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heich0e · 9 months

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“Didn’t expect to see you out here.”

Your head pops up as the unexpected voice makes itself known, twisting your face towards the sound only to see a figure standing at the end of the alley. He’s silhouetted where he stands—a shape more than a person. You can tell he’s tall, broad, and has a knot of hair tied up loosely at his crown.

Geto Suguru steps into the light where you can see him better, though it makes his sudden appearance no less surprising.

“Did you drink too much?” he asks, treading a few steps closer as he eyes you worriedly. You pull yourself up from where you’d been crouching on the ground.

“No, no. Just getting some air,” you reply with a stiff smile, dipping in a bow and quickly adjusting your pencil skirt once you’re back upright.

He has his tie loosened over his shirt with the top button undone, and his suit jacket is nowhere to be seen. He considers you for a moment, and his attention makes you want to fidget but you fight the urge.

You watch as he pulls packet of cigarettes from the breast pocket of his shirt and offers it out to you. “Do you smoke?”

“No, thank you,” you say with a quick shake of your head, smoothing your hands along the front of your skirt and then moving to step past him back towards the entrance of the restaurant. “I should go.”

He angles his body in your way before you can.

“No need to leave on my account,” he says, peering down at you. His face is partially in shadow because of how he’s standing, angled between you and the mouth of the alleyway that leads back to the busy street, caught in a small dark patch between the streetlights and the light affixed to the grungy brick wall. He tips his face up and the light touches his features once more, catching in his brown eyes as he waits in anticipation of your response.

“I should get back inside.” It’s strangely difficult to meet his gaze, so instead you look past him towards the street as an unwelcome heat surges up your throat to flood your face. A car passes quickly by the alley, and you watch as the headlights come and go in a flash.

“Why?” the man before you asks, placing the cigarette he’d fished out of the pack to his lips. He uses his teeth to keep it there while he fumbles through his pockets for a lighter. “You’re clearly having a terrible time in there.”

Your eyes snap up to meet his in shock.

“No I’m not,” your reply is notably indignant, even though his accusation is valid.

How would he know anyway?

“The smiley, nice-girl bit’s gotta be getting old, isn’t it? Pouring everyones drinks. Cleaning up everyones messes.” He laughs, though it’s only to himself, before clicking his lighter to life and holding it to the tip of his cigarette until it catches. The cherry burns red and bright on an inhale, and smoke slips from his lips as he adds, “You don’t have to lie to me, I’m not your boss.”

“I’m not lying,” you insist, but your performance isn’t particularly convincing.

Truthfully, the very last thing you wanted to do after a ten-hour work day—capping off a fifty-hour work week—was come out drinking with your colleagues. You’ve never really liked these kinds of gatherings, even if the company is the one footing the bill. They always get a bit too rowdy for your liking. Always drag on a bit too long. And you know that you’ll inevitably be the one stuck forcing your plastered boss into a taxi in the wee hours of the morning, while the rest of your equally-sloshed coworkers find their own ways home.

But the department chair, the very same one you’re sure will be singing karaoke with his tie around his forehead in only a few short hours, had been adamant that everyone in marketing attend the gathering since the sales section was joining in too.

Hence the sales employee standing toe-to-toe with you, blocking your path.

You know Geto Suguru, but only indirectly. The sales and marketing departments are separated by a single floor in your company’s office building, and often work on projects together. Geto is a section lead in sales, with a long, illustrious history behind him before he worked his way up to that role. He’s made a lot of money for the company, and a lot of friends along the way—what with his easy charm, silver tongue, and undeniable good looks. His reputation precedes him—in both good ways and bad.

The fact that he’s here talking to you—a fresh-faced, relatively new-to-role nobody in comparison to his lengthy history with the business—is what you have a hard time wrapping your head around.

“Sure, sure.” Geto waves his hand dismissively, ash fluttering off in tiny specks from the end of his lit cigarette. “I’m sure you just love making all those copies, remembering coffee orders, and running that section lead of yours’s errands too. Oh, and don’t forget when he takes credit for your ideas.”

Your stomach drops.

He keeps going.

“This upcoming brand collaboration is exciting,”—he takes a puff of his cigarette, his eyes sparkling as he looks at you—“too bad no one knows it was you who came up with it, huh?”

Your fists clench tightly at your sides, your lips pressing together in a thin line.

Geto blows the last of the smoke in his lungs from the corner of his pursed lips, away from you.

“That’s the first honest expression I’ve seen on your face all night,” he says with a sly smile tugging at his lips.

Your hands are shaking.

“Why are you doing this?” you ask him weakly.

He tilts his head to the side, like your question confounds him.

“I’m not doing anything,” he says, and he sounds like he genuinely means it. “Have I said anything that isn’t true?”

You bite your lip, staring down at your pretty, professional pumps as you stand on the craggy pavement of the alley.

“You’re allowed to be angry, but don’t direct it at me for pointing out the people who keep screwing you over,” Geto says, and the way his voice sounds a bit nearer and the smell of his cigarette gets stronger tells you that he’s dipped down closer to you even though you don’t watch him do it. “No one’s gonna hand anything to you if you don’t fight for it.”

You glance up at him, your expression and your tone equally flat. “And what if I’m not a fighter?”

“Oh, I don’t believe that,” he says, chuckling a bit as he backs away from you.

You watch him as he watches you—contemplates you, like he’s sizing you up. He drops cigarette suddenly to the ground, still only half-burned, and crushes it with the toe of his shoe. You hold your breath as he takes another step towards you.

He leans forward.

“Hit me.”

“Pardon me?” The bewildered question rushes out of you all in one gasping breath, and you take a loping step back in shock.

“Come on, just one,” the man goads you further, rapping against his jaw with the knuckle of his index finger as a smile twists his lips up at the corners.

“You’re drunk,” you spit out incredulously, shaking your head and quickly moving to step past him.

“I’m not.” He sidles smoothly into your path once more before you get the chance to flee, like he’s half-a-step ahead of you at all times.

It’s infuriating.

“Alright, then you’re just insane,” you offer instead.

You knew the sales department had a reputation for being a bit wild, but this is beyond all your expectations. This is nothing like the charming, easy going Geto that you’ve heard all your female colleague gossiping about in the break room.

His smile falls, and he crosses his arms over his chest. You try not to pay too much attention to the way his forearms look with his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows.

“I’m still your senior, y’know,” he says, and his voice is a little bit colder now. More admonishing.

You’re very acutely aware of that fact without him saying it.

You huff out a frustrated little breath through your nose, crossing your own arms over your chest in a mirror of his stance.

“I’m not hitting you.”

Geto’s brow quirks curiously.

“Why not?”

You can’t believe you’re having this conversation.

“Because that’s assault,” you counter his question shortly.

“It’s only assault if I press charges—which I won’t.” You know he’s telling the truth but it doesn’t make it any more convincing. He tilts his head to the side again, and a silky strand of his dark hair slips into his eyes. “Haven’t you ever hit anyone before? It’s cathartic.”

Your lips part in an expression of astonishment. “Of course I haven’t.”

The man in front of you looks mildly surprised at your answer.

“Do I look like someone who goes around fighting people?” you ask him incredulously.

“You look like you’ve got some repressed rage in you,” he says with a smirk, and the expression only worsens when he sees the way you react to it.

He taps his cheek again before tucking both his hands behind his back and leaning in close to you, like a man offering himself up to the executioner’s block. He shuts his eyes.

“C’mon, just a little one.”

“I won’t.”

“You should.”

“I won’t.”

“How come?”

You take his face in your hands suddenly, tilting it up to meet your gaze.

“Geto-san,” you say quietly, your tone bordering on desperate. “I’m not going to hit you, so please stop asking.”

He opens his eyes slowly, his dark lashes fluttering as he blinks up at you. After a moment he smiles, and his eyes curve into narrow crescents as he leans subtly into your touch.

It’s quiet in the alley, but your heartbeat is quick underneath your skin.

“Can you blame a guy for trying?” he asks you coyly.

You’re still cupping his cheeks in your hands.

They’re warm.

“You really are crazy,” you reply softly to his question, though it’s not much of a reply at all.

He hums, turning his face so his nose drags across your wrist. His lips brush against your palm as he speaks once more. “I’ve been called worse.”

You don’t doubt he’s telling the truth.

Slowly, the dark haired man picks himself up to his usual height. He’s closer to you now than he’s ever been—and thanks to the little cat and mouse game that the two of you have been playing, you’re very nearly pressed against the alley wall. You can’t even see the street anymore beyond the expanse of his wide shoulders.

Everywhere you look, you only see him.

The realization sits hot and heavy in the pit of your stomach.

“I know you’re a good girl, but what are we gonna do about all that stuff you’ve got pent up in there?” Geto lifts his hand and presses a featherlight touch to your sternum over your diaphragm, his fingertips trailing delicately against the smooth plane where the arch of your ribs ends. Your breath hitches painfully as you stare up at him, a sticky knot at the back of your throat preventing you from forming any response—not that you can think of anything to say.

Geto smiles down at you, his expression soft.

You see the faintest flash of sharp teeth behind his pink lips.

“Don’t you want me to help you let it out?”

#geto x reader #geto suguru x reader #suguru geto x reader #jjk drabble #jjk writing #writing #f!reader

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monstersandmaw · 2 months

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Male kelpie (dad-bod, single father, biker) x plus size f. reader - Part One (sfw)

Background info post on the Full Moon Motorcycles group here Oats Appreciation post here

Featuring a plus-size, bisexual, not very confident reader, and a divorced, Scottish, single-dad, biker kelpie with a soft-dad bod and a heart as big as his bike’s engine (possibly bigger).

CW: there is a very brief moment where a character (not Oats!) insults the reader for her size and uses some fat-phobic language towards and about her, unaware that she can hear him. If you’re sensitive to that, it is brief, but you can skip from “…you caught the conversation drifting over from the other guys who’d arrived just ahead of you.” to the paragraph beginning, “After some deep breaths and a check in the mirror…”. Also, if you squint, there’s a passing moment that could possibly be interpreted as the reader having some potential issues with food, but it’s not intended to be a big deal and it’s only for about two sentences. Still putting it in here too, just in case.

Wordcount: 7562

You pushed open the glass door of Full Moon Motorcycles and willed yourself not to feel self-conscious or out of place.

Having both an older brother and a mother who rode motorbikes had at least given you a fair bit of familiarity with bikes and the general ‘biker culture’, but it was mostly the fact that almost all the ‘biker girls’ you saw posing on social media were slim and toned, which you were decidedly not.

From the utterly foetid takes in the comments section of the one post your brother had shared on his page with you in it, you’d also got the impression that the biker community was not particularly kind to any woman with a waist over 25 inches. It probably wasn’t the case, but your one experience with it had been enough to make you very wary.

And yet, as you made your way towards the bike shop’s counter and the older man with floppy, greying hair and warm brown eyes looked up, you were greeted with an open, welcoming smile.

“Hi there,” he said, standing up with a grunt from the comfy chair where he’d been sitting in the corner near the shop’s antique cash register. “What can I do for you?”

You smiled shyly and glanced along the wooden countertop before returning your gaze to him. “I’m looking for a present for my brother, but I’m kind of on a budget…”

“Gotcha. We’ve got some silly key fobs there,” he said, indicating a rotating display rack at one end of the counter, with mottoes that ranged from funny to explicit, “But if they like working on their bike themselves, you can’t go wrong with some maintenance supplies… Not the most glamorous but I promise they’ll be grateful to you all the same.”

“Could always tie a festive ribbon round it,” you said, and he chuckled and nodded.

“That’s the spirit.”

You eyed the reasonable price of the fobs with some relief, and then followed his gesture towards the various bottles of chain degreaser and the like, and a few other useful tools and kits that were stacked on shelves on the back wall to the right of a door that presumably led into the back and store rooms.

The right hand side of the shop had the counter and some shiny, new bikes that had been parked in a row around the perimeter of the space, and the left hand side was more open with a bench or two against the brick walls, and some red, mechanics’ tool-chests tucked against the back wall. A number of leather two- and one-piece suits hung in racks at the furthest end though, with helmets on shelves and a few rows of t-shirts, jeans, gloves, and boots displayed too. There were oil stains in the centre of the polished concrete floor, and you suspected that tinkering took place there outside of the shop’s usual opening hours.

The whole vibe of Full Moon Motorcycles was friendly and cosy, with a slightly industrial, grungy note for some flavour.

In short, you loved it.

“There are also some fun helmet covers –” the older man chuckled, and added, “A number of the regulars here have them, and there are also some earplugs, or perhaps a tough phone case and mount? A chain care kit? There are some vinyl stickers too, and t-shirts, socks, neck warmers, balaclavas, mugs, helmet care kits, thermals…”

Laughing, you held up your hands for him to stop, and he started to chuckle too.

“I’ll let you browse in peace, sweetheart,” he said, his whisky brown eyes twinkling. Even his un-looked-for endearment came across as kindly instead of creepy, and not many men could pull that off. “You just holler if you have questions and I’ll be happy to –”

The door opened behind you and he broke off as his attention was snagged by the arrival of a heavy-set guy in dark jeans and a softly-worn, black leather jacket. He held a black helmet with a tinted visor in his large hands, and he looked more than a little wind-blown and rumpled.

Incongruous with his rather roguish-dishevelment, a lock of his long, thick, slightly grizzled, black hair was held back by a little hair-clip with a Barbie-pink, fabric bow. It didn’t fit with the dark scruff of stubble on his jaw or the piercing green-blue eyes at all, but he seemed completely unfazed by its presence.

“Oats!” the older man exclaimed with obvious joy, clapping his hands. “It’s been a while, my boy! How was the trip to Scotland? You make it round the NC500 this time?”

The ‘boy’ looked to be in his mid to late thirties…

“Ach, no’ a chance this time, Hank,” the man chuckled with a heavy, Scottish accent lacing his rich, rough baritone. Exactly where in Scotland he was from, you couldn’t tell, but it was lyrical and attractive all the same.

“Ah, next time, next time. And is Natalie well?

“Oh aye, my wee Loch Ness Monster is doing just fine. She’ll be terrorising her mother for the Christmas holidays. I came straight from the road though — clutch started playing up just south of Birmingham.” He grimaced, but even that looked charming somehow. “Sort of hoped you might find a minute to take a look at it for me if I left the Old Girl here. No rush though.”

“No problem, Oats. We’ll get her running properly again in no time. Bet you’re missing little Natalie already,” Hank added sympathetically.

“Ah, you have no idea,” the man, peculiarly-named ‘Oats’, sighed ruefully, shaking his head.

“See she left you with a parting gift though,” Hank snorted, pointing at the bow hair clip.

With a slight frown to his dark eyebrows, Oats reached up and patted at his head until he found it, and then he laughed. It was a loud, delighted, full-bellied sound that reverberated through the space while it lasted, and he left the hair clip where it was with no trace of self-consciousness as he lowered his hand again. “Aye, that she did. Surprised it survived the journey down with my lid on and everything. Oh –” His unusually pale green eyes landed on you, watching him and lurking near the rows of t-shirts on the back wall, and he went still.

Those sea-grey eyes raked you up and down, clearly noting the way your black leggings clung to the curves of your thighs and hips, and the black hoodie, which maybe went some way to hiding the softness of your stomach a bit, and he swallowed visibly. He looked… hungry. That was not the usual reaction you had grown accustomed to from men, and you let the flare of heat lick up your insides for just a moment, daring to hope that maybe he did find you attractive.

“Sorry,” he said in your direction, with a soft, dusky smile. “Didnae mean t’interrupt.”

“It’s fine,” you managed to croak back at him before returning your attention, however reluctantly, to present options for your brother while the older man, Hank, hobbled out around the corner of the wooden counter to chat amicably with the man. You couldn’t hear what was said as the two chatted in lower voices, but it was evident that they were good friends. While they talked, however, you couldn’t help noticing that he stole occasional sidelong glances in your direction, and you felt your face warm pleasantly.

‘Oats’ was certainly an unusual nickname, but then again, almost everyone who rode with your brother also had their own nicknames for one reason or another. As you browsed, you wondered what Oats had done to earn that one. He certainly looked like a snack to you, but you vowed not to let your attraction to the stranger show. Awkward situations (or worse, silences) tended to arise when you let that happen.

He had a tanned, outdoorsy complexion, and longish, black hair that was tied back in a low ponytail that brushed below the collar of his black leather jacket. It looked like it had a tendency to flop into his face when not restrained by that out-of-place pink bow. He filled out the jacket very well, and clearly had a soft paunch, and his thighs looked frankly delectable in those thick, indigo jeans. You prayed you wouldn’t have to see him fully from the back if he turned around, to witness the way he filled out the seat of his jeans too.

Fuck. Concentrate.

Bike gifts for brother, not delicious-looking stranger you’re never going to see again.

“Well, I shouldnae hang about, I suppose.”

Oats’ voice cut through your musings in front of chain degreasers and you jumped a little. Glancing back over at him, you offered him a smile when he too turned to look at you one last time, and a slow, charming smile crept onto his handsome face.

“See you,” he said with a dip of his head. Before he strode from the shop though, he let his eyes roam once more down the length of you and he bit his lower lip, almost regretfully, then turned away abruptly.

Oh yes. He absolutely did fill out the ass of those jeans beautifully.

Quite honestly, you weren’t totally sure what you ended up getting your brother for his birthday. You took whatever it was to the counter in a daze, your mind replaying over and over the way he’d looked at you.

“Must say,” Hank said conspiratorially as he fished your change from the antique cash register and slid it across the polished, wooden counter towards you. “I’ve never seen Oats quite so taken with someone, miss.” He chuckled, his kind, whisky-brown eyes glinting. “You take care now.”

Swallowing, you nodded and left the shop, hoping perhaps to find Oats waiting for you outside on the street, leaning against his motorcycle, but life was not a movie, and wherever he was, he was not lingering in the hopes of seeing you. In fact, the street was completely deserted, so you crossed, clambered into your little hatchback, and drove home with the feeling that you’d let a pivotal moment in your life pass you by.

Your sour mood persisted like a raincloud for the whole week, but by the time you were driving over to your brother’s on Saturday for his birthday ride, you were trying to pull yourself out of it. You had your own helmet with you, secured in the back of the car, and beside it was (now wrapped) the present you’d got him. In fact, it was a chain care kit, and, although you hadn’t noticed at the time, Hank had thrown in a free keychain that said ‘In my defence, I was left unsupervised’ which was very on-brand for your brother. You had planned to go back and thank him for the freebie as soon as you could, but your brother’s birthday ride had been planned for that Saturday, and work had been hell that week, so you’d not had the chance.

Predictably, Alex wasn’t in the house when you rang the doorbell, so you followed the sound of metallic clinking and laughter, and went round the side to find him tinkering with his mad little Honda Grom in the garage, while his two best mates — Eggs and Sparky — were lounging around and either making unhelpful suggestions or lewd comments.

“Yo!” Sparky grinned when he saw you, sitting up straighter and almost falling off the mechanic’s tool chest he was leaning his weight against. At Sparky’s exclamation, your brother sat up and banged his head on the handlebars of the short little Grom with a curse.

“Hey,” you mumbled in Sparky’s general direction. “Happy birthday, Alex.”

Alex scrambled upright and came over to hug you, probably smearing grease and dirt all over your armoured jacket, but since it was black anyway, you didn’t mind too much. Alex was about as opposite to you as it was possible to get — straight up and down like a beanpole, and tall. You took after your mother, inheriting all her thick curves and soft edges. Soft heart too.

“Thought this might come in handy,” you mumbled when Alex released you and you held out the brown paper bag stamped with the logo of Full Moon Motorcycles.

His eyes lit up when he saw the logo, and he tore into it like a chipmunk after a peanut, grinning in delight when he’d dismembered it, and in particular he showed off the keychain to his mates. Eggs snatched it and tried to claim it for himself, but Alex was having none of it, and the three of them scrapped and goofed around while you sat down on an old, metal stool in the corner and waited for the other two of your small party to show up, with a cool, curdling kind of dread in the pit of your stomach when you heard one name in particular. Nooner.

Within an hour though, you were all out on the road.

You took the pillion seat behind Alex, and warded his mates off at red lights when they came for his killswitch to immobilise him. A while later though, Alex zoomed off down the open road that would take you all out of town and towards the somewhat famous biker cafe, ‘Elusive Neutral’, that sat nestled amongst the fragrant heather of the rolling hills surrounding the old market town.

The sky was a gorgeous, autumnal blue and the weather was perfect, neither too hot nor too cold, and as your brother’s Yamaha flew along the winding A-road that was every biker’s dream, you cracked a smile and gently tipped your head back. As much as it had scared you when you’d first ridden behind your mother all those years ago, you did love the feeling of being out on a bike. Not that you were actually brave enough to want to try and learn yourself though. Something always held you back, made you wary and unsure, and then you inevitably felt down about that too. God, you wished you had Alex’s wild confidence.

Nothing good ever seemed to last for you though, and when Alex’s R1 had purred into the car park behind Eggs and Sparky, and you’d hopped off to let him reverse more easily into a space, you caught the conversation drifting over from the other guys who’d arrived just ahead of you.

“…if he didn’t have his fat sister with him, we could have fucking ripped it up along those twisties.” That, of course, had come from Nooner, named for the fact that he rarely stuck to two wheels and always pulled wheelies, or ‘nones’, whenever he got the chance. Out of all of your brother’s friends, he was the one you liked the least, for… obvious reasons.

“Talk about killing the vibes, huh?” Eggs replied, trying to suck up to him, as ever. “More like ‘crushing’!”

The reason Eggs had earned his nickname was that he’d lost a bet and shaved his head when they’d all been about sixteen, and he’d looked like a boiled egg til it grew back. You wished you had the sass to remind him of that every time his spine seemed to crumble in favour of earning a half-hearted snicker out of Nooner.

When Alex joined you, he caught the crestfallen expression on your face and frowned, but you shook your head and walked away from them, heading for the cafe alone.

“Can’t wait to shove some cake in her fat gob already,” Nooner added as an aside to Eggs, and your vision blurred as tears welled along your lashes. Why did people have to be so cruel? To trample all over someone else just to feel a little taller themselves?

You vaguely heard what sounded like Sparky’s voice countering the comment, but you didn't stick around either way. If you mentioned it to your brother again, he’d just say it was banter with the guys and not to take it to heart. Easy for someone who's never been on the end of that kind of comment to shrug it off, after all.

You ducked straight for the toilets when you got inside the airy, modern cafe, not even bothering to look around or find a table first.

After some deep breaths and a check in the mirror to see that you hadn’t turned your eyeliner into a panda cosplay, you headed out again and made for the little bar that doubled as a counter for people who were there solo to sit and eat instead of taking up a whole table to themselves. None of your brother’s friends joined you, and when you glanced back over your shoulder, you saw that they’d settled themselves around a table in the far corner and already had a number for a server to bring their food order over. They hadn’t even waited for you.

“Fuck them,” you hissed through gritted teeth, taking a seat at the bar instead. The stools were made of old tractor seats, and they were surprisingly comfortable, and as you leaned your forearms on the countertop, the young woman behind the counter came over to you with a smile that made you feel a little better.

“Hey,” she said. “What can I get for you?”

You ordered a hot drink, and then took out your phone while you waited for her to make it for you.

For half an hour or so, you sat scrolling through social media and sipping your drink and telling yourself this was your brother’s day and not yours. He did come over a couple of times, but you declined to sit with his friends, and because he’d never had any real reason to doubt you before, he took you at your word when you told him you were happy enough where you were. “I don’t want to get in the way,” you said, and he believed you.

Patting you on the shoulder, he left you for the third time, and you looked down into the dregs of your drink with a heavy sigh. “This sucks.”

Outside, the sound of more bikes arriving made your ears perk up, and you wondered idly what they rode. Elusive Neutral had once been an old cattle barn, but it had been completely redone and the walls on two sides had been replaced with vast picture windows that showed the sweeping expanse of moorland beyond, and a small sliver of the car park at one end. Craning your neck, you saw a group of maybe five or six bikers draw up, some on hipster looking cafe racers and others on racy sports bikes. There was even a Ducati Panigale among them, and behind them followed an old, battered, blue pickup truck.

The door opened a little while later, and you glanced over, eyes drawn instinctively by the movement.

Above the general chatter and merry chinking of china in the room, the energy of the new group of bikers rose like a cloud of dizzy mayflies; buzzing and excited and full of joy. You watched them all with interest from your perch at the counter.

The first through the door was an absolute Amazon of a woman, with her long black hair restrained in a thick braid, and shoulders the width of a barn door. She was lean and tall, and in her biker gear she looked… incredible. Her face was strikingly handsome, but until she glanced down at the woman walking beside her, her features were hard and glowering and unspeakably stern. She held the door open for one of the others to follow her inside, but when she locked eyes again with the brunette by her side, her whole expression melted into unguarded adoration. Your gut twisted briefly with jealousy.

It wouldn’t matter to you who looked at you like that, if only someone would.

You looked away, and by the time you glanced back at the bikers, the whole group had filed in from outside. There was a guy with golden-brown skin and beautiful dark brown eyes who had his arm wrapped possessively around the waist of a pale, skinny guy in black jeans and a moth-eaten, black jumper, with his long hair tied back in a bun, and behind them came a strikingly attractive guy in a manual wheelchair, flanked by a very short biker with slightly anaemic looking skin. You wondered fleetingly if the guy in the wheelchair had ridden a motorbike there, and if so how, before you realised he was probably the most beautiful person you’d ever seen, with long, flowing red hair and dark green eyes, and the kind of mouth that was made for laughing, and for kissing.

Jesus, was it an unwritten rule of being a biker that you had to be unfairly attractive? Even Hank, who you recognised with a start of surprise coming in behind the guy with red hair, wasn’t unattractive, in a bulky, older man kind of way.

The guy walking with him though… he truly made your stomach swoop.

It was Oats.

You looked away before he could spot you, sitting alone at the bar like some pathetic creature waiting for cocktail hour to begin. It was lunchtime on a sunny, autumnal Saturday though, and there you were sitting alone because you didn’t fancy sitting with your brother’s loser mates.

God, the way Oats had looked in his tough-looking leather jacket, with his eyes crinkled mid-laugh at something the guy in the wheelchair had shot back at them over his shoulder… You bit your lip and stared into the bottom of your cold, empty mug like it would divine some kind of solution to your situation for you.

The new group didn’t seem to notice you while they filed up to the counter, jostling and joking, and when they drifted off to another corner of the cafe, you turned back to your phone, trying desperately to resist the almost overwhelming urge to keep turning over your shoulder to watch them.

Before too long however, you startled at a soft tap on your shoulder, and you looked around to find Oats himself stepping back to a polite distance and smiling down at you like he’d found a treasure in an unexpected place.

“Hey there,” he said in that rolling, Scottish accent that did unspeakably indecent things to your insides. “Sorry if I’m intruding, but you were at Full Moon last week, right?”

Mute for a moment, you nodded, and mustered up a slightly dazed smile for him.

“You… here alone?” he asked, eyeing the currently-empty seats to your left and right. In fact, someone had only just gathered up their belongings and left.

“Kind of?” you croaked, letting your eyes slide over to the table where your brother and his friends were hunched over one of their phones, snickering at something. “It’s… It’s my brother’s birthday today. I… tagged along as pillion, but… you know… I’m kind of a spare part really.”

At that, Oats’ dark eyebrows knitted into a scowl and he looked across the room at them before returning his attention to you. Then, his unearthly, almost prismatic, silver-green eyes took in your empty cup and he grinned. “Can I get y’a top up?”

Your instinct was to refuse, but you bit your lip. This didn’t feel real. A cute, handsome, courteous guy was actually taking an interest in you.

“Sure. Thank you.” And the smile that spread itself across your face telegraphed your delight in a way that was impossible to disguise with any kind of suave grace.

Oats, however, seemed equally delighted, and nodded. The barista came back over and he leaned his weight on the counter to talk to her. He seemed to have that enviably easy manner with everybody, and he even charmed a free slice of cake out of her too with what felt like no effort at all.

“Chocolate? Or something else?” he asked you.

“Pardon?”

“Cake.”

“Oh, no, that’s fine,” you said, but he frowned.

“You sure? I’m gonna have a bit of their chocolate cake. It’s so good, it’s practically a sin.”

“I…” you faltered.

He didn’t pressure you though and shrugged easily, turning back to the barista. “Gimme two forks with that, love. Just in case.”

“No problem,” she beamed back while she bustled about, and Oats eyed the empty bar stool next to yours.

“May I?”

You swallowed your nerves and nodded. “Please.” And then, because apparently a demon of confidence had temporarily possessed you, you eyed his slightly helmet-flattened forelock and said, “No pink hair clips today?”

He guffawed loudly enough that your brother actually glanced over and frowned when he saw you talking with a stranger.

Oats snorted and shook his head. “No, not today. My daughter is still up in Scotland with her mother.” He fixed you with a more serious look and said, “She and I divorced, before you get the wrong idea about me flirting like this with a beautiful woman.”

The compliment caught you so off-guard that you just froze for a moment, but when the heat of a blush filled your face, you looked away and he chuckled.

“I’m not normally so forward, but I’ve been kicking myself for not talking to you when I first saw you in Full Moon. Hank was telling me just this morning what a muppet I’d made of myself for walking away like that.”

You looked behind you at the group of his friends and then turned back to him. “Won’t they think you’re being rude, ignoring them like this?”

He shook his head and smiled. “They’re probably all taking bets on how quickly you’ll shoot me down.”

“What? I’d have to be an idiot to do that.”

At that, his face split into a huge, handsome grin and he shook his head just a little. “Lucky me,” he said. “You ride?” he added, eyeing your jacket that was obviously a motorcycle jacket.

You shrugged. “Pillion. I’ve never ridden myself, but my brother lets me come out with him sometimes.”

Oats nodded, and then, as the barista set down his coffee, your top-up, and the plate of decadent chocolate cake with two forks, he said, “I’m Euan, by the way, but everyone calls me Oats.”

You introduced yourself, and then said, “Oats?”

He snorted and nodded. “Not the worst nickname, for sure.”

“Can I ask where it came from?”

Oats nodded and shunted the plate towards you first before leaning his elbow on the bar and watching you while he spoke. “I think it’s because I’m a dad, but I’m always prepared for most situations, and when it comes to my Natalie, she’s always hungry. I’ve usually got about a thousand granola bars stashed away about my person —” he said, cutting himself off to pat conspicuously at his jacket pockets. Pulling a slightly dog-eared crunchy bar from his breast pocket, he wielded it like a magic wand at you and said, “Case in point.”

“Hence, Oats,” you said, eyeing the healthy brand name on the packet.

“Exactly. Like I said, it could be worse. See the tall lass over there with the dangerous scowl?”

You didn't need to turn around to know which of his friends he was talking about, but you did anyway. “Yeah.”

“We call her Pixie.”

“Do I even want to know?”

“Probably not,” he chuckled, stowing the granola bar back into his pocket and taking a huge scoop of the chocolate cake with his own fork.

“What do you ride then?” you asked.

“Triumph Bonneville T120,” he said with almost exactly the same intonation and fondness as he’d just said ‘because I’m a dad’, and you couldn’t help smiling. “Can’t be doing with all these glitzy sports bikes and the like,” he added with a laugh, setting his fork down and blinking slowly. His lashes, you noticed, were thick and dark and enticingly long.

Laughing, you smiled. “Don’t say that too loudly — my brother rides an R1.”

“Nice,” Oats grinned back. “But nothing could entice me away from my girl.”

“I’m surprised you’re here, flirting with me then,” you said. Evidently that confidence demon was still lurking.

Again, Oats laughed, though it was more of a low whicker this time, and it rolled right through you and lit you up all over. God, how long had it been since someone had laughed like that for you?

“There are… exceptions,” he said in a rumbling murmur. “Tell me about yourself?” he asked, and you did.

You spent the next hour at least talking in an easy back and forth with him while he charmed a few more refills from the barista and a lot of answers out of you, before one of his friends sidled up shyly and waited for a lull in your conversation.

“Sorry to butt in,” the small, unbelievably beautiful woman said. She was the one who’d been on the receiving end of the adoring look from the Amazon, ‘Pixie’. She had chocolate-brown hair falling in thick ringlets around a gorgeous face, and, you were pleased to note, she had wide hips and a softness to her that a lot of the biker chicks you’d seen online didn’t have.

“Coco,” Oats beamed. “Meet my new friend.” He introduced you by name, and Coco smiled at you, holding out her hand.

When your palms connected, you felt a warmth rush through you and you felt like your heart skipped a beat. The feeling like you could tip forwards and drown in her endless, dark brown eyes almost unseated you, but she let go of you and stepped back with a pretty smile on her Cupid’s-bow lips. “Pleasure to meet you. Just wanted to tell Oats that we’re thinking of heading off soon. Ariel has a photoshoot he wants to get to in an hour or so, and Demon’s keen to get going as well.”

Oats nodded, and you tried not to let your stomach drop down to your boots at the thought of all this coming to such an abrupt end.

Coco turned her head sharply to look at you just as the feeling hit, and she smiled faintly. “You could always stay here though, Oats,” she added with a pretty smile. “We’re only going back to Full Moon, and Demon clearly has no intention of lingering there…” She shot a meaningful glance back at their table. Demon, the guy with dark hair and tanned skin, was seated with the guy he’d entered with now draped in his lap, his skinny legs dangling as he sprawled languidly back against the guy’s muscular chest. Demon whispered something into his ear before he clearly bit the shell of his boyfriend’s ear, which made him sit abruptly upright and flush a vibrant pink.

Oats laughed again and shook his head. “Fuck me,” he chuckled privately. “Never thought I’d see the day. You guys go on. I’m… I’m very much content here.”

“I can see that,” Coco smirked, and walked away.

When she was out of earshot, you turned to Oats with a hot flush of your own in your face and said, “Don’t stay if you don’t want to… I’m sure my brother will be leaving soon anyway…”

Just as you said that, and before Oats could reply, Alex reappeared at your side and jutted his chin in Oats’ direction. “You good?” he chirped at you.

“Fine,” you replied. “This is Oats. I met him at Full Moon Motorcycles when I was buying your birthday present.”

“Oh,” Alex replied, holding out his hand for Oats to shake. “Good to meet you, man. You tell her what to get for me? If you did, it was a good choice.”

“No,” Oats said carefully, his grey-green eyes sliding back to your face even while he shook your brother’s hand amicably. “No, whatever she got you, it was all her.”

“Oh, cool,” Alex said. “Listen, sis, we’re gonna hit the road in a while. Nooner and Eggs want to hit the twisties for a bit, but I can’t really do that with a backpack, so Sparky said he’d give you a ride home, if that’s ok.”

You swallowed. “Um…”

“I can give her a lift,” Oats replied after a swift glance in your direction. “She’s already got her own lid, and there’s room on the Bobber’s double seat for both of us.”

“I don’t know, man,” Alex said with a wary frown.

“Your choice,” Oats shrugged easily, looking at you and holding his hands up just a little.

For a fleeting moment, you weren’t sure, but the idea of wrapping your arms around Oats’ thick middle and sitting astride his gorgeous bike kind of decided it for you. Besides, it was a long time since you’d done anything truly just for yourself; simply because you wanted to. You nodded at your brother. “It’s fine. You go ahead.”

“You sure?”

Nodding to reassure him, you smiled again and Alex backed up a pace. “Cool. Text me later, ok?” he said as he retreated towards his friends, clearly trying to hide his excitement at not having a passenger for the great, twisting section of A-road they were heading for.

“Will do. Have fun, and don’t crash!” you called after him. “Or get a speeding ticket!”

He waved a hand over one shoulder without looking back, and you laughed and returned your attention to Oats. “Brothers.”

“Bikers,” he replied. “You try telling that to any of that lot though —” he gestured towards his own group of friends who were now filtering out of the door. “You ready to head out too or do you want to stay?”

You did want to stay, but the seat wasn’t that comfortable anymore, and you wanted to move around a bit. “No, I’m good to go,” you said and prepared to slide off the stool, but Oats stepped down first and held out his hand to you. You didn't need helping down, and his playful little smirk told you he knew as much, so you rode out the last of that demonic possession and let your fingers slide across his palm and he steadied you off the stool.

“Thank you,” you smiled.

“Pleasure.”

You picked up your helmet from where you’d stowed it on the floor at your feet and straightened to find him waving casually across the room to the good-looking guy with the ethereally pretty boyfriend. Before he stepped away from you and made towards the door though, you cleared your throat and said, “Oats?”

“Mn?” Looking down at you, his entire attention honed in on you, like you were the centre of the universe, and you swallowed back a sudden welling of emotion.

“Listen… Thank you… for… coming over to me today. Like I said, it’s my brother’s birthday, and he was here with his friends, and he only included me so I didn’t feel completely left out, but…” Accursed tears washed over your eyes for a moment but you blinked them away furiously and ploughed on regardless. “I’m really glad I came along today anyway,” you finished rather pathetically.

His full, beautiful lips curled into a gentle smile and he blinked softly and exhaled. When he spoke, his voice was low and his words private, as though you weren’t standing in a busy cafe surrounded by people and the cheerful clatter of coffee cups and laughter. “I’m really glad I did too. I wasn’t going to, you know? I was going to stay at home and edit a boatload of raw photographs for a client, but Demon convinced me to come out. I guess I owe him.”

“‘Demon’? For… For the speed?” you asked, wondering how he came by his nickname.

“For the horns,” Oats replied in deadpan humour. “Have a look if he’s still there when we go outside. You ready?”

You followed him out of the cafe with a nod, and just as you took a deep, indulgent breath of fresh, heathland air, Oats’ group of friends filed out past you on their bikes. The one named Demon was in the lead, and the nickname made immediate sense. Sitting astride a blood-red Panigale, with his boyfriend clinging on behind him like a limpet, the guy had pale, curving horns fixed to the crown of his helmet.

“Yeah, that tracks,” you said, and Oats waggled his dark eyebrows.

The Amazon had a Yamaha R1 like your brother’s, but hers had a pearl-white wrap that made it look almost spectral, and riding out in front of her was Coco on a yellow and black Honda Hornet.

The telltale red plait told you that the guy in the wheelchair was on a modified Kawasaki, with unusual struts at the back that looked like they would come down when he stopped to stabilise him instead of having to take his legs off the foot pegs, where they were currently Velcro-ed in place. Watching the whole group file out was Hank, standing beside a battered old pickup. In the bed of the truck, you could just see that the red-headed biker’s wheelchair secured in place.

Hank waved the last of them off, then glanced over at Oats. The older man lifted his nose just a little, as if he too was enjoying the fresh, moorland wind that whipped across the car park, and he nodded once at Oats, and then at you to your surprise, before clambering stiffly up into his pickup and closing the door. It shut with a raucous yelp of rusty hinges.

You stood there and watched Oats’ friends all file out, all waving at Oats as they passed, before they set off down the road in a roar of revving engines to leave a lonely looking Bonneville waiting patiently near the stone wall of the car park nearby.

“Yours, I presume?” you said, nodding at it.

“Yup.”

“She’s a beauty,” you mumbled, self-consciousness prickling at the sides of your neck for the silly comment.

Oats beamed though, his sea-foam eyes lighting up as the crinkles around his eyes and the slight dimples in his cheeks creased under the force of his obvious pleasure. “Thank you. She’s my pride and joy. You ready? Oh, wait, you should put your address into my phone before we get going,” he laughed.

You nodded, taking the offered phone from him. Your fingers brushed against his warm skin as you took it, and a tiny thrill passed through you that you did your best to quash. With your address plugged in and a route home waiting to be followed, you handed it back to him and looked up into his handsome, rugged face as he smiled.

“Cheers. Let’s go,” he said, and you trailed along beside him over to his bike, heartbeat thudding in your ears with your nerves.

He swung a leg over and turned the key, then pushed the bike upright and nudged the side-stand in with his left foot before flicking the switch and bringing the bike to life. She growled beautifully, the low, thundering rumble of her engine sounding far more visceral and primal than your brother’s sports bike did. Perhaps it was the design of the lower-slung Bonneville, with its visible parts that made you think of a Steampunk aesthetic, but you instantly preferred it. Plus, the double seat looked way more cushioned — and less precarious — than the one you’d perched on to get to the cafe that morning.

Oats got himself comfy while you slid your helmet on, then he looked over his shoulder at you and nodded, so you took that as your cue and got settled on the pillion seat behind him. The footpegs were already down. The pulsing purr of the machine beneath you was almost enough to distract you from the fact that you were entrusting your life to a relative stranger, whom you’d never seen ride before, and as you climbed on and rested your hands politely on his shoulders, you felt a shiver travel through your whole nervous system.

“Do whatever’s comfortable for you, obviously,” Oats said over the noise of his bike, “But if you want to hold my waist — if you can actually get your arms around my middle, that is,” he chuckled self-effacingly, “— feel free. Totally up to you.”

“Thanks,” you yelled back, and, because apparently that pesky demon of confidence was still kicking around, you hugged his torso.

It was wonderful.

Slowly snaking your arms around his middle, you felt your chest press against his back and you caught the way he inhaled slowly and tried not to wonder what it meant. It felt so good to hold him that you had to remind yourself it wasn’t a hug. It was to keep you in place while a gorgeous stranger drove you home on his equally gorgeous bike. With a final thumbs-up to check you were happy, to which you replied with a nod of your head and tried not to clack your helmet against his, he pulled away and your heart leapt for the sheer joy of it.

Where the R1 was built for sleek speed and bursts of power, the Bonneville was build to be enjoyed, and oh gosh, did you enjoy every curve.

And not just the curves in the road, either.

Oats was soft, but he was solid, and the urge to rest one hand on his thick thigh was almost overwhelming, until he took the corners at just the right pace to be exhilarating without you having to worry about your safety, and you clung on instead and laughed behind the safety of your visor.

It was all over way too soon, and as the Bonneville chugged into your road like a steam train and halted outside your poky, terraced house with its quaint little kitchen garden out the front in the postage-stamp of space between the pavement and the house, your heart squeezed painfully in your chest. Please don’t let this be it, you thought desperately.

You went through the motions of getting carefully off the bike without staggering or falling, and again, Oats held out his hand to help steady you. You gripped his fingers gratefully and when you gave an extra little squeeze to his hand at the end, you could have sworn he answered with one of his own and a throaty chuckle.

He dismounted too, which surprised you, and you wondered if you were going to have to ask him inside. As much as you wanted that in principle, you desperately didn’t want it to happen today because the house was a mess: laundry was still hanging up all over the place, and you’d cooked a curry the previous night and it was definitely still lingering in the air.

Oats took off his helmet but left his bike idling, which went a little way to reassuring you, and when you looked more closely at his expression, you thought you saw a hint of something familiar lingering in the corners of his eyes. Was he nervous?

Swallowing thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing behind the thick, 5 o’clock shadow that looked like it lingered pretty constantly no matter the time of day, Oats took a deep breath, held it, and then smiled at you. “Fuck,” he exhaled, and laughed. “I’m… very rusty at all this.” He held his helmet in both hands before him, toying with the strap.

“If I gave you my number, would you maybe like to meet up again?” you asked, taking pity on the man.

“Very much,” he said softly. “Like I said, Natalie is with her mum for the holidays, and apart from a wedding I’m covering next week, this is a pretty slow time of year for me. I’m free… mostly whenever.”

The reminder that he had a daughter with someone else did make you wonder what you were letting yourself in for. Children weren’t really something you had any expense of, since neither you nor your brother had shown any parental inclinations yet, and you weren’t particularly close to your cousins who had small kids.

“Ok, let me give you my number and we can figure something out.”

That done, he slid his phone back into his pocket and zipped it up, biting gently at his lower lip for a moment. “I know it’s bold,” he said, “But may I kiss you?”

Your heart skipped and soared. Breathless, you looked up at him and whispered, “Yes.”

His tiny, gentle, lopsided smile heralded the kiss’ approach, and he took your jaw delicately in one, leather-gloved hand as he leaned down and brushed his lips against yours. They were soft but insistent against yours, and you answered with a little moan as your eyes fluttered shut.

He groaned, pulling you closer with a low growl so that you were pressed flush against him for a moment before he stepped back and exhaled roughly. “Fuck,” he breathed. “Thank you. I’ll… I’ll see you soon?”

You nodded, feeling like you were floating inches above the ground.

You watched him re-mount his bike and adjust himself a little once he was settled, then he revved it playfully for you, and rode away after a final look back at you. He flipped his visor down as he pulled away, and you watched the bike and its rider disappear down the road.

‘Soon’ couldn’t come soon enough…

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#oats the kelpie #monster romance #kelpie #male kelpie x female human #full moon motorcycles #supernatural biker group #plus size female reader #plus size reader #male kelpie x female reader #male monster x female reader #exophilia #monster boyfriend #dadbod monster #dadbod #single father monster #monster dad

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cissyenthusiast010155 · 3 months

Note

Hi! I love your fics to bits! I would like to request a Morticia Addams x Taller Masc! Fem!Reader because we need more of your Morticia fics cause they are so good. The two of them meet as students at Nevermore and with reader being a member of the Archery Club. Their first meeting involves reader saying the line, “If you keep undressing me with your eyes, I’m gonna catch cold.” when she catches Morticia staring at her as she practices.

You can write how their love story as students blossom, you’re a genius at it anyway. Also, please make reader’s character have a grunge vibe and a huge Nirvana and Deftones fan.

But the oneshot ends with reader and Morticia as adults, already married, they had Pugsley and Wednesday. Morticia is admiring her wife practice archery outside of their Manor with the kids and says that very same line that started it all and Morticia doesn’t hesitate to give her wife a breathtaking kiss.

Please make the ending fluffy and cute. Thank you so much! <333

Stare Me Cold ~Morticia Addams xFem Tall!Wife!MascPresenting!Reader

Summary— Read the request. Anon response— Hi hi anon!! Thank you for the request! I love love love this idea. Morticia could always use more content eheheh. Hope you Enjoy! ♥️

Mommy… Master List

Requests & Prompt-List

Warnings: fluff, staring, flustering, teasing, light praise, implied smut, happy endings, etc.

Enjoy (;

“It all started many years ago at Nevermore… We met for the first time at Archery Club, and your mother made quite the impression…” Morticia hummed, remembering the time like it was yesterday…

Morticia’s feet crunched through the early January snow, he arms wrapped around her body to keep warm. The young raven haired woman walked up to the archery field, where students were starting to gather for Club.

Morticia found you, standing still and holding a bow and arrow. You had the arrow drawn back with intense concentration, aiming towards the target.

You felt Morticia’s icy eyes on you, starring. You had heard of Morticia Frump, but this was your first proper interaction with her. You sidedeyed the young woman after a couple seconds, her gaze making it hard for you to concentrate.

You took a deep breath and focused back on your target. In a sharp second, you released the arrow, and it went whizzing into the center of the target. You sighed out a breath that you’d been holding in.

Morticia’s gaze was still steady and intensely on you. You could feel her eyes raking up and down your frame.

You chuckled, lowering your bow and turning over your shoulder to look at the young woman.

“If you keep undressing me with your eyes, I’m gonna catch cold…” you chuckled.

Morticia stammered and blushed a little, before properly approaching you. She stuck out her hand.

“I’m Morticia, Morticia Frump” she breathed out, a little nervous.

This was different… Morticia was the ‘it’s girl of Nevermore… She didn’t shake hands or sound nervous.

You smirked and took her hand.

“Y/N, Y/N L/N.” You told the raven haired girl.

This time Morticia’s eyes raked up and down your frame uninhibited. she but her lip and smirked.

“I like your clothing style… suits you…” Morticia purred.

And her sassy, self-confident manner was back.

You tilted your head, unsure if the girl was actually complimenting you…

“Thanks…” you slowly said.

She did mean it.

At that, Morticia pursed her lips and retracted her hand, going to get her bow and a couple of arrows for archery.

After that interaction, you could always feel Morticia’s eyes on you no matter where you went. It was unnerving, but at the same time you loved it.

You loved it because you could tell it unnerved her as well. Morticia was fascinated by you. She was fascinated by her like of you.

But the two of you didn’t hang around each other. Morticia was in the popular crowd, she had her own group of friends and acquaintances. You liked to do things more on your own. You were more of a grungy, loner, and you liked it that way.

But after that interaction last time with Morticia, you were starting to doubt if being alone was really what you wanted…

And Morticia was beginning to doubt if being surrounded by surface level acquaintances was what she really wanted…

One a particularly windy day, you were carrying some extra bows and arrows for archery. Before you saw Morticia coming diagnal into your path, you were crashing into her. You both fell to the ground, the bows and arrows scattering everywhere.

Morticia fell first, and you fell on top of her. You froze, your lisp parted, and your breath bated. You both stared at each other, eyes mesmerized with one another. You flickered your gaze down to Morticia’s lips, then quickly back up to her eyes.

You gulped, shook your head, and broke the trance, scrambling to get off of the young woman. You stood up and brushed yourself off, apologizing to the raven haired girl. You then went to pick up all the archery things you and dropped.

Morticia got up as well and immediately apologized as well, starting to help you grab all the scattered arrows.

“Thanks” you mumbled, blushing lightly as Morticia’s hand brushed yours when she was handing off the arrows she had collected for you.

The raven haired teen nodded in recognition.

“I… I heard your music from your dorm this morning.” Morticia hummed, “You have odd taste…”

“You mean grunge…?” You chuckled.

Morticia nodded and smiled.

You liked it when she smiled…

“Yea that. Maybe you should invite me over sometime and tell me about it…” the raven haired girl boldly said with a quirk of her brow.

Your jaw dropped slightly at the just of confidence going through the young woman in front of you.

“I—Ok!” You exclaimed.

“Excellent…” Morticia hummed, “I’ll come by after dinner.”

You hummed and nodded, trying to contain your excitement.

You spent the rest of day, only thinking about the basically date that you had with Morticia that night.

Finally, at around 9pm, you heard a knock on your door. Your roommate had left Nevermore recently, so you currently had a room all to yourself…

You let Morticia in. She sauntered into the room, sitting down on your bed. You quickly grabbed a tape and put it into the receiver, then sitting down next to the raven haired teen. The music started blaring.

Your gazes interlocked. And Morticia bit her lips.

“And that is how I meet your mother…!!” Morticia exclaimed, lounging back against her hands on the picnic blanket.

Pugsley was curled up in Morticia’s lap, Wednesday was sitting in solitude on the corner of the blanket. Morticia’s gaze was on you. You were shooting apples off a fence, practicing your arrow aim.

“That’s so cool!” Pugsley exclaimed.

Morticia chuckled and nodded, bringing her attention to your shared son.

“But mother…” Wednesday quipped wickedly, “You did not finish telling us what happened in mother’s room…”

Wednesday said her words with a deep smirk, while Pugsley just stared at Wednesday in confusion.

“Wait what?” Pugsley said in confusion.

“Nothing! It’s nothing, no worries my little Pug bear…!” Morticia exclaimed, then shooting daggers at Wednesday.

Wednesday was about to say something again, Morticia clapped her hands together and exclaimed she was going to see how you were doing.

Morticia got up and sauntered over to your side.

“How’s it going, my Darling…?” Morticia hummed.

“If you keep undressing me with your eyes, I’m gonna catch cold…” you chuckled under your breath, making Morticia have shivers run down her spine, just like the day she met you.

~~~

Morticia Addams Masterlist

#morticia addams x reader #morticia addams #morticia frump #morticia frump x reader #morticia frump fluff #morticia Addams fluff #wife!reader #tall!reader #wednesday #wednesday x reader #wednesday fanfic #wednesday fandom #wednesday fluff #wednesday netflix #catherine zeta jones #CZJ #cissyenthusiast010155 answers

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wovenintosilk · 11 months

Note

Hii! Could I request a hobie x reader with a girlfriend who’s in the spider society with him? Possibly during the events of the movie

Hey! Thank you for requesting, this really helped get my inspiration flowing. It's not too long but I hope you enjoy it!

No Content Warnings

GN!Reader

Word Count: 1000

━━━━━━♡♥♡━━━━━━

Clattering of a metal can kicked down the street broke through the silence of an otherwise quiet night. You watched it roll along before it disappeared into the frigid shadows. Unfortunate. It’d made for some entertainment as you strolled along the dark streets.

Only smog joined you and Hobie on your walk, somehow present even if everything else had long been deserted.

“All I’m saying is I don’t like how things are playing out,” he said. He shoved his hands in his pockets.

A frozen brush of wind managed to sneak under your jacket and you shuddered. “But that’s nothing new,” you said, teasing him. “The whole organised society never suited you much.”

The corner of his mouth twitched into a smile. “You’re not wrong doll. If this gig didn’t come with you included, I’d be long gone.”

“Don’t make me your reason for sticking around,” you joked. “I couldn’t handle it.”

He kicked a fallen piece of debris as you passed. It rolled beneath a flickering streetlight, briefly shining in a pale orange buzz.

“Nah,” he said. “You’re worth it.”

Even with such an admission, his words twisted in your head. Though you didn’t believe that you alone could tie Hobie to a world he didn’t like, you still felt guilty about it from time to time.

“It’s been getting worse,” Hobie said when the silence dragged on. “He always wants to know every detail from every dimension. Does he really think anybody’s going to bother with nonsense like that?”

You twisted your mouth, unsure how to defend against the truth. “Miguel’s just worried. He’ll calm down when we know where this anomaly is.”

Hobie scoffed. “Don’t even know why we care so much about anomalies. Nothing’s meant to be the same.”

“They’re dangerous.”

“So are you.”

You offered a confused expression; turned only to find your boyfriend suddenly far closer. The warmth he radiated made you want to move entirely into his space.

Your heart picked up its pace and a delicious feeling spread through your body at the promise in his stance.

“Dangerous for who?” you asked.

A soft beeping interrupted whatever may have continued. Two watches blinked in the dreary night, their glow a harsh yellow in an otherwise grungy area. The flicker of irritation made itself obvious in your expression as Hobie stepped away.

“Looks like they need some help.”

“They always do,” you sighed.

He shrugged apologetically and pulled his mask from his pocket though his grin appeared proud as ever. “’s not my fault they’re bad at their jobs. Will I see you at the complex?”

You glanced at your own watch. “Of course. Be safe.”

“You know I don’t follow orders.”

“It’s not an order, it’s a bribe,” you hummed and moved back into his space, palm pressed against his chest and lips close to his own. “Stay safe for me?”

“A bribe? What do I get if I agree?”

You smiled and pushed him toward the portal opening behind him. “We’ll see.”

He left with a laugh and you made your way toward completing your own work. Lyla wasted no time in providing a list of your tasks and you got on with it swiftly. The complex felt busier than ever as you dodged between hundreds of Spidermen.

You worked hard whenever he ran off, determined to distract yourself from worrying. Every time he donned the mask, you had to force yourself to not think about the stunts he’d need to perform – the danger he’d put himself in front of without a second thought to the consequences.

But it didn’t help anybody to worry so you tried not to until he returned.

He was in a great mood when you spotted him arriving back, his walk full of swagger and confidence as he caught your eye. He shot a wink in your direction that sent you blushing and laughing.

The others with him offered awkward waves and you relaxed in the knowledge everything went as well as it could.

Until later when you received a notice ordering every person in the complex to stop Spiderman from escaping.

Alone in your office, you couldn’t be more confused as you turned your chair around. This was something you’d never seen before. Everybody in the complex had a strange truce – no matter what happened.

The door slid open before you could think too much about it and Hobie strolled in.

“I was thinking about what you said,” he remarked before you could ask. “And you’ve got a point. This place doesn’t suit me much.”

You stood up. The alarm continued to blare behind you. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t like being told what to do,” he mused, a small smile on his face. “Neither do you.”

You glanced at your computer screen. Turned off the alarm with the press of a button and allowed silence to reappear. What had happened? Hobie didn’t quit things without reason.

Quit? Just like that, he wanted you to leave the society you’d been invited into. He wanted you to abandon your work without even knowing what exactly caused it.

He moved closer, brushed his fingers against the underside of your jaw and smiled when he saw something in your expression.

“You’re a horrible influence,” you told him.

“I think I’m a brilliant one.”

You leaned into his touch and smiled. “This isn’t over when we walk away.”

He gave a small, breathy chuckle. “Oh, there ain’t a chance. We even have a pit stop to make before we head home.”

Your watch fell heavily onto the table as you dropped it. “You’ve never led me into anything but trouble.”

“That’s one of the reasons you love me.”

#across the spider verse x reader #atsv x reader #hobie brown x reader #spiderpunk x reader #hobie x you #hobie brown fanfiction #hobie brown x you #hobie brown x y/n

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the-90s-music-colosseum · 6 months

Text

Round 3 Match 5

propaganda below the cut! (huge wall of text warning)

Courtney Love:

"i want courtney to push me around and throw me on the floor SHE'S SO HOT AND HER MESSINESS MAKES HER EVEN HOTTER !!!!!"

"She's beautiful and gorgeous and the definition of 90s fashion. I'm convinced she could pull off any outfit ever she's so stunning"

"that one photo of her in red lipstick and a black dress smoking a cigarette… your honour i rest my case"

"I don't care what conspiracy theories you tell me. no one rocks the grungy makeup look like her."

"gonna be her for halloween"

Mike Patton:

"Mike didn't consistently wear BDSM masks matched with boiler suits and lick Trevor Dunn on stage just to lose this bracket. Also, if you don't think he's hot in every which way, you clearly haven't seen this: https://youtu.be/gjEbHBafvm0 or this: https://youtu.be/i9_hCjcFNO0 or this: https://youtu.be/Kfq7wHJu21c"

youtube

"Mike Patton collaborated with basically everyone who's anyone in music, and he speaks Italian too. He's great in a live show. And Mr. Bungle is unmatched and unparalleled, full stop."

"HEE HEE HOO HOO HA HA FUNNY WHITE MAN SCREAMS IN MY EAR AND BUSTS IT DOWN SEXUAL STYLE"

"I'm a lesbian but I find him insanely attractive which I think says a lot"

"whenever mike arches his back and screams a part of my soul leaves my body and is shattered by the soundwaves."

"all you need to do to love mike is watch this: https://youtu.be/0gq_Jn41iMM&t=1375 the fact that he blurts that out and then super casually goes into the song leaves me crying with rage and hormones every time I see it"

youtube

Jonny Greenwood:

"Every art girl's (and boy's) wet dream"

"He wrote the tourist. That's all you need."

"Repeat from my Thom propaganda but he was a part of it so anyways. I had a dream once where I met him and Thom on the street and asked them to sign my Pablo Honey CD, so Thom pushed me into open traffic and I got hit by a car and died and Jonny laughed his ass off. 10/10, my last sight before death was his beautiful face laughing."

"I could probably snap him like a twig but I want to marry him and have 3 children with him before I do that"

"Choose Life. Choose a job. Choose 1/5 of Radiohead. Choose 1/5 of In Rainbows. Choose the man who wrote weird fishes, both Greenwood sisters ,the man in South Park, his telecaster and the stickers on it. Choose the bug Jacqueline Kennedy, his love for literature and poetry, and his lovely lisp. Choose his sublime score for Phantom Thread and his husband Paul Thomas Anderson. Choose the weird amount of straight men who thirst over him in the YouTube comment section. Choose his jawbone. Choose the most pretentious, unpretentious member of the band. Choose his silky hair and his (probably) Dove shampoo. Choose his great knowledge of music theory and how he often disregards it. Choose Astroboy's biggest fanboy (minus maybe Thom. Choose a very hot Alex James who eloped with a fish. Choose Jonny Greenwood. Choose your future. Choose life… Involuntary Trainspotting reference but please vote Jonny over Wario. Oh, and( even though Jonny lives in Italy at the moment), I live in Oxford and if I meet him, I'll tell him that he won."

"He keeps chickens guys, CHICKENS"

"I'm a straight guy but no joke Jonny is hot tbh maybe it's cuz he looks like a chick but like damnnnn"

"He's so gorgeous....kinda like an ant 😍😍😍😍"

#most attractive 90s musician #polls #poll #90s music #tournament #courtney love #hole band #mike patton #faith no more #mr bungle #jonny greenwood #radiohead

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genuine-wrestleboy · 8 months

Text

the attraction (1/2)

words: 5,031

(here on ao3)

It isn’t that you’re easy to scare, no matter what your friends say. So maybe heights make you nervous, and blood, and the concept of eternity, but none of that has ever stopped you. On the contrary, you like it. Love it, even—the adrenaline, the thrill, that tingle down your spine. Haunted hayrides and rollercoasters and horror films, anything that strips away the thin veneer of safety for long enough to get your heart really pumping. That’s why you’d accepted the invitation tonight, even though you don’t know the first thing about Freddy Fazbear’s, or the rumors your friends excitedly discuss on the drive over.

“Wait, there were, like, real, actual murders here?" you ask, peering out the windshield at the grungy-looking building. It's smaller than you'd expected, the neon sign above the doors flickering weakly.

“That’s what I’ve heard,” your friend tells you with gruesome excitement.

You frown a little. “That seems kind of tone deaf, doesn’t it?”

Another friend rolls their eyes. “There weren’t any real murders, it’s–ugh what's the word? Urban legend. Creepypasta shit.”

The final member of your group cuts the ignition. “If we see a photonegative Foxy I will fully shit my pants, just warning you guys now.”

Your friends laugh, and you turn back to the old pizzeria, something warm and familiar kindling in your chest. Anxious anticipation; the first sparks of fear.

It's a predictable pace from there. You made sure to get here as close to opening as you could, so the line's not too bad, but the tickets are steep.

"This better be terrifying," your friend groans.

"I better be able to fuck Freddy Fazbear himself," agrees another.

"Yeah? Is that gonna be before or after you shit yourself?"

A shrug. "Depends on what Freddy's into."

"Guys, the line's moving." You love your friends, but if you have to listen to another second of this there are going to be very real murders here tonight.

"Ooh, nice, you wanna go first or last?"

You give this question the consideration it deserves. Which kind of scared do you want to be? Do you want to face the horrors ahead and force yourself to push through them? Or do you want the eerie unknown of endless possibility at your open back? Either way is bound to get a scream out of you, which you know is mostly why your friends offer you the choice.

"Last, I think."

"Alright! Get thee behind me, scaredy!"

"Harr harr," you reply dryly.

Single file and giggling, you friends put their hands on one another’s shoulders and shuffle through the blacked-out doors. You follow suit, but the friend in front of you slaps your hand off their shoulder like a bug.

“You know you grab too hard,” they whisper harshly.

“Right, sorry.” You knot your hands into the front of your shirt instead.

It’s a bit like losing a sneeze, at first—tension building and building and then fizzling out into one long, empty corridor after another. Dim, streaky fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting strange shadows in the corners, but there’s not much else for them to work with besides the creepy crayon drawings tacked to the walls.

Then, slowly, other things start to appear: the rusted skeleton of an animatronic, strung together with wire like the bones of a museum dinosaur; a dark-stained purple vest and bowtie behind a pane of glass alongside a picture of a waving yellow rabbit suit; a skillful reproduction of a red animatronic head with a loose, toothy jaw that your friend tries to stick their hand into.

Somewhere near the shadowed ceiling, a speaker crackles to life.

“Please don’t touch the displays,” says a muffled, tired-sounding voice.

“Boo,” hisses your friend, retracting their hand. “It’s not like there’s anything else to do. This place is fucking boring.”

The rest of your friends mutter in irritated agreement. You pinch your mouth shut before you can say something you’ll regret. This hasn’t been what you’d expected, sure, and you’re not exactly scared, but you’re definitely interested. Maybe it’s just because you didn’t know anything about Fazbear’s before coming here, but you think if they just pivoted a little and turned up the lights this place could be really cool, part horror and part history.

Or they could've hired some actors or something, you suppose, but that's neither here nor there at this point.

The next hallway is entirely wallpapered with vintage advertisements and framed posters, faded photographs and glossy magazine pages and a huge full-blown painting of a goofy-looking bear with a top hat and gentle eyes.

"Mr. Fredbear, I presume." As you lean in to squint at it more closely, you notice a newspaper article pasted on the wall next to it, photocopied and blown up in size to make the letters legible even in this near-dark.

Kids Vanish At Local Pizzeria—Bodies Not Found

Ah, the creepypasta bullshit. Your eyes briefly scan the body of the article. There’s a surprising amount of detail, considering, you suspect, that not many people are expected to read it. A couple steps further along the wall, you spot another article, and you hold your phone up to it for a little extra reading light. You pause for a moment, in case the voice on the speaker has an objection, but if he does it’s apparently not big enough for him to mention it.

Five Children Now Reported Missing. Suspect Convicted.

“...where a man dressed as a company mascot lured them into a back room, eugh.” If they’re giving you backstory now, maybe this is where it starts to gear up, where the story comes in and the scares really start.

“Hey, guys, check this out.” They’ll like this, you think, gesturing them over. You hope so, anyway. “Guys?”

You look up to another long, empty corridor, and your heart drops into your stomach. Your friends are gone.

Shit, they’re going to be so annoyed if you get yourself left behind.

You abandon the articles reluctantly and follow the only path until you hit a bend in the hallway. To the left, there's a glass window, and then what looks from here like a dead end. To the right there’s a makeshift plywood door marked Cast Only, but the sign is in rough shape, and the door itself is hanging slightly ajar, like someone has just gone in.

Feeling a little dumb, you reach out and try a tentative knock. At least if it is actually an employee-only area there might be someone who can help point you in the direction of your friends.

From behind the door comes the sound of movement—heavy, halting footsteps, the beginnings of a cry. Then a sort of wet cracking sound, echoing silence. A thrill goes through you, and you feel suddenly perfectly clear, excitement honing you like a blade. That's terrifying. As you push open the door, you wonder if they only replay the track when someone is close enough to hear it or whether it's on a loop, whether you'd hear it all again if you stayed put and waited long enough.

You pass through into a cold, dank room that reeks of mildew. The only light comes from an abandoned industrial flashlight on the floor, the bright arc of its cracked bulb swaying ever so slightly side to side, as if it's only just been dropped. It makes the room into a funhouse mirror of itself, shadows stretching off in every direction like hungry searching fingers. It also makes it impossible to tell how big the room actually is, the opposite walls lost to darkness.

Fortunately, you’re no amateur, and you know the best way out of a labyrinth. The wall is distressingly sticky under your hand, but you keep your fingertips pressed steadily against it as you make your way forward. The humid air of the room is like wearing a damp sheet over your head, and your skin tingles with gooseflesh beneath it. Everything feels muffled, your own racing heartbeat the only thing your straining senses can detect.

The flashlight on the floor wobbles one more time and comes to a rest.

Your next step nearly takes your feet out from under you. Your shoe slips on the floor, the surface suddenly slick, and you barely manage to catch yourself on the wall before you go down. You let out a little involuntary yelp of surprise; it sounds like a gunshot in the otherwise silent space. Clapping a hand over your mouth, you stare out into the darkness, still as a startled rabbit. Nothing stirs, but you could swear you feel the weight of someone else’s gaze.

You pause, scarcely breathing, to give your eyes time to adjust, and slowly the floor separates into grimy checked tile and a spreading pool of thick, dark liquid. A little further down, you can just make out the limp shape of a figure slumped in the corner. Curiosity draws you closer, and you pick your way carefully around the blood, leaving shoe-shaped smears around the edge as you go. That has to be a safety hazard, right? It’s amazing that no one has fallen and gotten hurt yet—or sued Fazbear’s Fright, more likely. Maybe they have really good lawyers.

The figure in the corner seems to be a young man, blonde and ponytailed, wearing what looks like a security guard’s uniform. You brace yourself for a jumpscare as you approach.

Then you see the angle his neck is at. His back is propped against the wall, but his flat, lifeless eyes stare straight up at the ceiling, mouth hanging slack. There’s a faint trace of blood on his teeth, and a great deal more where a considerable section of his shoulder has been torn away completely. It’s an incredible piece of work, but—honestly it’s edging on a little too realistic. A deep, nauseous discomfort settles thick in the back of your throat, and you step backwards, away from the wall and the corpse, and straight into something else.

You turn, hands raised, and look up and up into the grim, grinning face of an animatronic rabbit.

"Hello!" Adrenaline spikes through you, the one-two punch of terror and delight. It’s always made you a little prone to blurting.

The rabbit stills, one broken ear flopping as the sculpted head tilts slowly to the side. You do your best not to touch the actor as you duck around him and flee in the opposite direction, away from the door you entered through.

After a moment, you hear him follow, the same slow, metallic footfalls that had enticed you in here to begin with. You feel yourself grin so hard that it hurts; this place is fucking good.

The beam of the flashlight clings by its nails to a bank of bulky steel lockers near the center of the room, and it’s these that you aim for. They give off a bluish light of their own, maybe not lockers, after all, but some sort of machinery with faintly glowing panels on their pitted faces. You follow the line of them until there’s enough room to go around, and though there are glowing panels on this side, too, the light from the flashlight is all but blocked. You have about two feet of dimly-illuminated floor before the room descends again into utter blackness. Behind you, the hiss and click of struggling hydraulics tells you that the actor in the animatronic suit is closing in fast.

Okay, deep breath. What’s your next move? Fight and flight tangle in your chest, knotting themselves together as effectively as a noose.

“Run, rabbit, run, rabbit, run, run, run."

You freeze. Horror slithers down your spine and coils cold in the pit of your stomach. How can he do that with his voice? It sounds…shredded, like the throat that produced it barely remembers what it is. Your own throat activates automatically in sympathy.

But he’s singing. You can’t tell what direction it’s coming from, but you can tell that it’s getting closer.

“Run, rabbit, run, rabbit, run, run, run.”

Two knocks, trailed playfully along the barrier behind you. Then one deafening bang. You jump, the spell broken, all but throwing yourself into motion.

A mitted hand snaps shut around your wrist and yanks you back. Before you can even process what's happening, your back hits metal with enough force to knock the breath clean from your lungs. The rabbit animatronic leers down at you, both long arms caging you solidly in place. Washed in blue, the finer details of his face are lost, but you recognize enough to connect him to the drawings on so many of the posters in the lobby.

“Hello,” says the Springtrap. The smell that rolls out of his mask when he speaks is a bit of a demented touch.

"Oh wow," you breathe. “I didn’t know you guys were allowed to touch us.”

Springtrap makes a gravelly, gargling sound that you realize belatedly is laughter. He leans in, leans down, looming ghoulishly as he stares you down with unblinking interest. His eyes reflect the cold blue light like polished silver, half-hidden by the suit’s heavy lids. You meet his gaze and feel suddenly strangely exposed, like you might as well be standing here in nothing but your socks. Your heart races in your chest, and, humiliatingly, another, lower part of you starts to respond, too.

Lifting one huge paw, the actor in the Springtrap suit runs the pad of his thumb down the side of your neck, and a gasp drops from your lips. The texture of his fur is like greasy velvet rubbed the wrong way, waxy and matted, and you feel the bite of metal as he hooks the digit into your shirt collar and drags it aside. Your skin tingles in the wake of his ungentle touch.

“Can you feel that?" The question bursts out of you like nervous laughter. “I mean, those gloves, do you, are they easy to use? I’m not—I don’t want to seem like one of those assholes who think they’re too good to be scared, I’m honestly terrified, you’re just—” don’t say hot, don’t say hot “—gorgeous.”

Oh god, that is so much worse.

“Gorgeous,” he repeats, and you could swear he sounds amused.

A blush tears its way across your face. “Wait, no, I meant—I mean, I did mean it, I just, mostly I meant that whoever made that suit must be, like, incredible, it looks amazing, I—I am so sorry, I babble when I’m scared. Usually not this much though."

You hear that broken laughter again, and Springtrap reaches and spreads the broad length of his hand along your windpipe. He doesn't press down, but he doesn't have to; one sharp fingertip traces the underside of your jaw, and your breath stutters and catches hard.

"And what if I told you," he says, "that I made this suit?" There’s a grin in there somewhere—you can hear it, even if you can’t see it. There’s also, you think, the hint of an accent, something round hidden in the harsh rasp of his consonants.

"Did you?" you ask dumbly.

"I did," he confirms.

"Well you totally killed it. It’s—it must’ve been a real labor of love." Jesus, what has your life come to? You're making first-date small-talk with a haunt actor who has his hand around your throat and you're barely resisting the urge to grind against the seam of your jeans.

"It was." His grip tightens, and you do your best not to go completely boneless against him. You can hear how breathless you are when you speak, but it feels sort of fuzzy and far away.

"It's cool that you get to wear it, too, then. Instead of just, like, watching someone else do it."

Springtrap stills. "That I get to wear it," he says. His voice rests on a precarious note between wistful and annoyed.

A beat of silence, snapping-tense. He stares at you, thoughtful in a way that doesn’t feel like he’s contemplating your words so much as he’s contemplating you. When he turns your face towards the wall, you let him, swallowing hard against his palm. Hot, foul air stirs your hair as he nuzzles along the juncture of your jaw, your pulse fluttering madly at his fingertips.

“Funny, frightened thing." There's something almost wondering in his voice, almost soft. "What am I to do with you?”

You honest-to-god whimper at that, a thoroughly telling sound you don't quite manage to stifle.

Springtrap chuckles, rumbling and low. “You seem like you have ideas.”

This might be the most embarrassed you have ever been in your life. Unfortunately, the same could probably be said for how turned on you are.

“Are they, uh, bad ideas?” you ask.

A single trailing finger scrapes itself down your throat, your chest, and the topmost button on your shirt pops free and clatters away.

“There's a very good way to find out.”

The thing is, you don’t need him to tell you that it's a bad idea, it is an objectively bad idea. He’s a stranger, and you’re in public, and there are—oh god, oh no no. The voice on the speakers, don’t touch the displays, and it’s not that you think Springtrap counts as a display, per se, but.

“Don't they—aren’t there cameras?”

Something about the question seems to strike him as funny. He tilts his head, and you can see the flash of a leer behind his teeth. Another button snaps off with a snk.

“Not in here.”

"Oh," you say.

"Oh," he confirms smugly.

With a flourish, Springtrap claims a third button, putting your shirt officially past the point of damage that is going to require explaining to your friends later. That, and the red, raised line bisecting your chest, a stinging arrow that leads directly to where his finger pauses with intent between your tits. A low rumble rattles through his chest, the shredded suit honing the harmonics into something snarling and inhuman.

God, you are so fucking wet.

"Fuck," you breathe. You catch yourself pushing your chest forward, tempting his touch like some horny, preening bird. His hand returns to your throat, steady, merciless pressure until your vision starts to soften at the edges.

"Language," teases Springtrap idly.

"Yes, sir,” you laugh wheezily. You can't help it; maybe it's the oxygen deprivation.

The sound melts on your tongue as he takes your breast in one huge paw, kneading the sensitive flesh experimentally. Heat thrums between your legs, and he hums, pleased, at the needy little noises it draws out of you instead. Despite the hand on your throat, he touches you with this strange, unexpected tenderness, like he hasn’t touched anyone else in a long time. Hesitant. Hungry.

“How refreshing to find someone who knows their place,” he murmurs softly, and, god, that does something terrible to you. You gasp as his thumb brushes roughly over your nipple, once and then again, panting into the stale air as you cant your hips unthinkingly in his direction. He chuckles, rubbing soothing circles against your rabbiting pulse point. “As I thought. You’re just a slut, aren’t you?”

“Hn–!” It hits you like a shock, white heat touching every nerve in your body. Your pussy aches for attention, throbbing and slick and so sensitive you’re pretty sure you could come with a single touch.

“Hm?” prompts Springtrap blithely.

You swallow a moan. “Yes, sir.”

"Good," he says approvingly. His voice is rough as he leans in, "And good little sluts who know their place deserve a reward, wouldn't you agree?"

"Holy shit." If you were any more coherent you'd shove his hand down your pants yourself. "Yes, please, yes, yes, sir."

Mercifully, whatever playful objections Springtrap might have to your language this time don't stop him from obliging. He makes quick work of the rest of your shirt, the remaining buttons sliced apart like butter. The skin beneath them feels burning hot.

This is such a bad idea, what are you doing, are you insane? Are you stupid? Springtrap dips a teasing touch low along your stomach, and you have your jeans undone and around your thighs before your brain even has time to process the thought. He laughs, hooking a claw under the waistband of your panties.

“Greedy,” he says fondly.

“God,” you gasp. Your face flushes with heat, but it’s impossible to distinguish from the heat taking you apart everywhere else.

Springtrap growls and tears your panties open with an effortless twist of his wrist. “Close enough.”

The first hint of pressure on your clit almost makes you howl. You bite down on the heel of your hand, your head hitting the metal behind you with a hollow thunk. Springtrap rubs you in slow, steady circles, watching you raptly with his bright, pale eyes. Pleasure builds fast—you’re already so worked up, it won’t take much to send you over the edge at this rate. His finger eases back towards your eager hole, and you buck your hips forward, a cry falling from your helpless lips.

He presses his fingertip to your entrance. "That's right," he coos sweetly, "Show me how badly you want it."

You know some of those fingers are sharp, you have plenty of evidence on your skin to attest to that fact. It should matter more, probably, but then again a lot of things should probably matter more to you than they do. Right now all you can bring yourself to care about is the slow, ready stretch as you lower yourself onto him, glorious fullness that feels like you've been waiting for it your entire life.

Springtrap allows the movement, following without ever fully removing his grip from your throat. Between his hands, your breath tears into desperate shreds, tight, shallow inhales that leave you dizzy and loose. You roll your hips, pleasure bleeding lazily through you, and it's so good you could sob.

"What a shameless display." His voice wants to be light, but there's a red thread of hunger in it that he can't quite hide. "You'd let anyone have you like this, wouldn't you?"

You keen high in your throat and shake your head, too overwhelmed to form proper words.

"No?" he asks. His thumb grazes your clit, and your whole body jerks at the wave of heat that rolls through you. "You expect me to believe that, with how easily you spread your legs for me?"

You think, giddily, that you might never spread your legs for anybody else again. Springtrap hooks his finger, pressing against a spot that makes you see stars. A moan rises and spills, liquid and sweet, from your tongue, and honestly there’s a chance that you’re maybe also drooling a little, too. He laughs, curves himself to speak directly into your ear.

“Or, let me guess,” he says conversationally, “—is it because I’m gorgeous?”

He punctuates the final word by thrusting another finger into your pussy, and you cling to his arm reflexively as your trembling legs threaten to give out beneath you.

“Ohhh, god, yes.” You’re wet enough that the pain is only an echo, pleasure the screaming constant. He feels huge inside you, like something you’ll never properly recover from, something you’ll need forever. He ghosts brief bursts of pressure against your clit, knowing and cruel, his breath ragged as you fuck yourself raw on his fingers.

“Needy thing, I can feel how close you are, shall I let you come?”

“Please,” you gasp, “please, yes, please let me come.” Everything is swimmy and tingly and sweet, your world reduced to the tight coil of heat in your core and the places where Springtrap touches you.

Sharp fingertips dig into your neck. “Watch your manners, slut.”

Fuck. “Yes, sir, please, sir.” You feel like a match just struck, stuck suspended in the moment before consuming ignition.

Springtrap growls, angling his wrist to slam a thrust home to meet your desperately rocking hips. “Good. You’re so good for me.”

Anything, you think senselessly, you could do anything if it meant he’d tell you that you’re good, and you would, you want to, you—

“Go ahead, come for me, darling,” he hisses, and you clamp your thighs shut around his hand and obey.

Climax consumes you, blissful combustion at last, wrings a hoarse shout from your abused throat and whites out every other sensation in its blazing wake. Springtrap waits patiently as you ride it through, his touch gentling, leaving a litany of little nonsense niceties against your skin as your senses return to you. His fingers slip out of you, soreness already blooming. But bright, giddy joy seeps in to fill your chest, and you laugh, feeling it reverberate against his palm.

“Would it be weird if I asked to give you my number?”

He pets your hip idly, chuckling warmly into the crook of your shoulder, and for a moment you think maybe you’re on the verge of the world’s best and most inexplicable meetcute.

Then you hear the door on the other side of the room creak open. Reality takes you by the shoulders and shakes, and you’d jump back if you had anywhere to go. Springtrap stills, head tilted, listening with an obvious tense recognition. A voice—familiar, the same voice from the speaker, muffled and tired, only now it’s obvious that he’s in the room, and he’s—

He’s calling your name.

“Are you in here?”

You look to Springtrap but he’s just…gone. Without so much as a goodbye, all six foot huge of him, silent as a ghost into the darkness. All the warmth in your body floods away–and you get it, sort of, at least you try to, but mostly now you’re left standing here feeling stupid and—oh fuck. You scramble to get yourself sorted, yanking up your jeans over a cold, uncomfortable wetness and clutching the ruined edges of your shirt together. You turn just in time to see the edges of a light bob across the floor.

“Shit. Shit." He calls your name again, this time noticeably more frantic.

"I'm here!" Your voice is a dry rasp; you clear your throat, not without pain, and try again. "Hi! Here!"

A figure rounds the corner wearing what you recognize now as a security uniform. His hat is pulled low over his forehead, and whatever it doesn’t obscure is covered by one of those paper surgical masks. His light cuts across you; you lift a hand to shield your eyes. He pauses, then seems to start, freeze a little. Then he rushes over to you, pushing his hat back and bending to examine you, half reaching out as he does.

“Please tell me you’re alright.”

“What?” you ask. “I—yeah, of course, I’m fine, I—” You’re probably a little scratched up, but most of that is at least still partially hidden by your disheveled clothes. You look down at yourself, the mess now illuminated by the guard’s cold white light.

You’re covered in blood. Smeared low on your stomach, on your hip, poking suspiciously out from under your shirt. Your hands are tacky with it, too, leaving a trail of smudges everywhere you’ve touched yourself. You pointedly do not check the flies of your jeans.

“Oh, it’s fine! It’s not real,” you tell him awkwardly.

The guard has been made up for the house, and he’s wearing these incredible contacts, black scleras that turn his pupils bright white. They dart over your face with something that feels terribly akin to pity.

“You saw him?” he asks. This close, his voice sounds as rough as yours.

“Him?” you parrot dumbly.

“Shit,” says the guard, glancing away. “Never mind. I, uh, need you to come with me, okay? It’s not—your friends were looking for you.”

“They were?” you ask. You feel sort of stunned, swarming inside like a hive of angry bees, too full of buzzing emotions to hear any one more clearly over the others.

The guard waves a hand in front of your eyes. It’s skeletally bony and painted in bruisey purples, presumably to match whatever they’re doing with the rest of his costume.

“I think you might be going into shock. Can I touch you?”

You nod. He takes your arm gingerly, and you sort of sag against him, your own weight suddenly a lot to ask yourself to handle. Together, you pick your way back across the dark room—he brings you the opposite way, avoiding his mannequin counterpart—and into the building proper, where he lets you lean against the wall in the dim hallway. It feels cool out here, making you very aware of everywhere that you’ve sweated through your clothes.

“Wait here,” says the guard. “I’ll be right back, I’m gonna get you something.”

Something? you wonder, but he’s back almost as soon he goes, tossing you a bundle of fabric. You shake it out curiously. It’s a sweatshirt, faded purple and soft with age, the remnants of white lettering arcing across the front: H-U-R-R-I-C-A-N-E.

“Thought you might need it more than I do,” the guard tells you. He has a faint accent, you realize, just like.

Just like Springtrap. What’s going on here?

“You don’t care if I get it dirty?” You lift your bloody hands illustratively.

“It’s seen worse,” the guard assures you. Little crinkles appear at the corners of his eyes. You wonder if they’re grey under those contacts.

“Well, thank you. I really appreciate it.” You pull the sweatshirt over your head, immediately relieved to have none of your undergarments a sneeze away from being on display.

The guard shrugs, sweeping his flashlight across the hallway like he’s looking for something. “Least I could do. Do you feel like you can walk?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m—” you flash a thumbs-up. “I’m golden.”

That makes the guard laugh, a hard, cold snort of mirth. He gives you another long look, familiar in its surveying weight. Then he lifts his hand slowly, taps a bandaged finger against a coppery nameplate on his uniform shirt.

“Hi, golden, I’m Mike.”

#springtrap #springtrap x reader #my fic #THERE'S CHOKING IN THIS TOO THAT TAG IS EDITED ON AO3 BUT HEADS UP #william afton #william afton x reader

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courtneysartblog · 9 days

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The Places an Angel and Demon Inhabit Outside of Heaven and Hell:

I’ve seen a couple people talk about how Aziraphale’s bookshop is the anthesis to Heaven, cozy, warm, overcrowded with stuff, but I never see Crowley’s apartment in this discussion at all, so let’s do that!

In so many ways Aziraphale goes against the grain of what it probably means to be an angel. He has and cares for and loves his material objects. And once we go to Heaven, we see just how much in contrast Aziraphale’s home is. The bookshop is sometimes darkly lit yes, but it’s also warm, lived in, well loved, antiquated, messy and so full of material objects where heaven is stark, bright, empty. At the end of season two Aziraphale is willing to give it all up (you can’t leave this bookshop/nothing lasts forever), but this is a final solution to Aziraphale, he's putting everything he is aside to protect, to save, but it’s not who he is.

Because when Aziraphale’s in heaven, he stands out from the angels. He has color, he not as put together, he feels, almost human (I think that’s why he looks so off when he’s discorporate and put in the all-white suit).

Now in many ways Crowley is a foil to Aziraphale. He’s the grump to the sunshine, the dark to the light. And his space reflects that.

He’s neat as a pin, his flat is modern and spacious, and has much less stuff. And this is where my interest comes in, because, just like Aziraphale, Crowley’s place, the things he makes a home in, are the opposite of Hell. Hell is grungy, overly dark, messy, and kind of gross. Crowley’s home feels much less lived in than Aziraphale’s, but it’s obvious that Crowley has a style, that he’s a careful curator of things, and that his home is modern, stylish, and clean and full of modern luxury, a very different vibe than Hell.

(There are no good photos of Hell but if your reading this, I know you know what it looks like)

But if Heaven and Hell are opposites and Crowley and Aziraphale’s places are opposites, that would make the bookshop more aligned with Hell and Crowley’s flat more aligned with Heaven. I want to thank the amazing prop people and set dressers who make each Good Omens location different, because yes they do an amazing job, but also Hell never reminds me of the bookshop nor does Crowley's flat remind me exactly of Heaven, even though they are more stylistically aligned. Yes, Aziraphale’s shop can be messy and dark, but it’s too human and cared for to ever truly be like Hell, and Crowley’s place is too carefully curated and too moody to ever be like Heaven.

But there are similarities there, especially for Crowley. And as a former Angel, it’s just so interesting to me that Crowley’s home would ever be, even a little bit, like Heaven. The trial of Hell is the only time Crowley’s place looks even a little like Hell, with the moody lighting and use of modern concrete, but in most ways, Crowley’s home is much more aligned with the Heaven aesthetic: it’s clean, somewhat barren, modern, a more expensive look, and probably has great views overlooking the city, much like Heaven has that big room overlooking the buildings of Earth. But we know Crowley does not see himself aligned with Heaven, and the difference in his set dressing makes the same distinctions that Aziraphale’s makes from both Hell and Heaven. Crowley might be made from the same stuff as an angel, but he’s grown too dark, grown too human, grown too attached to material objects. (It's also interesting to think how different Crowley's style is from Aziraphale but how, even still, the bookshop is somewhere he feels so comfortable, his home.)

Aziraphale and Crowley have spent too long on Earth, gone native. Humans, material objects, and love, things they have collected through their years, are not just a part of their history, it's shaped who they are. There's a reason an angel like Muriel is so naive, almost a clean slate, why we see even Haster and Liger have such a hard time appearing human, they haven't spent enough time there, they haven't been shaped yet.

Something, something, shades of grey, Aziraphale and Crowley hold a bit of each other and bit of Heaven and Hell, a lot of Earth inside themselves.

For both Aziraphale and Crowley there are remnants of Heaven and Hell in their spaces, but the differences set them in such stark contrast from the entities they are supposed to represent. Heaven and Hell are both modeled to be a corporate office building after all, Heaven the top floor where the important workers are, Hell the basement were the low rung workers toil. Aziraphale and Crowley have set themselves outside this dynamic, instead they have created a home, spaces that show just how different they are to their respective offices. Places, it think, that show they have learned what love is, what to be human is.

Anyway, here’s another reason to think every person who worked on Good Omens is brilliant.

#good omens #good omens 2 #ineffable husbands #crowly x aziraphale #good omens theory #aziracrow #crowley #aziraphale

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silawastaken · 2 months

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i was wondering what Dazai and Chuuya would wear in your au? I'm talking about the (not so) perfect pair btw.

(This is totally not for fanart)

AAAAAA FANART????? (im autistic and sarcasm is not my strong suit for this stuff, and I'll feel real stupid if this isn't real but OH MY GOD I WILL LOVE YOU FOREVER)

And my GOD have I thought about this. It is currently 10:03PM and I have school tomorrow, lets see how long this takes me.

Right- Generally speaking, any chapter they're in school, they're wearing a uniform. Most of this stuff is based on what I know from the uk so 💀 yeah, it's a school uniform. That means, a collared short sleeve shirt, red tie(honestly it doesn't need to be red, I just randomly picked one), and black trousers.

Chuuya's wardrobe I feel would consist of patched denim shorts and jeans, jeans probably ripped at the knees. Dark colours mainly for other types of trousers, think black and greyish.

T-shirts, second hand band tees that are probably a little worn mostly, his parents do well but he isn't rich + he's a middle child, he probably doesn't own a lot of first hand clothing. I'd say oversized flannel or tartan shirts, either worn loosely over shirts or tied around his waist(Think very grungy. It's getting into summer, so tied around his waist is more likely)

The big thing is that most of the time so far, unless he's at school he's been wearing the hoodie Dazai gave him(black + red stitching, detailed better in the actual fic😔), so it'd make sense for him to be wearing it, unless at school, or post his parents finding out.

Generally, he's rather grunge but put together, he looks nice, and generally presentable.

DAZAI HOWEVER, LIVES OFF HIS BEDROOM FLOOR.

While Dazai has clothes, he doesn't actually wear much of them. With Dazai, I think black or tan trousers when he's not in uniform, the same two pairs. The black ones more commonly, so probably more worn.

If Chuuya would wear the t-shirt, Dazai would too. Generally, I think most of the t-shirts Dazai would wear would be stolen from Chuuya, so yeah! If Chuuya'd wear it, Dazai would.

Same with hoodies, but obvs Dazai is slightly different. Generally with dressing Dazai/his clothes, this au Dazai is still in his emoish phase, so stick to black and earth tones- blue, green, brown.

A few extra details!!! I've never said it explicitly, but Dazai isn't wearing bandages over his face, just his neck and arms. Chuuya's ears are also pierced, Kouyou got him earrings for his birthday. How many piercings that is? Idc go wild bro's sixteen and his parents are rather chill, he probably has a few. I don't know if this is the level of detail you were looking for, but for Chuuya, with shoes I'd say boots or like converse. For Dazai- it's actually specified that he wears a pair of like BATTERED high top black converse so :D

I feel it's fair to mention that Dazai and Chuuya are still rather rough and tumble teens, they're both depressed as shit rn and not going out to cause chaos like they normally would- but they still dress like they're prepared too. So a little unkempt and scruffy is a fairly accurate department of how they likely look half the time.

It is 11:08 and has been an hour, so I should probably stop agonising over this but this was a LOT of detail sorry if it still wasn't enough, or wasn't what you were looking for :(( BUT HAVE FUN WITH THIS INFO.

#IF YOU ACTUALLY DRAW FANART FOR THIS AU I WILL CRY #I'LL NEVE GET OVER IT #I'LL CRY AND WAIL AND IMPRINT IT IN MY BEAIN #PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE FEEL FREE TO MAKE FANART I'LL LOVE YOU FOREVER AND EVER #bsd #ao3 fanfic #soukoku #soukoku fanfiction #silas yaps #bsd fanfic #bsd dazai #bsd chuuya #bungou stray dogs #skk au

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serpercival · 10 months

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There are lots of things to criticize about the RTD era of Doctor Who but let me offer a different criticism than normal: RTD dresses his Doctors in normal people clothes.

That's normal clothes! Leather jacket, suit, other suit (admittedly with a splash of color). If whoever you were talking to knew nothing about Doctor Who, you could get away with wearing that to a job interview! Nine's a little grungy but it's not that out there.

Compared to the other Doctors...

Like, that's all bonkers. Eleven's approaches normal but I think is offset by the fact that Matt Smith was super young and wearing clothes for the oldest man ever (yeah, it's the Doctor, I know). But, like, look at all the velvet! The insane color choices! Whatever the hell Five and Seven have going on! If I wore any of these things, people would know immediately that I have an unhealthy relationship with this show! That is what I think costuming for the Doctor should be all about, and RTD doesn't manage it.

(Edit to add: Don't get me wrong, I do love RTD's version of the show. I have a lot of criticisms about every era <3)

#never mind the fact that I own a four scarf #and most of my wardrobe is six-style bright hawaiian shirts #i may be learning how to sew just to make the six coat #doctor who #classic doctor who #rtd critical

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monstersandmaw · 3 months

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Oats the kelpie (single dad, dad-bod, absolute softie sweetheart) is now up on Patreon on early release! You can read it right now for $3, or for $5 you can have access to everything pre-2020 mothballing.

Background info post on the Full Moon Motorcycles group here Oats Appreciation post here

Featuring a plus-size, bisexual, not very confident reader, and a divorced, Scottish, single-dad, biker kelpie with a soft-dad bod and a heart as big as his bike’s engine (possibly bigger).

Wordcount: 7562

Preview:

You pushed open the glass door of Full Moon Motorcycles and willed yourself not to feel self-conscious or out of place.

And yet, as you made your way towards the bike shop’s counter and the older man with floppy, greying hair and warm brown eyes looked up, you were greeted with an open, welcoming smile.

“Hi there,” he said, standing up with a grunt from the comfy chair where he’d been sitting in the corner near the shop’s antique cash register. “What can I do for you?”

You smiled shyly and glanced along the wooden countertop before returning your gaze to him. “I’m looking for a present for my brother, but I’m kind of on a budget…”

“Could always tie a festive ribbon round it,” you said, and he chuckled and nodded.

“That’s the spirit.”

The whole vibe of Full Moon Motorcycles was friendly and cosy, with a slightly industrial, grungy note for some flavour.

In short, you loved it.

“There are also some fun helmet covers ��” the older man chuckled, and added, “A number of the regulars here have them, and there are also some earplugs, or perhaps a tough phone case and mount? A chain care kit? There are some vinyl stickers too, and t-shirts, socks, neck warmers, balaclavas, mugs, helmet care kits, thermals…”

Laughing, you held up your hands for him to stop, and he started to chuckle too.

“Oats!” the older man exclaimed with obvious joy, clapping his hands. “It’s been a while, my boy! How was the trip to Scotland? You make it round the NC500 this time?”

The ‘boy’ looked to be in his mid to late thirties…

“Ah, next time, next time. And is Natalie well?

“No problem, Oats. We’ll get her running properly again in no time. Bet you’re missing little Natalie already,” Hank added sympathetically.

“Ah, you have no idea,” the man, peculiarly-named ‘Oats’, sighed ruefully, shaking his head.

“See she left you with a parting gift though,” Hank snorted, pointing at the bow hair clip.

“Sorry,” he said in your direction, with a soft, dusky smile. “Didnae mean t’interrupt.”

Read the whole thing right now over on Patreon, as well as everything else in my exclusive masterlist, plus February's story involving a holiday romance with a naga in Starfall Springs...

#oats the kelpie #kelpie #male kelpie #male monster #monster romance #single dad monster #monster single dad #dad bod #male monster x female reader #plus size reader #plus size female reader

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officialgleamstar · 6 months

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woohoo wip wednesday :D the normscarys... i cannot help it. they run my brain. based on some tags that happi-tree left on this post hehe

copied in plain text under the cut, since its a lil long for alt text:

“Sorry, I’m still figuring out how to do it, like,” Scary started, then paused, trying to think of the words. “Cleanly.”

“That’s fine,” Normal replied, his voice faint even in his own ears. Scary’s brow furrowed. “Do you need more? I don’t want you to go hungry.”

They were sitting on the floor in her bedroom, Normal leaning back against her bed while Scary was nearly in his lap to reach his neck. Her room suited their current activity of Scary drinking from him; thick curtains prevented any ounce of sunlight from creeping in, and a myriad of dark grungy posters did their best to cover up the pastel purple of her walls. Her bed had deep purple covers and black wood that matched the black of her dresser. Taylor had painted something red and violent-looking on the side of her dresser that was supposedly flowers, and there was a single stuffed animal against her pillows, a cutesy bat that Lincoln had bought for her. It always made him a little jealous when he thought about it. Not that he was thinking about it right now, when he could be thinking about Scary perched over him. There was no part of his brain dedicated to being viciously proud of being the one that Scary came to for this.

“Norm, you’re looking pale, I’m not gonna drink more,” Scary said, even as her eyes drifted back to the puncture on his neck. Normal could feel the blood smeared against his neck, but something about the way Scary bit him kept blood from gushing from the wounds. She had explained it to him at some point, he was sure she did. The memory felt a little faint at the moment. “Maybe I should clean that up, though.”

“Whatever you need,” he offered. Scary licked her lips. They were bright red with blood. His blood. It should have been gory, but it made her look like an old Hollywood star. His breathing was suddenly faint in his chest. “I’m good to go.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” she replied, leaning in again, and Normal closed his eyes.

#dndads halloween week wips #my writing #normscary

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taylorswiftstylequestions · 7 months

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Firm believer that half of these jeans trends only exist on the Internet anyways! Source: I am 18, so Gen Z, on a uni campus of entirely other Gen Zs, and get most of my outfit compliments when I'm wearing skinny jeans (or similarly dated trends—ironic grungy Union Jacks, tights + shorts + band tees, etc.) They just look better on me than the straight- or wide-leg trends do, and the compression feel is comfier. If you're dressing in a way that is authentic to you and suits your body/style, it'll look much "cooler" than following trends for the sake of trends anyways. At least in my experience!

"If you're dressing in a way that is authentic to you and suits your body/style, it'll look much "cooler" than following trends for the sake of trends"

So wise and so true friend.

People can read confidence and comfort and that honestly really is the best outfit you can wear.

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book-shop-dates · 17 days

Text

Spark: A Draco Malfoy X Hufflepuff Reader Fanfiction

Chapter 1:

It was a beautiful morning. The sun shone through your dorm-room windows waking you up ever so gently. Birds were chirping and trees rustled slightly as you fluttered your eyelids open. Sitting up slowly in your bed, you yawned and stretched and looked out the window. The girl you shared your dorm with, Lyra Littlestone, was still fast asleep. She looked so peaceful that you didn't want to wake her up. Standing up as quietly as you could, your feet shuffled sluggishly along the cold castle flooring. You reached the window and opened it wide, a gust of warmth hitting your face as the birds chirping became instantly louder. A small groan came from behind you. Lyra was awake.

"Good morning sleepy-head! I was going to wake you just now but you looked so peaceful I wanted to give you five more minutes." You said as you walked back over to your bed, leaving the window open. Yours and Lyra's dorm-room was neatly put together. Beds on either side of the room, with a large window in the middle of the room looking over the Hogwarts lush land. Your side had muggle music artist's posters and plants scattered around on every surface you could fit them. Lyra's side was more grungy, as much as she was a Hufflepuff, she could pass for a Slytherin through her looks. She was a hauntingly beautiful person, almost like a ghost. She was a little less held back as you were, and she was always free to speak her mind, but she was the most compassionate and caring friend you've ever had. That's what made her a Hufflepuff.

"It's. Too. Early." Lyra protested as she sat up reluctantly. "At least it's a Friday today." You looked over to her with a guilty smile, reminding her of all the studying you had to do. She sighed and stood up, how she didn't get a head rush each morning from standing up so fast you didn't know. You walked over to your wardrobe and pulled out your uniform. Lyra went into the bathroom to get changed and freshen up while you got changed in the dorm-room. Brushing your hair and putting it into a neatly tucked bun, you applied a little make-up and swapped out with Lyra to freshen up too.

Walking into the common room there were a few students scattered around, either in pairs or groups talking amongst themselves. As you were about to walk out into the hallway, a voice called out saying: "Hey, Y/N! Wait up!". As you turned around you saw one of the older years catch up to you. Cedric Diggory. It was no secret that Cedric had a crush on you. Everyone from the top of the castle right down to the dungeons knew he had a thing for you. In any other circumstance, you would be thrilled to know someone like Cedric liked you. But you just didn't feel a spark with him, no matter what you did. Some girls called you selfish in the hallways as they knew about Cedric liking you and were jealous. You didn't mind though, people always thought you were strange. A muggle-born Hufflepuff who is always reading a muggle book or listening to muggle music.

"Oh, hey Cedric." You replied with your usual smile. "You going to get breakfast too?" He asked hopefully, though your mind always seemed to be else-where when he was talking to you. You quickly zoned back in and tried to think of a polite excuse to go elsewhere this morning before classes started. "I'm sorry, I'm heading to the library, I have a lot of studying to catch up on... I'll see you around though!" You tried to be as nice as possible as to not hurt his feelings. He replied back with a short, "Okay then!" and headed the way towards the Great-Hall. Now you had to go to the library and skip breakfast because you didn't want to be caught lying to Cedric.

You had nothing against Cedric, but he was trying to spend more and more time with you now since you started to, grow. You would have understood his obsession with someone actually suited to him, but not you. Before the summer, you were a very short, box-like figured girl. Now you are still quite short, but you gained a few curves and your face had started to mature. Your chubby-cheeks were stll around though, much to your dismay. You always tried to seem busy or uninterested yet towards Cedric but he never backed down. You just didn't understand why he wouldn't leave you alone. Either way, you had to make it to the library now and go throughout the day with little-to-no energy due to not having any breakfast.

***

Your first lesson was potions with Professor Snape and the Slytherins. It wasn't your favourite lesson but you learned to manage. It was difficult to deal with Snape, let alone the Slytherin Prince who always found an excuse to poke fun at you. For some reason though, his insults hit deeper than any other Slytherins'. Once he made fun of you carrying your books a certain way; you hadn't carried your books that way since. As you arrived to the dungeons, you walked into the class noticing a few people here before you. You sat in your usual seat and started re-reading a part of the potions book you had been learning that you kept getting confused on. It was to do with the potion: Amortentia. Deciding to read until everyone arrived to class was the least you could do to try and improve your grades, even by one mark. Though you were the top of your class, you always thought you could do better. Being self critical was a big part of your personality.

Soon enough everybody arrived, causing Professor Snape to start the lesson and for you to put your book away. "Today you will be paired with a partner of my choice to complete your work on the potion Amortentia." Snape pronounced every syllable like it was going to be his last. He called out names together and everyone started shuffling seats. Your name was left until last, and so was someone else's. 'Oh Merlin's beard... Why does it have to be him?' You thought to yourself. As soon as Professor Snape called out both yours and Draco's names together, the room went deadly silent. Everyone looked around and whispered in each others ears while your face went red and Draco sighed loudly. He grabbed his stuff and lazily threw it onto your table, taking the seat next to yours. You couldn't help but feel so bad for him, being paired with a muggle-born Hufflepuff wasn't exactly a Slytherin's dream. Snape began explaining the task of studying the potion in lesson today, and making the potion together outside of the lesson. You could feel the annoyed aura around Draco. You just hoped that this pairing wouldn't last too much longer than it already had, for his sake.

Authors Note: hey my little lovebugs !! i really hope you enjoyed this first chapter, i'm quite proud of it, it being my first fanfiction i've wrote. any suggestions/ support will be greatly appreciated, i'll get on with writing the next chapter soon, but its currently 5 am for me and i'm exhausted, so i need some sleep !! lots of love !!

#draco malfoy #harry potter #fanfiction #hufflepuff #draco x hufflepuff!reader

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quickiesgirl · 2 years

Note

Hey can you do a story where y/n goes on a cruise ship with her parents and she meets Peter there?

Hi, anon! I'm so sorry this took so long for me to write, I tried making it perfect. Hopefully, you like it! <3

The Cruise of Love - Peter Maximoff

Paring: Peter Maximoff x Fem!Reader Warning: Just some cussing, and my crappy writing.

It was a beautiful morning. The sky was bright blue with little to no clouds above you. Your black round sunglasses blocked out the sun as you laid back on one of the sun loungers on the cruise deck, facing the luxurious pool. You slowly closed your eyes and felt your body subtly sway back and forth as you unwind.

You were on a seven-day cruise vacation of relaxing amenities, poolside fun, and live music with your parents. This was the first cruise you’ve ever been on and the only other cruise you knew of was the Love Boats, Pacific Princess.

You took in a deep breath of fresh air as the sun warmed your skin, but you felt a little uncomfortable. You had on a vibrant orange two-piece bathing suit and a matching see-through top over your chest, fitted around the top and loose on the arms.

It was your first time trying it out, and it wasn't really your usual style. Your mom found it for you in one of those girly magazines. She suggested that you should change up your outfits a bit and keep them less dark and grungy. She was old fashion in that way and preferred seeing you in bright womanly colors.

Your eyes fluttered open as a tiny giggle caught your attention across the deck. You watched a little girl, around 9 or 10, run across and dove into the pool as her older brother playfully chased after her, shouting, “I’m gonna get you! Rrroar!!”

Her brother made a bit of a scene as one of the older couples who were sunbathing in some of the loungers looked over and groaned. You continued watching as the little girl swam around her brother, as you got a better look at him.

He was the only person you’d seen around your age, and he was super cute. He had a sweet smile and awesome silver hair. You couldn’t help but quietly chuckle to yourself. It was pretty freakin’ cute watching them playing together. He looked like a good brother.

After a few minutes of playing, Peter's head popped in the water. His silver hair, which was once fluffy, was now flat with water dripping down the strands. He looked up in your direction and spotted you in all your beauty. He was star-struck as butterflies filled his stomach, and a flutter of excitement rushed over him.

It was love at first sight.

“Woah,” Peter muttered beneath his breath. Lorna swam over and giggled, “Oooo, you have a crush!!” She teased, giving him a toothy grin.

“Huh? No. Mind your business.” He playfully splashed his little sister, bringing her to stick her tongue out at him in response before she swam over to the steps and began walking over to where their bags sat, which was right beside you.

Peter’s eyes widened, knowing what his little sister was up to, “Oh, shit.”

The little girl sat on the chair beside you and smiled widely, “Hi!”

You politely smiled back and lifted your glasses, placing them on your head, “Hello!”

Her brother was now quickly hopping out of the pool and walking up behind her.

“My brother thinks you are super pretty!”

You lightly smirked, looking up at the boy who stood behind her, his eyes went big, and his face became completely flushed. He quickly covered his hand over her mouth and blurted out, “No.”

“Well, wait no- I-I don't mean that I don't think you're pretty because I do, but I just meant for my little sister to stop.” He attempted to recover himself quickly, making you start to giggle softly. “It’s fine.”

Lorna looked up at him with a giant grin as he let go and groaned, mouthing, “I’m telling mom.”

Peter grabbed his Dark Side of the Moon shirt from the bag and threw it over his wet chest. You gazed over, admiring how the wet Pink Floyd shirt outlined his chest and subtle abs.

“Nice shirt!” You complement as he gazed over and smiled, “Thanks, you like Pink Floyd too?” He asked.

“I love them! They're one of my favorite bands.”

Peter sat down on the chair next to you and the two of you began sharing each other's love for the band. “Y-you know, they named themselves Pink Floyd because of their favorite singers, Pink Anderson and Floyd Council.”

“Really?” You knew this already but found it pretty cute that he wanted to tell you. He excitedly nodded in response, and introduced himself, “I’m Peter Maximoff.”

“Nice to meet you, Peter. I’m Y/n. Y/n Y/l/n.”

It would be your first encounter with the silver-haired boy until later that night, while you were sneaking out of your bedroom and walking down the hall. Just as you turned the corner, in a quick blur your shoulder hit the passing stranger beside you, making you start to fall. You felt arms suddenly wrap around your body and firm hands hold your back before you could hit the ground.

Your eyes widened as they came into focus on Peter. His body was against yours, and you could feel his warm breath tickling your skin as his dark brown eyes looked down at you with concern, “Holy shit, are you okay?”

“Yeah. I think so.” You nodded, gazing down at his hand attached to the side of your waist as you felt the other rest on the middle of your back, holding you up with his strong arms. He looked down, realizing his hand placement before lifting you back on your feet and letting go. “Sorry.”

“Oh, it’s fine! I’m sorry. I should have been watching where I was walking.” You nervously smiled and glanced down, trying to hide the redness that was forming across your cheeks. “Thank you.”

“Oh, y-yeah, of course.” He nodded and nervously scratched the back of his neck.

“Your Peter, right? We met by the pool earlier with your little sister?” You asked. You knew it Peter. How could you not? With the small amount of time you’d spent with him, you’d admire everything about him. His cuteness caught your eye. He had dark brown eyes that you could get lost in, pretty, soft-looking lips, an adorable nose with a little beauty mark on it, and an awesome style.

“Yes! Wait, you remember my name?” His eyes widened with a glimmer of surprise.

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I remember?”

Peter glanced down at his converse shoes and fidgeted with the end of his silver jacket, “I honestly just expected you to think I was a loser and not care.”

“I would never think that!” You shook your head before leaning in close with a little smirk, “and trust me. You're the coolest person I’ve met here.”

Peter's eyes meet yours and his cheeks dimpled as he let out a timid chuckle.

“So, Y/n, what are you doing out this late?” He crossed his arms and suspiciously tilted his head, somehow recognizing that you weren’t allowed to be out this late. “Just needed some fresh air.”

“Wanna come walk with me?” Your lips curled into a smile that made Peter's heart flutter, “Yeah, sure!”

“What about you? What are you doing out?” You questioned, looking over at him.

“I wanted to explore and pick up some souvenirs from the front desk's candy bowl.”

You giggled at the man-child who stood before you, revealing the front pocket of his silver jacket, full of wrapped candies. “Jesus Pete, what did you steal the whole bowl?”

“No, only like… Half of it.” He gave you a giant grin, “Want some?”

“I’m good, Peter, thanks.” You chuckled.

The two of you walked together up to the top of the deck. The crackling of the ocean waves filled the air, and a nice breeze against your back cooled you off. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and admired you from afar as you gazed out towards the deep sea. He could watch you forever. You were beautiful as your hair blew in the wind with a small twinkle in your e/c eyes. “So, Y/n, where are you from?” He broke the silence.

You looked over, noticing a tootsie pop suddenly sticking out his mouth. “I’m from D.C.”

His eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning, “No way, we’re just a little outside of D.C.”

“Really? Well, maybe, after we get off this cruise, we can see each other sometime.” You suggested with a little smile, watching his head happily nod as he held the lollipop in his cheek and nervously smiled back. His mind was racing as the words spilled out, “Hey. I-I know it might be early to ask this but… Tomorrow night, do you want to go on a date with me?”

You swallowed back all the fluttering warmth this boy made grow inside you and looked passionately into his eyes, “I’d love to.”

He felt the relief of excitement rush over him, “Okay, I’ll pick you up tomorrow?”

“Sounds great!”

The next night came. You had just finished slipping on some jeans, putting on your favorite shirt, and one of your jean jackets that had pins and patches lined across it before hearing a gentle knock on your bedroom door and rushed over, widely opening it to see the silver-haired boy. “H-Hey, Y/n!”

“Hi, Peter!” You greeted sweetly, “My dad told me that we have an hour and a half.”

“Perfect! I set everything up.” Peter told you as he gently took your hand in his and pulled you along. “Set what up?” You asked, still very unknown to what he had planned for the two of you.

“It’s a surprise!”

Peter led you up to the deck, over to a little corner where some small lit candles were set around the sprawled-out blanket and rose petals sprinkled around. It was a perfect night for the two of you. The moon was bright, the stars were out, and little to no wind, so the rose petals weren't blown away.

Your heart melted at the sight. It was so sweet how much effort he put into making this date special. He looked over at you and fidgeted on his feet, “I-I didn't really think you’d agree to go on a date with me when I asked, and I haven't had much time to plan it out. I know it's not the best spot for our date, but-”

“Peter, It’s perfect!” You stopped him from his cute nervous rambling.

The two of you sat beside each other, and Peter sweetly wrapped the wool blanket around his and your shoulders and looked up, admiring the stars together. “It's such a beautiful night.”

Peter gazed at you as his cheeks dimpled, “Not as beautiful as you.” He said cheesily, earning a little giggle from you while you playfully rolled your eyes. “Your too sweet, Pete.”

The water swayed the cruise ship pushing your arms against each other, bringing you closer together as the two of you talked. You felt so comfortable around Peter. It was almost like you’ve been together your whole lives. You laid your head on his shoulder, making his heart melt as you doted over his comforting scent of soft lavender that filled your nose.

“I’m so happy I’ve gotten to meet you, Maximoff.”

Peter's cheeks reddened as he let out a sheepish chuckle, “Yeah, I'm happy we met too. You’ve been like the best thing on this cruise.”

“Thanks.” Your lips curled into a smile that you hid against his shoulder as you continued looking up at the moon of love that shined down on top of you.

The two of you enjoyed each other's warmth and comfort. A few minutes passed before you heard your tummy lightly rumble beneath you, making Peter grin and glance back at you, “Shall I get some snacks, m’lady?”

You nodded with a little chuckle, “Yes, please!”

Before you could say another word, you watched in disbelief as your date suddenly disappeared from your sight in a split second and stood in front of you with a handful of little snacks. Your eyes widened as it dawned on Peter what he had just done.

“Shit-” He whispered, under his breath, concerned that this would completely freak you out and fuck up everything. You tilted your head to the side and asked, “Woah. You're a mutant?”

“Yeah… I'm sorry.” He avoided eye contact as he shook his head.

“Why are you apologizing?” You stood from the bundled blanket and walked over.

“Because I ruined everything… I- I didn't want to scare you.”

You placed one hand on his shoulder and used your other to place your fingers on the bottom of his chin and raise his head to look at you. “You didn’t scare me. In fact, I'm amazed. It’s pretty incredible that you have these abilities, Peter, and I promise you didn't ruin our date.”

Those dimples appeared across his adorable cheeks before he sped the snacks aside, and you wrapped his arms around you. He gently picked you up off your feet and spun you around as you laughed while wrapping your arms around the back of his neck. “You’re the best, Y/n! You're the best!”

It was that summer night when you fell in love, and in the six days you had left on the cruise, you and Peter became inseparable and hung out with each other more than your own families.

You loved him, and every night when you’d get into your bed, the only thing that was racing through your mind was him. Only a few rooms down, Peter laid in his bed and holding his pillow to his chest, imagining it was you burying your head in the crevice of his shoulder, kissing his neck as you laid against him.

You promised yourself that at the end of the cruise trip, you’d shoot your shot and finally kiss him, and on your last day, while your parents were waiting for you in the car. You stood with Peter on the dock as passengers exited the cruise ship.

“Well, I guess this is goodbye?” Peter’s eyebrows scrunched as he frowned sadly and stared deeply into your eyes. “Yeah...” You sighed, feeling a wave of sadness wash over you.

“I’ll call you tonight?”

“You better!” You told him, slowly leaning in and draping your arms around the back of his neck, pulling him in for a warm embrace. He wrapped his arms around your waist and melted against the hug. He didn't want you to leave his arms, but he knew you had to, and as you pulled away, you gently caressed his cheek in the palm of his hand and pushed your lips against his, sharing a tender, passionate kiss, one that filled Peter's tummy with butterflies and gave him goosebumps.

You stood up on your tippy-toes to reach as he held your body against his chest and his soft, satisfying lips kissed you back.

What felt like minutes was only a few seconds. You slowly detached your lips and smirked. He stood there with wide eyes and a bright blushing face, starstruck with euphoria. That day, he had kissed you, long and good. It was everything he'd dreamed of ever since he met you.

“See you around, Maximoff.”

Peter watched you wink before walking away, back to your parent’s car. But after that morning, he knew it wouldn't be very long until he was holding you in his arms and calling you, his.

He sped to his mother’s car, and when he hopped in, he found Lorna and his mother, Magda, both staring at him with surprise. “See, aren't you happy I told her how pretty you thought she was?” Lorna asked, making him laugh.

“Yeah. I am.” Peter said, looking off into the distance with the happiest grin his mother had ever seen.

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