as you climb him like a tree.

Almost as if he read your mind, Finn grabbed hold of you with a single hand. "Come here," he pulls your hips to his face, stuffing his mouth with everything you could offer to him. You gasp in bewilderment as Finn takes in as much as he can in his own mouth, sucking, nibbling and letting his tongue run wild all over you as your body instinctively jerks back and forth while tugging on his blonde hair. The action has Finn growling from under you, with his own hips jutting forward even though there's nothing to rut against, Finn has learned to become a patient man when it comes to his urges but it's like the build up from months without any lewd contact finally went to his head and has him tapping into a lustful state. And boy, you're all in for it. You remove yourself from Finn's face, ushering the most basic english through needy pants. "Need you inside, now."

This has Finn tossing you to your side, keeping you in place as he dips his head in between the crook of your neck and shoulder to lick and bite to his pleasure. He guides his fingertips to the opening of your mouth, letting him wet his digits with the excessive saliva pooled in your tongue as you got his fingers nice and wet. It's in your best interest after all. "That's it babe, i need 'em nice and slick, I want you to take me... all of me..." he whispers in your shoulder. After he's satisfied with the copious amount of drool he guides them to your already wet opening (thanks to his own saliva from earlier) and slips in one finger after another, poking and prodding inside you as he stretches you out a bit. His touch has every nerve in your your legs twitching, growing accustomed to the isolation and lack of his touch after all this time has you whimpering like it's your first time with him, and Finn dwells in this. "Missed me after all huh? or did you miss my cock?" Finn replaces his fingers for his hot rob, rubbing the tip over your entrance in a teasing manner just like when you rubbed your knee against him.

"Everything. I missed everything about you Finn-" you confess absolutely breathless, taking his mouth for another kiss as his slips himself inside you, with both of your grunting in unison.

"I missed you to," is the last time you hear him speak in a soft tone. "...Won't keep you waiting." Finn's voice struggles to sound coherent as he secures his arm around your midriff as he drills into you from behind, already starting with a rough pace as he keep true to his word like the knight he is. Your cries of ecstasy combine with his own mix of grunts and growls, even biting into your shoulder to add more marks to the growing collection on your skin. Finn didn't stop his onslaught on your for a second, not when he switched your positions and laid you on your back as he raised your legs over his shoulder to fuck deeper into your wanton body, taking in all of his rough biting that you returned with long scratches on his already scarred back, the angle not only allow for deeper thrusts but it also gave you a beautiful view of his gorgeous body. Just like the treasure mounted on his wall, some of his scars were familiar while there were new ones to the collection, one of them being the unfinished tattoo decorated over his beefy hairy chest, you run your hands over his torso, feeling the muscle underneath flex with every movement Finn provides both for your pleasure and his love for you. It's these touches of yours that has Finn slow down from his heated session against your lower regions to dwell a bit in the feelings that have you two in this situation in the first place, his thrusts become slow and shallow, taking the time to release his hold on your thigh to grab your hand and kiss your knuckles which although were scarred and calloused they felt soft against Finn's lips.

The moment is tender in it's own right, and yet it doesn't fail to have you craving for this silly man all over again. You nudge him with the sole of your foot, silently prompting him to continue.

Finn resumed his onslaught into your warm insides but with more adoring looks and complements that remind you that you're also worthy of his love and attention. "You're taking me so good... No one else can rile me up like this..." Finn calls out your name multiple times, feeling himself near the edge as his hips loose rhythm in favor of faster and harder pelvic thrusts that feel like he's straight up rearranging your guts.

"Finn, Finn please...please..." you find yourself begging, almost teary eyed.

Finn complies and smooches you one last time, driving you to that sweet sweet liberation that has you aching your back and wrapping your legs around Finn's waist, meanwhile he releases a combination of desperate whimpers and grunts as he empties a vast amount of pent up come inside your tight little hole that rushes out from around him and leaks into his bed sheets. The blow up has Finn crashing down on you, needing to tap him in the arm to remind him he's crushing you.

"My bad." he rolls sideways but not without pulling your against him, as he closes his eyes to take in the feeling of you body against his no matter how sweaty the two of you are.

You in return, appreciate his peaceful face from up close. To the scar on his cheek from the beard scattered over his lower jaw, he's marvelous, not to mention when he finally opens his eyes to look at you with those glistening pools of blue. "Like what you see?" he jokes, smiling at you despite the few missing teeth.

"Very much," you place a kiss on his nose, watching him scrunch it a bit.

"Well, if you stay for the weekend i can make it worth your time before you go back to mountain climbing." he states, which has you reconsidering.

"Hmm, actually i think I'll take an indefinite hiatus from traveling. Or atleast until i can get you something better than this dinosaur tooth i brought you." you accidentally slip up which has Finn sitting up with a knowing laugh of victory.

"Hah! I knew you brought me something!"

#adventure time x reader #finn mertens x reader #finn the human #finn the human x reader #reader insert

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devilfic · 1 year

Text

❝right place, right time❞

IV. the hierophant.

parts: previously / next plot: you ask bruce to take his shirt off. pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x gn!reader. cw: surgeon!reader, secret identities, slow burn, emotional hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, alfred’s a little mean but he’s just being protective, you’re making serious life choices on four hours of sleep and a dream, you’re getting warmer, mentions of guns (none used). words: 7.3k.

a/n: this one is longer than usual and it is largely due to the fact that the last half of this fic came to me at six in the morning and I deigned to part with it. enjoy!

You get about as far as the lobby before your confidence wanes. The woman behind the desk has the kind of look that fits in a place like this: pristine brows, glossed lips, nary a flyaway not tamed by gel and a boar-bristle brush. You realize, quite belatedly, that you stick out like a sore thumb.

Even with a phone tucked between shoulder and cheek, her stare pins you down and tells you to stay where you are. You listen because, frankly, you don’t know where else to go.

She’s in no hurry to finish her call, but it’s all too soon before she’s fixing you with that stare again. You’re already nervous. “Can I help you?” She—Alexandra, you gather from her name tag—doesn’t blink.

You feel ridiculous saying it out loud, “I’m here to see Bruce Wayne.”

Alexandra’s head tips to the side, examining you more closely. Perhaps looking for your audacity, you think, because she doesn’t look too keen on helping you with that request. “He sent me flowers.” You add on, lamely.

Finally she blinks, unimpressed, “Did he now?”

You feel unnerved when you hand it over and she doesn’t immediately take it. Eventually, after your arm has begun to shake, she plucks it from you.

It takes her but a few seconds for her entire expression to change. The next time she looks up at you, her stare is curious, memory jogged. “You were on the news, the doctor from Gotham General,” Alexandra recalls, “did you have an appointment?”

“No. I uh... well, I just... the delivery person dropped these off a half hour ago. I just wanted to thank him.”

Alexandra’s face softens. “I’m sorry, I can’t let anyone up without a prior appointment. I can relay a message, however. Or give you his office’s number.”

You wouldn’t be seeing him today, would you? You’d come here on an adrenaline high, a little angry and a little woozy on pain meds. You hadn’t even been thinking when you’d left your apartment, had turned off your phone as soon as your mother started calling, and now you were on the other side of the city hoping to see the most important man in Gotham. Of course you should’ve called. He left you his number and you thought you could just walk right into his office.

But then again, he’d walked right into yours. Why couldn’t you do the same?

Behind the desk, one of the (heavily armed) security guards is keeping an eye on you. That... answered your question. Maybe you’d have to make that call after all.

You’re about to do just that, thanking Alexandra for her time, when you hear your name being called from a few feet away.

You recognize him in an instant. The weathered, greying face of Bruce Wayne’s right hand man is approaching at impeccable speed, nearly making you stumble back to keep the distance, “Mr. Pennyworth.” You breathe the name at the same time as Alexandra, who goes a step further and stands to acknowledge him. You don’t think it’s customary with the way his quick smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

You, on the other hand, get no smile at all, “What a surprise to find you here. I hope the flowers were received well? We were unable to gather if you’re prone to allergies.”

You wonder how he would’ve gotten that information without asking you first, “No- I mean yes, they were fine. I was actually coming to deliver my thanks.”

Alfred straightens at this. It’s not hard, with all your experience, to recognize a veteran when you see one. He’s got the determined, flawless gait along with the endless eyes (the ones that go on forever with stories and horrors not so far beyond your imagination). He’s also got the immovability of one. You understand why he’s Bruce Wayne’s right hand man. If a bomb was unable to take him out, you doubted much else could. Not even if you asked nicely. “That’s very kind of you. I’ll have to pass your thanks on to Master Wayne.”

Master? It’s not so out of place, situated in his West London accent, but it does throw you off in 21st century America. Everything about him read as other than, and yet you felt the most out of place in this conversation. “Actually, I was hoping if I could see him. I’d like to tell him in person. If that’s alright.”

Alfred’s eyebrow twitches upwards, “Does Mr. Wayne know you’re coming?”

You flush. You really should’ve called first. “No. He doesn’t. I thought-” that you’d all make an exception for me, “I was in a hurry to get here. I didn’t even think to call.”

“Mr. Wayne is a very busy man.”

“I know, I’m sorry. Truly. I just really need to talk to him.”

“Perhaps you can come back another day. I’ll be happy to schedule that with you, if Mr. Pennyworth is needed elsewhere.” Alexandra interjects. There was no way you could tell her or Alfred that if you had more time to think about what you were about to do, you might as well ask to be put down.

Mr. Pennyworth extends his arm, bringing his wrist to his eyeline where he reads the time on his watch. You glance at your phone and realize it’s just a few minutes after one. “Actually, Alexandra, there’s no need. I believe Mr. Wayne has just finished his workout and should be headed back to the penthouse to rest for the afternoon. I don’t believe he’d mind our guest coming up for a chat.”

You cut your eyes to Alexandra, then back to Alfred who’s now looking at you. Either you were really lucky, or there was something you didn’t know going on here.

Regardless, Alfred turns on the spot and begins to walk away.

With one last “thank you” thrown at Alexandra, you head off after him, slowing to a more graceful pace as employees pass pointed looks at you. You shrink closer to Alfred, then further behind him when he casts an inquisitive glance in your direction.

He leads you around the corner, down a long hallway where the suits and ties grow fewer and fewer. A few more turns and you both end up in the elevator alone.

The silence is only cut through every few seconds by the occasional ding! letting you know you’ve passed another floor. This was all starting to feel just a little too easy.

After the first five floors, Alfred speaks, “I trust you’re recovering well?”

“Yes, actually. I’m lucky. We all were.”

Alfred hums, “Yes. It is rather lucky having the Batman around.”

You turn to him, curious, “You’re a fan?”

For the first time in your presence, the old man actually cracks a real smile. It’s faint, but realer than the one he’d given Alexandra. “A critic.”

“A critical fan.”

“I think he’s done a better job taking care of the people in this city than some, though his methods could use refining. And you?”

“I might be biased given that he’s saved my life and all, but I’m a fan,” you wonder if you should tell him. Then, in line with your other decisions thus far, choose to do so anyway, “I actually got to tell him that. When we first met. Before the... hospital. Patched up a nasty bullet wound for him.”

For some reason, Alfred doesn’t look as surprised as you were hoping for. You’d have to find another way to impress him. “Is that right?” His gaze becomes more pointed, “Think he was looking out for you?”

It sounds so absurd to you at first that you laugh, but even thinking about it for a second, it isn’t that absurd. It’s easy, even, to come to that conclusion. You’d saved his life. He’d saved yours. Perhaps he’d just wanted to do away with owing you, but you know that isn’t quite right, “I think he’s just a good person. It was just-”

“Lucky.” He finishes for you, smile gone now. You get the feeling that he knows something you don’t.

Before you can be so bold as to question him about it, he starts talking again, “If I may, Master Wayne informed me of his interest in you prior to his job offer. And it’s my understanding that you politely declined. Now, it’s none of my business as to why you turned down his offer, that was your decision and he must respect that, and it’s neither my business why you’ve insisted on coming here after the fact, but I do want to make one thing clear: as Bruce’s butler, I have seen many come and go through these halls with intentions I’m more than privy to. I know when someone is looking to gain something from him. This is the first time I’ve not been sure what to predict. It’s not clear to me what you plan to get out of this arrangement, but I request that whatever you do, you do not make me regret allowing you past these doors.”

The elevator comes to a full stop, the final ding! alerting you that you’re one floor away from the penthouse. A mechanized voice requests over the speakers to “present identification”. Alfred does not move. He stares at you, awaiting your response.

You don’t know whether to feel angry or sheepish. You stand here in little more than sweatpants and ratty sneakers, shaking like a purse dog where at any moment, someone could come around the corner and put a bullet between your eyes for saying the wrong thing. In fact, no one needed to come around any corners. You’d seen the outline of the 9mm under Alfred’s vest on the way to the elevator. You had little more than your keys on you for self-defense.

You weren’t a threat. You were barely anything without a scalpel in your hand.

And yet this military man with more bullets than you’d have seconds to escape him thinks you enough of a problem to lecture you. God, alright, you’re a little angry.

“If I may,” you start, “I have no clue what Bruce wants with me either. And frankly, I’m more worried about that than you should be about me. I just want to talk to him. If you’re lucky, you’ll never have to see me again.”

He holds your gaze a little longer, wondering if you’ll crack. It takes very deep, measured breaths to keep from doing so.

You don’t know how long the two of you just stand there, but eventually Alfred touches a screen on the wall with his thumb that seems to be the magic password. The voice from before confirms as much, jolting the elevator the last few feet before spilling the two of you out into the penthouse. Alfred says nothing more, simply guiding you down another hallway, up some stairs, and into a room larger than the upper half of your apartment complex.

You don’t have time to pause at the one-of-a-kind art on the wall, nor the shelves lined with books of all languages and disciplines. You don’t even have time to examine the city outside the window (from what you glimpse, the view is beautiful).

You stand out in the open beneath twin winding staircases either side of you, leading up into a dark unknown. You feel like a child staring up at the ceiling, breathing in the gloomy castle. It’s worlds away from your quaint unit stuck in the 80s.

“He should be here,” is the first thing Alfred has said to you since the elevator, “I’ll just be a moment.”

You watch the old man wander up one of the staircases, calling for Bruce. Without anyone watching you, you’re free to explore. And really, what if this was the last time you’d ever step foot in this place?

The first thing you approach is the large table in the middle of the room. There’s a W engraved in the wood, polished to a shine, surrounded by abandoned teacups and loose papers you try not to look too closely at.

The next thing you approach is a small study off to the side where more books live, but your stomach drops when you chance a glance out into the city. You’ve been this high up before, but you couldn’t imagine this being the first thing you see every morning. You could see most of Gotham from this high. Every skyscraper, every dingy alleyway, every car and boat and train from miles around. This far above, it was no wonder they called the Waynes royalty.

You also couldn’t imagine the money it took to build this place. It was cheaper back before anyone in this building had been born, but if Bruce Wayne wanted, he could build one just like it in every major city. You can even see Gotham General from here. It’s... it makes you feel so small.

Your fingers press into the glass and leave behind prints. You doubted anyone would even notice.

You’re seconds from whipping out your phone and texting Emily a photo of the view when Alfred’s voice breaks the silence, “Master Wayne! There you are.”

Shit, he was here already?

You turn, expecting him to be at the staircase or by the front door or even by the table you’d been pondering. You don’t expect him to be just a few feet behind you, watching you watch the cityscape. The sudden closeness makes you tumble back into the window, your head thudding on the glass so loudly that you see Bruce wince.

When Alfred’s voice carries again, he’s much closer. Close enough for you to hear the displeasure in: “You have a guest.”

Alfred leaves you both alone in the study. He cites some phone calls he needs to make and swears to keep “Dory” out until the end of your meeting. You’re assured it’s just the two of you up here. As if that would calm your mounting nerves.

At the very least, Bruce looks just as unsure as you.

He puts the desk between the two of you, still standing, only now his shape has changed. In his fancy suits, he was angular, a person who parted crowds with his size. Now, here, in a t-shirt that hangs off him so loosely he looks gaunt, he looks smaller somehow. Tall and lean but smaller. Softer. It helps a little, doesn’t feel so out of place when his voice matches his demeanor, “Did you get the flowers?”

Only then do you realize that Alexandra still has the card he left you. “How do you know where I live?”

His expression turns frightened for just a moment, then softens, “Your boss called when they arrived at your office, told me you were on leave. He offered to send them to your apartment.” He takes the way your eyes narrow as you not believing him, “He didn’t tell me where. And I didn’t ask.” He hastily tacks on the last part.

Of course, he says all this as if you had lawyers on speed dial. Was it because he had something to hide?

“They were... beautiful. I can’t remember the last time someone gave me flowers.” You reply, honest, and it takes a little of the tension out of his shoulders. Yours too.

“After I saw the news, I was just glad to know you hadn’t been seriously harmed.”

“No, I was lucky. Or someone was looking out for me.” The last bit slips out without you meaning it to. When you look up to hazard Bruce’s reaction, he’s entirely impassive. Whatever got you into this penthouse convinces you to ask the next thing that comes to mind, “Do you believe in the Batman?”

You catch the genuine confusion flit across his face as he asks, “Like... the boogeyman?”

“No, I mean... do you believe- I mean he’s just a person, right? Clearly. But do you believe he’s doing something good for Gotham? Mayor Reál seems to think he’s a sign that the city has gone to shit. I know you’re a supporter of hers. I was just curious.”

“The city’s always been... shit,” he catches your eye as he reuses your wording, “I don’t think he’s a sign. I think he’s a side effect.”

“So... the city gets better and, what, Batman no more?”

“That’s the ideal.”

“I can’t imagine a Gotham that nice.”

Bruce studies you. You find it alarming how still he can be, “Do you?”

“Hm?”

“Do you believe? In the Batman?”

Why do you feel so naive when you blurt out a confident “yes”? Is it because Bruce looks skeptical? Because you realize that maybe you’re more attached to the vigilante than you should be, even if he saved your life? That maybe you’d placed all your hope for a better world in him, and if he ever failed, you’d be in for a rude awakening? All of the above was your best guess. “You didn’t answer.”

Bruce fidgets. “I don’t know.”

“That’s a cop out.” It hits you that the conversation has begun to flow on its own, the longest you’ve ever talked to Bruce. Maybe the suits were the issue after all.

“It’s... like you said: Gotham gets better, the Batman is no more. I want Gotham to get better.”

Whether he’s playing diplomat or not, it’s such a neutral stance that you begin to reevaluate what you know about Bruce Wayne. You shift the conversation to shallow waters, “Your butler is intimidating.”

“Alfred?”

“He interrogated me on the ride up here. Felt like I was being lectured by my girlfriend’s dad.”

Bruce laughs all of a sudden, even less tense. The smile that splits his stoic in two is so very different from anything you’ve seen on him so far, “I’m sorry about him, he’s protective. I hope he didn’t scare you.”

You go to say he didn’t, but then you remember the gun he’d had hidden in his slacks and reconsider, “It’s fine. He let me up here, didn’t he?” Whether he’d done so hoping this would be the last time you ever step foot in the tower or not, you would leave that unsaid. “But I didn’t come here just to thank you for the flowers or talk about Batman. There’s been something on my mind for a while. Ever since you came to offer me the job. I was too stunned to think about it then, but I’ve been meaning to ask you... why me?”

You expect to have to clarify. Bruce takes a long look at you and doesn’t ask you to, “Because you’re good at what you do.”

“There’s hundreds of talented doctors in Gotham. Millions in the world. You met me once and you wanted to put your life in my hands.”

“You’re one of those talented doctors.”

“But you... aren’t just anybody. You have to... you’ve gotta know that, right? You could have asked for anyone. I should’ve been a blip on your radar as soon as you met me. There’s no logical reason for someone with your resources to come to me, in person, and ask me to work for you.”

“Of course there is.”

“Like what?”

Frustrated, he maneuvers around the desk until it’s no longer blocking the both of you. It makes the conversation feel more personal. You don’t feel like you’re talking to the same Bruce Wayne from before, “You noticed I was hurt right away. No one else did.”

“It feels like more than that.” And it does. All of this. Every interaction has felt like something bubbling under the surface, waiting to break skin and bleed out for everyone to see. You keep getting that feeling that you know. Bruce even looks like he knows. Alfred, too. But you’re the only one who can’t quite name it.

It doesn’t help that for a second, you think Bruce is going to say more. He doesn’t. He schools his expression into stoicism again. You find that you don’t really like that look on him, can’t stand not having that glimpse of someone human now that you’ve been spoiled on it.

He takes one step after the other, assertive. You feel like you should step out of the way once he’s right in front of you, when the fresh scent of green apple invades your senses and you notice that the soft strands on his head are still damp. You realize then that you’d probably caught him fresh out of the shower, that it wasn’t just the lack of suit that had changed him. You realize too that his knuckles are still bruised, only now the flesh looks like it’d been freshly broken recently.

You’re so focused on the injury that you startle looking into his eyes for answers. For a shining, blinding second... you’d seen someone else.

“I wasn’t trying to change your mind. The flowers were a courtesy. Nothing more.”

You believe him. He’s not acting. He’s so earnest you don’t even think he’s breathing as he waits for your reply.

You’d come here in a haze and you’re finally sobering up, but you wouldn’t sound like it from what you say next, “And if I changed my mind?”

The stoicism melts. Bruce exhales a heavy breath.

It starts to catch up with you that you still have no idea if the offer is even still on the table. “If you haven’t already found someone else,” comes your buffer, trying not to let embarrassment seep into your words, “and if you’d still like me to-”

“Okay.” His answer is sure, final. His certainty reassures you in a strange way. You still feel way in over your head but God be damned, you got this far.

“Okay. And I have some conditions. I’ll still be working at Gotham General, you’ll just be my priority. And I want to do a physical exam, figure out what I’m working with.”

“Whatever you need. It’s yours.”

You glance back down at Bruce’s hands. He needs no convincing. You think back to that day when you first met him: the limp in his walk, the barely contained pain in his expression, his excuse that had felt more practiced than your speech. If you recalled, he’d favored his left side, which would put his sprain just about...

Your hand is touching his waist before you even realize that it’s left your side. Through the shirt, you feel the muscles that are deceptively concealed. No matter how much softer he looked like this, there was power coiled beneath his skin.

To your surprise, it’s you who reacts first.

You yank your hand away and put one whole step between the two of you—which does nothing. You didn’t recall being this close before you touched him. Just how out of your mind were you?

You take stock of Bruce’s expression. If he had looked any sort of way when you’d been so bold as to touch him, you’d missed it. You summon enough strength to ask, before you could throw yourself out of those beautiful windows behind you, “Can I use your restroom?”

You don’t know what you’re doing, you don’t know what you’re doing, you don’t know what you’re doing.

It’d be better to think something more positive, something that would get you to release your death grip on the sink, but you’re Icarus and you can smell something burning. You can also hear voices outside; Alfred’s, unmistakably, and Bruce’s which would be easier to hear if you pressed your ear up to the door. No doubt, they were discussing you.

Your palms are so slick that they start to slip and you have to run them under water. You don’t even want to think about drying your hands on the towel hanging beside the mirror, quality visible even to your eye, but if you wiped them on your sweatpants, everyone would know.

Your second idea is to check your phone, swiping through the missed calls and messages begging for you to have some sense and call your mother back. You check the weather (clear skies for the night), pull up pictures of kittens, scroll online until you’ve seen every news report and viral video on mute and have no excuse to hide anymore, because the only thing worse than having a borderline panic attack in a rich person’s bathroom was the rich person thinking you were absolutely destroying their plumbing.

You take a few breaths, decide against splashing your face, and begin to turn the knob.

The hallway you’d been abandoned in is far enough away from the main part of the house that you can’t see Alfred and Bruce, even if their voices carry fine. Everything about the penthouse was stately, old money etched into the deep honeys of the wood and warm lamps casting more shadows than light. Any windows on this side of the house are covered with heavy drapery, blocking what little sunlight the city allowed in the waking hours. It’s easier to imagine that you’re not sixty stories up this way.

You can still hear Alfred and Bruce talking as you drift in the opposite direction.

There are a few doors down this way, past the restroom, all doors shut and imposing enough to keep you from taking peeks inside. Outside one of the doors at the end of the hall, you do catch a whiff of clean linen from under the door. The laundry room, maybe? You recall Alfred smelling the same.

On your way back, you look back down the stairs you’d come up earlier and spot an old-timey landline with a notepad and a pen beside it. Chancing a closer look, you see a note with something scribbled across it.

Dory,

Call about the leak. Tomorrow at the latest. Preferably before evening. Bruce won’t be home.

There was that “Dory” again. Was she the maid? The one Alfred promised to keep busy?

“...it has nothing to do with you.”

For the first time, Bruce’s voice carries out into the hall ringing clear. Alfred scoffs, tone bitter, “No, by all means. Bring a stranger home. Give them a key to the place, too, while you’re at it. You might as well rip the bandaid off in one go. I’m sure that won’t be a liability.”

You carefully ascend the staircase again, sticking close to the walls. You strain to hear without drawing any attention to yourself.

“You wanted this, Alfred. You were the one telling me I couldn’t do this alone.”

“But not... bloody like this. Look, this has never just been about you- and don’t you give me that look. I’ve stood by your side since you were a child. Since you were born. And like it or not, what you do has consequences far beyond yourself. When you’re reckless, who do you think’s gonna make sure your mess is taken care of?”

It’s when you slip around the corner that the two come into view, warring voices echoing off the walls no matter how quiet they tried to be, “I’ve never asked you to clean up after me.”

“But you’ve needed it, haven’t you? I’ve done alright, haven’t I? And all I’ve asked of you is to be careful.” From your vantage point, you can see Bruce’s face twist with determination. At the same time, Alfred’s has softened. You get the strange feeling that this isn’t entirely about you after all. “As your butler-”

“As Alfred.”

“...I’m always keeping my eyes open for you, and I’d appreciate it if... if you could keep your eyes open for you too. And mind the overlap. Lest your nights become your days.”

The silence is deafening. Even worse, you realize a second too late that their spat has come to an end because they both turn to where you stand in the archway, clinging to it to hide. Alfred gives you one hard look, forcing out pleasantries, “I trust the amenities were to your liking?”

Your mind blanks for a moment, still stuck on what exactly they’d been yelling about, “Oh, yes. It’s lovely. All of it, the whole place.”

The soldier gives a firm nod. “Bruce tells me you’ve reconsidered. I’m happy to hear it.”

Right. So much for him being lucky.

Before you can muster up some way to curb the tension, Alfred excuses himself from the room, going back where you’d came. Moments later, you hear a door shut a bit too loudly. Bruce hovers several feet away, conflicted. Somehow, this is even worse than the first time he’d left you two alone.

It becomes fairly clear after a while that neither of you know where to go from here. Were you to pretend you didn’t hear all of that? Pretend that Alfred’s anger wasn’t, at least in part, directed at you?

This was all starting to feel too much like a minefield to maneuver. Perhaps all three of you would sleep on this tonight and wake up in your right minds, but for now, all you could do was hope to God this didn’t bite you in the ass.

“Your conditions,” Bruce starts, “have them sent over to me. Whatever you need, I’ll make sure you have it.”

It takes a lot out of you not to jump back when he’s close enough to touch again. As if you couldn’t trust yourself not to reach for him. Or trust that he would even bother to stop you. “Of course... Mr. Wayne.”

By the time you arrive home, darkness has risen over the city and you’re back in your apartment building before your day could get even more exciting.

You’re operating on fumes, fantasizing about what’s left in your fridge from meal prep earlier this week, barely sound enough to get your key into your mailbox.

You feel a presence nearby as you’re sifting through bills and junk. Her scent (that of cinnamon and myrrh) gives her away immediately, “Hey, Judith.”

The little old lady doesn’t smile at you—she rarely does, severe as she is devout—the crow’s feet about her eyes fold in on each other as she assesses you, “You should apologize to your parents.”

You don’t mean to. You usually have better manners than this, but you can’t hold back your sudden, audible groan. Even Judith is startled. “They’ll get over it.”

“They’re worried for you.”

“Did they tell you to tell me that?”

“You need to be careful, dear. Strange spirits are drawn to you.” Her hand chronically trembles as it reaches into her purse. Out comes her handheld copy of the Bible, lovingly worn and dressed with tabs of all colors from her studies. You watch her pick at a neon green tab and flip the little thing open, “I’ve been praying for you ever since I saw the news. That... Batman may have saved you, but I fear you’re still in danger. I have some verses that might help you keep him out should he come looking for you again-”

Judith has never needed to care this much. On your first day moving in all those years ago, she’d struggled up a flight of stairs just to prepare you dinner and offer to show you how to get your janky dishwasher open. Your roommates had found her offputting, had turned down her offer for tea at her place, but you had gone. It’s how you found out that she’d lost her husband and only son years prior. Gunned down, wrong place wrong time. Nothing new in this city. God was all she had left.

If babying you helped her sleep at night, if praying for you gave her peace of mind, you would let her ten times over.

“He’s not a demon, I promise. He’s as much flesh and blood as you and me.”

Judith frowns, not at all convinced, “You’re not in debt to him, are you?”

You shake your head, locking your mailbox back, “We’re even, actually. I saved his life. He saved mine. We’ve nothing to do with each other anymore.” You realize that she’s dressed to head out just then. Her coat is buttoned to the neck and she’s got her beret clutched under arm while she puts away her Bible. “Got Bible study tonight? Stay safe.”

Once she fits her hat over her salt and pepper curls, she caresses your arm. Her hands hadn’t been warm in years, but they weren’t any less comforting than when you’d first felt them. “You too, dear.” Then she reaches for your keys and picks out the one she’d copied for you forever ago, “Whenever you need to, don’t hesitate.”

You watch her totter off onto the sidewalk, swept away in the waves of commuters getting off work. You hoped you’d never have to take her up on her offer.

It turns out that not only had they put your flowers in your bedroom, your parents had also taken the liberty of cleaning out your fridge. You hated that on top of all the incessant texts they’d left you since this morning, you’d be expected to break the ice with a “thank you”. You’d prolong that for as long as humanly possible, that’s for sure.

Somewhere between popping your dinner in the microwave and turning on the news, you found yourself standing at your window staring into the dark. He wasn’t there. You kind of wished he would be, though. For some reason, he was the only one you wanted to talk to.

And then, somewhere between the timer going off and your stomach growling, you’d pushed the curtains aside and propped the window open.

You practically inhaled dinner, glancing every so often at the window during infomercials. With every breeze that shifted your curtains aside, you looked. Every squeak and creak of the fire escape, you looked. By the time there’s nothing left to scoop out of your bowl, night has fallen completely. It makes it harder to see out, harder to gauge if you see him or just a shadow. Your eyes start to cross again and you force yourself to shower the day away.

You don’t expect the window to be closed when you get back.

Even better, you don’t expect him to be standing right outside it.

You’re far too eager to get it open again, cursing the old thing all the while, “Shit- sorry. Must’ve fell closed while I was in the shower, I left it open for you.”

You’re bending out of the window where Batman stands just a step or two away. You have to crane your neck to look up from your position, wondering how long he’d been standing there. He looks a little peeved at you. Had he been waiting long?

“I know. I closed it.”

You blink, “Why?”

“You were in the shower.”

You’re about to reiterate “I left it open for you” with feeling this time when it dawns on you that he’d already clocked that. You shut right up. “Okay—admittedly—stupid move. But you haven’t considered the fact that maybe I knew you’d get here before someone with a gun.” Batman doesn’t look impressed at all. In fact, he looks like he’s going to turn around and abandon you forever. You frantically back away from the window, “Sorry. Are you hurt?”

He waits to answer you until he’s stepped fully inside. He takes a short survey of the room, peering into every corner, before he’s turned his attention to you. It’s clear skies tonight. He doesn’t smell like rain for once, “I just came to check on you.”

Your chest has the audacity to swell with stunned breath. “Really?”

“Were you expecting me for something else?”

“Well, no, I just... I was just... when I said I left the window open for you, I meant... I hadn’t really expected you to stop by. Was more wishful thinking. An invitation.”

Your admission should’ve stayed secret. You watch him work through a host of expressions, landing on a firm scowl.

“Okay, again, admittedly stupid move. Can we move past the window already?” His glare could freeze you dead. No wonder he was so good at his job. “And I’m fine.” He continues to stare. “Seriously. I’m good.” Now he just blatantly looks like he doesn’t believe you. You would find it funny—you do find it funny, actually, though you hide it well—if you weren’t so annoyed that he’d found you just as convincing about your wellbeing as you found him about his own, “But you would know about being a hypocrite, wouldn’t you?”

That last part is said with a little more venom than necessary. You regret it as soon as his face softens. His eyes tells you he takes no offense.

“I’m sorry,” you found yourself saying that a lot tonight, “I don’t know what’s going on with me today. Are the people you save usually susceptible to rash, impulsive decisions?”

“What did you do?”

You exhale through pursed lips, saying with the same cadence of a teenager admitting they’d crashed the family car, “Got a job.”

Batman’s expression doesn’t change except for a teeny, tiny glint in his eye. Teasing, it looked like, “You’re insane. What on earth were you thinking?”

“Okay, ha ha.”

“No, really. You might have brain damage. We’ve got to get you to a hospital, stat.” It would’ve shocked you that he reached forward to press the back of his hand to your forehead had you not been giggling deliriously. You smack it away like he did this all the time, though once you’re touching him, your fingers cling for a little longer than needed. You aren’t exactly sure what about touching him made you want to hold on, monopolize the feeling. Was it because every time you’ve touched him, it’s been an anchor? For comfort? Something that extends beyond words? Probably.

You release his hand before he can notice. Or comment on it.

But then you’re stumbling toward your couch and dropping your head in your hands like you’ve made a big mistake. You don’t have to look up to hear him follow you. “I must be insane.” you grumble, tracking his body where it stops in front of you, where he kneels, and you clench your eyes shut tighter.

You barely feel it at first. It’s faint, lighter than a breath. It doesn’t register as a touch, let alone his touch, until all five of his fingers are hovering over the surface of your knee. You peek through your fingers and sure enough, his hand is right there. He doesn’t dare press his fingers into your skin and it almost feels like he’s dangling you off a ledge.

You don’t want him to let go.

You place a hand over his and hold it there, closing around the leather. You don’t know how long you just stay like that, trying desperately to cool down what feels like a creeping panic. There’s too much happening. Too many sensations, too many thoughts, too many emotions. You just need him to stay there, quiet, and let you touch someone.

You don’t remember the last time you’d been properly hugged. You surely hadn’t been since you’d left the hospital. Your parents had been too focused on getting you to come home with them that you hadn’t thought to ask for one, hadn’t expected that you’d get one. And, to be fair, if you’d been given one, you’d probably have brushed it off.

Because, truth was, you did not know what you were doing.

Batman doesn’t seem to mind being still. He waits, breathing slowly and deeply. At some point, when you zero in on him (because how could you not? How could it be lost on you that this isn’t just anyone you’re touching right now?), you start to match him.

You begin to apologize for the other night when you remember how you clung to him, but fear that another “sorry” might actually annoy him more than leaving your window open again. You search Batman’s face for any sign of “I need to get the fuck outta here” and find none. “I’m asking you this because I trust you: have you ever met Bruce Wayne?”

You watch him shift uncomfortably, but he never breaks eye contact with you. “What?”

“Bruce Wayne. Can I trust him?”

He hesitates, picking apart your face for something, “I’m not following.”

“He asked me to work for him. Apparently, he thinks I’m very talented even though he’s never seen me work.”

“You are. I would know.”

“Yeah, you would. It’d have made more sense for you to ask me. What I don’t get is why me. His answer wasn’t very enlightening. That’s why I’m asking you.”

“...What do you think?”

“I think I want to. But I’m worried I’m being reckless again. I’m used to... I used to chase danger a lot when I was younger. Kind of had a taste for it. I’m worried that that’s what this is.”

“There’s a lot of danger in change.”

“You’re saying I’m afraid of things changing?” He was starting to feel like a therapist now, prodding at old wounds and everything, “Is that what this is? Things change all the time. I’m a doctor. Nothing is ever predictable... and you didn’t answer my question.”

Batman frowns. You realize this is the second time you’ve said that today. “Bruce Wayne isn’t corrupt, if that’s what you’re asking. You can trust that. The rest is up to you.”

You’d think that would have been enough to put all your worries about him to bed, but it left you with more mystery. The bruised knuckles, the pain in his side he’d passed off as just stress, the warning Alfred had given you in the elevator, Bruce’s sudden interest in you... all of it felt connected to something bigger. If it wasn’t corruption, what could it be? And if it was, how deep did it go for even Batman not to know?

You’d be much more prepared for concerns like this on more sleep. And less pain meds.

You start thinking about the skin healing beneath your bandaged leg, the dull pain that shifted with every movement. You also think about Batman’s hand on your knee (the one you’re still holding, the one he doesn’t look eager to retrieve), “Do you have somewhere to be?”

You’d missed looking into those deep blues. He holds your gaze steady, speaking quietly as if not to break the moment, “It’s quiet tonight.”

“Don’t suppose you’ll react kindly to me asking to see your wound.” As soon as you lock eyes with him again, his eyes narrow. You get the feeling he’s getting better at clocking your bullshit. “Unless you’ve got some other doctor friends I don’t know about taking care of you.”

He gives you that look again, the same one on the fire escape that made you worry he’d up and leave, but his hand doesn’t shift from under yours.

You watch him look around, searching. It takes him a few seconds before he reaches for something on the other end of the couch. Your mouth gapes a little when you realize he’s holding one of your shirts, the not so fresh one that you’d forsaken for the shower just an hour ago. He removes his hand from your knee and grabs the other end of the shirt, stretching the material before looking back up at you. It takes you an embarrassingly long moment to figure out what he’s asking for, his hands motioning for you to lean forward.

You slowly tilt closer until the fabric of your shirt caresses your eyelids. You feel Batman pull the shirt around your eyes, around your ears, and to the back of your head where his fingers begin to tie a knot with it. You’d be mad that he was stretching one of your favorite pieces of clothing if you didn’t feel his breath ghost your lips, letting your head be lightly jerked around by his tying, “No. Just you.”

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spiderlandry · 9 months

Text

bunny — jake sully

Description: Jake always called you bunny. You were determined to get the meaning out of him.

Pairing: Jake Sully x GN!Reader

Warnings/Tags: heavy use of ‘bunny’ as a pet name, courting and talks of mating, jake being a little shit, just fluff, angst if you squint, unedited. also tsu’tey is alive bc i said so!

Word Count: 1.9k

Author’s Note: dont like this that much tbh. been feeling kinda insecure abt my writing lately so thats not helping lol

(Dialogue in italics is spoken in English, normal text is Na’vi)

You weren’t a stranger to the language barrier that existed between you and Jake. It was more prevalent during his training period, when you had taken over after Neytiri bargained with her parents in transferring the role to you. At first, it was a burden. Teaching a dreamwalker who had no place in the clan. But you also had a soft spot for Grace, who taught you what she could about their own culture.

Eventually, it became fun. There was a point where you realized you no longer saw him as responsibility, but rather as a companion.

Now, as the clan was making great progress after the war, Jake asked many eclipses ago if he could begin courting you. You were touched by his insistence on following tradition, though it was the least he could do. Still, he learned to weave (albeit badly at first), make accessories, and most importantly, speak your language. There were even times when Norm, whom you visited occasionally when Jake did, grumbled at how much better he’d gotten—referencing back to when the marine struggled getting it through his thick skull until you came along.

But there was just one thing that perplexed you. Even though Jake adopted the Na’vi language with an open heart, there was one word he refused to shake from his daily vocabulary: bunny.

When he first said it to you, you thought it might have been a slip-up. He was just learning how to make better landings with his ikran, and when you teased that he’d never be able to keep up with you, he said, “You don’t know what you’re in for, bunny.”

With ears flat against your head at the sound of a foreign word, you brushed him off and flew away, beckoning him to chase you once more.

Then, the war happened.

You didn’t hear it out of his mouth again until he began to court you, much more recently. The second time was when he greeted you outside your kelku with a serving of fruit wrapped in a leaf, one morning. This time, he said: “Rise and shine, bunny. I got something special for you.”

“Do you take me for a fool, Jakesully?” You replied.

His eyes widened upon hearing his entire name, likely fearful that he said something wrong. After all, he was still getting used to Na’vi customs.

You snickered at his reaction, “Why do you call me that?”

“Call you what?”

“Bunny. A human word.”

He smirked, that cocky little shit. “It’s just a term of endearment. Come on, eat. I brought you food.”

You took the item from his hand and invited him in.

A few more eclipses passed—he was busy in his role, training and working with Tsu’tey to make sure everything is in order, yet he found pockets of time during the day to be next to you while you did your part.

Jake was starting to spend more and more of his downtime in your kelku. It was common for you to wake up before dawn to see Jake already waiting outside, often with food and something he made.

Gifts were already piling up in your home. Around this time, it was customary for the other party to propose an official union to whom they were courting, but it seems Jake hadn’t gotten the courage just yet. Though, you never refused a gift; the poor man was trying his best to—in his words—be worthy of you. The sentiment and his reasoning made your heart swell, but there was one problem: he would not, for the love of Eywa, let up on calling you bunny.

Whenever you questioned him, his smirk only grew. You understood that Jake took pleasure in teasing you, hell, you teased him a lot more, but you no longer wanted to give him that satisfaction.

So, you devised a plan.

Jake, having been used to the growing intimacy that came along with courtship like the hugs and kisses, was taken aback when he was suddenly deprived of it.

He didn’t think much of it at first. When you no longer invited him into your home because you wanted to get started on your tasks early, he commanded you for your dedication and followed your example. But it kept happening, over and over again.

Then, you didn’t grin like you usually did when he kissed you on the forehead before leaving. Though he recognized the familiar purple hue on your cheeks, he began to worry that he was too overbearing or you’d lost interest. Or both.

He and Tsu’tey were sparring as an example for the younger warriors when his opponent noticed how easy it was to defeat him that day.

“Losing your touch, Jakesully?” Tsu’tey grinned, going for a hit against Jake’s side, the other one barely dodging it in time.

“No, man.” Jake stepped it up significantly, channeling his anger into the fake fight.

They kept going, quipping back and forth until Tsu’tey was able to hold him down and say, “Tap out, Jakesully.” His knee put pressure on Jake’s chest, “If you know what’s good for you.”

“Alright.”

They continued training throughout the day, but Tsu’tey ended it early.

“What is troubling you, brother?” He pulled Jake aside away from the crowd as they left training grounds.

Talking to him couldn’t hurt, Jake thought. “You know Y/N well, right?”

“We have been friends since we were babies, so yes.”

“They’ve been…distant, lately.”

Tsu’tey laughed, a glint in his eyes. “I’m sure you’ll be fine.” (In truth, you told Tsu’tey about your plan.)

After a beat, Jake stared at him with a bewildered expression. “What, that’s it? No advice?”

“You should have known better.”

Tsu’tey walked away, leaving Jake to stand there and wallow in his misery. (Misery may be a little farfetched. But it sure felt like that.)

Arriving home with a newfound determination after taking a deep breath, he trod lightly toward your kelku. He couldn’t hear you inside, but tapped on the door anyway.

“Look, bunny.” He sighed, not caring the stares others are shooting him. His dignity did not matter if it meant he could keep you. “I’m sorry for whatever I did. Can we talk? You—you know…I haven’t said it yet but I love you. I see you. Please let me in.”

One of your neighbours, seeing Jake grovelling outside your home, interrupted him.

“They are not home, Jakesully.”

He turned. “Do you know where they are?”

“They went out into the forest.”

“What? Why?”

“We don’t know.”

The sterile smell of the lab invaded your nostrils, your nose scrunching up on instinct and involuntarily giving one of the scientists angry eyes as they handed you a mask. You were familiar with the place, but you’d never been here without Jake.

“Where is Norm?” You tried not to run into their tiny workspaces, hissing when your foot hit the corner of a table. When the scientist didn’t answer, you took it upon yourself to wander around.

He appeared from around a corner. “Hey, what’s up?” He looked behind you. “Where’s Jake?”

“I did not bring him.”

“Alright, well.” Norm was speechless for a moment. “What do you need?”

“I need you to translate a word.”

“Um—sure, go right ahead.”

“Bunny.”

With Norm’s perplexed look, you waited patiently. Within a moment, he said, “Well…a bunny is an animal.”

“What does it mean to call someone that?”

“It depends on the context, but it’s likely a term of endearment. Why, is Jake calling you that?”

Growing impatient, “Show me this animal.” Before he can respond, “On your little touch pad.“

“Uhm. Sure. Of course.”

When he grabbed one and showed it to you, there were no words, you only stared at him for an explanation.

“Bunnies are—were—rare on Earth. They’re considered very cute because of their fur and small size.”

“But I do not have any fur. Nor am I small.”

He strained his head to make eye contact with you. “You’re right. But I think it’s just a cute nickname—“

A loud banging cut his sentence short, followed by a distressed sounding Jake saying, “Norm!”

You stayed back and watched as Norm excused himself to greet Jake at the door, disappearing into the corner. It was close enough you could hear their conversation.

“Hey, Jake, I was just—“

“I need your help.” He sounded out of breath. You snickered.

“Well let me get—“

“No time! I need to find Y/N—“

Deciding you had enough of hearing him so concerned, you strutted into his line of sight.

Jake‘s breath stuttered at the view of you. His hair was disheveled, tail swishing in all kinds fo directions. He closed the distance, then, suddenly remembering something, stayed frozen a few inches away. He scanned your figure, and satisfied, he began to breathe normally.

“I have been looking for you everywhere. Where have you been? I flew around with Bob and you were nowhere to be seen, they said you went into the forest and you—“

You placed a hand on his cheek, caressing it gently. “I am fine, beloved. I was here the whole time.”

“Here?” His voice cracked, more out of exhaustion. “But you never come here.”

“I needed to ask Norm a question.”

Jake glanced at the man mentioned for a second, who shrugged. “What for? You could have asked me.”

“That is the problem, I did ask you.”

At his furrowed brows, you explained. “I needed to know what you meant by bunny!”

“I told you it was a term of endearment.”

“But you never explained why,” you frowned.

“Look, I was coming to tell you something. Norm, can you leave?”

Relieved at no longer having to hear your lover’s quarrel, “For sure.”

Jake’s large hand snaked up to your neck, pulling you closer. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“For whatever I did. I don’t know what I did, but you can tell me and I’ll try to make it up.”

“Jake—“

“Are you losing interest? Because if that’s it—mmph!”

You covered his mouth with your hand, holding back a smile.

“I should apologize. I was just playing with you.”

“Hm?” You felt his lips purse under your palm.

“You kept teasing me with bunny, and I didn’t want to give you the satisfaction of my frustration. It was not serious, love.”

Removing your hand, he silenced you this time by slotting his lips over yours, subsequently smiling at the prospect of you not actually being mad at him.

When he pulled away, both of you were beaming.

“I have something else to tell you,” he licked his lips, your eyes gravitating toward it. “I love you. I see you. Can we—um…” He seemed to lose confidence, losing his footing in the words.

“Say it.”

“I want to mate with you. I want to be your mate. Be with you forever, please?” His eyes softened, searching yours for any sign of rejection.

Yet, he found none. He found only what he has found in you countless times, and that’s a simple emotion: happiness. At least, it was simple when it came to you. You made it that way.

“So? What do you say, bunny?”

You playfully slapped his chest. “Of course. Forever.”

—

Additional A/N: the ‘bunny’ nickname was inspired by stargirlrchive’s fic here

#jake sully x reader #jake sully #avatar the way of water #atwow #avatar #avatar twow #jake sully fluff #jake sully x you #jake sully imagine #avatar imagine #atwow imagine

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