#like I’m not demanding another thing I’m just curious as to what this counts as | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

itsthegayseason · 2 months

Text

✦ JUST A SLEEPOVER.

pairing — aj campos x fem!reader

word count — 1.9k

contains — smut, oral and fingering (reader receiving), aj takes reader's virginity, petname (baby, princess, pretty girl)

+18 ONLY, MDNI

you and aj had become very close recently. feeling more and more comfortable around each other, you invited her over for a sleepover. said and done, it's 3AM on a friday night and you two are watching a comedy movie, laughing your asses off without a care in the world — there was no one to accidentally wake up, due to your parents being out on vacation. whenever you hear aj’s laughter, it's like music to your ears. you knew, as soon as you saw her for the first time, that you were doomed. everything about her made your heart flutter — her voice, her pretty eyes, her oh-so-kissable lips, her hair… her hands…

as you shake your head in a failed attempt to get rid of the dirty thoughts, which you swore to yourself to never have again in respect for aj, she notices the faint blush on your cheeks. “you good?” you jump at the sound of her voice, making her laugh. “not good. how did you get scared by my voice?” she teases and you laugh nervously, avoiding eye contact. “i was just… you know, thinking.” she tilts her head, knowing there was something going on.

the movie is long forgotten now, playing in the TV while no one watches. “about what?” you swallow, the blush on your cheeks becoming a darker shade of red. “c'mon, don't make a girl curious like that.” she insists, giving you a playful elbow nudge and you laugh, beginning to scratch your arm. she takes note of that, she's known you long enough to know that was a nervous habit. she grabs your wrist carefully, pulling your hand away from your arm. “hey, is something wrong?” her voice is velvety as she questions and you accidentally make the eye contact you've been avoiding. god, those eyes…

“i think i’m in love with you.” you let your mouth speak before your brain even processes it. the two of you look at each other with comically wide eyes at your words, and you're quick to cover your mouth with your hand with a look of pure horror. how blunt was that?! “you… what?” she murmured in disbelief. you shut your eyes tightly, shaking your head. “i’m sorry, i shouldn't have said that, i don't know what came over me. this is supposed to be just a sleepover-”

“i think i'm in love with you, too.” these words immediately interrupt you. aj lets out a chuckle at the look on your face. “what?” your voice comes out in a high pitched tone that makes you cringe at yourself, but she smiles. “i said what i said. i think i'm in love with you.” you try to speak but it's hard when you stutter so much. you blush even more at how freaking pathetic you sound, but for aj — she thinks it's the cutest thing she's ever seen.

she leans in closer to you, bringing a hand up to cup your cheek. as her eyes glance between your lips and eyes your heart starts to race faster than it ever did - and boy, did it race. you lean in closer as well, slowly, until your lips lock. you gasp at the sensation of being kissed for the first time - and, even better, by aj campos herself. as you pull away after a few seconds, her other hand cups your other cheek, playfully squishing them. “you look like a fish.” she teases and you giggle, pulling her back in for another kiss by the back of her neck.

aj’s lips become more desperate, more demanding against yours as the kiss deepens. you moan, sliding your hand from the back of her nack to her waist, squeezing it. you hear her groan as she bites down onto your lower lip hard enough to leave a mark. it doesn't hurt, though. in fact, you whisper, “do that again.” and she does exactly as you asked. you whine against her, moving to straddle her. she gasps, hands instinctively grabbing your waist.

the innocent kiss evolves into a heated make out session, hands roaming all over each other's bodies in a way neither of you ever imagined would happen - but definitely dreamed about. her hand sneaks under your pajama shirt, caressing your back in a way that sends shivers down your spine. “baby…” she whispers against your lips, pulling away from the kiss to look at you with half lidded, lust filled eyes. “yeah?” you try not to blush too hard at the petname. “i need to fuck you.”

your eyes widen momentarily at her bluntness but recover rapidly, nodding your head. “yes, please. i want that.” she nods, going in for another kiss and cupping your ass, massaging it in a way that makes you whine, melting even more against her. you don't even know how you got inside your bedroom, barely registering getting pushed down onto the soft mattress of your bed as aj gets on top of you, not wasting any time to attack your neck.

you moan and tilt your head back, giving her full access to your sensitive skin. she appreciates it, sucking, kissing, taking her sweet time to mark you as hers with gentle love bites and hidden hickeys, barely noticeable, but you knew they were there. her knee rubs against your clothed pussy and your back arches. “god, aj… please..”

“have you done this before, princess?” she questions and you shake your head, biting down onto your bottom lip nervously. she kisses your forehead, then your cheek, your nose, and finally your lips. you smile at the affection with sparkly eyes. “don't worry,” she smiles down at you, “i’ll be gentle to my pretty girl.” being called a pretty girl by aj has to be one of the best things that ever happened to you — if not the best.

you bite your lip harshly as she rubs your pussy over the fabric of your panties and pajama shorts. is she teasing you or just preparing you? you have no idea, but you groan impatiently anyways. “please, don't keep me waiting, aj.” you plead, looking into her eyes with pure lust and a hint of fear. she smirks, which makes you glare at her. that girl… she is teasing me, you think. “let's take this off then, hm?” she purrs teasingly, grabbing the hem of your shirt. you nod, helping her get rid of the unwanted fabric. you're quick to lift your hips, watching with excitement as she hums in approval at your eagerness. your shorts soon join your shirt somewhere on the bedroom floor.

you could just melt in the spot at how gentle her lips were as they trailed their way down to your crotch, making you feel so pretty and wanted. you have never felt so desired before and the feeling made your pussy clench around nothing in anticipation. she gives your pussy a long lick, your thin panties still on. “so wet for me.” she hums, pulling your panties down to your ankles with a swift motion. with her hands securing your hips down onto the bed firmly, she gives your clit a sweet kiss. the new sensation makes you yelp, hips bucking up against aj’s mouth. “shhhh, just relax.”

you whine at the vibrations of her voice against your cunt. she begins to lap at your pussy, exploring every inch of your folds and giving your clit the attention it craves. the sight of aj between your thighs, looking so drunk on your pussy makes you wild with desire. “feels so fucking good, please don't stop.” you beg with a needy moan. your head is thrown back, eyes closed and mouth hanging open as she eats you out so, so gently. then suddenly, she pulls back and your eyes widen.

before you can even protest at how unfair that was, her fingers find your clit and rub it in circles. the words catch in your throat as you push up against her fingers. “oh, god, yes… just like that...” she kisses your thigh, continuing to rub your clit with her thumb as her index and middle finger find your entrance, circling it teasingly. you let out a shaky breath. “do it.” you beg her, arching your hips. she gives you a passionate kiss, slowly but surely pushing her fingers inside your tight hole. she groaned at your tightness, pushing inch by delicious inch deeper inside you. the moan you let out is a mixture of pleasure and discomfort as she takes your virginity, being careful not to hurt. “is that okay, baby? do you want me to stop?” she questions in a quiet whisper and you shake your head profusely, eyes meeting hers. “it's okay. i want this.”

she nods, kissing you once more while her fingers stay inside your pussy while she waits for you to adjust to the unfamiliar sensation. once you feel ready, you pull away to look into her beautiful eyes — filled with pure love and concern. “do it.” she nods slowly, studying your face and looking for any signs of hesitation. “just promise you'll tell me if it hurts too much?” she asks, caressing your cheek with her free hand. “i promise, baby.”

her fingers slowly start to move inside you, eliciting a soft moan from the back of your throat while you grip her shoulders for support. “oh, yeah, that feels so good.” you breathe out, looking at the ceiling as you try to focus on the pleasure sensation rather than the slight discomfort. she rubs your clit in time with her fingers inside you, picking up the pace slightly and watching your face intently. when you don't complain, only letting out soft moans of pleasure, she pumps her fingers in and out of your wet cunt at a faster pace, applying just the right amount of pressure on your clit with her thumb.

your moans get louder and louder as her fingers hit just the right spots inside you, your hips bucking against her hand as you chase your high, legs shaking. “right there, baby.. just right there, don't stop..” you whine, knuckles turning white when you grip the sheets beneath you harshly. she leaves wet kisses on your neck when she starts to finger you harder and faster. you gasp at the sudden change of pace, your head spinning with pure bliss. “i’m close- shit, i’m so close!” you warn, eyes rolling back.

“you're being so good for me.” she praises, the sound of her voice whispering against your ear driving you wild. her name leaves your lips like a chant as you get closer and closer to your climax, scratching her back under her shirt. “shit, why do you still have that on?” you whisper as you take her shirt off with trembling hands. “much better.” you cup her breasts, massaging them through the fabric of her bra. she groans, biting your neck.

with a loud cry of her name, you reach your orgasm, body spasming as your cum coats her fingers and the white sheets beneath you. “that was… very intense.” aj chuckles, giving you a quick kiss before licking the cum off her fingers. “sure was.” you blush at the gesture, looking away. “i didn't hurt you, did i?” she asks, caressing your stomach. you shake your head, turning your gaze towards her again. “no. you were more gentle than i thought you would be.” she raises a brow, smirking down at you.

“i love you too.”

“and now what is that supposed to mean?” she says playfully, making you giggle. “nothing.” you feel your heart get fuzzy as you two stare into each other's eyes with the softest smiles on your faces. you pull her in for a kiss by her shoulders, smiling contently against her lips. “i love you.”

#auli'i cravalho x reader #auli'i cravalho #aj campos #aj campos x reader #wlw fanfic #aulii cravalho x reader #aulii cravalho #crush #crush 2022 #crush movie #© itsthegayseason

78 notes · View notes

hardly-an-escape · 10 months

Text

this post by @valeriianz burrowed its way into my brain and would not let me rest until I finished this. hope you enjoy, friend!

First Time

Square: E3 - Flirting Rating: E Word Count: 6096 Ship(s): Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Hob Gadling Warnings: No archive warnings apply Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - human, bi-curious Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, bisexual Hob Gadling, alcohol consumption, first time blowjobs, oral sex, Johanna Constantine is a good friend and a bad influence, Hob is a bit of service top, Morpheus is a bit of a pillow princess, but not exclusively, strangers to lovers, my best friend dragged me out to this dingy pub and all I got was a boyfriend Summary: After yet another bad breakup, Johanna tries to convince her good friend Morpheus that what he really needs is to finally hook up with a few guys. At the pub that night, Morpheus meets Hob Gadling, a handsome grad student who is only too happy to help him achieve that goal… Read on AO3 | fill for @dreamlingbingo

Morpheus shivered at the sound of his name in Hob’s mouth. He was suddenly, sharply, aware of how close they were standing to one another: close enough that he could smell Hob’s cologne and beneath it, faintly, his sweat; close enough that he could see the stubble on his neck and the few strands of grey in his hair, even in the glow of the pub’s neon sign. “I thought,” Morpheus said, and his voice was gravelly. He cleared his throat. “I thought. You weren’t interested.” “Mm. I wasn’t interested in giving Johanna the satisfaction of knowing I’d fallen for her schemes,” Hob said, still toying with Morpheus’s lapel. “But I would say I’m very interested in you.”

Johanna blew into Morpheus’s office one Friday afternoon like a breath of fresh air – for a given definition of “fresh.” When Johanna was around that generally meant stale cigarettes, oversteeped tea, and occasionally and somewhat concerningly, petrol.

“Knew I’d find you in here,” she said. “Swot.”

Morpheus sighed. “What do you want, Johanna?” he asked in the same monotone he seemed to be using for everything these days.

“Oh, I want a lot of things. A million pounds, for starters. A really posh flat in Chelsea. A manicure.” She circled the desk and perched obnoxiously on the edge, crowding Morpheus’s elbow and forcing him to slide the manuscript he’d been looking at to the side. “But right now I’d settle for my best friend dragging his sorry arse out of his dingy office and coming out for a pint.”

“I can’t possibly be your best friend,” Morpheus objected, pointedly not looking up from his work.

Johanna made a noise of pure frustration. “Is it the editor in you that drives you to nitpick every fucking thing I say?” she demanded. “Can you not, I don’t know, turn that bit of your brain off for a few hours and just come out and get a little drunk? For me?”

Morpheus sighed again, finally looking up to meet her gaze. The concern in her eyes belied the annoyed tone of her voice, and he felt something twist guiltily in his belly. She really was worried about him.

“Come on, McDreamy,” she coaxed, voice gentling. “It’s been what? Three weeks now? It’s not going to get better if you just sit in a dark office and brood.”

Morpheus pursed his lips. “Fine,” he said eventually. “I will come out with you, if –” Johanna crowed and pushed herself off the desk “– if you swear never to call me that again.”

“No promises, mate!”

She dragged him into exactly the kind of bar he always pictured when he thought of nights out with Johanna Constantine: ancient show flyers pasted to the walls, slightly sticky floors, and a bartender who greeted her by name.

“Do you know every publican in the city of London?” Morpheus inquired sarcastically as Johanna returned to their table with an intimidating number of shots balanced on a small tray.

“Professional investment, innit?” she said, shoving half of the shot glasses toward him. “You never know when some wayward spouse is going to do something dodgy in a dive like this. A friendly barkeep is the private investigator’s best friend. Now, drink up.”

They’d worked their way through the shots and Morpheus was nursing a gin and tonic by the time Johanna finally brought up his recent heartbreak – which she did in her typically blunt manner.

“I reckon what you need now is to bang a few blokes,” she said, jabbing a decisive finger at his chest. Morpheus choked on an ice cube.

“I beg your pardon?!” he sputtered.

“Oh, don’t come over all prudish now. You’ve been dropping precious little hints about if the right guy came along ever since uni. And I saw you and Cory getting hot and heavy at that New Year’s party five years ago, and I know you chickened out.”

“I didn’t – it simply wasn’t –”

“So I say, time to put your money where your mouth is. Or put your mouth where your… mouth is.” It took a second for her to get the straw of her whiskey sour between her lips before she could take a reflective sip. “What I mean to say is, you need to get some dick, McDreamy.”

“Don’t call me that,” Morpheus muttered, sinking low in his chair. “I can’t believe I go out in public with you, Constantine.”

Morpheus was on his second watery gin and tonic and Johanna was already working on a third whiskey when the bell over the pub door jingled cheerfully. Johanna looked up automatically and immediately grinned, shooting one hand in the air and waving enthusiastically.

Oh no. Morpheus was familiar with that particular grin. It generally didn’t bode well for a calm conclusion to the night.

“Oi, Hob!” Johanna called. “Come over here and pull up a chair!”

Curious, Morpheus turned to see who she was talking to. The man was about average height, with dark brown hair long enough to be tucked behind his ear. He had a strong chin and a slightly Roman nose. He smiled and waved back to Johanna, pointing to the bar and then gesturing between himself and their table.

“Excellent,” Johanna said. “Now it’s a night out. Hob is always good for a laugh, you’ll like him.” She turned back to Morpheus. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her register that he was still looking at the man – Hob, she’d called him; odd name – and yet he couldn’t quite pull his eyes away from Hob’s quick smile, the line of his back as he leaned against the bar, waiting for his drink. “Oooh. Maybe you’ll like him like him. Not a bad choice, Dreamface. I happen to know he swings both ways.”

“Johanna,” he hissed, whipping back around as Hob took his pint and headed toward them. “I am begging you to stop saying… whatever it is you’re saying. Please.”

“Spoilsport.”

And then Hob was next to them, snagging a chair from a neighboring table.

“Well, if it isn’t the hellblazer herself,” he said, giving Johanna a one-armed hug as he sat down. “What are you doing in my neck of the woods?”

“Drowning our sorrows in the time-honored tradition,” she responded. “Mister ray-of-sunshine here recently got broken up with, again, so we are commiserating on the subject of fickle love and drinking hard liquor. Dream, Hob. Hob, Dream. Ite in pace. Deo gratias. Amen.” She solemnly sketched the sign of the cross over the tabletop and tossed back the rest of her drink in one go.

Morpheus extended his hand across the table. “I prefer Morpheus, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.” Hob took his hand with a smile. His palm was warm and his grip was firm. “Pleasure to meet you, Morpheus.”

They chatted about nothing much for a while. Hob was doing an advanced degree in history, having returned to academia at the ripe old age of 33, and was currently avoiding revising for an exam. Johanna shared some juicy details about a missing person case she’d been working, where the person in question turned out to be not missing so much as on the lam. But after another round of drinks, she managed to turn the conversation back to one of her favorite topics: Morpheus’s love life. Specifically, the disasters thereof.

“I’m just saying there’s been a trend. And the trend is that you keep getting dumped by women,” she said, tapping a finger insistently on the table.

“I am very aware of who has dumped me so far, thank you, Johanna,” Morpheus said, burying his face in his hands. He just knew he was bright red.

“So fuck the trend! Buck the trend, whatever. You know they say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over, blah blah blah. So do something else! Or someone else,” she added significantly. “You need to branch out, gender-wise.”

“I do find that it increases the potential dating pool by a statistically significant amount,” put in Hob.

Johanna’s eyes gleamed suddenly, and Morpheus groaned inwardly.

“What about you, then? Hob’ll try it on with anyone, he’s easy,” Johanna said.

“Oh, thanks ever so,” Hob said genially.

“Own it, baby! Hob about it, how? I mean, how about it, Hob? Are you down to do the dirty with our Dreamy here? He needs it,” she whispered, leaning in with a tipsy and conspiratory air.

Hob chuckled and leaned back in his chair as he took a long sip of his pint. Morpheus couldn’t help but think he was stalling. Of course a man like Hob, with his effortless good looks and easy charm, would not be tempted by Morpheus, who was – as he was constantly reminded – too much. Too intense, too work-focused, too gloomy, too skinny, too… him.

Thus, when he realized Hob was in fact giving him a speculative once-over glance across the rim of his glass, the look of panic he felt blooming on his face.

And Hob must have noticed it, because he immediately shifted: his posture became loose and unthreatening and he leaned toward Johanna, punching her gently on the shoulder.

“Nah mate, I’m done with dating for a while,” he said. “The only reason people do it anyway is ‘cause everyone does it. I’m working on myself for a bit.”

“Oh, g’wan, pull the other one, Hobert,” hooted Johanna. “You’re a serial monogamist and you know it. You love sex, and you love love. You’re a fucking sap, admit it.”

“Well, maybe I’m just ready to save it up for the right person,” Hob said.

Was there a quick flick of brown eyes toward blue as he spoke, or was Morpheus simply imagining things?

Read the rest on AO3 >>>

green = complete, orange = WIP

#the sandman #dreamling #dreamling bingo #dream of the endless #johanna constantine #hob gadling #my writing #this is unbetaed and barely edited and frankly I think it's distressingly similar to the last fic I posted. but it's DONE!

150 notes · View notes

teecupangel · 6 months

Note

Hello Teacup! I just need you to know I've basically devoured everything on your AO3 and a multitude of the snippets here and I've adored everything!

But now I have a Thought that I must share.

Imagine Umar Ibn-La'Ahad is mid-mission, fleeing Saladin's tent and just about to attack a general in his way, only for said general to be knocked unconscious by a young boy. He looks a bit like Umar's son too.

The two stare at each other for a moment before the boy opens his mouth.

"You're a bit shit at this, aren't you?"

The boy disappears in the chaos and Umar returns to Masyaf safely if a bit put out at being called out like that and worried for the boy.

Later, Saladin sends a message stating he will retreat on the condition of compensation for his concussed General, warning them that he would have demanded the Assassin's head had the General died. (In other news, Ahmad also returned to Masyaf looking very disgruntled and ruffled, muttering about nosy boys and he WAS a Master Assassin thank you very much.)

So all's well that ends well. Except that no one has any idea who this kid is or where he came from.

Umar wants to know if the boy is ok.

Ahmad has a small grudge and is sulking a bit. (Abbas is also holding a grudge in solidarity.)

Al Mualim wants to see if this boy could be of use.

Altair just wants to thank the person who saved his father. (He can read between the lines.)

Meanwhile, Deaged!Desmond is kicking himself for opening his mouth like that in front of Altair's father. All he wanted to do was make sure Umar got out safely! (and maybe rescuing Ahmad would ensure Abbas didn't grow into such a dick.) The next stop though is Jerusalem for the Apple. He'll go from there.

(There's a Tiny!OP!Desmond loose in the Levant. Nobody knows what he's going to do next, least of all Tiny!Desmond.)

Thank you! It always makes me happy hearing/reading how you guys adore my stories in AO3 and the snippets/ideas here in Tumblr <3

Okay, you know what would be funny? If said general knew that it wasn’t an Assassin who knocked him out. Noooo, he definitely saw it was a boy.

And he also know the Assassin he was chasing saw the boy as well.

So the main reason why he asked Saladin to just ask for compensation was because his pride was wounded so badly that he just wants this entire situation to end already. He’s afraid Umar would tell everyone that a boy, a waif, was the real culprit and he’s too honorable to lie.

When Umar goes to them with the compensation, he can’t even look into Umar’s eyes and Umar ignores him because he’s worried of how Saladin would take it if he does say that it was all that boy’s fault.

They asked him if any wayward brothers had returned during the night and he has no real idea what they’re talking about, only realizing they were asking when he saw that Ahmad had left, mumbling about how some waif had no reason to tell him to take care of his son better, who does he think he is?

So now Umar is wondering who this child is…

And why their paths seemed to be intersecting strangely too much.

Unorganized Notes:

Desmond is either super unlucky or the Calculations is at play because he bumps into Umar too many times that he stopped counting already.

I’m thinking Desmond is around Altaïr’s age because (1) it would make him knocking out a general two or three times his age funnier and (2) it would make Umar’s worry for him easily meld into Desmond reminding him of Altaïr and he can try to reason it’s because of the similar age and not because Desmond… pretty much have some of Altaïr’s mannerism.

You know what would be funny? If the general finally confesses to Saladin and Saladin starts to get curious about this ‘waif’. This would mean another powerful man is out looking for him.

Desmond is winging the entire thing but is also being chased by the Templars because he stole the Apple right under their noses (in this idea, there are already Templars in Levant but they were lying low, waiting for the perfect time to infiltrate the vault underneath the temple when Desmond did his thing).

Desmond turns into an ‘urban legend’ among the Assassins who say that seeing him means some shit is gonna go down. There are even whispers that he’s a harbinger of chaos and destruction because that’s what usually happens when he’s there. (It’s really not. Desmond is mostly stealthy and a lot of Assassins don’t actually see him and they just start attributing those chaotic ‘issues’ to him because… well… they needed a reason XD)

Altaïr starts to think of him as this… strange person who caught his father’s attention which means he caught Altaïr’s attention. Whether that’s a good thing or not is up to you XD

Abbas and Altaïr are friends here but they have differing thoughts about the ‘harbinger’ with Altaïr wanting to meet him (and maybe tie him up so he can bring him to his father) while Abbas wants to punch him because he always feels annoyance about him thanks to Ahmad always being annoyed when he hears the word ‘harbinger’.

The Al-Sayfs want no part in any of these… except Kadar. Kadar supports Altaïr 100% even if it’s something illegal. That’s just a fact at this point.

#this is like…#more humorous and chaotic #because umar is alive #desmond isn’t actually a waif #he just stole clothes two sizes larger than his current body #so people think he’s a waif #ask and answer #assassin's creed #desmond miles #altaïr ibn la'ahad #umar ibn la'ahad #ahmad sofian #abbas sofian #teecup writes/has a plot #fic idea: assassin's creed

95 notes · View notes

stvrdrops · 1 year

Text

surprise visit ☆ | shuri x fem!actress!reader

shuri decides to pay you a surprise visit on the set of your movie. it’s safe to say she doesn’t like seeing you kiss other people.

warnings : costar being a little pushy

word count : 1k+

note : this is a special one shot featuring actress!reader and shuri since they’re what helped me get to 100 followers !! i’m still so happy that people like my stuff enough to follow me lol but i hope y’all enjoy

you and shuri had been apart for a few weeks after shooting began again. the kimoyo bead calls resumed again, but you attempted to put more effort into them. you missed shuri more than ever after being forced to spend time with costars you weren’t too fond of. the main costar was constantly flirting with you despite telling him you were not interested in the slightest. the other costars had been fine you guessed, but hollywood makes it hard to form genuine connections with those around you. they never actually cared to ask about what kind of person you were. they would only ever ask what it’s like to be dating royalty and how often she spoils you. eventually the awkward laughter and begging of moving onto the next conversation topic failed to work.

shuri would listen in on your day through true calls as she worked on her various projects or walked around the palace. she was interested in helping you run lines and discuss what could be better about your delivery. shuri was by far your biggest fan and you adored that about her. she supported you through everything.

as filming kept going, shuri grew curious of what it could be like to be on set of a major hollywood movie. she was always fascinated with american pop culture like coachella and just how fame as a whole worked over there. so, she took it upon herself to plan a surprise visit to cheer you up a little. the only problem was that she couldn’t have come at a worse time.

“action!” the director yelled as you heard the snap of a clapperboard.

the rain began pouring down from the sprinklers placed above you and your costar. your latex white suit was beginning to grow more and more uncomfortable with every new take you were forced to participate in. your performance was incredible of course, but your costar kept requesting to retake the scene until the kiss was perfect.

yeah. a kiss.

he made his way towards you as you stood on the dirt. you could feel the mud forming under your feet as you stood in the same spot you had been in for the past five takes.

shuri had sneaked her way onto the set without your knowledge as you performed your take. she was sat next to the director, who eagerly shook hands with her and demanded an intern pull up a chair for her. you were far too into the take to notice her sitting right to the side of you though. your eyes were solely on your costar.

“landen?” you spoke out with a shaky voice as if you couldn’t believe he was really in front of you. you made your lip tremble and your eyebrows raise at the sight of him. the camera panned around to your costar to get the look on his face: he had been smiling while happy tears of his own were mixing in with the rain. despite your costar’s unprofessional crush on you, he was a great actor.

“tati…” he croaks out as you stand there staring at each other for a while.

your legs pick up as his do, now running towards one another. the dirt kicked up against your white suit as your feet made contact with the ground.

you feel yourself being embraced in a not so warm hug, due to the rain temperature, by your costar. it was hard to act like you were deeply in love with him considering how awkward he made things constantly.

shuri can feel herself cringing in her seat. she was not enjoying the way his hands were sliding down your uniform. wasn’t this supposed to be romantic? it was more sleezy than anything and she knew you hated it.

you didn’t mind it though. it was annoying, sure, but it was written in the script so you just had to do your job. after all, it wasn’t like you felt really any emotions about the task. the sooner you got it done the quicker you could rest in your hotel room.

you pull away from him and hold his face. his hands remain on your waist and you still aren’t necessarily used to the contact despite all the takes. all you could think about was your girlfriend as he leaned in close.

then closer.

and closer.

your lips collided with his but it wasn’t like you enjoyed a single second of it. kissing costars was simply just a job that you hated most about acting. especially when you have a loving girlfriend at home.

shuri could feel her teeth gritting as she watched him kiss you so passionately. she had never been able to actually watch your on screen kisses because it made her incredibly jealous. however, now she had to watch you kiss him. knowing it took so many takes, and may require more, she couldn’t handle it. she wanted to punch the guy’s lights out.

“cut!” the director beside shuri yelled loudly to the production and cast. she watched as you escaped your costar’s grasp and went over to the coffee table. he had been trailing after you.

“you did great like always!” your costar spoke to you. he was fairly well known and handsome if you were into guys. he wasn’t much older than you and really seemed decent outside of the fact he wouldn’t drop his crush on you. sometimes you just wish people could catch a hint instantly.

you simply nodded to him and smiled as you began pouring your coffee. if you were being honest, small talk wasn’t really for you. especially when you were tired and drained of all feeling.

“i think we could do another take though.”

this was when you became annoyed.

“we’ve already done enough. even the director said so last take. just choose your best out of the ones already shot so we can move on.”

if you were being honest you knew your heart wasn’t into the take because there just wasn’t a feeling of mutual respect between you two. how could you fake an expression so many times that you could never even feel towards that person. at first it was easy but then annoyance set in after the third take and you put yourself on autopilot.

“oh c’mon y/n. i want this movie to be perfect and the chemistry really has to be there. what’s one more kiss?” he said as he leaned on the table and snatching up your coffee. some of it had spilled on your hand in the process causing you to wince.

“i think she said just choose a different take, stupid american.” a familiar voice said from behind you. you quickly turn your head, forgetting the burning sensation on your hand. you were far too happy to worry about the coffee now.

“shuri!” you ran into her arms and she smiled as you hugged her tight. “i’ve missed you. this is such a surprise!”

you couldn’t see it but shuri was giving your costar a look capable of taking down an entire army. he got the hint after she began flaring and quickly set down your fresh coffee before going on his way.

“what are you doing here?” you cant help but ask as you grab some napkins off the table.

“i thought i’d visit you for once. plus i’ve never been on a movie set before.” she says while a laugh escapes her ever so perfect lips. you smiled at her laughter as you admired how dashing she looked. she was wearing a tracksuit, which she had begun growing a collection of. her glasses rested stop her curls which you knew was definitely going to make an indent later.

“well i’m glad to see you. i should have some time in between the next take.” you grab onto her hand and begin dragging her off to your trailer.

“good. i can show you what real kissing is like.” she whispered ever so seductively in your ear as she caught up to your pace. you felt your face burn from the words she spoke. her accent truly did just make everything sexier.

you decided you wanted shuri to visit you on set far more often.

˖⁺｡˚⋆˙✧⋆｡°✩☼⋆｡°✩☽

#stvrdrops #fanfic #mcu shuri #princess shuri #shuri #shuri fanfiction #shuri x reader #actress!reader & shuri #shuri x y/n #shuri/reader #shuri x you #shuri fluff

533 notes · View notes

sixosix · 1 year

Note

do you think maybe you could do a relationship dynamic with izuku as uber famous celebrity x the one cafe barista who doesn't know who they are?

( a/n ) anon i don’t know if ur even here anymore cus this ask was sent september last year but just know that i always thought about you. I LOVE KOTA so he’s here

“listen, i get it,” you say, sliding to the left to cram the bagel into a small, brown paper bag with the shop’s logo printed unevenly on the front, “lo-fi’s not your thing. that’s cool. but you’re really the only one complaining about it.”

the lo-fi isn’t even that bad. sure, you can’t differentiate songs from another if you tried, but it’s a fun game to try when you’re bored, and your only company are the flies and warm sun filtering through. the top fifty songs haven’t changed for too long, and you’ve gotten sick of it, so it’s better this than that.

you give kota his order, put on a winning smile, and pray that he spares you from a headache.

he slams his payment on the counter. his money is always paper, never a bunch of coins as what kids his age usually have. it’s a little curious. it’s like he's making money himself.

“i’m your only customer anyway; what’s the big deal?” he gestures grandly at the space behind him, making a huffy noise when you don’t bother looking up from counting his change.

the big deal is that you don’t go around demanding baristas to do that, but kota has a point. he’s one of your only customers, aside from the lost students who order a medium coffee to use the bathroom. they never come back.

the shop you work in is tucked away in the corner of hosu city, past where the buses stop and far from train stations. it’s an unfortunate placement, but it’s safe from villain attacks because not even they would want to walk this far. kota only found it because he got lost, too, and you felt terrible so you gave him a donut.

the difference is he comes every day since then.

you level kota with a look. “how can i attract other customers if we’re blasting your awful playlist in this quiet space?”

his cheeks turn pink in embarrassment. “my playlist is not bad! you should be thanking me i told deku about this place!”

“right, right. ‘cause you’re best friends with the lead of that super famous hero series! pardon me for forgetting.”

kota looks like a baby kitten hissing with his far-from-threatening growl. “you’re lucky the bagel tastes good,” he says and pointedly bites on the bread. “we would be enemies.”

you laugh, leaning against the counter. “how long did you say you’re staying at hosu for?”

“we’re leaving in two days.” kota looks longingly at the bagel.

“alright, well,” you bend closer and whisper conspiratorially, “let’s make a deal. come back here tomorrow one last time, and i’ll treat you the belgian waffle you’ve been eyeing since you first came here. if there’s no one else, i’ll play you your favorite song.”

kota’s eyes sparkle, despite his insistence on looking unaffected. “fine. i’ll come back.”

“tell mandalay i said hi!”

you thought that’d be the last interesting thing to happen, but minutes later, a young man with comically oversized sunglasses and a shirt saying ‘shirt’ enters the shop, looking around in amazement.

“welcome!” you call out with a customer-friendly grin. you’ve never seen this man, but based on his top, you can tell he’d entertain you well.

he pads over to the counter, somehow looking like a lost child despite his eye-pleasing build based on his thin, white tee. “good afternoon!” his smile is as warm as the orange lights hanging over the counter. “sorry, was kota here earlier?”

he reminds you of the man on kota’s wallpaper with a face that made you stare a little too long. kota asked you if you were struggling to read the time. no, you were just struggling not to blush.

“you know him? he was chiding me for the lo-fi.”

he laughs, tugging his sunglasses up hesitantly. “kota can be really picky, sorry. um, i like the lo-fi.”

“you’re cute,” you say, admiring his green eyes. “what’s your name?”

“you don’t—” he blinks slowly, his cheeks darkening, “sorry, i didn’t mean it like i was assuming—”

“wait!” you exclaim, leaning closer to study his face, “are you kota’s brother or something? no, you don’t look like brothers… except for the shoe thing you have going on.” you gesture at his bright sneakers.

“i bought him that!” he says, smiling warmly. “midoriya izuku.”

“midoriya,” you say, grinning coyly when his cheeks flush as you say his name, “what can i get for you?”

he scratches the back of his neck. “regular iced latte, please.”

you make sure that it’s the best goddamn latte midoriya izuku drinks in his life so that he thinks of coming back again.

kota comes back the next day with a skip in his step, and a man right behind him.

“my favorite customer!” you already have his waffles prepared, but you weren’t informed that the handsome maybe-cousin, maybe-uncle, related-to-kota-somehow guy was coming along. immediately, you get to work on his latte.

“only customer,” kota says pointedly, scanning the room triumphantly. standing next to the cute guy with their matching shoes that makes them look more like close brothers that happened to not look similar in anywhere else possible.

“hey,” midoriya says with fond exasperation. “you can’t just say that.”

you laugh, shaking your head. “it’s alright. i know kota’s a sweet kid; he makes my day.” kota makes himself comfortable on the table nearest to the counter, looking much happier than he usually does coming here alone.

kota beams when you walk over and give him the plate of belgian waffles. he digs in the second he gets his hands on it. near him, midoriya chuckles, heading over to the counter. his outfit is a little different from last time: fancier and no more unnecessary captions.

“what can i get for you, midoriya?”

“regular iced latte, please,” he says, blinking up at you in a way that made your heart do something strange.

bingo. because of your headstart, his order comes in quickly, but you pretend to take it slower just to keep them longer.

“you don’t have to pay,” you say, unable to keep staring at how his coat makes him look charming. “i’m treating you two. are you also leaving hosu tomorrow?”

“i want to pay,” midoriya says, and you swear his smile gets wider when you head over to serve him his drink. “yeah, we have to leave for a shoot! it’ll take a while, but now i’m not looking forward to it as much as i was two days ago.” when you glance at him, he looks away, looking shy.

you couldn’t even react or analyze his second comment because you hone in on what the hell he means by—

“wait, shooting?”

“yes… for—wait, hold on.” midoriya frowns at kota, who has half a waffle hanging from his mouth. “i thought you said you weren’t hiding it.”

“i waf’n!” kota insists. midoriya tells him to please don’t speak while chewing, so he spits it out, and you watch in disgust as it flops back onto the plate. “y/n just doesn’t know! technically, i wasn’t hiding it.”

midoriya looks horrified, and this conversation is about you, so you ask, “can someone explain?”

midoriya is blushing, but he speaks as if he’s confessing a crime. “have you seen the hero series?”

“no! i’ve heard about it because kota likes this one guy a lot. think it was deku or something.”

“he’s deku, idiot!” kota says. “you know, the one who you said looked cute when i showed you my wallpaper!” he digs back in on his waffle, pouring more syrup.

“what!?” you and midoriya exclaim.

“why would you say that?” you groan at the same time midoriya asks, “you said that?” wide-eyed and grinning.

“go back to the topic at hand!” you slam your hands on the table. kota’s intense EDM music is blasting, fueling you even more. “why didn’t i— deku’s face is literally on billboards!”

“my face in those is usually covered by the mask, to be fair,” adds midoriya meekly. “but kota-kun is my co-worker…”

“what!”

“you’re just stupid,” kota says, grinning devilishly. “we’re flying out of hosu to film together somewhere else.”

“oh my god.”

midoriya laughs, gazing at you with an intensity that makes your throat feel dry. “it’s not your fault, y/n-san.” he nudges kota, who’s stealing sips on his latte and grimacing. “it’s his for pranking you.”

“and,” midoriya adds, smiling shyly, “it was… nice to know you’re interested in me even without knowing who i was.”

kota hums around the straw, “maybe this’ll finally convince y/n to watch the series.”

ok um the ending is lame i know but i rlly didnt know what 2 do w this LMFAO also dont judge idk what baristas do so just play along. mayb ill make a part 2 cus theres a lot unpacked but not rn i just want to let anon know i didnt delete this ask thx for reading rb or comment to make me happy omg!

#606:BNHA #x reader #bnha x reader #mha x reader #bnha fluff #mha fluff #bnha imagines #mha imagines #bnha drabbles #midoriya izuku x reader #midoriya izuku fluff #izuku midoria x reader #izuku midoriya fluff #deku x reader #deku fluff

285 notes · View notes

prolix-yuy · 1 year

Text

Reflective

Pairing: Max Phillips x F!Reader

Summary: His management style is effective AND refreshing. And as his executive assistant, you're partially to thank. But as your professional relationship blurs, are you getting too close to the middle manager monster of nightmares?

Word Count: 8.9k

Warnings: Explicit, 18+ MINORS DNI, horror elements and themes, graphic descriptions of blood including drinking, background character un-death, violence, fingering (f-receiving), vomiting (not descriptive), descriptions of a panic attack, a dabble of sleazy coworkers, playing fast and loose with vampire lore.

Notes: Heeeeeeere's LJ! I'm back from my October hiatus just in time for a Halloween fic! Thank you again to @harriedandharassed for the prompt "How does Max Phillips handle not being able to see himself in the mirror?" I was grasping at something to write for Halloween and this prompt came at the perfect time.

This story will include horror elements such as violence, descriptions of blood and some graphic scenes. If that's not your cup of tea, scroll on friend! It was fun to go back to some of my horror writing roots, especially mixing it with the dry comedy of Bloodsucking Bastards. It's Max season babes, and I could not resist writing for this smarmy boy.

There is a part 2, which will post tomorrow. The Discord besties made an excellent suggestion right after I finished the story, and it was so good I needed an addendum. So without further ado, enjoy lovelies and Happy Halloween!

Cross-posted on AO3

If anyone asked Max Phillips what the worst part about becoming a vampire is, he’d probably tell them things like “not getting a tan” or “swearing off Italian food” or “always getting complaints about cold feet”. The last one was often followed by a lewd comment to get a pretty young thing in bed with him to prove it. It’s all farce, of course, clever little quips you’re sure he practiced just like you’d rehearse for a job interview. It gives you a funny little trill when you catch one of those lines again, because you know the truth.

He hates that he can’t see himself in mirrors.

Being Max’s executive assistant, you’re trusted with more than some of your colleagues. Well, that’s debatable, you’ve heard horror stories. But your friend Carla’s stories about her boss’ wife choosing his Peloton instructors for minimum hotness pales in comparison to your early morning runs to blood banks and private contracts with hospital cleanup crews. Max might not be a centuries old vampire, but he’s planning on getting there. You can’t live several lifetimes with a messy trail anymore.

Enter you.

The job listing had been normal enough: Executive assistant. Five years experience. Good references. Not squeamish. Discreet. It was the last three words that piqued your interest the most. You wouldn’t call yourself delicate, at least not for the things Max needed you to do. Your stomach turned when men wanted to stay the night, or your parents begged you to come home for Thanksgiving. Not so much when you had to bag a severed hand.

When it came to the interview you almost walked straight back out of his office before saying a word. The moment you saw him you knew his type. Arrogant, self-centered, prideful, smooth with a customer and cruel in the next breath if you were in his way. You’d seen too many people like him, avoided working with them at all cost. He was young enough that boomer sexism probably wouldn’t be an issue, but you could smell the demand coming off of him. He’d be a yeller, a paperweight thrower, or worse require you to be on call 24/7. You clocked him in a glance and felt the claw of escape behind your ribcage.

And then Max Phillips did something that convinced you to reconsider just as quickly. He stood from his desk, ushered you in, looked you and your resume over for a moment, and spoke.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Max Phillips, Director of Sales, and I’m a vampire.”

The quick introduction, complete with another curious word at the end, made you bark out a laugh.

“What kind are we talking about? Emotionally, mentally…” you rattle off, tight posture relaxing just a fraction. If he was joking with you, maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

“Oh you know, the usual kind. With the blood,” he says nonchalantly, baring his teeth dramatically when your eyebrows raise.

“You don’t say.”

“I do, actually. And you want to be my assistant.”

The conversation flows, with some fits and starts as you realize he’s not kidding. He is indeed a vampire, tossed out like his zodiac sign. The questions he peppers off range from highly professional (tell me a time when you performed well under pressure) to unsettlingly irregular (do you know how to remove blood stains from silk?). You shoot the answers back just as quickly, waiting for the moment when either the charade will drop…or you’ll get the job. Because you want it now. It’s easily the most interesting thing you’ll do in your whole life.

“I think that’s all I need,” Max ends abruptly, shuffling your resume into a pile with some others. Panic grips you, and you rush into your next sentence without breathing.

“Are there any concerns you have about my qualifications?”

Max raises an eyebrow and smiles, one that is much too charming to be in its path too long. Casting your eyes down, you glance at the worn-out toes of your nice interview heels, bemoaning getting them out of the closet for another failed interview.

“On paper you’re perfect,” Max says, and being in the same sentence as perfect skitters up your spine for a moment. You bat it away peevishly. “I only worry that you don’t have the constitution for what I’m looking for.” You shift on your feet, pull one corner of your lip between your teeth while you think. It makes you miss Max’s too-long glance at your mouth.

“I’ve watched all of the Saw movies,” you finally say, meeting Max’s eyes with determination. It makes him bleat out a laugh.

“Okay, not squeamish. Those are movies, though, and this is the real deal,” he teases. “Favorite vampire movie?”

“Let the Right One In,” you answer quickly, your face scrunching with regret seconds after. “Or Only Lovers Left Alive. I watched Queen of the Damned three times at a sleepover once. Have you ever seen Vampire’s Kiss? The one with Nic…” Max’s chuckle lets you trail off into silence.

“And you didn’t even say Twilight.”

You were signing employment paperwork the next day.

Most executive assistants put up with a certain layer of bullshit on a daily basis. Booking flights, picking up paperwork, schedule maintenance. You’d stood in line for four hours to pick up a previous employer’s new iPhone once.

Max had very different needs.

You were briefed on your duties in the privacy of his office. While he did reveal to you how many of his sales force were turned by his hand (or fang, you thought with a giggle), discretion was still a priority. He needed someone to go to his blood bank hookup a few times a week, take care of daytime activities when the sun beat down too hard. Body disposal on very rare occasions (so far only the one time) among all of the normal activities you thought you were signing up for.

The one duty that gave you pause, made you tap your nail on the printed line, was close to the bottom of your orientation packet.

“You need me to ‘maintain your appearance’?” you asked, looking up at Max from across the shiny acrylic tabletop. He was lounging back in his chair, knee pressed against the edge of the desk and spread out with boredom. He rolled his head to his shoulder as you flipped the page around to show him.

“Oh that. Yeah, I need you to check me over, make sure everything looks sharp, especially if I’m going to a big meeting.” You quirked a brow at him.

“Can’t you just look in…a…oh,” you said, slowing to a molasses vowel by the end.

“Yeah, mirrors and I haven’t been on speaking terms since Romania,” he sighed, one heavy thumb tracing the crest of his full lower lip. You tried not to notice the subconscious stroke.

“So you need me to…be your mirror. Make sure your hair isn’t a mess and you don’t have spinach in your teeth.” You were rewarded with a sheepish nod from Max. “Huh.”

“Huh what?”

“What else is true about vampires? Or fake, I’ll take either,” you asked, crossing your legs and settling into the wildly uncomfortable modern chair. Max’s smile turned secretive, and that was the first moment you felt him brand you his confidant.

“The sunlight thing is a bummer. I miss the beach, and swimming in the ocean. Garlic just makes my mouth go numb. Inviting someone into your home has a lot more loopholes than you think. And the sign of the cross does jack shit.” You nodded, making a mental list of even more questions to pepper into everyday conversation.

“Why do you think that all is? Because you’re essentially…undead?” you prodded, getting another bark of a laugh from Max and a dangerous glint in his eye.

“Hey, undead is a little harsh. It’s more like…a virulent vitamin deficiency. If I don’t get what I need, everything starts to shut down.” Max pondered on this analogy for a long moment, looking at a dull mass-produced corporate painting.

“But all the superstitions…like why are those true?”

Max shrugged, running his thumb along the inseam of his dress slacks in a way that pulled your eyes to his thick thighs.

“It’s not like there’s a manual for this. Half the stuff is supposed to be because I ‘have no soul’,” Max made finger quotes as he says this. “But mirrors stopped being silver backed ages ago and I still have to be careful when I go into the men’s room.” He shrugged, taking an exaggerated sip from his iced coffee straw. “I just know what works and what doesn’t, and you just need to help with those gaps, pretty girl.”

You almost choke on your tongue, shooting Max a warning look. He raises his hands in deference, but keeps a raised brow.

"Sorry, I call it like I see it. Can't have someone with poor taste in charge of my appearance."

"Yeah and if you don't want to walk in to a meeting with HQ with a Kick Me post-it on your back, you'll be mindful of that mouth of yours."

The crinkles around Max's eyes deepen, something knowing passing by, but he nods in acquiescence.

It’s honestly not as bad as you thought it might be. You could even call it boring. Max thankfully isn’t a paperweight thrower, though he does speak to most of his subordinates like they’re idiots. Never you, thankfully, he’s all smiles and winks and traded comments during your daily interactions. You’ve never been happier to be wrong.

Routine is your master, and you follow its pattern to the letter. It’s what makes you a great assistant. First thing in the morning is Max’s coffee order, set on his desk atop a coaster you provided when you saw the coffee cup stains. He whirls in, all noise and breeze, and you help him get ready for his morning meetings. A straightened tie - you can practically knot one blindfolded now - a quick sweep of fingers through his short hair, a pantomimed smile so he shows you his teeth. It’s all utilitarian, fast, not thrilling or intimate in a way you’d rarely been with a man. Of course not. That would be…unprofessional.

Lunch involves a teakettle, a blood bag, and a deep bowl that you use to warm his meal. All done in the safety and privacy of the kitchenette in his office. You pour the contents - a balmy 98.6 degrees by the time you’re finished - into a silver to-go cup, which he takes with appreciation when he bursts in. The first few weeks you left right after, but once you were more settled he asked you to stay while he sipped on his “lunch”. The conversation was always interesting, if not a little one-sided.

“You really don’t want to eat like, a salad or something? It’s just O-Positive Capri Suns for the rest of your life?” you asked, stabbing at some lettuce in your tupperware. Max laughed, a braying short one, and put his chin in his hand.

“You can technically eat cardboard and not be hungry, but it’s not food, pretty girl,” he replied, a shit-eating grin stretched across his broad face. You'd scolded him enough about the nickname that it's almost a joke now, except for how those words made you feel. His lips were a deeper red, and the sight plucked at something forbidden in your chest. Not disgust, more like morbid fascination. The sight pulled something primal to the surface, his tongue several shades darker when he licked an errant drop back into the lush cavern of his mouth.

You are not allowed to be lusting after your vampire boss is your mantra when thoughts run rampant.

The afternoons tend to be boring, filled with schedule juggling or email management. Max is often occupied through to the end of day, so you’re left to your own devices. You have a lot of “guys” now, as Max calls them. A blood guy, a disposal guy, a law enforcement guy. It makes you feel important in a way other jobs have lacked. You spend your afternoons making arrangements, both professional and personal, for your boss. It’s when you get the bulk of your work done, but it’s also when you have to be most on guard.

You see, Max has a few other “hungry” employees, and as the day grows long they tend to saunter by and watch you with barely veiled appetites. Brad in sales is the boldest, leaning over your desk and making a show out of smelling you with half-lidded eyes. Creepy. You’d told him off several times, but as he likes to say with just the right amount of douche, “I’m a closer baby, I always get the deal.”

In the metaphor you’re not sure what part of the “deal” you are, but you have no intention of finding out. Enough polite excuses and faked phone calls have kept him at bay, but you worry what might happen if he gets bolder, or gathers a few more vamps to sway your opinion. Is there a clause in your contract about not getting turned into a creature of the night? You should have checked.

The end of the day is often a quick affair. Max gets a debrief of anything important that came up, and what’s on the docket for tomorrow. Normally he packs up his suitcase with a little small talk, bids you a good night, and is off to do…whatever a vampire does when he’s off work.

Today, however, the script has a few additions.

“What’s wrong?” Max says, movements slowing as he takes in your shaking hand placing an itinerary on his desk. You tighten, smile forced.

“Nothing! Just fine,” you spit out, which only increases Max’s suspicion.

“Did something happen? Did someone say something to you?” he asks, voice dropping to a low fuck-that’s-hot register. You swallow hard and will something, anything to come to mind.

“Just Brad being Brad. I don’t think he’s turned anyone in a while and he’s getting desperate,” you try to chuckle lightly, but Max’s eyes darken. He stands to his full height, shoulders straining against his jacket. Planting his hands on his hips, he pins you in his sight.

“Did he touch you?” This is a true growl now, and Max’s face changes into a terrifying mask, perfect teeth suddenly lengthening to points as he fights against the rush. Your mouth drops open, but only monosyllabic words come out.

“No. Safe,” you gasp, and the simple admission sobers Max. His jaw ticks, rolling his shoulders and jaw until the transformation recedes. You wish your heartbeat could slow that quickly. After a few steadying breaths, Max finally turns back to you.

If his gaze was electric before, it’s damn close to lightning when your eyes meet. The jolt pulses in your veins, and his nostrils flare briefly.

“I’ll take care of it,” he says, all smooth professionalism like you haven’t just watched him vamp out because a coworker was a sleaze. You nod once, grateful, trying to ignore the sweet friction taking a step back gives to your core.

“Will there be anything else?” you ask, the customary end to your daily exchanges. Max gathers his briefcase, movements purposeful but fast.

“Nothing more, enjoy your night,” he answers, slipping past you with a wave of copper and musk that can’t be hidden by his Hermès cologne. You echo the sentiment but wait to take a full breath until you hear the elevator ding.

The next day Max walks in like a goddamn gladiator, powerful strides and testosterone rolling off his wool jacket. You can sense him before you see him, sometimes wondering if that’s part of the power he wields.

“Good morning!” he booms out, coming to a stop in front of your desk. You type out the end of your sentence and turn to him, smile at the ready, when your eyes drop to a box in his hand. The smile twists to confused amusement.

“What’s that?” you ask as he places the box in front of you with a pat to the silk bow neatly wrapping it.

“Happy six months of working here,” he says with more pomp than necessary. You narrow your eyes; it’s only been four, but his face is eager so you shrug it off. The bow is buttery soft under your fingers, and your heart rate ticks up rapidly. The box hinges open, and nestled inside is a women’s Rolex watch.

Your breath catches in your throat. It’s stunning, the perfect mix of feminine and authoritative. Gleaming oystersteel and everose gold, diamonds circling the watch face laser etched with delicate leaves. It’s easily worth four months of your pay. Your mouth drops open in disbelief.

“Max, I can’t…” you start, but he places his palms on your desk and leans close, tilting his head to one side to favor your cheek with his spearmint breath.

“Wear it. No one will dare touch you, pretty girl. I promise.” His eyes are darkly confident, and the reassurance does ease the shock of the gift.

“Okay,” you manage to squeak out. “Thank you, Max.” He nods once with a lopsided smile before returning to the usual routine of your day. While he settles in, you slide the ungodly expensive timepiece out of the box and onto your wrist. It snaps shut in a perfect fit, and the thought of Max demonstrating your wrist size to the sales person makes heat radiate in your cheeks.

Miraculously, he was right. Brad spies you in the afternoon but one look at the watch has him about-face and leaving twice as quick as he came. At lunch the next day you ask Max about it. He smiles conspiratorially, leaning up against his desk to look down at you seated with your sandwich. You might have thought he was trying to cop a peek at your cleavage, but you had a turtleneck on today, and his eyes didn’t roam from your face.

“The sign of the cross doesn’t do shit…for me. I wasn’t a church-going kid, never got into anything organized. For a talisman to work, the belief has to be twofold. You have to believe it will protect you, and they have to believe it too. So if you want real protection against something out to get you, you have to know them intimately.” He pauses, thumb absently rubbing along the line of his bicep where he’s folded his arms. “If you both believe, anything can work.”

“Like this?” you ask, lifting your wrist with a twist. A flash of something passes over Max’s face before he gives you a lopsided smile.

“You believe it protects you?” he asks, his voice dropping into a softer lilt. It makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

“You told me it did.”

“And they all believe it does, because I gave it to you.” An unspoken phrase hangs between you.

I’ll protect you.

“Could have chosen something less flashy,” you joke, needing to cut through the heaviness in the air. Max’s smile cracks his face, shaking his head as he moves to his side of the desk.

“Where’s the fun in that? You’re adorable when you’re flustered.”

"And you're on thin ice, Max."

"My favorite place to be."

When it’s actually your six month anniversary, Max schedules a dinner for you. Private chef, live music, a beautiful venue. He told you to bring whoever you wanted, and his name dances on the bow of your lips for a moment. You thought hope might be in his eyes that you’d let it spill. But cowardice struck, and instead you brought your two sisters. They gush over the decadence.

“Are you sure he doesn’t want to fuck you?” One says, forking another mouthful of the best chocolate cake you’ve ever tasted into her mouth. “This is like, fourth date level extravagance.”

“He’s my boss, god. Just shut up and eat.”

“I’m just saying, my husband takes me to the Cheesecake Factory, and while I will never say no to another round of Bang Bang Shrimp, this is above and beyond what anyone would expect from your boss.”

Your other sister doesn’t say anything until you’re alone.

“Just…be careful. This could get really messy.”

Oh you have no idea.

You nod, folding your hands under your chin and looking out at the glittering skyline.

“I will, I promise. We just have a…different working relationship than anyone’s used to. But he’s never made me feel uncomfortable.”

Quite the opposite, really. You’ve never been so comfortable with another person in your life. You’d given him floss picks and wiped shaving cream from behind his ear, smoothed flyaways and cupped his chin to inspect an uneven sideburn. He’d let you touch every part of him without comment, brushing lint from his broad shoulders and tucking inside-out pockets back into their rightful homes.

In return, he treated you with respect. Apart from the nickname, which you won't admit you've come to enjoy, he treated you kindly and professionally. He was a womanizer, but not with you. You weren’t naive, he was definitely fucking plenty of women in the last few months you’d been working for him. Sometimes you saw the ghosts of them in his suitcase, or crumpled in pockets. Once you’d been ready to knock on his closed door but high, breathy moans held your hand at bay. Janet from Web Design left an hour later (impressive, though you’d never say it) and Max called you in shortly after, hands freshly washed and the heavy musk of sex combating faux floral notes of air freshener. Neither of you addressed it.

The difference, you assumed, was professional. He lauded your work, told you how much he appreciated how smooth you made everything for him. He wouldn’t want to fuck that up for a quickie over his desk. Or against the mahogany door. Or on the kitchenette floor, his reddened lips leaving sticky trails on your breasts.

The blast of chill outside the restaurant sobers your thoughts. You send a text to Max, thanking him for the dinner and sending a couple selfies of you and your sisters. His return text is swift.

You deserve it, pretty girl. Looking gorgeous.

The wine loosens your inhibitions just enough to send a text back.

What?

Instant response.

Guess.

Your hands start shaking too hard to respond, suddenly feeling much tipsier than you thought. Typing a hasty, “Thanks again, good night,” you get into the cab and spend the ride home regulating your breathing. Max doesn’t respond.

Minor issues aside - a rowdy employee or two, some tense negotiations, a race to the finish one month for sales - you like your work. You’re considering settling in, maybe not looking for the next big thing for a little while. The pay is good, the benefits are better than most, and you’re happy. For the first time in years, you actually look forward to coming to the office. And a tiny part of you that you hide away knows why.

The start of October is always a favorite time of year for you. Scary movies in abundance on TV, fall decor, and the excitement of heading into the darker months. Thanksgiving and Christmas are fine in their own rights, but Halloween is your personal favorite. You don’t add frivolity to your desk beyond a tiny pumpkin next to your pen cup, which Max eyes with a wry little smile, and a bucket of Halloween candy that anyone is welcome to dip into. It twists the mood just a fraction away from corporate dullness to corporate-appropriate holiday spirit. You even catch Max with his hand in the candy jar once or twice, waving a snack-size Twix or KitKat as he comes and goes.

You do wonder if the childishness of the holiday is something Max dislikes.

“It’s a little naive,” he bemoans, swallowing the dregs of blood from his insulated mug as you wash your tupperware in his kitchenette sink. Wordlessly you hold a hand out for the empty cup to clean. “Seeing everyone gallivanting around, pantomiming monsters, when they’re all too real.”

“More than vamps? Friends with any werewolves?” you tease, soaping up the sponge designated for Max’s lunches and scrubbing the congealed mess out of the lid threads.

“Would you like to meet one?” he answers, a sing-song mockery of your own joke.

“God no, I have enough supernatural shenanigans with you,” you laugh, washing your hands clean so you don’t smell of copper. You’re careful to slide the gifted Rolex back around your wrist when you’re finished, a ritual Max watches closely every time. Clearing your throat, you gather up your lunch bag and move to leave.

“Maybe a Halloween party would be good for morale,” Max says nonchalantly, voice stopping you in the door. You wrestle the smile off your face before turning back to him.

“Would you like me to arrange something?” you ask, failing to keep your expression breezy. Max flashes that conspirator’s grin that drums up excitement in your chest.

“Please.”

The office latches onto the party date, only a couple days before Halloween proper. There will be food, drinks, a few small prizes for best costume and raffles. You count down the days with mounting excitement, the spirit of the season making you bouncier, lighter in and out of work. Max teases you about it.

“So you’re not going to tell me what you’re going as?” he wheedles, watching you lay piles of paperwork in neat folders on his desk. You shake your head, clucking your tongue when you notice you’re one short.

“Half the fun is the surprise,” you call over your shoulder as you speed back to your desk and return with the final folder. Max doesn’t even pretend he’s interested in the documents. “What are you going to be?” His eyebrow cocks, shaking his head with derision.

“I’m a vampire, honey, I am my own costume,” he drawls, making you roll your eyes.

“So I should expect a cape with a high collar? Some dollar store plastic fangs? Hair gel?” you tease, making your hands into claws over the desk. “I vant to suck your blooooood!” you mime in your best Dracula impression, getting your own eye roll in return.

“If you’re not telling, I’m not,” he throws back, finally scooting forward in his chair and opening one of the folders. You straighten up, triumphant, and leave him to his work.

The day of the party greets you with excitement. You made the decision to go subtle, since you’ll be sitting in costume all day. Your coworkers would have time to change before the party, but you were organizing and didn’t have that luxury. So on went a sensible white blouse, a black pencil skirt, and sheer black nylons. Slipping them up your legs, you grind your lip between your teeth. The back seam of the nylons, paired with the black stiletto heels you found in your closet, turn the dress from something mundane to possibly recognizable. When you turn your back to the mirror, crossing your ankles prettily, one of the most recognizable movie posters in history pulls to the forefront.

You could give Maggie Gyllenhaal a run for her money.

The last piece - an addition that turns the costume from seductive to silly - you tuck into the chest pocket of your blouse before leaving.

The day passes quickly, Max calling to tell you he’s meeting with HQ through lunch and to get the festivities started without him. You usher in the caterers, laughing with your coworkers when they ask what your costume is. So far the cover story works, and they all enjoy the clever play on words.

The party is in full swing, raffle tickets being handed out and drinks starting to flow, when Max enters. His voice precedes him, and it’s a good thing it does because if you didn’t have that brief moment to gather yourself your mouth would have dropped open.

It’s a perfect recreation of Gary Oldman’s Dracula costume. It’s so on the nose a laugh almost bubbles out if you weren’t breathless. He’s swathed head to toe in dove gray, save for the sharp shock of black around his neck, the shine of his shoes, the rich dark leather of his gloves. The waistcoat pulls tantalizingly against his stomach, a bright silver pin at the base of his throat. He’s slicked his hair into a side part, small blue-tinted glasses perched halfway down his curved nose. Leaning on the walking stick and crossing his ankles, he makes a sweeping “ta-da!” motion with his hand. Applause erupts, giving you cover to gasp in some much-needed air.

“To All Hallows' Eve,” he croons, sharing secret looks with the team members you know are his brethren. By the time he catches your eye across the room you’ve finally comported yourself, smiling brightly at his nod.

It takes him some time to get to you, fighting through the crowd of people wanting to rub elbows and make an impression. He gives them all their five minutes of fame in his presence, annoyance slowly ticking up with each stop. You keep busy organizing the raffle, handing out voting sheets (Max will certainly win best costume) and watching him out of the corner of your eye.

It’s at the first lull in your duties that Max slides up next to you, a warm hand on your lower back. It makes you jump, but settle quickly when his impressed smile comes into view.

“I think I know what you’re supposed to be,” he murmurs, coming to stand in front of you to get a better look. His brow furrows when his gaze lands on your breast pocket. “Hmmm, maybe not. So spill, what’s your costume?” he says, leaning on the cane and dragging his gaze up and down your body. Aiming for a carefree smile, you tap on the little calculator peeking out of your pocket.

“I’m someone you can count on,” you enunciate, the confusion and realization swirling in his eyes until a laugh bubbles out, shaking his head.

“I can’t believe you came to the party as a pun,” he chokes out, both of you now giggling next to the bags of chips and finger sandwiches. When he finally gets control of himself he nods approvingly.

“Well, you might not win best costume with that…” You shrug, conceding, “but I’d give you the prize if you admit what you actually came as, pretty girl.”

Time slows to sticky seconds as Max inches closer to you, eyes sliding over your shoulder, tracing the curve of your neck, lighting for much too long on your lips. He knows, knows you wore the outfit from Secretary and for no one else but him. You keep your stare trained on his face. It’s not the first time you’ve considered throwing out professionalism in favor of hunger. It’s not like anyone else has been upholding your rigorous standards. Would it be so bad to let Max chase his desires with your body? To bloom underneath him, above him, around him? Would you like the taste of his mouth, coppery and thick?

He’s close enough to be more than professional but not so close to be indecent, hot fingers tracing the band of the Rolex circling your wrist. Your mind blearily wonders if that’s when you let down the wall that kept him out. His eyes finally meet yours, a question in their depth, before his face contorts and he steps back quickly, a grimace painting his features.

“Are…” You swallow, mouth torturously dry. “Are you okay?”

He nods, fighting on a smile and straightening with effort.

“Yes, sorry, I was…busy this afternoon, haven’t eaten yet.” He raises his hands in defense at your scolding glance, the tension back to a bare simmer.

“Well go get a drink, I won’t announce the winners until you get back,” you say breathlessly, giving him a dazzling smile that he returns shyly. The tables are turned for once in your favor, and you savor watching Max on unsure footing. “Do you need me to heat something up for you?”

“No, I’ve got it taken care of,” he assures you, making his way to his office. A wave back at you is the last you see before he closes the door.

Finally able to make sense of what’s going on, you get back to the party, mingling with the girls you like from marketing and keeping tabs on the liveliness of the party. Max doesn’t return, the time to announce the costume winner closing in. You worry at your cuticles, his absence starting to toll on your mind. What if he was passed out in his office, weakening by the second? While you were out here with coworkers that had never given you a second glance?

Your resolve snaps, mother henning be damned, as you move to Max’s office. The din of the party muffles your voice, stepping close to listen at the door.

“Max?” you call, with no answer. Heart thumping, you test the handle. Locked. A quick trip to your desk has the spare key in your hand, ready to slot into the lock.

“Max, it’s time for the announcement, I didn’t think you wanted to miss it,” you say, and this time you hear something. A low, pained groan.

The key slams into the lock, turning frantically as you whip the door open, two steps in with it shutting heavily behind you before you register what’s happening.

Max is not alone. And he’s…

He’s…

Oh fuck.

It’s easy not to see the monster when it looks like a middle manager. It’s easy to pretend the blood is a beetroot smoothie, or that the stains on his shirt are red wine. When Max makes it seem so dull, so boring, you sometimes forget he’s something strange and powerful.

But when you’re face to face with the truth, it all comes rushing to the forefront.

Max has Janet, the pretty thing from Web Design, spread out on his lap, her hands gripping the armrests of his chair. One hand is covering her mouth, leaning her head back to loll against his shoulder. The other is buried under her skirt, and from here you can see wetness shimmering inside her thighs. The lewd flexing of his forearm working her with those fingers you covet day in and day out almost distracts you from what’s actually happening. Almost.

Dragging your eyes up, you take in the true horror of the situation. You recognize the change, his face contorted with lines of deepening purple and red streaking his skin. The same that you saw when you told him about Brad. His mouth is latched onto Janet’s neck, red oozing around the seal of his lips. He’s groaning, swallowing thickly as you imagine mouthful after mouthful of her blood pouring down his throat.

The slam of the door drags Max’s eyes up, his eyebrows shooting into his hairline when he sees you. Mouth popping off Janet’s skin, he growls your name, deep and drunken. The loss allows blood to spurt from Janet’s neck, thick droplets spraying across her bare legs, the carpet, his desk, staining papers you laid there just this morning. Your stomach churns violently, legs weakening as Janet thrashes against Max’s hold. He tears his eyes from you to look down at the mess, a rough, “shit,” falling from his blood-stained lips before he fits his mouth back to the ring of teeth.

There is nothing darkly romantic about this now, no suave vampire lover sipping delicately from a young debutante’s neck. Blood sluices down to stain Janet’s pink top a deeper red, her face painted with rusty smears that gather between his fingers. Max pounds his fingers inside her, the telltale spasm of her orgasm accompanied by the liquid squeak of her flats slipping in her own blood. He withdraws, a sticky string of her cum trailing across her thighs. Pressing her flush to his chest, he sucks and growls and hums until Janet goes still, fingers falling away and body slumping. The pop of his mouth off the wound lets a dribble slip between the swell of her cleavage, more still smeared and dripping from his mouth. He sighs with relief, thick tongue lazily licking at the mess around his lips. He bands his arms around Janet and lifts, folding her face-down on his desk, legs dangling limply over the edge. Her eyes are sightless, blood smearing onto the Meyer report.

A maddening thought - you’d have to reprint that - spikes through your consciousness.

Max stands, swaying slightly as he rolls his shoulders, finally looking at you trembling in his office. His eyes are blood red, human only in that he sees you with them. Realization flits across the face you barely recognize, smile going predatory. As if a body isn’t lying mere inches from him, he places his hands on his desk, leaning over to give you a sultry look.

“Come here, pretty girl,” he purrs, a sound that vibrates in two tones. It makes your fight or flight instinct claw up your spine. Specifically the flight part. The fight part is warring against the fiery arousal burning in your belly at Max’s slick mouth, the generous tenting in those gray pants, and the rabid desire in his eyes. Fear sharpens your pulse, and you know it would take barely anything to make you cum with a wail if he’d only touch you.

“Can smell you from here, little secretary. Know you want me to devour that juicy pussy.” Max lengthens his neck, closing his eyes and inhaling with a satisfied moan. Flecks of blood dot the gray waistcoat, jacket abandoned in a heap on the floor. The black shirt hides the color but not the wetness of what Max could not eat. “I would, you know. I would eat you even if I was full to bursting. Let me taste you, pretty little thing. I want you on my tongue. I’ll make you cum so hard you’ll wash me clean.”

He’s prowling around the table now, steps soft and light, and you’re a frozen gazelle with a tiger approaching. No, that’s too grounded, too finite. You’re a candle flame in the middle of an ocean, a moment away from being swallowed up. Your face is wet; you’re crying. You’re scared. You’re so aroused it hurts. You’re so in over your head you’re drowning.

You can’t breathe.

Realization flickers over Max’s face and you watch him change. The veining and depth of his features recedes, eyes clearing back to soft brown as he slows his advances even further.

“Hey, hey, you’re okay, I’m not…I’m not gonna hurt you.” He turns his palms up, keeping his distance as you struggle to let air back into your lungs. The first whoosh makes you so lightheaded you stumble back, falling to your knees. Max goes down to his knees with you, one hand outstretched but still too far to touch. You can’t stop shaking, taking in big gulping breaths. Max waits, a drip of blood from his chin shocking him into scrubbing his sleeve over his face. Most of the gore vanishes, but the pink hue remains.

“I’m not gonna hurt you. I would never hurt you,” he tries again, scooting another pace forward. “I’m sorry, you were never supposed to see that. I fucked up, please…”

His hand brushes your ankle and you know you’re going to be sick. Bile rushes up your throat and you scramble blindly for the trash bin. You make it just in time, emptying your stomach with retching sobs. A warm palm strokes your shoulder and you snap your arm out, head still hanging.

“Don’t touch me!” you rasp, and the hand is gone, letting you finish shuddering and coughing into the bin. When your stomach stops cramping you crawl away, ignoring Max’s concerned face in your periphery. You lost one of your shoes, picking it up from its topple onto the floor and holding it in your hand like a weapon.

“Please, look at me,” Max begs, and you finally take him in. He’s much more the Max you know, but so different now. Same hair you arrange for him, same soft-shaved face you touch more than you actually need to. Same brown eyes that look to you for guidance. But when you look closer you can see the film of blood on his teeth, droplets clinging to his eyebrows, and a never ending hunger in the depths of his eyes.

You scramble to your feet, hobbling in one shoe. Max stumbles back up to your height.

“Pretty…?” he begs again, but you’re opening the door, striding out into the ruckus of the party. A couple people turn, eyes expectant until they see you. Confusion, or realization, turns them back around to ignore you. Heart thumping in your throat, fear pangs through your chest. Is there any blood on you? A quick inspection finds none, so it must be your haunted expression and disheveled appearance that inspires discretion.

Unable to spend another moment in this building, copper still strong in your nose, you stuff your shoes in your bag and try to hurry out the back door. You need to get home, behind a locked door, maybe several. Somewhere you can think, get a level head, figure out what to do.

Then Brad steps into your path, and your stomach plummets again.

“Hey, where are you going? You haven’t announced the costume contest winner yet!” he laughs, blocking your path. Stepping to the side, you watch in dismay as he does the same. Again, but the other way, and he follows. Tutting, he nods at your Rolex.

“Seems like this is just an expensive gift now,” he bemoans, dunking you in clarity.

You have to believe it will protect you.

Nothing can save you now.

Only yourself.

Another step-dodge hides your hand diving into your bag, and when Brad grabs your wrist you swing your arm back and drive your stiletto into the side of his neck.

“What the fuck?!” he shouts, hands coming up to staunch the dark blood seeping around the wound. Faintly you hear Max’s door open and the party drop to silence, but you leave the noise as you burst into the stairwell, racing to your car and away from the hell behind you.

Max stumbles out of his office as the door slams behind you, clothes sticking to his skin and mouth full of metallic tang.

“Bitch put her heel in my goddamn neck!” Brad shouts, stomping up to Max. “Your assistant needs some fucking discipline Phillips.” He must have more to rant about, but two swift hands snap Brad’s head clean around and off, letting his body crumple to the floor. Max watches with disinterest, pinching the bridge of his nose and inhaling long and deep before tossing the head to join.

“Okay people, cleanup protocol,” he calls out, and the vampires in the crowd all look at each other.

“Boss?” one of them says, making Max snap his attention to them in frustration.

“You heard me, we’ll start relocation tomorrow.”

Max ignores the screams of his turned subordinates feeding on the human ones, his eye catching the glint of something on the ground. He kneels, heart sinking at what he finds. The Rolex, her talisman. Picking it up, he turns it grimly in his hands. Brad shouldn’t have been able to touch her, not with this. As long as she still believed it worked.

“Fuck,” he whispers, rubbing his thumb over the face, an errant smear of blood clouding the crystal.

You get the call on Sunday afternoon, a whole weekend spent locked up in your apartment and stressed over what Monday would bring. The unknown number is the district manager letting you know that your office is being outsourced, effective immediately. Do not return to the building, please ship company property back to HQ, on and on. Part of you is relieved to not have to step foot back there. The morbid voice in the back of your mind whispers that there’s more to it than cheaper labor. You let that voice fade in favor of relief.

With enough savings for a few months out of a job, you begin the search anew. HQ gave you a generic recommendation letter, which should be enough for your new employer. It would have been preferable to have one from Max, but thinking about what it might say gives you hysterical giggles.

Can warm blood up to body temp perfectly.

Handles high stress situations such as scheduling a body dump.

Looks into my eyes like she’s known me forever.

You force yourself out of this line of thought.

Three weeks after you ran out of that building for the last time, you get an email.

From: [email protected]

Subject: Can we talk?

Your fingers hover over the keys, throat tightening. The hysteria died down after the first week, your trips outside cautious over the second, and finally a sense of calm had settled back into your life. Did you want to invite chaos back in?

To: [email protected]

Subject: When?

Your reply sends and moments later your inbox pings again.

From: [email protected]

Subject: Now?

Your face scrunches in confusion before the sharp buzz of your front door bell jars you out of your chair.

“Fucking…Max, give a girl a minute,” you curse, smoothing a hand through your hair and shrugging at your loungewear attire. Padding to your intercom, you click the button to activate the video screen. No one is standing on the stoop of your apartment. Confused, you press the talk button.

“Hello?”

“It’s Max.”

You’re stunned into silence before a smile creeps onto your face.

“You’re not visible on cameras too?”

“Ha ha, yeah I know, it’s great for a life of crime,” he drones out sarcastically, and even though you can’t see him you can imagine that mocking face.

A ball appears in the back of your throat. You missed him.

Buzzing him up, you wait at your door, leaning in the entryway. You don’t think he’s here to violently tie up a loose end, but you could be wrong. Your good judge of character has been suspiciously absent in the last eight months.

Three swift knocks and Max is standing in your doorway, holding a bouquet of sunflowers. You’d assumed he’d be in a suit, but this one is more casual, no necktie and his collar open. He’s wearing a cocky I-knew-you-missed-me face, but underneath there’s a current of worry, concern, and care that warms you.

“Oh, you never told me,” you say, holding the door open thoughtfully, “what are the loopholes for entering someone’s home without being invited in?”

Max’s eyes crinkle up as he rolls his eyes. There’s the man you’d been falling for.

Oh.

Oh wow.

Shit, that’s the first time you’d thought that.

“So in the movies it sounds so formal. Like ‘may I enter your home?’ and the other person has to say ‘yes, you may,’ but nobody talks like that anymore. You can just say come in, and that’s it. Or I can ask if I can come in and if you say yeah, that’s good enough. I’ve even had people tell me to come get a hug, or get out of the cold, and that worked too. Human language has evolved so much and…I am absolutely babbling like an idiot right now.” Max trails off and you stifle a smile behind your hand. It pulls a relieved one onto his face.

“I missed you,” you say, the words coming easier than you expected. Max’s eyes soften.

“I missed you too.”

You look at each other in silence before you snap back to the previous conversation.

“Oh, shit, right, yeah come in,” you stutter, Max crossing the threshold and handing you the sunny bouquet. The plastic wrap crinkles around your fingers, making for a good distraction as you move to put them in water while Max hangs his coat.

It takes you a few minutes to snip the stalks and place them in a vase, and then a few moments more to ask Max if he’d like something (“whatever you’re having”) and brew two cups of black tea. Entering your little living room, you find Max sitting at one end of your couch, thumbing through a travel book. He puts it down to accept the tea, setting it to cool on the coffee table. Placing yours beside, you settle into the couch and try to think of where to begin. Thankfully, Max starts.

“I’m sorry you had to see any of that after all that you’ve done for me. It was inappropriate for me to feed at work, even more so to scare you. It was wildly unprofessional and I completely understand if you don’t want to be associated with me after that.”

You blink slowly at him, absorbing this carefully rehearsed apology. He waits for your response, damnation or salvation.

“Is Janet okay?”

You watch his face cooly as he struggles through a few different emotions. Confusion, incredulity, amusement, relief.

“Yeah, Janet’s fine, I turned her. She’s moving to England, not as much sun.”

Silence slips between you before you break into giggles, Max following along as the tension unwinds. When your breath stops hitching you give Max a warm smile, picking up your mug to take a sip.

“Sounds like HQ just wanted to sweep all this under the rug. Would it always have ended up this way, or was the party to blame?” Max shrugs, arm slung over the back of the couch and ankle resting on his knee.

“It’s different every place I go. Sometimes it’s longer, other times it’s only a few weeks. You made it easier,” he says, a blanket of fondness warming your lap. Tracing the lip of the mug with your fingernail, you sort through what you want to say next.

“Before the party…was something going on between us? Or is that some weird vampire thing to make humans easy to manipulate?” Peering through your lashes, you think you see Max blush.

“I can assure you I did not use my supernatural powers of suggestion on you. Only on difficult clients,” he laughs, tilting his head lazily onto one shoulder. “Yeah,” he adds quieter, face turning to his lap. “Yeah, there was something going on between us.” Slowly, giving you time to shy away, he reaches out to brush his fingers along the inside of your knee. A trill of excitement flutters through you. “I hope it’s still there.”

Just as cautiously, you reach out and let the tips of your fingers meet, his hand turning over to cup them in his palm. The softness of his skin entices you to stroke along his broad palm, the undersides of his fingers, until he moves to lace them with yours, joints stretching pleasantly around his larger ones. When you get the courage to look up he’s regarding you with quiet wonder, lips parted. You smile at him, eliciting one in response.

“I have something for you,” he says, voice tight as he digs into his pants pocket. It’s a smaller box than the first gift he got you, and you release his hand to take it. Sliding the top off, you’re treated to a delicate silver chain.

“I don’t think the Rolex quite expresses what I’d like us to be now,” Max says, lifting the chain out of the box. It’s even more dainty in his hands, thick fingers struggling briefly with the clasp.

“So you’re not asking me to keep being your assistant?” you say, pulse pounding in your ears so loud you’re sure he can hear it.

“Put this on and I’ll show you what I’d like us to be,” he says, a soft challenge but no fire in his eyes. Instead there’s a question, one that you’d struggled with in the weeks following the party.

Could you handle this?

Pushing up on your knees, you gently lift one leg over Max’s lap, settling on his thighs. His eyes widen, then that bratty smile comes back to grace his face.

“I’m waiting Max,” you tease in a sing-song lilt. He lifts the chain to loop around your neck, fastening the ends together. It hangs cooly against you, sensation slowly disappearing as it warms to your skin.

“This will protect you, if you believe in it,” he says, and as he breathes the words he leans up to place a soft kiss to your collarbone, pressing the chain between his lips and your skin. “It will protect you from those with ill intent,” he continues, trailing his lips along the necklace as he places another kiss at the base of your throat, “because I will never let another creature, living or undead, bring harm to you.” Here he places an open-mouthed kiss on your sternum, a tentative lick pebbling your skin. “And it will protect you from me,” His mouth moves up the other side of your neck, peppering kisses along the way, “because I will never lay a hand on you that you’re not begging for.”

You bury your hands in his short locks, scratching your nails along his scalp. The groan he lets out makes him circle you in his arms, sliding you down his thighs to sit tight against him. His breathing becomes erratic, and he rolls his hips below you.

“I’ll never…fuck, I’ll never drink from you. I’ll never bite you, I promise,” he growls, and now his mouth is hot and possessive on your neck, sucking and scraping teeth up to worry behind your ear.

“I like biting,” you whisper back, grinding lightly on him. “Only these teeth, though, not the sharp ones.”

The dark chuckle he makes precedes him pulling you back, looking up at you with wide eyes and a damp mouth.

“I still want you to be my assistant, though, I’m a mess without you,” he pants, eyes glittering with mirth. Shaking your head with a sigh, you dip down to capture the mouth you’d been coveting. He tastes like bitter tea leaves, coffee, and the primal coppery heat of blood on the back of his tongue.

It’s a taste you could get used to.

#max phillips x f!reader #max phillips x reader #max phillips x you #bloodsucking bastards fanfiction #prolix fics

418 notes · View notes

miracles-and-butterflies · 6 months

Text

For @yellowcry, based on the prompt: “the Fractured au argument that led to Casita’s fall.”

A hard one to write as the focus had to mainly be with Luisa and Pedro, but we also have to do the whole reveal with Mirabel.

Comments are always appreciated.

Warning, sensitive topics below.

~~~~~~

Broken

“Abuelo would probably say you are a bad influence to me.”

“That is part of my charm.” Luisa chuckled.

As they are walking down the stairs, towards the kitchen, Mirabel stops her.

Just as Luisa goes to say something else or ask why they’ve stopped, Mirabel’s smile has faded as quickly as it appeared a moment ago. There’s a brief flash of panic in her eyes before it hastily and forcefully settles back to familiar nothingness.

“What is going on?” A voice demands.

She turns quickly on her feet, looking down at their concerned Abuelo, recently returned from town.

“Ah, Abuelo, don't worry! We’re going to save the miracle!”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“See? This is why I’m in the vision - I’m saving the miracle! I got Dolores to do another one about it and we worked out how to make the candle burn brighter and all the cracks disappeared! Because Mirabel’s not happy—”

“Of course she isn’t happy. You ruined Isabela’s engagement dinner and embarrassed all of us with your disruptions last night—”

“No, no, Isabela needed me to ruin her proposal because she was only with Mariano for the family—”

“Enough!” Abuelo thunders. “I have heard enough of this, Luisa!”

A tremor shakes the building and she does shut her mouth.

“The cracks started with you.” He continued, counting off the misdemeanours on his fingers. “Bruno left because of you. Your cousins are losing their gifts, Isabela is out of control, because of you. God knows why you weren’t given a gift, but it is not an excuse for you to hurt this family!”

“She isn’t. You are hurting her.” Mirabel informed, softly and robotically.

Nobody says anything.

Then Abuelo steps closer, stern hand raised and Mirabel closes her eyes in preparation. Luisa, however, comes between them and catches his wrist.

“Luisa?” He gaped.

“Get the fuck away from her,” she snarls, lowly.

It’s then that the family seem to start appearing one by one, no doubt having been curious about the noise coming from the courtyard.

It must be a chilling scene. Luisa shielding Mirabel (still in the same torn and bloody blouse) while standing over Pedro, crushing his arm in her strong grasp. But one that nobody seems to connect the dots to.

Abuelo looks horrified, trying to yank his hand back but isn’t strong enough. “How dare you treat me like this—”

“How dare you?” Luisa rounds. “She was a young girl, left in your care, and you abused her. Not only that, but you gave permission for multiple other adults to do the same thing. She is a child!”

Someone in the family gasps slowly in realisation, but Luisa can’t pinpoint who. Maybe Tía Pepa.

“Isabela…” Is all Julieta manages to say, sounding incredibly guilty. Pale and shaking, she turns to her eldest.

Isabela isn’t paying any attention though. She looks disgusted and confused. That confirms Luisa’s earlier thoughts that she didn’t know the abuse had continued.

“What is it? What’s going on?” Antonio whispers. Too young to understand. Félix shakes his head at him, not knowing what to say.

Camilo laughs, a bit. Somewhat nervous and awkward, he clearly thinks this is some kind of joke. And Luisa hates how that it wouldn’t be out of possibility for her.

Pepa and Dolores keep sharing glances with each other, questioning if the other did or didn’t know about this - given their respective gifts.

Agustín turned to his father-in-law. “You did what to my daughter?”

“I did what I had to. You know it was for your own benefit, Mirabel. Tell them.” He called.

“Don’t you dare talk to her—” Luisa tried, but was cut off.

He managed to step back and lean around Luisa’s form to settle his gaze on Mirabel.

“Are you listening, nieta? Tell them. Tell them, Mirabel!”

The girl barely reacted, her expression didn’t give anything away either. “It is true. I was making mistakes and getting emotional, I had to be taught a lesson,” she answered.

However, it seems to have the opposite effect on everyone besides Mirabel and Abuelo (and Luisa herself, who had heard that excuse already).

“It was the wrong choice of action, I can see that. But it has helped her. She is nearly perfect, we can all agree on that. And she is completely unharmed!” Abuelo went on to add, after being met by the betrayed and horrified looks of his own daughters.

Agustín marches straight over to Pedro, his eyes ablaze with murder, but Julieta quickly pulls him back.

“Agustín, leave it. She needs us more,” she whispers, nodding her head towards Mirabel.

While they guide the girl out of the way, Pepa happily takes their place in hurtling her barrage of complaints and insults at the patriarch.

The injuries are undeniable. And it’s so weird to see Mirabel without all her layers of clothes - with long sleeves and high collars - that suddenly make a lot more sense now.

“Oh, mi amor, I’m so sorry.” Julieta sighs. She caresses a hand down Mirabel’s face or tries to anyways.

Unfamiliar with physical contact, Mirabel shifts away awkwardly, not sure what to do with herself; her expression as emotionless as ever.

Julieta, in spite of knowing she’s uncomfortable, can’t stop herself from pulling a very confused Mirabel against her in a hug. Agustín joins too, albeit he rearranges his hands several times over to avoid accidentally pressing them into one of the wounds.

“You’re okay, you’re going to be okay, Miraboo,” he whispers repeatedly. His wife struggles to get any words out at all just, sobbing brokenly, while she clutches their baby for dear life. “We’re not going to let anything happen to you. Not again.”

Isabela, watching from the side, had secretly hoped Mirabel might break under the comfort and reassurance. Reveal it was all an act of unfeeling. But she doesn’t. Just stares vacantly right at her, while their parents weep. And it hurts to know she doesn’t shed a single tear with them.

She is completely unharmed. He dared to say.

Luisa somehow managed to hold off smacking the old man.

But she couldn’t hold back her tongue.

“We’re never gonna be good enough for you. Are we?” She questioned, pointedly. “I won’t ever be good enough for you.” Then gesturing to both her sisters in turn, “Mirabel will never be perfect enough, Isabela won’t be useful enough. No matter how much you hurt them, they won’t change.” She redirected her focus to her Abuelo. “Bruno only left this family because he could never meet your impossible standards.”

“Bruno didn’t care about this family!” He argued.

“He loves this family! I love this family! We all love this family! You’re the only one who acts like you don’t.” She snapped, waving her hand a bit. “Just turning a blind eye to our problems! Or worse, you just don’t care!”

He stepped closer, his face getting red. “If you say another word, Luisa—”

But Luisa was already talking again. “You are the one who is breaking this family apart! You are the one who is breaking our home!”

“I forbid it—”

“The miracle is dying because of you!”

#encanto #encanto fracture au #ask me anything #luisa madrigal #mirabel madrigal #isabela madrigal #julieta madrigal #agustín madrigal #pedro madrigal #dolores madrigal #camilo madrigal #antonio madrigal #bruno madrigal #pepa madrigal #félix madrigal #my writing

47 notes · View notes

hollandsfavbabe · 1 year

Text

Popsicle Pairs

pairing: dad!tom holland x mom!reader

synopsis: in which you and tom decide to enjoy more than just popsicles until your son intrudes

warnings: super cliché, bathroom talk(toddler training)

word count: 1.3k

masterlist

a/n: based off of that one super cliche imagine if anyone knows what I’m talking about. i can’t find it anywhere on the internet, but trust me, it’s a thing. really i just had to get this out of my drafts ... enjoy!

“MOMMY!” your toddler shouted from the hall bathroom, eager to show you his latest accomplishment. You rushed from your position in the kitchen, leaving the ingredient cupboard open as your son took priority over starting dinner.

It was just three years ago that you and Tom were blessed with your wonderful son, though it felt like only a week. And now as he started to get bigger, you had begun every parent's favorite process when raising a toddler … not. Indeed it was potty training time. Helping your son switch from diapers to undies was a challenge for you two, but with Tom’s optimism and your determination, you were both sure you could do it. The trek had been long, but you were close to completing one hell of an accomplishment.

You took baby steps, starting by rewarding your little boy with soft candy whenever he simply alerted you that needed to go to giving him a treat when he had gone in the actual bathroom, whether he had taken off his diaper or not. Now, bigger steps caused for bigger rewards, so when he started actually using the loo you upgraded his reward to half of a popsicle, his favorite sweet.

When you arrived at the door of the bathroom your son was excited to inform you that he had yet again earned another popsicle half.

“Nice job buddy!” you congratulated before helping him to reach the sink so that he could wash his hands the way you taught him to.

When you were finished you both left for the kitchen, only to be greeted by your husband Tom. He stood outside the bathroom door with a curious expression.

“Did you make it again?” he asked, referring to your son’s triumph. The little boy nodded in reply, jumping up and reaching his hands into the air, gesturing for Tom to pick him up.

“I did it daddy, I did it!” he squealed excitedly.

“Oh I’m so proud!”

“Can I have my popsicle now?” your son asked, eyes widening.

“I don’t know, it’s awfully close to dinner. You’ll have to ask your mother.” Tom replied, looking at you as he waited to hear your decision. Your son turned towards you too, eager to hear what you had to say as if he could burst out of your husband’s arms, quite possibly the definition of jumping out of a seat from excitement. You let out a defeated sigh. You supposed your son could stray from his normal meal plan for one night.

“Sure.” you answered. Your son cheered in Tom’s arms, delighted by your conclusion. “It’s too late to start dinner anyways. I’ll just order a pizza.”

“Yeah, pizza!” your son whooped. You couldn’t help, but giggle at his reaction as you pulled out your phone to order the food. Tom chuckled with you walking off in the direction of the kitchen.

“Let’s choose a flavor while mommy orders. What kind do you want?” Tom asked, opening the fridge as he got close to it.

“Blue! I want blue!” your son demanded and so he was given what he desired.

Tom set him down as he handed over half of a blue popsicle, grinning at his son who was overjoyed by the frozen delight.

“The blue one is my favorite.” your son said, sticking the popsicle in his mouth.

“Oh really,” smiled Tom. “And why is that?”

“It colors my tongue!” exclaimed your son, showing his now blue stained tongue to his father. Tom laughed at the little boy, bending down and tickling his sides the way the boy loved.

“Silly.” grinned Tom and the two both broke into contagious fits of laughter.

----------

Two empty pizza boxes lay on the kitchen table, the food they once contained now long gone in the digestion process as you and Tom laid your son in his bed, tucking him in before wishing him goodnight. He nestled his head into his pillow and bid you goodnight, ready for sleep. It was when you heard soft snores that you closed the bedroom door gently behind you.

Tom took your hand as you closed your son’s door, leading you away from his room and back into the kitchen where once again he opened the freezer.

“There’s two halves of two different popsicles left over that I doubt he’s gonna miss. Do you want red or blue?” He asked you, having no care which flavor he had himself.

“Red.” you replied, prompting your husband to hand over half of a red popsicle, the wood underneath sticking out the top, untouched by the knife you used to cut it for your son. Tom took a similar looking blue one for himself and together you peeled off the already opened wrapper and started licking them.

Tired of standing, you led Tom to the nearby sofa in the living room, taking a seat on one of the cushions and patting the one beside you for your husband to sit on to which he happily obliged, allowing you to lay on him as you both got comfortable.

“Today was a good day.” you stated mindlessly, almost finished with your popsicle. Tom set down the now bare stick of his and wrapped his hands around your waist as you laid on him, placing feather light kisses to your hairline.

“It was indeed.”

You were finished with your popsicle now, setting the stick on top of Tom’s discarded one, you turned around in his lap to face him, sitting up so that you could better see his features, better admire the structure that made up his heavenly face.

He plucked one of your hands from your lap and brought it to his lips, kissing the back of it while grinning at you.

“I love you.” you blurted, the words falling from your lips easily as he showered you in affection.

“I love you too.” He replied, pressing another kiss to your knuckle.

“No way.” you whispered with obvious sarcasm.

“Yes way,” Tom joked right back before moving his other hand to the bone above your cheek, his thumb gently caressing your face as he gazed into your eyes. “Would you care for me to show you just how much I love you?”

You smirked, giggling as you wrapped your arms around his neck.

“Yes please,” you nodded.

Tom scanned your smirk and no longer stalled to kiss it away as his lips met yours.

It was slow at first and built as you went along. It wasn’t very long before his tongue was in your mouth forcing a groan out of you.

You wanted to take it further, almost suggesting he carry you to your shared bedroom, but as your son walked into the living room you pushed yourself away from your husband and erased any lewd thoughts from your mind. You swore he had been asleep no more than five minutes ago.

Luckily he hadn’t seen anything and forchabtly for a three year old, smug red faces and crazy hair were not clear indications to him of what had been going on.

“What’s up honey?” you asked, blushing furiously after being nearly caught.

“I did it again!” he cheered with such pride in himself. You smiled, smoothing down some of the strands that were out of place as you stood to usher him out of the room, Tom by your side.

“Good job bud!” your husband praised.

“Can I have another popsicle before bed?” your son asked, ironically also taking notice of the two sticks on the table.

“Did you and daddy have some?” he questioned curiously.

You nodded with Tom, picking up the sticks to throw them in the nearest bin.

“Yep, we did.” you affirmed.

“Oh cool!” your son grinned. “Can I see your colored tongue?”

You shrugged and opened your mouth, Tom doing the same so that your son could see. Instantly the face of your toddler skewed into one of confusion and you felt immediate guilt.

“How’d you get purple tongues if there aren’t purple popsicles?”

You looked at Tom absolutely mortified, catching sight of his purple tongue before he shared your expression.

“Uhhh…”

#tom holland x you #tom holland #tom holland x reader #tom holland fanfiction #dad!tom holland #mom!reader #cliche #likesupercliche #toddler #potty training

383 notes · View notes

buckybarnesthehotshot · 2 years

Text

Everyone’s Favorite Interview Crasher (Daniel Ricciardo x Ferrari Driver! Reader)

|main masterlist|

summary: daniel crashes y/n’s post-race interview

word count: 848

a/n: i feel like this man was just all over the place this weekend, i love it sm

“Daniel Ricciardo, you pulled off climbing to P5 from P16, how do you feel about that?” y/n questioned, turning to Daniel with the mic she was initially being interviewed with. The camera crew laughed at the two drivers as they watched the antics unfold.

Both their press officers shared a look, already aware of how unproductive things were bound to be whenever the two were put together.

“Oh, uh,” he chuckled as y/n pushed the mic to his mouth, “It was great, you know. The team did really well, and the conditions were a bit tricky, but we managed to push through. I mean you did great as well! You were literally on the podium earlier.”

“We aren’t talking about me, Daniel Ricciardo,” she tried her best to deadpan her voice, unable to keep her giggles in.

“You know you don’t have to keep saying my name, right?” Daniel laughed. They probably looked ridiculous at that point. A Ferrari and a McLaren driver, both laughing as they derailed their interview.

“I like saying your name,” she shrugged, “Just rolls right off the tongue. Don’t you think, Daniel Ricciardo.”

Daniel shook his head with a chuckle before continuing, “I think I’m going to agree with you there, y/n l/n.”

“What message do you think you finishing this high up in the points sends to your team, Daniel Ricciardo,” she questioned jokingly, poking at the corner of his lip with her microphone.

“Ah, mate, are you trying to get us both in trouble here?” he chuckled before feigning going for a bite from the microphone.

“We’re already in trouble, you’re crashing my interview,” she reminded him, “Wait, Charles told me you did the same with him this weekend as well.”

“Ah, that’s me. Daniel Ricciardo, everyone’s favorite interview crasher,” he smiled proudly, “This is probably the fourth or fifth interview I’ve crashed this week, honestly. I don’t know how it keeps happening.”

“Far better than crashing your car, I guess,” y/n shrugged nonchalantly as both she and Daniel broke out in another fit of laughter, “Here’s to finishing today’s race. May every race after not be as tricky as this one was.”

“I second that.”

“Also, whose interviews have you disrupted this weekend? I’m curious about your kill count now.”

“Well, there was Charles, obviously. Russell George as well, then there was Max, and uh, Pierre and Yuki, I think.”

“You’ve been busy this weekend.”

“I have! Do you know how hard it is to find interviews to crash?” he stated sarcastically, though they were both aware it was almost a guarantee that there’d be a driver interview ongoing at any given moment on the track.

“Right, I respect the hustle,” y/n nodded, almost completely forgetting about the fact that she was meant to be in an interview.

“Since you’re both here already, how do you both feel after the race?” the interviewer questioned, a frail attempt of salvaging what had been left of y/n’s post-race interview.

“Tired,” y/n admitted bluntly, “But um, I know I could have done better out there, but I’m pretty happy with the outcome.”

“Oh, uh, I’m definitely very happy with the result earlier. It’s been a while since my last top 5, so the team’s pretty happy about that as well,” Daniel smiled.

“Been a long time coming as well,” y/n nodded along with Daniel, a genuine smile on her face at the thought of Daniel finally getting a good race result again.

“Right? My last top 5, I think, was about a year ago?”

“Oh, really long time coming then,” y/n nodded, plastering a smile onto her face, “You deserve it, though. Maybe next time we can go wheel-to-wheel for a podium.”

“You’ve got the faster car anyways,” Daniel reminded her.

“Maybe I’ll get a bit of floor damage?” she suggested in a joking manner, “Really, though, I’m looking forward to seeing you in the points more.”

“So demanding, this one,” Daniel shook his head jokingly, hand motioning to y/n, “But uh, yeah, definitely would like to be in the points more. Let’s just hope some of your Ferrari luck rubs off on me.”

“What luck?” y/n quipped.

“At the rate you’re going, we’re both going to end up unemployed by the end of the year.”

“Right, wouldn’t want that,” y/n shook her head, correcting her statement, “Ferrari is very lucky…”

She then muttered something incoherent, making Daniel burst out in a fit of laughter, confusing the interviewers.

“She just said that Ferrari was lucky to have her,” Daniel explained, gazing fondly upon her, “You know, I think you’ve been spending way too much time with me already.”

“Right, you should probably go get your own interview for me to crash,” she nodded, as he made his way towards where he was meant to be interviewed, she paused for a moment, wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

“What was that for?”

“I’m proud of you,” she smiled as he walked away, a wide grin on his face, “Congrats again, Daniel!”

Bonus gifs i almost used for this post:

F1 TAGS: @errrrrat (taglist open)

DANIEL RICCIARDO TAGS: @a-distantdreamer (taglist open)

#daniel ricciardo fanfiction #daniel ricciardo fanfic #daniel ricciardo x reader #daniel ricciardo x y/n #daniel ricciardo x you #daniel ricciardo #F1 #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 fanfiction #f1 x you #Formula 1 #formula 1 fanfic #formula 1 fanfiction #formula 1 x you

313 notes · View notes

multifandomfix · 2 years

Text

A Lady Of The Greatest Honor - Simon Basset

Summary: All the other ladies may be charmed by the rakish Duke, but you do not consider yourself among his admirers. Yet somehow he finds your attitude towards him amusing and seeks your friendship if nothing else.

Word Count: 1,191

Warnings: Heavy use of sarcasm

As three of the season's debutantes tittered at a remark one of them made about the newly arrived Duke of Hastings, you merely rolled your eyes at their naïveté. To think any of them stood a chance with such a notorious rake was the stuff of romance novels. You certainly had no intentions upon him yourself. You only hoped to secure a good match that also happened to be an all around good man.

Let the frivolous girls enjoy their senseless flirting. You couldn’t stand to see it yourself, but what concern was it of yours if the other ladies flung themselves at the unattainable Duke? At least it improved your chances of a proposal from a worthy man who actually sought a wife.

You danced with several men at the ball that night. A couple of them were complete bores, but you did your best to maintain a polite smile nonetheless. One or two had potential, but you soon tired of the night's events to warrant going back out onto the dance floor and making another attempt at a connection tonight.

For the remainder of the evening, you retreated to the outer edge of the room in observation of the rest of the ton in attendance. You did not see the ceaselessly spoken of Duke arrive to a halt next to you. "Is the lady not dancing," he asked if you.

"Certainly not with the likes of you if this is your way of asking."

He chuckled darkly. "I was only curious. The rest of the ton seems to be inexhaustible tonight."

"I suppose I just tire more easily," you replied flatly, trying to hide your embarrassment in assuming his intention when approaching you.

"Or perhaps you’re just more sensible than the others," he said. You opened your mouth to reply, but he’d gone before you could utter a word.

It was later, after the ball, that you found your thoughts drifting back to the Duke of Hastings. He was still a rake, that much was an indisputable fact, and one with no intention of taking a wife, but he had surprised you. He wasn’t the villain you made him out to be. You’d judged him too harshly, though you wouldn’t go about admitting as much to him.

The next time you saw him was at another ball, two days later where he approached you again. "I’m starting to think you may be in search of a wife after all, if we keep running into each other like this," you greeted with a wry grin.

"Don’t let the rest of the ton know, or else I’ll never have a spare moment to speak with you again," he teased back.

"Hmm, I’m not sure if that would be a bad thing or not," you pondered aloud, making sure he heard.

"Very funny."

You smiled at this, deciding to quit your endless ribbing at him in favor of a more earnest question. "What does bring you over to my corner of the room again? Surely there are many young ladies demanding your attention."

"That is precisely it. They demand, persistently, might I add. With you there is no pressure to be forcibly kind. You don’t have that expectation of me."

"Don’t I," you asked. "How can you know that for sure? Perhaps this is merely my tactic in attempting to secure you as a husband."

He laughed. "Then it is surely more effective than any other lady's method in getting my attention. Though I truly do not wish to impede your own search for a match, so if you wish me to go, I shall."

You considered it but a moment before offering your reply. "Stay. The lecherous old Mr. Higgins has made himself my pest for the night and I could use a plausible excuse to avoid him."

"Then do let me take you out for a dance. Lady Danbury will be disappointed if I don’t dance with someone tonight, and it may improve your offers if you’re to be seen with me."

"Aware of our own self worth then, are we," you jested.

"Only that of my rumored status, for I do not see myself in the same light as many of the ton do."

Offering you his hand, the Duke led you to the dance floor as you asked another sincere question. "Then how do you see yourself?"

"As a solitary man who has the world at his fingertips." His eyes sparkled with possibility at his own answer and you couldn’t help but smile in response. A family would certainly change his level of freedom to explore as you’d heard he was wont to do.

You danced the rest of the waltz in a comfortable silence, keenly aware of the many sets of eyes upon you. "Your Grace," you suddenly spoke, deflecting to a more formal way of addressing him in your growing unease.

"It is perfectly acceptable for you to address me as Simon when it’s just the two of us who can hear."

You paused when the song ended, and looked him in the eyes. "Simon," you breathed, testing the name on your tongue.

"Yes, my lady?"

"Thank you for the dance." It was the most genuine thing you’d said to him during any of your interactions.

"Thank you for accepting."

The two of you parted for the night after that. You danced with a couple more dashing lords, but none held your attention. It was unfair of you to give them hope of courting you for the season. Your heart wasn’t in it. In fact, your heart was quite confused.

You sat at home the following afternoon, playing piano for your family as you awaited the arrival of any gentleman callers. "There is a suitor for you," it was finally announced, interrupting your playing.

"Did he leave his name," you inquired.

"He refused," came the reply. Turning your head away from curious gazes, you smiled, having a sneaking suspicion of the man's identity.

"Send him in."

Not a minute later you looked up from the piano to find the Duke of Hastings standing in your home. "Lady Whistledown is going to start thinking I’ve tamed the ton's most infamous rake," you teased him.

"Let her think and say what she likes. I simply enjoy your company and wish to spend more time in it. If you have no other callers today, then I’d like to promenade with you if you’ll allow me."

The room was silent enough to hear a pin drop as your family awaited your answer. He’d come here for you and while you couldn’t confirm his intentions in doing so, you would be hard pressed to refuse him and miss out on an evening spent in pleasant company. "I believe my day is quite free," you said at last.

While you used to consider yourself a lady of the greatest honor, perhaps your morals could bend to open yourself to something akin to love if not love itself, even if the man in question was a well known rake. If you could change, was there not a possibility that he could as well?

Simon Basset: @retvenkos, @ladybridgerton39, @riveranddoctorsong123, @idk1323611, @theamazingworldofcarol, @esposamultifandom, @littlsstuff, @danimorgan1708, @ghostsunderstoodmysoul, @triorio

#simon basset #simon basset one shot #simon basset x reader #bridgerton #bridgerton one shot #request #send requests #requests open

989 notes · View notes

writeshite · 2 years

Note

Im on my knees begging for more Homelander stuff

You Are My Sunshine, My Only Sunshine

Summary:

You flick his forehead, “Yeah, well, at least I don’t wear hair gel, which, fun fact, is flammable.” You chase him around the room, hands in the air, and your little suns rush past him, leaving dents in the walls, “I’m gonna fry you, John,” you cackle when he tries to fly away and ends up with his head through the ceiling, you fall to the floor in full-blown laughter.

Pairings:

Homelander x Male!Reader

Tags:

Supe!Reader | Childhood Friends to Lovers | Crack Treated Like Fanfic

Words: 1816

Author's Note:

Do I know what this is? No. Hope you like it.

Your room in the Vought labs is average; you’ve counted every dent, corner, and scorched burn mark a hundred times over, so it’s strange when you see the new face. The face in question belongs to another boy, about your age, his hair is swept well, and he looks normal enough. He looked tired, though, like he’d just been running from someone and hadn’t expected his hiding place to have someone else in it. His confusion was replaced by curiosity when he realizes the shiny glow of your skin, like the sun, your skin is quite literally like the solar celestial. The burn marks, your outbursts, the human shape in the burn marks, Vought employees that thought it’d be fun to piss off a child with the power to turn you to ash. Your eyes are just white, with no pupils, no color, just glowy white things in your head.

“Wow! You’re shiny!” He reaches out to you, but you flinch back and try to warn him off, but he ignores you, grabs your arm, and he marvels at it. “That’s so not fair! You got a better power than me!”

You just stare at him, he’s not burning or screaming; aside from the edge of his sleeves charring up, he’s perfectly fine. “You can touch me?”

He huffs, “Yeah. My name’s John; what’s yours?”

John was a curious case, he was a lab rat like you, but he had a lot more freedom - mainly because he was a little brat and used his power to get what he wanted - he was also your only friend, well, technically, he was the only friend you hadn't turned into barbeque. As mentioned, if John wanted something, then he would get it, so he wanted to be your friend, and there was nothing the scientists could do about it.

“John, what are we doing?” He'd rushed into your room, and dragged you away without explanation.

“Just trust me,” he responds.

It’s way past curfew, and if you get caught, you might get in trouble; you’re pulled into another area, and your light fills the room; John moves to stand in front of you, hands spread out in a ta-da gesture, “Surprise! We’re gonna be roommates!”

“Really? How? Vought wouldn’t….”

“Fuck Vought—”

You put your hands on his mouth, “That’s a bad word.” John licks your hand, and you draw back with a disgusted look on your face.

“See, this is our drawing wall, and this is our bed, and I even got more blankets in case you get cold.”

“How would I get cold? I’m the sun, you dodo,” you remind him.

His face scrunches up, “I know that! I was just trying to be nice,” he huffs, punching your arm; you smack his face and laugh when he flies into a wall. “Meanie,” he pouts. The two of you play fight for a bit, and when the Vought scientists come in the morning, they find you side by side, hands together. When they try to separate you, John breaks a few arms before they get the hint, and John’s room becomes your room.

It doesn’t end there; pretty soon, John decides it’s not enough and demands to have you by his side at every instance. So you clap when John gets his training done, and he catches the little suns you throw in the air. When he doesn’t pay attention to the education side of things, you stay up tutoring him, and sometimes, when you’re upset, he’ll make his shitty shadow puppets, and you wipe away the tears laughing.

You go from child to teenager, and both your powers grow with you; John’s eyes hurt when he opens them, the red beams are more powerful now, and he sucks at flying. Parts of your body will flicker, and you'll have human skin for a brief few moments, but those moments are few and far in between. John says it’s stupid, “Why would you want human skin? You’re cooler than that,” he insists, but you sigh.

“Don’t you wish you were normal, like normal, normal?” you ask back; his face does the little scrunchy thing when he’s confused, “you know, like the kids we see on TV, parents, cousins, grandparents, normal birthdays and actual rooms, not this.” You gesture around you, your shared ‘room’ had seen minor upgrades, with the inclusion of a larger bed and actual drawers, but it still wasn’t a proper room. “Sometimes I wish I could actually touch things without worrying they’ll melt in my hands.”

John headbutts you, “Maybe, but if I were normal, then I wouldn’t have you, and I’d be a nobody.”

“With a face that ugly,” you joke, “I doubt it.”

He huffs, sticking out his tongue, “At least I’m not a lightbulb.”

On occasion, this lady comes to see you, well, not you, mostly John; she babies him every chance she gets. Coming in between you and him whenever she can. Madelyn Stillwell, if you heard the others right, she must be high on the totem pole if they let her take John anywhere she wants, whenever she wants. Despite John's reassurances, you don’t like her; any time she comes too close, you make sure her outfit of the day gets burned somehow. It’s probably why she hates you. Once John comes back from one of their field trips looking lost and barely utters a word for a few days, but after every other field trip, he gushes about her like the mother he never had.

The childhood euphoria doesn’t last long; Vought decides to make the two of you the faces of their brand, and they wind up some bullshit about the two of you finding some calling in an ordinary childhood. You don’t care about the details as much as they do and roll your eyes every second they force you to memorize it. Then they get you costumes; that was your favorite bit, watching John squirm as they fit you in various suits - his hero costume looks like the American flag took a shat all over it; yours is like a solar eclipse like it absorbed all the light, a contrast to your abilities, and between the two of you, you share a gold accent.

“I feel ridiculous,” John grimaces, “I mean, look at this thing; why are there so many stars?!”

“Yeah, you do look stupid,” you agree with him; holding the ends of your cape, you turn on the spot, marveling at your starry pattern, much smaller than his; it resembles the night sky, and every time you move it looks like it’s moving on its own. “I look amazing, they said my Supe name’s going to be Eclipse because I take away the light for myself.”

John sulks, “How come you get the cool stuff?” He sits on the floor, arms folded as his cheeks puff up childishly.

You roll your eyes, flicking his forehead, “I was only joking; you look fine.” That doesn’t stop the pouting; in fact, John just turns away from you, so you resort to plan B. You’d seen something like this once; one of the Vought employees had made her girlfriend happy by kissing him, so that’s what you do, you kiss John’s cheek. It doesn’t make him happy per se, but he stops sulking, and now you’re not sure what to do because you just stare at each other. John’s cheeks have a slight tinge of red to them.

“You kissed me,” he mutters.

“Yeah, don’t expect me to do it again,” you shove him and run off; John sits there, hand on his cheek, as he watches you leave.

Vought brings in other Supes over time; some survive, some don’t, and those that do survive get put with you and John in the Seven - the world’s greatest team of Supes. The lineup changes one or two times, but right now, it’s you, John, Queen Maeve, Stormfront, the Deep, Starlight, A-Train, and Black Noir. You go from a lab rat to a celebrity, interviews, paparazzi, fans, merch, the whole nine yards, and you get moved up to the 99th floor. Your room is ever bigger, and you spend the first few days just staring out at the city, John sneaks into your room a lot, and the two of you just sit.

You talk, but sometimes, John is too busy staring at you to respond; unlike before, you could switch the glowy skin off. The first time you did it, you practically cried in relief; back then, John had said you looked weird, but now he just stared at you like you were the most remarkable thing on Earth. You snap your fingers in his face, “Hello, Earth to John.”

“Huh?”

“You were staring again, weirdo,” you tell him.

“Sorry,” he says, looking away. Your hands are intertwined, and you’re leaning back on him; when you glance over at him, he’s got a red blush creeping up his skin. You grab his chin, tilting it down, and you kiss him again, this time on the lips. It’s fleeting and brief, but it’s enough, and John’s face is entirely red for a while.

You don't have a relationship per se; more like brief rendezvous in the hallways, tag teaming for missions; Edgar makes his displeasure pretty clear, but you don’t pay him any mind, and he, at the very least, does the favor of keeping it to himself. The general public is equally as perceptive, and before long, the internet blows up over it; Madelyn is very much displeased by it and makes it known.

“It’s a distraction to your careers and dedication to Vought International.”

“And trying to set him up with Starlight and having me with the Deep isn’t?” You ask, creeping close to her, “John may hold a soft spot for you, but I don’t, try and come in between him and me, and I’ll turn you to barbecue.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” she challenges, stepping back anyway; she goes to say more, but the doors slide open, and John enters the room. He looks beat and barely pays her any mind; coming up to you, he kisses your forehead, Madelyn clears her throat when he starts to rant, and he turns to her in surprise. Their conversation is brief, but John ends it with a yawn, and as Madelyn leaves for the elevator, you smile, drawing a line across your neck to get the message clear.

End Note:

Reader is a living sun btw, if I didn't make it clear enough. I don't know what this is, I just wanted to write some childhood friends to lovers kinda thing. Hope you enjoyed reading this shite, stay hydrated.

#homelander x male reader #the boys imagine #shiterequests #homelander x reader

430 notes · View notes

georgiapeach30513 · 1 year

Text

Closer to Heaven and Closer to You, Part 8

Summary: Ransom finally makes it to a rodeo

Pairings: Ransom Drysdale X Reader

Rating: explicit

Warnings: explicit language, explicit sexual content, smut, unprotected sex, PIV sex, breeding kink, voyeurism, exhibition kink, creampie, 18+ ONLY

Word Count: 6.1K

Series Masterlist

*dividers created by @firefly-graphics

The second you walk into Harlan’s study your eyes glance around the tightly packed room before walking over to him. He doesn’t hesitate to hold out his arm to you, giving you a knowing smile as you put on the blood pressure cuff, “He’s not here. You can quit looking around.”

“I’m not quite sure I know what you mean,” you answer quickly, but he nods his head. Giving you the time to read his blood pressure, before taking your seat opposite him, tossing you a bag of Go stones. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Why do you keep glancing in the mirror behind me? Watching the door when I have already told you he is not here.”

“Who?”

“My grandson, Ransom. He’s out of town doing research for me. He’ll be back by the weekend,” he smiles as he stares at you, and simultaneously lays down his first stone. “I think I’m going to beat you this time.”

“No, you won’t. Your moves have become predictable. Much like your incessant need to steer our conversations towards Ransom.”

“He’s a good man. I know that you have noticed how he is vastly different from the rest of my family. He wasn’t always like that. Near death experiences will do that to a man. Ahh!” His voice bellows. He had actually taken you off guard, and blocks you. “I’ve distracted you.”

“What do you mean near death experience?”

“You did it again,” you roll your eyes, looking up at him. He was completely cornering you in the game and the conversation. “Has Ransom’s past struck you that hard? I thought you didn’t care.”

“He’s important to you, and that’s why I care.”

“Hmm, guess that’s why the two of you have started smiling at one another more. Also why he had one of his little pouts when I made him leave for the week.”

“Stop,” finally, you’re able to catch him in his own game, blocking his own moves. “I am the help, and he is…”

“Not an employer. The help, bah. You are a nurse. A capable nurse that is administering my medicine, and you keep me occupied when no one else does. Is this job boring to you?”

“How can it be boring when you demand I play Go whenever your partner in crime is not here,” looking up at him, you give him a cocky grin, holding out a hand for one of his pieces. “Why is this conversation about Ransom?”

“Why were you looking in the mirror waiting for him to come up here? If you two are nothing but friends, I think that’s fair considering you’re quite compatible. But you’re more interested in why he almost died?” Giving him a head nod, you try and not be as curious as you are. “The rich have their demons just as much as the next. He was stupid and thought he was invincible. Cocaine, alcohol, and driving do not mix. But he’s alive to talk about it. Got sober, and came to work for me. Started doing more for the company than my son, but also helped me research when I couldn’t. I’ve stifled his own creativity. Don’t think I haven’t noticed him writing himself. He takes after me more than my own children.”

“He’s one of your favorite people, isn’t he?”

“What’s not to love about him? He’s handsome, smart, passionate about his career and legacy, he’s a lot more compassionate and kind than the rest of his family. Although they like to remind him of his major screw up. So tell me about your past, Bunny?”

“I had a thing for cowboys in tight jeans,” you hated to think about the time that you wasted on Frank. You had been warned about how he and the other riders were, but those tight jeans and blue eyes had you hooked. “And cowboys are addicted to the roar of a crowd, the adrenaline rush, a gold belt buckle, and I’m pretty sure they get off on the pain.”

“So you were the nurse on the rodeo circuit, and you fell for a bull rider until you ran away to Boston?”

“That’s the abridged version, yes. I always have this habit of trying to find a man that needs fixing. This cowboy loved the rodeo more than me. There was no compromise. From either of us. I wanted to take away his dream, and he wanted to take away mine.”

“Two people that love each other, but not enough to sacrifice what they loved the most,” Harlan sighs, looking at the board and how there were no moves for him to make without you winning, “I don’t like playing with you.”

“Do not pretend to have a seizure to erase the board. Just admit that I won.”

“I’m feeling a bit faint. Do you mind checking my temperature?” He was unbelievable. If you didn’t respect Harlan as much as you did, you might be offended by the fact that he never wanted to admit defeat. He would much rather change the subject to something else.

“So where is Ransom off to?”

“Oklahoma. And he hates it. Your tales of the west have inspired me.”

“Except I’m from Montana.”

“I was hoping to visit there. Maybe have you as my tour guide. Ransom can come as well, if you’d like.”

“You better stop before your blood pressure rises. Quit trying to play another game when you can’t admit that I won Go.”

“What game do you suppose I’m playing?” He stands up, extending a hand down to you, “Come on, let’s go walking around the grounds. Sometimes I just like to remember the place where my grandchildren would play. My wife didn’t rear our children here. Ransom was quite fond of this house,” there he went again, changing the subject to Ransom. He was good at doing that, and you didn’t really mind at all. It was sweet hearing about a child Ransom.

“Strong handshake,” your dad nods, giving you a wink before he drops Ransom’s hand. “So your mother tells me you’re not going to be staying here?”

“No, I said, if you still had the rule about boyfriends sleeping in my room, that we would respect that, and we would stay somewhere else.”

“Ransom, huh?” Your father could be terrifying without even trying. A tall man, with a deep voice, and his well fed stomach. He still could hold his own with most ranchers, and his collection of shot guns was locked up in a cabinet and displayed as soon as you walked into the living room, but Ransom never showed any fear towards him like Frank did. Ransom had nothing to fear.

“Yes, sir. It’s a bit of a nod to my grandfather’s mystery novels.”

“My wife is quite fond of your grandfather’s books. Has the entire collection, and some first editions. You know, I like this one, sweetheart. Your sisters aren’t children anymore and don’t live here, and the two of you live together in Boston,” his eyes roll so far in the back of his head, all you could see were the whites of his eyes. “Is he what is keeping you there?”

“That and my job is there. I love it there. And where Harlan is it’s just as far out from the city as I would be here. You would love it.”

“Not likely. Fine. I suppose he can sleep in your room. I’ll have your mother send up a cot,” you shake your head, but giggle all the same. “Okay, no funny business though.”

“Dad!”

“No funny business until you’re married. The cow and milk deal, you know?”

“Dad, stop it,” Ransom still showed no fear, and even starts laughing along with your father. His rotund belly jiggling as he laughs with Ransom. “You two are going to be a nightmare, I know it.”

“Your boyfriend mentioned something about wanting to go to the rodeo. You sure that’s a good idea?” He looks at you, his eyes narrowing. It could only mean one thing, and that was the fact that Frank Adler was still riding bulls.

“Yeah, it’s a great idea. Bunny talks very vaguely about her time on the circuit. I just want to experience it. Rodeo seems to be a big part of life around here.”

“And to some it really is their only life, huh?” You don't’ even answer, just hold onto Ransom’s arm even tighter. “I suppose sometimes you have to move backwards to move forwards though. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. The rodeo is no joke, and you definitely need to get better clothes, and by that, I mean not so fancy clothes. Buns, get this man some boots. Now you two go play, just don’t play too hard. You know…I’m going back out. Dinner is promptly at six. Your sisters will be here, so don’t be late,” spinning on his heels, he heads towards the door, leaving Ransom to turn towards you.

His brows furrow as he tries to ask you what that conversation was all about, “I dated a bull rider, okay?”

“Oh, you had you a little cowboy,” he smiles, walking over to the couch where he settles back, propping his leg onto the coffee table, and a big smile spreads out on his face, “How come you never talked about this man?”

“I did just not in so many words.”

“How serious were you?”

“We lived in a camper, had a dog, and then had a house on his family land, and…we were engaged.”

“Oh,” there was disappointment in his voice. He had never asked anyone to marry him, and had only talked about marriage with you. So he said. “What happened?”

“We both wanted different things. I wanted to get married, have kids, and have him work on a ranch. He wanted the rodeo. He was manipulative with our relationship and the timeline that I wanted for it. There were honestly a lot of things wrong with our relationship, and had I trusted my gut, and not ignored his many red flags, we wouldn’t have made it to that point.”

“What are my red flags? And don’t lie and say that I don’t have any. Everyone has red flags.”

“No, everyone has flaws. Flaws aren’t always a red flag,” you walk over to the couch before sitting down beside him. Leaning over on his shoulder as you pet on his arm. “And your flaw is caring too much about what people think about you.”

“I just want people to know I mean well.”

“I know you mean well. And you have definitely impressed me on so many different occasions. Ran, there’s not been any red flags that I’ve had to ignore. We all have a past, and I know you let yours haunt you sometimes, but I love who you are right now. And without your past would you be the man that I love?”

“Your flaw is being right too often,” he leans over, letting his head rest on your own. Lacing has fingers in yours. “We don’t have to go to the rodeo.”

“You want to go. And Frank means nothing to me anymore. I can’t say what he or his friend will do, but Bucky will be there, and you’ll finally get to meet him.”

“Yes, I’ve been needing to talk to Bucky. One on one without you.”

“Don’t steal him from me,” you loved that Ransom and Bucky got along. He respected Bucky, and had been so immersed in asking questions about life in Montana with him. It was like doing research on a new book. Location, Montana. You knew he had to be up to something, but you honestly didn’t care. If and when you were meant to know, he would tell you. Until then, you liked his whispers to Bucky on the phone. “Maybe he can take you shopping for some boots.”

“Leave my shoes alone.”

“It’s awfully muddy at a rodeo.”

“And I am Ransom Drysdale. I don’t have to change who I am to fit in somewhere.”

“Ran, hold his head up,” you tell him, trying not to panic, but your body was buzzing with fear. You had never spent so much time on one person in your life. Harlan had become one of your best friends, and here he was with a plummeting blood pressure and loss of consciousness. “What did the operator say?”

“That they had an ambulance en route to the estate. What do we do?” He looked like a puppy dog staring up at you. He was almost immobilized and looking for you for some guidance. “Bunny,” he says softly when your eyes go blank. “You’ve got this, what do we do?”

You check his pulse quickly, and it was faint. Ransom needs you, and so does Harlan. “Let’s get him to the ground floor so the paramedics don’t have to climb up these narrow stairs. He seems more stable now. That’s a good thing,” with an agreeing nod, Ransom follows your lead as the two of you lift him up. He was definitely carrying a heavier load as you work together to get them easier access.

“Why are you two fussing over me?”

“Go back to sleep, old man,” Ransom tries to make light of the subject. “Unless you think you can walk.”

“No, he definitely can’t walk.”

“I definitely can walk. Just put my feet on the ground. I’m fine,” his words get softer with each sentence before his eyes close again.

“Bunny?” That pouting and worried look was getting to you. Harlan was a client, and Ransom was his grandson, you couldn’t have feelings for either one of them. “Buns, is he going to be okay?”

“Yes. He’s got to.”

Ransom stares blankly at Harlan’s monitor, and then moves over to his IVs before leaning back on the couch. Giving it a pat, “Come on. No one else cares enough to even show up, but you don’t have to stand over him.”

“He doesn’t need all this. He was dehydrated. He didn’t fall, so why do they have him on such a high dose of pain meds.”

“Bunny, let them do their job, and you sit down and stop fretting. Harlan is a stubborn old man, and he said himself that he wasn’t ready to die just yet. They probably just want him to sleep,” his hand taps on the couch again, before you go over and sit down. Eyes still scanning over Harlan, and as far away from Ransom as you could possibly get. You didn’t need feelings for anyone. You had a job to do.

“Why has none of his kids come to check on him?”

“He’s stable,” Ransom sighs, leaning back. Neither of you had slept since being there, and he showed clear signs of exhaustion, and you were feeling the exhaustion. “They only care if he’s dying. It means they get the money. Well, they think they’re getting the money.”

“I’m not even going to pretend to understand that way of thinking. Harlan is more than the money he’s made. Your family is crazy. No offense.”

“I only will take offense if you think I’m like them,” turning to look at you, the two of your gazes linger for too long when you shake your head no. “Good.”

“I think you take after Harlan. Stubborn, self assured, but not arrogant, well dressed, smart, and knows what he wants.”

“So, what do you think that I want?” Your body starts reacting without your consent, and you find yourself leaning closer to Ransom. Unable to look away from him any longer. Noticing the slight freckling he has over his cheeks, and the moles that adorn his skin.

“I think you want to make a difference and be remembered.”

“Close. I want to be a good man like Harlan. Leave my mark on the word. Have a family, but learn from his mistakes with his kids. I don’t want to shower them with money and give them everything they want. I want them to have everything that they need, and work for what they want. I want to be able to give them attention, and guide them to be good, kind people in the world. Have my own book out there and be published under Blood Like Wine, but have it be different from Harlan’s brand of writing. I want Harlan to be my dad, and I want to go back these past few minutes and not dump all of that on you.”

“I think it makes you more endearing. You don’t always have to be so mysterious, and know all the answers. And I think at this point Harlan is your dad. He’s been more of a father to you than your own has been. We don’t always get to choose our family, but you’ve got a good one with Harlan.”

“What about you? Have you always wanted to uproot your life to Boston? What is here that isn’t in Texas,” you nudge at his shoulder, managing to get closer to him yet again. “What?”

“I’m not from Texas. I’m from Montana. We have big mountains. I think I became a fan of Boston because of my weird obsession with the Salem witch trials. Some of my favorite movies take place in Boston, and it’s just nice to get away from the place you had always lived.”

“But you want to go back?” That same pouting look appears on Ransom’s face, and you’re unsure what to make of it. Completely missing how his hand had slid over on the couch and was mere inches from your thigh.

“Eventually. I want to put down roots there. Would want to raise a family there. There’s all this space for kids to go outside and be kids. It seems silly, but I have always wanted to be a mom. Wanted to see these sweet little faces running around on a ranch. Helping their dad, who is most definitely not into the rodeo. But simplicity. But I still want to take them all over the states. Let them see all fifty of them, and move on to visiting other countries. Hope that they have that wanderlust, and need for adventure. Just not live in a camper.”

“They make pretty big campers.”

“I don’t want to live in one. Travel in one is fine,” leaning back a bit more, your eyes look up at the ceiling, and Ransom follows suit. His head right beside yours. “I swear there’s more stars in Montana. The air is just so clear. You can breathe better there.”

“Sounds like a good place for the old man to live out his days.”

“He’s not that old,” you giggle, your head leaning over, and hovering over his shoulder. Sleep was starting to take you both the more comfortable you got. “But it is a great place for inspiration. The mountains look painted, and so fake. It’s incredible the places that are in this world.”

“I’d like to go there one day. Only if you were my tour guide.”

“I could that,” you whisper, laying your head completely on his shoulder as sleep starts to overtake your body. Eyes completely close when his own head leans over on yours, and he whispers something incoherent as Harlan’s eyes peek open. Giving the two of you a smile.

“I knew it,” he whispers, staring at the two of you. “The best love stories happen when you’re not looking.”

Frank stretches out his body as he steps out of the camper. Squinting into the sun before tapping his leg for Clyde to follow him. Boots and hats on and ready for another day at his favorite place. Clyde had become a mascot at the circuit. Such a well behaved and mannered dog, and would sit on the sidelines waiting for him to be finished with his ride.

Frank was now equipped with a biggest belt buckle, and the world championship title, but still he felt like he was missing something in his life. The appeal of the crowd wasn’t as great as he remembered it, but he was in his prime. Achieved the greatest honor, and he didn’t know where to go from there.

“And there he is. The best bull rider in the world. How does it feel?”

“Like I slept in a camper alone.”

“You had me, and ole Clyde. Not sure where Bucky was.”

“He was securing his job, or whatever. Last season. Bucky is going to officially retire, which makes me wonder what it is he is going to do with his life. Going to be a farmhand for some rich man who doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing.”

“Yep,” Bucky leans over, petting Clyde. “That’s exactly what I’m doing. Why are you jealous?” Frank rolls his eyes, shaking his head. “Uh huh. You don’t seem jealous at all. I get to work on a beautiful ranch, and basically am the boss. Even got my own house. Bought and paid for. Got to pick out the livestock, and I’m the one in control, but it’s not my money.”

“You’re working for the owner of that ridiculous house, aren’t you?”

“Maybe. So tell me, Frank, you have accomplished your wildest dreams, what is there left to do?”

“For him to quit pining over a woman that left him. To officially move on and smell the roses. If she wanted to come back she would. She’s long gone, Franklin. Tell him, Buck, let our champion know that Bunny is forever out of his life.”

“Shut the fuck up. Watch the dog,” Frank storms off, leaving Steve to turn towards Bucky.

“Was it something I said?”

“You are right about one thing, Bunny is out of his life, but that doesn’t mean she’s never coming back.”

“What do you know?”

“She’s going to be here today. Reluctantly.”

“No shit? Is she alone?” Bucky shakes his head no, adjusting his hat. “She’s bringing some loser here, isn’t she? She wants to rub it in Frank’s face that she’s no longer alone, and has someone that isn’t in the rodeo.”

“You know, not everything is about Frank, right? Bunny moved, and got over him. Her being here has nothing to do with him. Nothing.”

Ransom thrusts deep into your core, and you turn around to look at him with a dopey smile. You loved him when he was extra needy. Couldn’t even wait until after the rodeo before he just had to have you. Feral in his need to feel you throbbing around him. He always got extra deep when he was like this.

“Ran,” you try not to scream, you weren’t far from the crowd, and your fingers dig into the tree. Trying to brace yourself. “Ran, I want you to fuck a baby in me. I want you inside of me. Feeling you grow in my belly,” you whine. He looks up from where the two of you connect, and at your blissed out face. Picking up his speed, and gripping your hips even tighter.

“Good. I’m going to keep fucking you until it sticks. You want me swelling in your belly?”

“Yeah. Yeah!” It was a bit too loud, but you were right at the precipice of complete euphoria. You didn’t even want this to end even if you knew that you should. You could hear more and more cars pulling up in the distance, but you couldn’t stop now. “Ran, I need you. You’re so fucking deep. So deep. Ran! Ransom!”

Frank smirks as he zips up his pants. He hated using the portable bathrooms. Being out here to relieve himself wasn’t any different than any of the other riders, but he had caught some couple that couldn’t wait to get a room. At least someone was getting lucky, he thinks to himself. And whoever the girl was sounded like a needy little slut.

“My god, you’re coming on my cock. Squeezing me so tight. You want my cum in there? Walk out to this rodeo and you’re filled with my seed?”

“Yes! Yes! Show me who I belong to!” Damn, she was something else.

You arch your back, letting Ransom get even deeper, and his fingers start making tight circles on your clit. He wanted you to come again before he filled you up. “Such a fucking needy bitch in heat, huh? Your pussy is so swollen, and ready for me to breed you!”

“Yes! Yes! Ransom…Ran, I’m…I’m…”

“Ugh! Bunny!” Wait a minute. “Buns, I’m coming. I’m…coming. Oh!” His spunk paints the inside of your womb, and you moan at the feeling of him still so deep inside of you. Hated that he had to leave you so soon. And he pulls your panties, and pants up your legs, tapping at your covered mound. “How does that feel?”

“Mmm,” you turn around to look up at him, pulling his fingers up to your mouth to suck them clean. “We could just go home?”

“No. We came to a rodeo, so we’re going to watch it,” Frank doesn’t even get a glimpse of you, but he knows that voice. Turning back the way he came, he stomps off. If you wanted to be a desperate little whore, you could be. But he was going to show you exactly what you gave up. “You know I’ll keep fucking you, until it sticks, right?”

“You act like I really care,” you hate to see him cover that pretty little cock up. You’d have some quiet, and less rampant fun later. It was kind of hot riding him in your childhood bedroom as the two of you whisper out your soft whimpers, trying not to wake anyone else in the house. “Come on, let’s get our seats.”

“What is your problem?” Steve asks, looking at Frank who was pacing on the side of the ring. It was getting close to starting time, and between Clyde who was staring and barking over towards the crowd, and now Frank was the one that was acting anxious, Steve had enough. “Frank?”

“Nothing. Clyde! Bud, you got to quit,” he looks up at Frank whining, and looks back over to the crowd, and now Frank knows why. There you were climbing the bleachers with that fucking pretty boy from the co-op. So it was Boston that you had gone to. Finally made it to your dream city, and you bring back a city slicker.

“His clothes look like they cost more than my truck.”

“Who?” Frank points over to the crowd, and towards the two of you. You were ridiculous. Sitting way too close to this man, and a hand rubs over his thigh. The two of you giving each other kisses and smiling at each other. “Oh, shit! Oh! Bunny is with that douche bag? Oh this is the greatest thing ever. I mean. Sorry, but she goes from you to that? That man doesn’t even look like he has a hair on his body. Minus what’s on top of his head. Every hair in place. Bet his body is as smooth as a baby's. What was Bunny’s grooming technique?”

“Shut up.”

“I’m just trying to figure out if he or she has more body hair. I mean seriously. This is hilarious. I mean, I knew she was going to be here, but the fact that she is with him. Oh shit!” Frank, turns and glares at Steve as he puts on his gloves. “That man was getting road head from Bunny. She is a bit of a slut for her man, huh? I mean, you would know. How is her head game?”

“Steve! Shut! Up!”

“Oh, come on. Bunny is a one dick kinda gal. You, well…when things got tough, you liked a bit of that fire pussy, didn’t you? Hey, did the carpet match the drapes? Or was it one of those hard pounding fucking, where you have her face down into the mattress gasping for breath, and you don’t care about anything but your own pleasure. That’s what it was, huh? You didn’t even know her name. Of course that’s what it was.”

“Why are you still talking?” Frank taps on his leg, but Clyde was completely ignoring him. Whining as he looks over at you. “Even my dog won’t shut up about her.”

“Well, she was pretty much the best thing that had ever happened to you, and him,” Frank hated it here. This was supposed to be his safe space, but it was anything but pleasant right now. This was misery. “Bunny got her a Boston man. A man with a lot of money. Oop! Is she coming back to Montana and living in that giant house? Oh. My. God! This is great. Bucky’s new employer knows nothing about a ranch, and judging by the way that pretty boy looks, neither does he. Bunny’s new man is Bucky’s employer. Ahh, this is great. She’s got her a rich rich man. I mean, we don’t know, but…I’m going with the fact that he bought that mansion for Bunny. Bucky is working for him. That barn is bigger than your house, pal. Ahh…Bunny. You should have married that woman.”

“If you recall, I tried. Clyde…go,” yipping at the command, the dog runs over to the bleachers where you were. It looked as if he was smiling as he sprints over to you. “My dog loves her more than me.”

“Her dog. You bought him for her. You know, to soften her up, and make her stay with you longer. Frank, you can make excuses all you want, you were married to the rodeo, and not ready for a divorce to be with her. Man, just let her go already. She’s moved on. And got her a real nice sugar daddy.”

“Yeah, and lets him fuck her outside the rodeo where anyone could see or hear them.”

“She let you fuck her in a camper, while me and Bucky were asleep a few feet away. Come on, Frankie, her leaving is your fault,” Frank swears he hears you squeal as Clyde jumps up on the bleachers beside you. Smiling as you pet along his fur, and even that pretty boy gets a pet or two in. “Go on, you’re up, buddy.”

Frank had everything in the world he wanted, so why was he still miserable? He jumps onto the back of the bull, roping his hand onto it when you look his way. Flicking your head over to Ransom as he puts his hand up in the air, “Okay, boys. Okay!”

That complete fear still sat in your chest as you watch his body flail around. Holding on tight to Ransom’s thigh, while the other hand nervously pets over Clyde’s fur. Jumping up when he’s thrown off the bull, and stomped on a few times before the clowns ever get to his side. “Oh, my god!”

“Bunny?” Ransom calls as you stand, grabbing onto his hand, and you walk off the bleachers. “What’s going on?”

“He’s hurt,” you could hear his groans, and you weren’t sure if it was from the fact that he wouldn’t be getting points since he had only rode for four seconds, or if he was in complete pain. “Frank!” You hold tighter to Ransom, pulling him closer to you, and you follow Clyde as he leads you to Frank’s side. You shouldn’t have come. You knew that Frank was going to be here. But you also didn’t want Ransom to feel like there were any more feelings left for Frank. There wasn’t, you just didn’t want him hurt.

“Bunny!” Frank groans as he’s lifted on a gurney to be checked out.

“Bunny?” This was the former fiancé. Ransom should have known that there was a possibility that he would eventually run into him. Especially at the rodeo.

“I’m okay, Buns. Just a bit banged up,” this was also the asshole from the co-op. The one who had his false nice demeanor, but Ransom had caught this man looking down at him. “Oh,” Frank says, annoyed looking at Ransom. You brought him over to see Frank. “You want to check me out for old time’s sake?”

“No, I don’t. I just wanted to make sure you were alive. Looks like some bruising,” the bruising was more than just on the surface. He was glowering at Ransom like he was second best to Frank. The pure look of disdain that he had for your boyfriend was infuriating. He could only wish to be half the man that Ransom was. That bruising went straight to his ego. “I think you’ll be just fine.”

“Bunny, don’t go.”

“No, we’re going to go on home. Clyde, stay with your daddy, buddy,” he looks between you and Frank, whining. The poor puppy was so confused. Frank needed him, but he wanted to spend more time with you. “Clyde, daddy needs you,” he wasn’t happy as he trots over to Frank’s side.

“The rodeo’s not over. Buns, stay,” you didn’t care. You wanted Ransom away from Frank. He was just toxic in your life. “Bunny, Bucky hasn’t rode.”

“Buns, baby,” Frank hated this man. Hated the way that he talked to you, or the way he was constantly touching you, and using the nickname that he gave you. He hated him being in Frank’s element, and with his girl. He was the reason that Frank was distracted. He was the reason that Frank was bucked off, and now here he was trying to be the perfect boyfriend. His thumb runs over your hand, caressing a small band on your ring finger, but he didn’t have a matching one. Were you already married? Frank just hated him.

“We should stay and watch Bucky. I promised him I would stay until his ride,” promised him? Ransom talked to Bucky. Maybe Steve was right and the giant ugly mansion was in fact yours and this man’s. Bucky was talking to the enemy. Bucky knew where you had been all along. Everything made sense now. Bucky ignored any conversation that was about you, and wouldn’t add to it. It was because he knew exactly where you were, and that you were fucking some new man. Probably after the first meeting, just to piss Frank off.

“Fine. Fine, we’ll stay. We leave after Bucky’s ride.”

“You have a cute dog,” Ransom tells Frank, and he hates his fake niceness. Frank hated Ransom, and Ransom just wanted to keep some form of peace. “Come on, baby, we’ll go back to our seats.”

Frank watches you sit down, still too close to that man, and still too needy for him. “I hate him,” he says to anyone that will listen.

“Oh, come on, he seemed nice. At least she found her a good man.”

“No. I’m going to play nice, and she’s going to realize that I have everything that she needs.”

“Yeah. Except, you don’t have the money that man has.”

“I’ve got money.”

“You have rodeo money. That man is old money. Probably generations of richness.”

“Did you see her ring?” Steve shakes his head no. He was too busy trying to figure out if there was going to be drama to notice anything about you. “She better not be married. And if she is, she didn’t even get a diamond, and he doesn’t wear a band.”

“You’re reading way too much into a ring she had on her finger. It’s probably just a ring. Go on, get bandaged up. It’s almost my turn. And Bucky is directly after me. Looks like today might be my day. I’m going to get laid by three women. Have one riding my dick, one riding my face, and the other sucking my balls. Ow,” Steve laughs, after Frank hits him. “I’m only kidding. The third is riding my abs.”

“Pussy is all you’re worried about, huh?”

“I ride bulls to get pussy, so yeah. I told you not to try and fall in love. Nobody listens to Steven though. Now look at you, glaring at some man that’s never done anything to you, while you’re dreaming about the way that Bunny would ride you. Other women can do that, Frank. If you loved her you would have made the sacrifice to quit. She found someone willing to make the sacrifice, bud. Get over it.”

He wouldn’t. He was going to get you back. Now that he knows where to find you. He was going to look more into this sold house. Get to the bottom of what was going on there. But he would win you back. That man didn’t even look like he would fight for you. But Frank would. And Frank was determined to win.

Masterlist

Taglist: @tis-thedamn-season @marveloustaylortot @pono-pura-vida @sstan-hoe @softsatnin @missusbarnes-rogers @peaches1958 @seitmai @smile1318 @andydrysdalerogers @cjand10 @patzammit @lavender-annd-lilac @sunshine-midnight-rain

#closer to heaven and closer to you #ransom drysdale #soft!ransom drysdale #ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale x fem!reader #ransom drysdale x you #ransom drysdale x y/n #ransom drysdale smut #frank adler #bull rider!frank adler #cowboy!frank adler

111 notes · View notes