Supernatural AU where reader wears the signs of special powers divisions but nobody knows what powers they have. And it's kind of taboo to talk about it.
So you are watched by your teammates
What they don't know: you are a twin soul. You have one body but two souls or minds. One is always corporal, moving your body and such. The other is free to roam, within a certain distance. It's not a unique power, it's even one that can be created under certain circumstances. Bad circumstances, which is another reason why nobody talks about it.
When you first join the TF 141, you are distant, cold, professional. No need to make friends, they would probably not understand anyways. Of course, your call sign is pretty obvious. Gemini, twin...
Of course, Price knows. He is the one who picked you. Actually personally met with you to get a feeling if you would fit with his boys.
They are all very professional, but of course they watch you. And you are careful not to slip too much, not to use your abilities outside of training. Relieved, when you hear their guesses not coming close.
"Telekinesis, must be that. They move things, I saw it." Soap was impressed by the floating knives and such, and most people thought it was telekinesis.
"No, it's different. They hear and see things in other rooms. That simulation yesterday... I swear they could not see me from any point." Gaz argues and throws astral projection into the mix. Why not, you can go with that.
You are wondering if they will get it right before you have to demonstrate the full range... Lost in your mind for a moment, not paying attention, you slip into the habit of handing your twin things while making tea. Just a routine thing while the others are discussing. So you don't notice Ghost coming up behind you, grabbing the spoon you were handing your other part.
"Gemini... You're a twin, aren't you." Rough voice, bit curious, no judgment... Yet.
"Pardon?" Fake it. Maybe he lets it go. You feel the panic rising. Memories from a too early age. The guilt. The anger. The pain.
"Your powers. Not really powers, right? Not really you doing the things. Your twin does it, right?"
Fuck.
"Don't..."
Ghost doesn't move, you are trapped in the kitchen, this human wall even coming closer, looking straight at you.
"Don't pretend you're stupid. I watched you. Good game, could be a number of things, but you just made tea as if another person was next to you."
You don't know how to respond, what do you say about having an invisible ghost twin who is also you but also not and only you can interact with them. So you just stare at Ghost.
"I'm telling you what I think, you don't have to say anything. But I guess you were made, intentionally. By a cult of some form. You remember parts of it. You never told anyone how much you actually remember. Keep your truth hidden. Makes people uncomfortable. Also easier to have a power than a ghost. Ghost spy on people. Ghosts are too human."
Okay, now you are angry. Did he hack into your files or what.
"Interesting, coming from a ghost" you snap and try to push him out of the way but then you freeze. Ghost stands in front of you. Mug in one hand. The other in his pocket. And yet you feel a large, rough hand on your shoulder. Just... there.
"Takes one to know one. Gotta be honest, wish I was wrong. We shouldn't exist."
We. WE shouldn't exist. Any other day you would agree. But for the first time you realise: you are not alone.
----------
Ugh, it's terrible. Hate what I wrote, but love the idea. I don't know. If you feel inspired and do something with this, please tag me. Just because I'm curious.
mom weirdly insisting to join you in a bubble bath just so so she can slowly grope and jerk you off. eventually you loosen up as she shoves your face in her breasts and slowly slides your cock into her pussy.
her plump, soft body hugs every inch of you, immobilizing you in absolute pleasure. after what feels like hours of pure, incestuous ecstasy you finally cum deep inside of her. she hugs you tighter and tighter as you fill her womb, as you slowly lose consciousness and fall asleep face first in her slick, soft breasts.
when you wake up, you’re in her bed. clean and dry, with her hugging you tight. she’s long asleep, with her soothing snores keeping you calm, reminding you of how much she loves you. enough to let you impregnate her, at least.
i want you to fuck my asshole, make me cry and beg you to take it out as you force yourself further into it
i just want you to force yourself in the most painful way in me without any care about my wellbeing, when you’re done maybe fill me with your cum and piss then plug me for the rest of the night ♡
i can't stop thinking about her tying me up really gently so i can't move... kissing my neck while she presses the vibrator right on my clit watching my eyebrows furrow just slightly while i let out a short whine
"i know baby, just take it for me" She speaks so gently, right into my ear.
all i can do is become a complete mess for her... whimpering, shaking, begging her to take it off. but even after i cum she doesn't pull away, just keeps it there while she tells me how pretty and sweet i am for her.
Omega!ghost who genuinely doesn't realize he's an omega until well into his late thirties...
For the longest time, ghost has assumed himself to be a beta. No heat or rut to speak of, nothing noteworthy happening downstairs, scent always mild. He never considered the...prolonged and intense trauma throughout his whole life may have stunted presentation.
Not until you move into the apartment next to his.
You, some omega that still smells of milk-honey underneath that fresh scent. Too young in ghosts opinion to be living alone.
Ghost's body decides to completely skip an omega heat and jump straight to overwhelming paternal instincts. Instincts that have you waking up in the middle of the night to your weirdo neighbor in your fucking apartment making a nest.
"Dude. What the hell." You say, lost for words. Sure, you like your neighbor and you should probably be freaking out right now, currently you are too damn tired.
"You need proper rest, pup." He tells you, leaving the nest to make a good attempt at scruffing you.
"I am a grown adult, sir." You grunt, but he's stronger and you end up in the nest anyways.
It's....really nice. The nest smells familiar enough with his scent and blankets from your closet tossed in. It settles some part of your hindbrain, you've not gotten around to making a nest since moving in. Never saw the point in it.
Now, you get it. Snuggled in and dozing off, ghost moving quietly around the room, cleaning. His own purr kept low and soft, no need to disturb his pup. In a few hours the instincts surge will settle down and for a brief moment he will be convinced he was dosed with something. Then, once realizing what's going on, mentally claim you as his pup.
A much shorter fic but still yummy. This one is cuter and sweeter than the other one but still had be squirming and aching 🫣. Also I gave Ambessa reading glasses cause hot
Cw: mom x daughter, lactation, lactation kink, I do not know much about lactation tbh, breastfeeding, I think thats it?
I imagine this to take place before the last fic btw! And this was a request from a special someone 🤭
The silence of her bed chambers was torture compared to the clash of blades on the battle field or the sound of her children laughing. Ambessa sighs with frustration, dropping the book she was failing to read on the chaise next to her. She pulls of her reading spectacles, groaning softly at the movement.
Just lifting her arms made her breasts ache, filled to the brim. She was normally better at taking care of herself but she had been so busy with her little ones. She huffs again, remembering they weren't so little anymore. The thought ached her soul so she turned her attention to her pumping machine.
She supposed something was better than nothing just to relieve the ache in her breasts. Of course as soon as she stood to grab it, her child's desperate cry filled the air.
"Mama!" Baby cries, practically slamming the door down to throw herself into her mother's arms. The collision would take down anyone else, but not Ambessa. She catches the smaller girl, barely budging as if the girl was a feather hitting a mountain.
"Hi, sweet girl," Ambessa chuckles, lifting her more securely into her arms. She smiles down at her daughter, brushing the curls out of her face. "What have you been up to?"
Baby lights up at the question, rambling on and on about their day. Their smaller hands clung to her robe as if afraid to let her go. Ambessa knew her children were afraid everytime she left for battle but her youngest was especially sensitive to the matter.
Ambessa rumbles out a laugh, setting her daughter down on her bed as she prepares for bed. She listens to every word as she wraps her hair and cleans her face. A soft wince escapes her when her breasts shift, catching her daughter's worried attention.
"Mama? Are you okay?" The younger girl asks, shifting forward on the bed. She scans her mother, as if searching for anything that would dare hurt her. Ambessa approaches with a fond smile, gently rubbing her daughter's cheek.
Ambessa shakes her head, sitting behind her daughter on the bed. Her fingers work through her hair gently, more gentle than her advisors or servants ever see her.
"Yes, princess," Ambessa responses softly, kissing the top her her head. She pulls her daughter into her lap and her gaze turns thoughtful. "Mama's just a little sore and full."
Baby nods slowly even as confusion twists their features. Ambessa chuckles again, tilting her head to drink in the sight of baby's innocence.
"You know how mama fed you when you were little little?" This earns her a nod before she continues, "well, sometimes mama gets a little full in her breasts with milk. Shes okay, it just aches since mama hasn't gotten it out."
There's a gentle silent moment, not awkward but full of thought. Baby's voice is small when they speak. "Can I help mama?"
Ambessa pauses, surprise and something much darker crossing her features. Her little girl was so adorable and sweet and so eager to please. She purses her lips in thought as she brushes hair back from her daughter's face. Slowly, she pulled back the top of her robe, letting it fall off her shoulders, exposing her large, swollen breasts.
A fond smile curls her lips at Baby's wide eyed look before they scoot into her lap. Their smaller hands draw a soft moan from her as they cup and gently massage one breast. A dribble of milk slips free, caught on Baby's eager tongue, earning a moan from Ambessa. She barely gets a moment before their little mouth latches on, her massive fingers curling into their hair.
"Oh, baby," Ambessa breathes out, letting her head fall back. Her hands move without thought, softly caressing her daughter with care and adoration. Baby smiles brightly against her breast, returning to massaging and easing out more milk.
Her hand cupping her daughter's head pushes her closer, pressing more of her breast into the girl's mouth. Her eyes were tender as she looked down at the girl, watching her lashes flutter against her cheeks and lips sucking with need.
Before long, Baby was moving onto the other breast, eager to fill up her little tummy and help out her mama. Each tender touch had her shivering and clinging to her mother's robe. Her eyes grew heavier with each draw of milk past her lips. She sighs softly when her mother's strong arms incase her, making her feel so so safe and warm.
I tighten my grip on your thighs while your hips roll up in that needy, defiant rhythm. "You want my mouth on your cunt so bad, don't you?" I ask, voice low and amused as my fingers trace lazy circles on your inner thigh. You nod fast, eyes wide and glassy. "Please," you gasp, voice already thin. "Taste me. I need it."
I laugh softly against your skin, lips hovering right above your slick folds without touching. "That's not begging. That's whining." My tongue darts out for one quick, shallow lick along your outer lip, then I pull back again. You jerk hard, trying to chase the contact, but I hold you down tighter.
"Fuck, please," you gasp again, thighs shaking. "I can't take it. Your tongue feels so good. I need you on my pussy. I'll do anything." The sound of your voice cracking like that sends a hot pulse straight between my legs. I drag my tongue up the crease of your thigh instead, slow and wet, stopping just short of your clit. "Keep going," I murmur, savoring every desperate word. "Tell me exactly what you want my mouth to do."
Your breath hitches, bratty spark flickering even as you break. "Lick inside me. Suck on my clit. Make me cum on your tongue. Please, I'm dripping for you." I reward you with a single, firm stroke right over your entrance, tasting you properly for one long second before retreating again. Your frustrated moan is perfect. I grin against your skin, already wet myself from how easily you’re unraveling. "Good girl. Now say it louder." Except I don’t give you a chance as my mouth wraps around your clit and whatever you were going to say melts from your mind.
I hum against your clit, enjoying the taste of you as your hips buck against my tongue. I wrap my arms around your thighs and pull your legs up onto my shoulders so I can push my tongue inside you and fuck you hard with it. I keep going until I can feel every muscle in your body tense up as that wave of pleasure finally crashes over you. I slowly lick you as I let you ride out your orgasm but I don’t let up when you try to relax.
“Baby what are y—“ your words turn into a moan as I lick the full length of your soaked pussy. “F–fuuck baby, I’m…I’m so sen–sensitive.” I have my lips wrapped around your clit now as I suck on the swollen and sensitive nub. You try to squirm under me so I tighten my hold on your thighs as I draw another orgasm out of you, your moans turning into screams.
Your breathing turns ragged when you realize that I’m still not slowing down. “Wait baby–I’m so–I can’t take–HOLY FUCK!” You reach down and grab a fistful of my hair and try to pull but I don’t budge. You pull harder as I draw one last orgasm out of you. I finally stop and look up at you, your face flushed, eyes practically rolled to the back of your head. I slowly crawl back up your body as we both try to catch our breath. I smirk at you, slowly licking the taste of you off my lips
this pride, i learnt about the Palestinian trans woman Oscar Al-Halabiye, dancer and resistance fighter against the israeli occupation in Southern Lebanon. she named herself Oscar after Lady Oscar from the "The Rose of Versailles", a Japanese manga series written and illustrated by Riyoko Ikeda.
her story is documented in Cinema Fouad(1993). zionists use pink washing to reinforce their genocidal terrorist narrative when queer Palestinians have been fighting against the occupation since the very beginning. you can watch it here with english subtitles. long live the intifada!
Documentary by Mohammed Soueid. Republished here for educational purposes. "Cinema Fouad is a documentary portrait of Khaled El Kurdi, a Syr
so stupid that when i was a teenager i thought my parents being kinda shitty parents would at least free me from ever loving them or needing them or missing them. couldnt have been more wrong actually
Tags: [wlw][mdni][friends to more?][pining][exhibitionism?][self gaslighting][Tamaran customs][yoga][reader is downbad][kissing (灬^‿^灬)][praise][nipple sucking][scissoring][fingering]
"Kory..."
You groan, eyes squeezed shut and you're exhausted, letting out huffs of exhaustion as you continue to be follow Kory onto the rooftop of the Titans building. The sunlight streams in hot, golden strands, beating down on you.
"It's like, 6AM. Everyone else is sleeping."
Like all sweethearts, Kory felt that with the messiness of being a superhero, she's been disconnected from you. And what other way to bond with your closest friend, than waking them up at the asscrack of dawn to do something new every second morning?
"Kory, I'm hungry." You whine.
Kory ignores you, continuing to roll out her yoga mat and she inhales sharply. The morning air is crisp and she settles down on her mat, legs folded and she glances towards you, expectantly.
And you whine, but comply.
Mimicking her motions, and you settle down on your own mat, fingers laced in your lap and you let out a deep breath, back slumped like a capital C and expression scrunched because it's like the Sun just gets brighter.
And Kory giggles. "Open your eyes."
"We're literally facing the Sun. It burns and I could go blind." You deadpan, blinking rapidly because fuck, your eyes are so dry right now.
"Better to go blind, than to not see the world."
Her voice is something that's so sweet. So saccharine that it takes you a hot minute to realise that she's saying some bullshit and you turn to face Kory, instead.
"Who taught you that?"
"I came up with it." She beams, dimples deepening in her tanned cheeks and you hum.
"I can tell."
You allow yourself to bake in the warm, golden sunlight bathing the both of you as you face the ball of gas and you peek at Kory from the corner of your eye.
Her lashes are resting on those stupidly high cheekbones, full, mauve toned lips curled into a soft and almost appreciative smile and her hair flows down her back like a river of magma. Voluminous, so flattering and you swallow hard.
She looks like some kind of deity.
"You look like a sexy orange."
You watch the way her lips purse, dimples deepening in her cheeks as she tries not to laugh before her eyes flutter open, and she looks at you, head cocked.
"Can you take anything seriously?" She hums, lips quirked in amusement and you shake your head.
"Definitely not, no." You blow out a breath. "And if you take it seriously, it's an even harder no."
⊹♡🔥♡⊹
Yoga's definitely not for you, but watching Kory do it, is a salve to your wounded ego.
Because never once have you ever been insecure about being inflexible.
"Kory, my knees."
"It's only been 12 seconds." Her belly flexes as she giggles, her arms raised over her head and they're straight as an arrow.
Her chest heaves with each deep and even breath she takes, her little cropped shirt mocking you as it flutters in the warm, summery breeze that makes you wish you took off your hoodie but you know damn well, you're not even wearing a sports bra under it.
You're facing her.
Her gaze doesn't waver.
How are her eyes so magnetic, when she doesn't even have a fucking pupil? Just... A green orb in a socket but you feel like they're pulling you in.
"You're staring." Kory comments, her voice quiet alongside the chirps of the birds, and you let out a breath. Heavy, shaky and so, so unfit.
"Really?" You puff out. "I couldn't tell on account that I'm looking at you."
And she sighs, almost dramatically and she lowers her arms for a moment, signalling that it's a switch of position. "Do you have to be so negative?" She questions, and immediately, hits Warrior I again, but this time, with the other leg.
You mimic her stance.
"Kory, I'm sweating at 6AM." You grumble.
"This is the first position." She reminds and your expression nearly crumbles. Your arms hurt, your back hurts, your ankles are aching and your eye's twitching.
"Oh God." You pant. "I think I'm dying."
And she laughs. It's soft. It's melodious. She laughs like if a Disney princess was from an alien planet and had ass for days.
"Well, at least you'd die looking very... Dewy." She reassures. Before her eyes look you over. "Are you regretting not changing into something suitable?"
And you swallow. "No." You lie. You're sweating balls. "I'm very comfortable."
"Just take off your hoodie, I'm not judging."
"I'm not wearing anything underneath."
And Kory blinks. Slow and careful. And there's not a thought behind those eyes.
"They're just breasts? Look, I'll even—"
"No." You interrupt. "There are cameras here and no free shows."
Her lips purse and her brows furrow in that cute little frown she does when she doesn't understand something, "Humans are so odd."
You don't look up when you're in child's pose.
It just doesn't feel right and the coolness of your yoga mat feels so good against your forehead. Your body's aching from the stretches, your brain's just a bit fuzzy because how does her sweat smell like cinnamon?
Your shoulders are so relaxed, your arms stretched out ahead of you, your knees tucked to your chest and you let out an even breath.
"This is nic—"
"And into downward dog."
You listen to the way Kory rustles, her body moving and your gaze flicks up.
"Kory!" You nearly scream. "I can see your whole pussy."
Her legs are straight, feet and palms flat against that violet yoga mat, and you can see all the muscles in the backs of her legs flex with the strain.
But you can really focus on, is the outline of her cunt through those yoga shorts, pulling taut against puffy folds and you try not to stare too hard when she peeks at you from between her legs.
"Are you enjoying the 'free show'?" She teases you, lips curled and her hair falling forward in a gorgeous gradient of pinks, reds and oranges, the golden sunlight barely able to filter through the strands.
"No." You breathe out, your cheeks are burning and your ears feel hot. "It feels like you just flashed me."
"You're welcome." She gleams. "Now, get in position."
"Can you turn—"
"There is no time."
No matter what, your gaze keeps flickering up. If you stare hard enough, you can see the subtle pulse of her cunt with each exhale she lets out, and you swallow hard. Lowering your head and trying to calm your racing heart because is this what a crackhead feels like when they see a dealer that's out of their budget?
"You need to keep your head up to open up your chakras." She gently chides you.
"Kory, I can see your chakra."
And she snorts. "Just do it." And she pauses. "And it's my nirvana."
"I'd say it's your Narnia." You murmur under your breath, before following her instructions, and you tip your head back, letting out an even shakier breath.
And your gaze flickers towards her chest, and your breath stutters. Her shirts riding up, and you're catching a whole view of underboob, topped off with pretty nipples, pebbled. And you swallow.
This is totally normal. It should be normal. It doesn't feel normal but it's probably normal.
But you know:
It's not normal.
It's not normal that your heart's pounding like a meth head's. It's not normal that you're fighting demons to not blow a thin stream of air in the direction of Kory's stupidly close pussy, just to see if she'll feel it.
And it's definitely not normal to hope she does.
⊹♡🔥♡⊹
"And now, we go into a straight arm side plank and lift your other leg. And then, I'll hold your foot and you'll hold mine."
You stare at Kory in pure silence.
"What kind of ecstasy do you do, to think I can do that?"
And she smiles, inhaling sweetly and she stretches her arms overhead, forcing your gaze to lower to her tightly toned tummy and the soft swells of her breasts that peek out from the frayed edge of her croptop.
"The ecstasy of life."
You frown.
"You keep saying shit like that and I'll push you off this roof."
"You silly thing," she coos, her lips curl before she reminds you, "I can fly."
The positioning is awkward, especially since Kory didn't tell you that she'd switch your legs. And you'd look like the literal scissors emoji together.
You keep your hand on her ankle, grasping her foot for dear life and you feel how gently her manicured fingers wrap around yours. And you'd feel guilty for your dragon claw grip but her core strength is better than yours.
"Kory, my tummy h—" Your gaze flickers down to where her shorts is practically translucent, white fabric stupidly clear and you can see every pretty, silky fold and you lose your balance. Tumbling and you land hard on your ass.
"Oh!" Her voice is so sweet as she moves towards you.
"Are you okay?" Her thigh's tucked beneath one of yours, and her other thigh, is tossed over your remaining leg in a way that's so leisurely.
But your breath stutters.
"Kory, Kory, we cannot— You're too close." Her hand moves to cradle the side of your face, dark tumeric coloured brows furrow in confusion and she moves closer. "What do you— oh..."
She glances down to where there's mere inches between your crotches, her lips parting before she bites down on her bottom lip, gaze flickering to your face.
"On Tamaran... This is how friends bond."
"Girl, you come from a porn planet, don't you?" You huff out, pushing yourself up on your elbows and you watch the way her lips curl, and her dimples deepen.
"Maybe." And she leans closer, hands braced on the yoga mat and you can feel the way her breaths ghost over your face.
And fuck, her eyes are so pretty.
"But I've never practiced my customs with anyone here on Earth, aside from learning the languages." And she tilts her head, lashes fluttering so sweetly and you have no idea how she gives you doe eyes with no fucking pupils but she does. "Would you embrace my customs with me?"
Oh my God, are you being gaslit?
"Uh huh." You nearly stutter, big doe eyes focused on Kory and the way her smile widens, pointed canines peeling just a bit. Before she croons, her palm warm against your cheek.
"Good girl."
And you're down bad.
⊹♡🔥♡⊹
The first time your tongue slides against hers, your brain shuts off entirely. Your thighs parted to accommodate her waist, your ankles locked behind her back and her lips pressed so sweetly against yours.
Kory's fingers remain laced with yours, hips pressing against yours like she's trying to get friction some way or another and she smiles into the kiss.
It's so subtle. Her tongue brushing against yours, gossamers of saliva stringing between you and your brain's so fucking fuzzy because all you taste is toothpaste and mouth between you.
And she pulls back, her lips glossy and kiss swollen, as she peers down at you, her lashes fluttering and she hums.
"Does it feel good?" She's soft, fingers tracing along your palms as she keeps them pinned on either side of your head, expression so sweet and adoring.
"Huh?" Your voice cracks. And she snickers. "Wow. For the first time, you're taking something serious."
She dips her head and all you smell is fucking citrus and sweetness. Her lips press against your pulse and you feel the way she lingers just to feel the erratic pump, before she moves. Down, down, down.
Until she's at the dip of your clavicles, exposed by your oversized hoodie and her hands slide down, grasping at your waist and giving you the sweetest squeeze.
"I won't take this off." She whispers. "Because it'd be a free show." And she moves her hands towards the edge of her own shirt, grasping the flimsy fabric and pulling it overhead.
"But I'll take this off." She discards the fabric. "Because I don't care about free shows."
And your face is burning. You're staring up at Kory like she invented AO3 because God, you might be falling in love.
Vibrant sunlight surrounds her like a halo, her hair's a flaming crown and her skin looks like molten gold.
And those eyes. A shade of green that would make you weep if you saw it anywhere else and your voice cracks in a mumbled 'wow' when she guides your hands to her chest, and the weight has your mind stumbling like that old vine of that guy leaving his trailer.
And you giggle.
"So pretty." You whisper softly, your thumbs brushing over her nipples and the way she sighs has your cunt throbbing in your shorts. Her hand feels warm as it rests on the back of your neck, and she stares down at you, perched on your lap with rosy cheeks.
And you dip your head, licking a long wet stripe from the crevice between her tits, all the way up to the hollow beneath her ear. And Kory shudders, eyes fluttering shut as she feels the way you suck marks into her skin, dotting her flesh all the way until you get to the swell of her tits.
And your mouth's so warm, her nails digging into your neck as your tongue swirls around a pebbled bud, your other hand gently tugging at her unattended nipple.
"Oh..." Her lips form the prettiest 'o' shape. "Just like that..."
Kory moans and it sounds like a fucking symphony, and suddenly, it's all you wanna hear. Morning, noon and night.
You're sucking attentively, lavishing her chest in kisses and nips, sucking hickeys into the skin until she's panting, belly dipping inward and hips twitching needily.
"That's my girl..." She croons so prettily, looking down at you with hazy eyes and parted lips. "Feels so good..."
And sooner than you'd guess, your shorts and panties are discarded, and so are hers. One of your thighs are braced against Kory's shoulders, her knees digging into the mat on either side of you.
And she's focused.
Gently sliding her clit against yours until she's feeling her thighs quiver and buckle.
"You're so wet." She whispers softly. "So pretty." She's bringing a hand down to part your plump lips, staring down at your glossy folds like they're something to be worshipped and she glides again.
And again.
And again.
Her lips pressing the softest kiss against your ankle, her brows twitching into a furrow and she feels the way your hips buck, eager to meet each grind of hers.
And she sighs.
"You're so soft." She whispers. "So delicate, so lovely."
Kory's brain is a mushy haze. Friendship's never felt so... Good.
The burn in her belly feels damn near instant when it's taken lovers nearly hours to even light the flame, she can't get enough of the way you watch her from beneath fluttering lashes. Your pussy sticky against hers, your hands grasping at the curves of her waist with desperation like you want her closer.
Your hands slide up her sides, cradling her chest and you moan at how her hips twitch, cunt pulsing against yours and it feels so nasty when Kory lifts her hips, and you watch the way the sunlight catches the sticky strands of slick that connects you.
And you barely make an audible sound when you feel two of her fingers sink into you. Your head lands against the mat beneath you, your eyes fluttering shut and you know.
You bring one of your hands down, between her thighs and your fingers drag through her slippery folds, shaky digits fumbling for her clit and the way she gasps has you clenching around her fingers.
You do those circles with your fingers, the sticky bud threatening to escape your fingers with each shlick but your persistence makes Kory's tummy flutter.
Kory leans down, her lips pressing against yours as she bucks her hips in time to the pumping of her fingers, her tongue curling against yours.
This doesn't feel like friendship.
It doesn't feel like friendship when she's clamping down on your fingers, when she's spitting into your mouth and licking it back up again. Her forehead against yours as she comes on your fingers, your other hand tangled in her hair and you whine when you feel the way her palm grinds down against your clit, hard.
And you're seeing stars behind your eyelids, your ears filled with her panted breaths and praises.
You feel warm.
So... So... Warm.
And you're floating, whimpering when she pulls her fingers out of you and listening to her longful sigh when you do the same.
There's a quiet silence that blankets the moment that's otherwise filled with birdsong and the sounds of early morning traffic from the city. And Kory hums softly, her breasts pressed against your chest as she presses her cheek against yours.
She brings up a hand, flexing and scissoring her fingers to see how the sunlight illuminates your slick.
Ghost is a mechanic, but takes in cyborgs who get a little beat up on the down low (it’s illegal for mechanics to repair augments because the ruling class wants to keep it elite and expensive).
summary: After the events of The Nice Guys, March and Healy have become successful in their business. Meanwhile at the peak of your movie star career, it all came down after the death of your husband. Now blacklisted from Hollywood, you have to figure out life humbly: babysitting for the said detectives.
rating: Mature, MDNI. 18+
word count: 9-10k~
warnings: blood, guns, suicidal thoughts, emotional abuse, adult/dark comedy, fighting, stalker, cursing, alcohol, smoking, not proofread, no smut in this but eventually there will be
tags: (lowkey) sugar daddy holland march, flirting, babysitter!reader, female reader, no mentions of y/n, protective/caring holland march, reader can/will fight, celeb!reader, holland march pining
a/n: this came to me immediately after writing my last fic and i was literally shaking in excitement to get my idea down lol. bless those nice guys playlists i listened to that helped me write this. inspired by the nice guys (obv), a bit of the great gatsby, and a bit of once upon a time in hollywood
Los Angeles, the city of angels and the home of Hollywood. It’s filled with snobby people trying to make a name for themselves, whether it be becoming a movie star on the big screen or a pornstar on VHS, it’s all the same.
You? You think you’re different. You got on billboards, magazines, and films in the most honorable way. You were living the high road, you had all the money to blow, you had all the attention, and you had no gives to fuck. You were the epitome of luxury and fame.
Until your very famous director husband decided to die in your own home. With you inside the house.
“Are you crazy?! What are you doing?!” You screamed.
Your husband, Richard, came out of the bedroom with a heavy revolver in hand. Even with your shriek, he was determined to keep the gun pointed at you.
He looked manic. His eyes were shaking wildly and sweat beads rolled off his forehead down to the side of his face. “You’re planning to divorce me?!” He shouted back.
You slowly got up from the couch and kept your hands up beside your head. “Richard, please let’s talk about this!”
You let out a sob when he came closer and pressed the tip of the barrel right between your eyes.
“Talk about what?! I know what you’re doing!” He pressed the gun harder to your head.
Tears violently ran down your face. “Please, baby–”
His upset temper raised more than it was, “DON’T. You haven’t called me that in a long time. Don’t sweet talk me!”
“I’ll stay! Please- I’ll stay!” You sobbed out.
“NO! You’re going to divorce me and kill me! I know what your plan is!” He spats in your face.
“What plan?! Richard, please stop!”
You stared at each other for a while, he was breathing heavily and you kept unintentionally letting out sobs. He slowly took the gun off of you.
And just as you thought it was going to be over, he pointed the gun into his mouth.
Instinctively, you reached for the gun, held the barrel out of his mouth and pointed it at the ceiling. You both struggled for control of the gun, you made sure to stick a finger under the trigger to prevent him from setting it off and he was trying to shake you off the gun.
Then, ‘BANG!’
…
Blood sprayed onto your face and chest, getting into your mouth and eyes. You tasted the iron in your mouth before you could even realize what just had happened.
His hold onto the gun loosened and he fell back on the white tiles.
Your hand held the gun firmly, with blood dripping from your hand to the barrel. Bruises bloomed over your arms and fingernail.
You couldn’t have done that. Everything happened too fast for you to process. Could you? Did you kill your own husband?
You hear rustling off the grass behind you. You turned your head to the opened back sliding doors and caught a glimpse of someone in the corner of your eye.
The cops came after that, with you all bloodied and unresponsive, they checked your home security cameras and after seeing the struggle with the gun, they deemed the case as a freak accident.
You thought that would be the end of it until you heard through others that Richard’s paranoid rambles got to others, mentioning that you were planning to “divorce and kill him.”
To make it clear to yourself, you weren’t, but with everything going on, you aren’t really sure anymore.
The tabloids got a hold of his rambles and ran with it. So, you got blacklisted. No one wanted to work with a murderer widow. And if it couldn't get any worse, it got worse. It turned out your late husband owed a lot of people a lot of money.
And what did you have to do?
You sold everything you could.
Now, you’re left with almost nothing. You have a roof over your head, maybe some dignity, and the gun you supposedly killed your husband with. So, now what?
You’re lying on your heart shaped bed, with a newspaper in hand and the magnum revolver in the other. You’re skimming through the adverts for any job that interests you. There’s some vague film casting ads that you completely skip over because you know it’s absolutely about porn. Then there’s some hippy volunteering ads about whatever issue is happening in L.A. Oh, and look at that, the private investigators that were in your home months ago have their own advert.
The detectives came three weeks after the death of your husband. They knocked on your door several times, calling out your name. You were sitting on the base of the stairs, staring at the door blankly with no intention to answer it. The lights in your home were all out, curtains shut, and there might still be some blood stained on the walls.
You didn’t answer the door at all. You haven’t answered the door since the cops left. You’ve been hiding off in your home, not out of grief for your husband, but the paranoia was getting to you.
You truly believed that you didn’t shoot your husband, and the only other possible explanation is that someone was there at your home who is responsible for the death of your husband. You checked the cameras yourself and the back home security camera had been out months prior.
You knew someone was out there and that person could be possibly coming for you next.
Just when you thought the detectives moved on, you heard the back sliding door open. You were quick to point the revolver at the two men.
The skinny rugged detective almost tripped back, “Jesus– Shit!” He shrieked.
“Woah! Hold on!” The larger intimidating detective immediately put his hands out in front of him.
“You know you’re trespassing, right?” You asked, keeping your gun at them.
“We just wanted to make sure you’re safe. We’re private investigators– We were hired to check on you. I’m detective Healy, he’s March.” Healy slowly approached.
March looked stunned, “You’re more beautiful in person than on screen.” He spoke his thoughts out loud.
You dropped your arms to your side and looked at him with a confused face, your eyebrows deeply furrowed.
You look closely at the ad and right below, it says “Looking for a baby sitter, $20 an hour. Call this number: x”
Holy shit, twenty bucks an hour?!
You throw the gun aside and re-read it.
Holy shit. That says twenty bucks. An hour.
That’s more than enough to get yourself back on your feet, but you start wondering what’s the catch to this large sum, no babysitter is getting paid twenty dollars an hour.
It only says babysitter. Doesn’t say lap-dancing, doesn’t say shoot an adult film, and it really doesn’t say much except for the number.
You turn over to your stomach and read the number. You look through the window to check the sun. There’s still some light, it doesn’t hurt to call and try.
You grab the telephone on the night stand and pull it onto the bed. You punch in the numbers and press the receiver into your ear. It rings a couple of times until it gets picked up.
A raspy manly voice comes through, “Hello, you’re talking to Holland March.”
It’s that investigator. The rugged one that had an odd timing to flirt with you while he was actively investigating you and the death of your husband, his counterpart had to take over by asking the more serious questions.
“Oh hi, Mr. March. I was calling about the babysitting ad that I saw.” You ask in a sultry voice.
He clears his throat. “O-oh! Well, are you available tomorrow for an interview?”
“Mhm. When and where?”
“Noon. The address is…”
You grab a pen quickly from the night stand and write down the address.
“Does that work for you?”
You keep up with the sultry, “Yes, Mr. March. Thank you so much, I’ll see you then.”
You place the phone down and roll back.
… … …
Why does Los Angeles have to be excruciatingly hot?
A question you always ask every time you drive. At least you can drive around in your Aston Martin Vantage with the windows down. You really couldn’t let go of your baby, even if there were a gun to your head, it was the first real thing you owned when you made it big. You also couldn’t be bothered to take public transport, with all the news of you, you didn’t need to make it worse.
You park right at the end of the cul-de-sac and check yourself in the mirror to touch up your lipstick. You step out in some modest pumps, fitted waist pants, and a steamed blouse. You walk over to the door and knock.
The house is not like an average family’s suburban home. The home has contemporary architecture and the garden is well kept. It had elements of wealth throughout.
You can hear voices through the door, “Holly! Can you get the door?!” A man yells out.
“I was already on it!” A blonde girl swings the door open and takes a moment to look at you. “Are you here for the babysitter position or are you here to beat up my dad?”
You raise your eyebrows, “Well, I was here for the babysitter position, but if you need me to beat up your dad, I can.”
The girl shakes her head, “No, no, I don’t need that. I was just checking.” She turns her head to the hallway, “DAD! A lady is here for the position!” She yells out.
You hear some grumble and someone tripping over a lot of things at the right side of the house.
She turns back to you, “I told him I didn’t need a baby sitter, but he insisted.”
You hear the man coming down the hallway, “Well, sweetheart, I just want you to be sure you’re taken care of and not getting into trouble.” He comes up and takes a hold of the door from her.
She’s still behind him and peaking between the open space.
His eyes land on you and his eyes widen, “Holy shit, you’re that woman–”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s me. Nice to see you again, Mr. March.”
“I’ve seen your movies! I like the one with the aliens!” Holly says enthusiastically.
March squints at you, “So, how do I know you aren’t here to kill me?”
You scoff, “Mr. March, if I had some personal vendetta against you, I would not be coming to kill you after asking about the babysitter ad. Now, can I come in?”
March thinks on it for a moment, almost checking you out, then he swings the door wider. He walks away to the right with Holly into the hallway. “Sit on the couch.” He points to the leather couch.
You follow in, only when you come in you realize the other investigator is here, sitting in a sofa chair across the couch. You sit down on the couch, placing yourself in the middle. March in the other matching sofa chair. Holly stands besides her dad.
“Do you want water?” Holly asks you.
You shake your head, “I’m okay, honey.”
Holly leans on her dad’s arm chair. There’s papers all over the coffee table, stacked folders, an ash tray, empty glasses, and spare adverts of the private investigators.
Healy is staring at you suspiciously, March looks intrigued, and Holly looks a bit concerned. This now feels like a proper interrogation.
Healy glances at March, “Is she seriously here for Holly?”
March starts lighting a cigarette, ignoring Healy’s question. Healy leans over, elbows placed on his knees, “What are you doing here?”
“Listen, I have nothing against either of you for doing your jobs, but just to clear the air, I really didn’t kill my husband.”
Holly whispers over to her dad, ‘she did that?’ March subtly frowns and shakes his head to dismiss his kid’s question.
“Why are you here for the baby sitting job? You’ve got better things than babysitting a kid.” March speaks up.
You lean back against the cushions and cross your legs, “If you haven’t heard, my career isn’t coming back. It’s either this or become a hoo…” You look at Holly and let your sentence trail off.
“Well, I can take care of you, baby, but how do I know if you can take care of Holly?” There’s a hint of smirk on March's face.
“Uh… I’m good at cooking, I can clean, I’m great with kids-”
“Everyone says that to get this job.” Healy chimes in.
If you want to win over these two high risk private investigators, you’re gonna have to really peak their interest.
“Clearly, twenty bucks an hour means you guys are looking for more. You two get yourself in a lot of trouble and no regular nanny is gonna fill in the check boxes, so you’re most likely looking for a bodyguard. I can protect her better than any other candidate you have. I’m trained in martial arts, I can drive safely and/or fast if we need to get away, and I can shoot any gun with accurate precision from afar.”
The two men stare at you quietly.
Their intense gaze makes the heat rise up onto your face, “I’m not as useless as you think.” You defend yourself.
March chuckles, “and I thought you didn’t kill your husband?”
“For the last time, I did not kill my husband.”
“How do we know you’re not going to kill Holly?” Healy says seriously.
“Jesus fucking Christ! I’m not gonna fucking kill a kid. I mean look at her,” You point your hand at her. “She’s adorable.” You cross your arms, “I just really need this job, my stupid fucking dead husband owed so many people money and I’m broke as shit after paying them with everything.”
March and Healy look over at each other. They stay like that for a moment before coming to a conclusion through their silent conversation.
March stands up, “You’re hired.” He reaches over his hand to shake.
“Wait, what? Seriously?” You shake his hand.
“You’re right, we need someone capable of protecting Holly.” Healy says as he gets to his feet. “Well, since you have nothing else going in your life, you don’t mind starting right now, right?”
Your eyes are wide, in shock and excitement. You don’t even make a comment at his jab, “Yes! I can absolutely start right now.” You get up from the couch.
Healy grabs his jacket from the sofa and walks out of the house.
March straightens his suit jacket, “Few rules, she can’t smoke, she can’t drink, no porn, the gun is in the cookie jar, don’t leave her alone for any circumstances even if it’s past the time I told you I’ll be coming home, I’ll leave an allowance for extra things like take out or if Holly gets bored of the house, and don’t let her get bored.” He says all of this quickly.
You’re questioning some of these rules, not in the way that they’re bad or odd rules, but some of these are common sense for taking care of a kid.
“Okay… Don’t let her get bored.” You repeat.
Holly groans, “I’ve taken care of myself before, I don’t know why you have to do this.”
“Sweetie, I know you can take care of yourself, but no way I’m letting that happen again.” He leans over to kiss the top of her head. “I’ll try to be back before midnight.” He rushes out of the house.
You hear a car start up and drive off into the distance, then it’s silent in the house.
Holly awkwardly looks up at you, “So… What happened to your husband?”
You smile at her awkwardly and suck in the air, “Um… That might have to be a conversation for another time… Can you actually show me around?”
“Yeah, I can do that.” She walks off and you follow her, “But why can’t we talk about it now? …This is the kitchen, the gun jar is this one.” She walks into the kitchen and points at the cookie jar.
You lift up the kid and sure enough there’s two revolvers in there. “Well, it feels weird as a first conversation with a kid, no?”
She opens the fridge to show you the available food, you look inside as she continues speaking, “I want to know more about you. I know you’re in the movies and stuff, but if I’m gonna spend time with you then shouldn’t I know you personally?”
“You want spaghetti tonight?” You ask and she nods, you close the fridge and follow her to the next room. “I mean, naturally we’ll get to know each other more, just ask me another question.”
She shows you into the bar with a view of the empty swimming pool, “Then who was your husband?”
You glide your hand across the marbled counter and look out into the swimming pool. There’s a small puddle at the bottom and cigarette butts floating in the water.
“He was a famous director. I was in a lot of his movies, like that one with aliens you like.”
“Oh cool.” She moves onto the next room which is the larger living space with a television, towards the leftmost side of the house. Shelves filled with decor, photos, and books. “I’m sorry, by the way… About your husband.”
You look at the photos, there’s many of March and Holly, some are with a woman.
You let out a chuckle, “Don’t be sorry… Holly, are these photos of your mom?”
Holly comes over to the bookshelf, “Yeah. She died years ago in a fire. Dad blames himself for it.”
“I guess your dad and I can relate to that. I’m sorry, Holly, she’s very beautiful.”
She fully looks at you, “Did you like your husband?” She asks.
You awkwardly turn away and walk over to the office space divided from the living space, “I did. At some point.”
She follows you into the messy office, “Was he mean?”
“I guess you can say that. He was really nice then he got mean over time.” You brush your hand against the wooden desk, feeling the grain under your fingertips.
“I get that. My dad is kinda like that but instead of being mean, he just kinda became lost. He drinks a lot.”
You pick up a cup on the desk and sniff it.
Whiskey.
You place the cup down, “... I can see that. You know, for a kid, you’re really wise.”
“I’m not a kid. I’m fourteen. And… I try my best for my dad. I have to take care of him sometimes.”
Your heart aches for this kid, “Oh, Holly, you shouldn’t have to do that.”
She shrugs and walks off into the hallway. You follow, “I love my dad, he just needs help sometimes.” She says plainly.
Holly shows you her room, it’s staggeringly yellow compared to the rest of the house and there’s posters plastered all around.
“So, what happened to your husband?” She sits down on her bed.
You look out the door and see another bedroom across from hers, presumably the master bedroom. You look over at her and sigh.
You sit down at her desk in a green chair, you cross your arms over the back of the seat.
“You’re not going to let this go, huh?”
“Can you blame a kid for being curious?” She lies on her stomach on the bed and looks at you eagerly.
“I thought you were fourteen?” You joke.
“Whatever. Just tell me, I won’t tell my dad about it.”
You sigh. “Don’t tell your dad, I don’t want to be fired on the first day.”
“You won’t.” She says assuredly. She rests her face into her arms.
“I remember being in the living room. I was reading a magazine. And it was just really hot, so I had the sliding doors open.” You look away from her and place your face against your arm. “Then, my husband came out of the room with a revolver. He…”
She raises her face up from her arms, “Was he going to kill you?”
“No… He was just really an unhappy man.” You sigh, “I was fighting him for the gun and I took it away from him. And then…”
You pause for a moment.
“I thought it was me. I thought I accidentally shot the gun, but I looked outside and there was someone in the bushes.”
“So, someone shot your husband? Did they catch the guy?”
“No. No one believes me that someone else killed my husband.”
“Did you go to jail?”
“I almost did, but I still had money for good lawyers at the time. I mean, all the evidence pointed to me being innocent but the tabloids got to the story and went with the idea that I misfired the gun.”
Holly seems to think on it for a moment, “Did you hire my dad and Mr. Healy to find out who killed your husband?”
You laugh lightly, “Uh… No, honey. Someone else hired your dad and Mr. Healy to look for me because I was hiding.”
“You were hiding?”
“No. I was still at home, I just didn’t go out at all. I asked if they could find the man on the day, but they couldn’t find anything else, but after they left, there were… Uh… Let’s just call them ‘debt collectors.’ The debt collectors came over to my place to have me pay whatever my husband owed them.”
“Oh, so you really really need this job?” She sits up.
You chuckle. “Yeah. So, don’t go telling your dad you don’t need a babysitter.”
“I won’t. I like you already. You’re honest.” She smiles softly. She sighs and then claps her hands against her lap, “So, do you like cards?”
“What do you want to play, honey?”
… … …
Holland walks into the house, way past midnight, realizing there are very few lights on, he makes an effort to be quiet. He stealthily tries to remove his shoes and when he looks up, you’re right in front of him with a bottle of whiskey in hand ready to hit him.
He falls back on his ass and shrieks, bracing himself, “Jesus–”
You halt immediately realizing its March. “Shhh! You’ll wake her up!” You scold him quietly.
“She’s asleep?” He matches your tone of voice and looks shocked.
“Why are you walking so quietly into your own home? You could’ve at least called to let me know you were going to be late.” You whisper.
“Were you about to hit me with that bottle?” He gestures to the bottle.
“I thought you were an intruder.” You say plainly.
“If you were into that, you could’ve asked me to dinner first.” He says slyly. You roll your eyes at his comment.
He slips off his other shoe and gets up from the floor. “How is she?”
You place the bottle down in the bar and pick up your keys from the key rack. Holland is taking off his jacket as he watches you. “She’s really sweet and asks a lot of questions. We played a lot of games, watched age appropriate movies, and I made spaghetti.”
He’s taking off his tie when he stops, “You made dinner?”
“Yeah, there’s plenty more in the pot. It should still be warm. I kept it warm because I wasn’t sure when you would get back.”
He’s blinking rapidly at you.
“Oh, and then I made sure she went to bed at ten. I wasn’t sure if there was some kind of bed time, but she went to sleep pretty quickly.”
Holland isn’t sure how to show his gratitude right now. You stayed awake to protect his kid, Holly seemed to have a great time with you, you made dinner, and you somehow did the impossible of putting Holly to sleep before he got home. If there’s one way to Holland’s broken heart, it’s through showing impeccable care with his kid.
“Do you want to go out for dinner?” He blurts out.
You awkwardly laugh. “Very funny, is this your way of getting out of paying me?” You reach your hand out expectantly.
He reaches into his jacket and pulls out an envelope of money. “I would love to go out with you, as long as you don’t kill me.” He counts the money in the envelope.
“Ugh, again–”
He places the heavy envelope in your hand, clasping it with both of his hands. “Go treat yourself, babydoll.”
You take your hand from his grasp and check the envelope to count. “Holy shit– This is way more than I need!” You’re immediately trying to take out the excess amount.
“Nope.” He stops you quickly. “I want you to come back. You have to come back. For Holly.”
“I mean, you really don’t have to pay me this much just to come back.” You say shyly.
“Can you come back then? Tomorrow? Same time?”
You’re gobsmacked, “Yes. I can, Mr. March.”
“Holland, please.” He corrects you.
You fold the envelope and slide it into your pocket. “I should get going then. Thank you, Holland.”
“Thank you for taking care of Holly… Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.” You get past him and exit the house.
You get into your car, start it up, and drive off at three in the morning to your house. The drive back was mostly quiet and smooth. You opted to just have your windows down and listen to the city at night rather than listen to the radio. You slowly pull up to your neighborhood, passing by wealthy properties with their own unique architecture. You get to your house, it’s a two story red home with glass windows all over. It has a futuristic style because your husband loved the space age of the 60’s. As you’re coming to a halt, you see a shadowy figure at the street over.
Stupid fucking paps, leave me alone.
You park in your driveway and step out. You look over at the strange figure and you flip him off before disappearing into your home. You get yourself cleaned up for bed and just as you’re drying your hair, you look out the window overseeing the street and still see the shadowy figure.
Do they seriously have nothing better to do?
You turn off the lights in your room. Your house overlooks the city so perfectly, even if you turn off the lights in your room, the city lights fill your room with faint glows. You pick up the magnum revolver from the carpeted floor and lie down in your bed with silk sheets. Sleep takes over your body with the revolver in your hand like it’s your teddy bear.
… … …
You knock on the door, but before you could knock a third time, the door swings open.
Holland leans against the door frame, “Hello, beautiful.”
He’s looking a lot more casual. He has suit pants on, tank top, and a floral printed dress shirt on with the top buttons loose.
“Hello, Holland.” You give him a polite smile.
Holly stands behind him with a weird look, “Ew, dad. Stop flirting with my babysitter.” She pushes past him, “He’s been standing around the door waiting for you.”
“Oh, has he?” You grin slyly.
You’re carrying a paper bag full of groceries.
“Of course.” He stops leaning against the door, “What’s this?”
“I just figured I should get some groceries, so I can make more food while I’m watching Holly.”
Holly takes the bag from you and shoves it to her dad. Holland gets the idea and walks off to put the groceries away.
You all walk into the house and you close the door behind you. “Speaking of, have you guys eaten lunch yet?” You place the keys onto the rack.
“I ate cereal.” Holly states.
“Oh, honey, that’s not lunch.” You chuckle. You walk into the kitchen with Holly to help put away the groceries.
Holly guides you around more properly around the kitchen to show where things go while Holland helplessly looks around and follows whatever Holly tells him.
“Can we watch more of your movies?” Holly asks.
“You don’t really watch them though, you ask more questions than anything.” You say gently.
“Yeah, but I like hearing about how you filmed the movie and what you did and stuff.”
“Sweetie, please stop saying ‘and stuff’” Holland scolds her.
“Ugh. I like hearing about how you filmed the movie and what you did.” She repeats herself properly. She sits down at the dining table with her legs out, “Dad, did you know that she had to be underwater to pretend to be in space?”
You take out a frying pan from the cabinets, place it on top of the stove, and turn it on to prepare it.
“Really?” He sits down right next to her.
“If I still had my things, I could’ve given you the spaceship miniature we had for the movie.” You say as you cook meat over the stove.
“Aw, man. That would’ve been cool.” Holly says with deflated enthusiasm.
“I mean… I probably still have it. I’m not really sure. I’d have to check the boxes in my garage.”
Holland is watching his daughter intently, he hasn’t seen his daughter this excited about something in a while and he’s content just being quiet to watch her.
“Where do you live?” Holly asks.
“Mmm. I live higher up in the hills, it was my husband’s place that I moved into when we got married.” You turn on the vent hood to air out the kitchen. “There’s a lot of set props in the garage. I sold whatever I thought was valuable, but there’s still some boxes there. I just haven’t really gotten to them because it’s a lot of work to go through.”
“Oh! I can help!” Holly jumps. “Can I come over to your house?” She eagerly asks.
“Uh… I don’t know, Holly. You’d have to ask your dad for that.” You look over your shoulder and give her a gentle smile.
Holly grabs her dad, “Dad, can I go over to her house?”
Holland blinks a couple of times at her like he’s tuning back into the conversation, “What?”
“Please?” She pleads.
“I don’t see why not, as long as she’s okay with having you over.” He shrugs.
You look over at him and place a hand on your waist, “You only have known me for a day, and you’re letting your daughter come over to my house?”
“You did promise to protect her.” He says matter-of-factly
“Anyone can make that promise.” You scold him.
Holly chirps in. “Cool! Can we go today?!” Holly asks giddily.
“Maybe another time, honey. My place is pretty empty, so when I get furniture in and when the paparazzi stop coming over, then we could.”
“Paparazzi?” Holland looks over with concern.
“Yeah, they come every night and stay all night. It’s been like that every day since… you know. Pretty harmless, but they’re just waiting for something to write about.” You brush off the fear.
“Do people really make a living doing that?” Holly sits back down. Holland shakes his head disappointingly at her.
“You’d be surprised… I just don’t think it’d be good for Holly to come over until they get bored and go away. But I promise, Holly, when you come over, you can keep whatever you want that you find.”
“Cool!”
You make light conversation throughout, Holly seemingly having a never-ending knack for asking questions, and you try your best to answer all of it while Holland observes.
You finish making hamburgers and oven baked fries, you give them their plates and you sit next to Holly with your own plate.
“Wow.” Holland is already taking a huge bite into it. “Are you sure I can’t take you out for dinner?” He asks while his mouth is full.
Holly smacks his arm, “Stop it, dad. You’re going to scare her away.”
“Mmm. Then who would be watching Holly?”
“Jackson can.” Holland answers too quickly. “You’d be fine with that, right sweetie?” He asks Holly.
“I like Mr. Healy, but I think I like her watching over me more.” Holly picks at her fries.
Holland chuckles, “I’m gonna have to tell Healy that.”
As if he heard his own name being called, Mr. Healy walks through the front door. “March! I have a lead!” He searches around before catching sight of the group in the dining room.
“Hey, Healy, hear this!” Holland calls him over and Healy walks right up. “Holly likes her more than you.” He teases.
Healy looked almost upset by the news, the corner of his mouth turning downwards very slightly. “Hey, kid. I’ve known you longer, what does this woman have that I don’t?”
Holly doesn’t even look at him and takes a bite of her burger, “Well, she made this burger.”
Healy squints at her and then looks at you, “You made that?”
“There’s more on the counter, just help yourself.” You state with a flat tone.
Healy turns to the counter and starts making himself a plate.
“What’s the lead Healy?” Holland asks.
Healy makes his plate and sits down next to Holland, “There’s a guy, Harry Golding. Lives in Santa Monica. He’s one of the guys in masks. I figure we’ll ask him a few questions tonight at his place.” He takes a bite of the burger, “That’s… Actually pretty good.”
“Thank you.” You nod your head.
You let the two men talk and you turn your attention to Holly. “We can watch more movies if you want, but only you play me again in cards.”
“Deal. I’ll beat you again.” She says smugly.
You finish your plate and wait for Holly to finish hers before you get up and wash the plates yourself. You place the plates into the drying rack and follow Holly into the living room to play cards.
It’s been a while since you’ve had a life filled with joy. Ever since your husband died, you were drowning in sorrows, for him and for yourself. You were grieving his death, but deep down you felt incredibly relieved to be rid of him, and then you were grieving your own career and life. Everything changed so suddenly that you never felt like you had a moment to pause and enjoy things. But life seems to be looking up for you. You have a kid to take care of, even if she isn’t yours, you’re happy to watch over her and indulge her in whatever.
Holland watches you and Holly from the foyer, both of you intently watching the TV. Holly will whisper something to you and you answer genuinely. Holly will giggle and you laugh along with her.
He comes up to the living room, “I’ll try to be back before one.” He says as he holds his jacket in his arm.
“Okay, dad, stay safe. I love you.” She says without looking away from the TV.
“I love you too, sweetie.” He responds sincerely. He walks out of the house with Healy.
You and Holly watch movies all afternoon on the couch. She’s an incredibly curious girl and you try to satiate her hunger for knowledge by answering the best you could, like “How do cameras work?”, “Did they film that from a helicopter?”, “How do you get streets to clear up for movies?”, “How do they hang by their hand to swing from building to building?”
You don’t mind it one bit. A kid’s curiosity is the best thing because it seems like you can amuse them with anything, but you don’t ever exaggerate the truth, you just tell it as it is and she still appreciates it.
You’re huddled up with Holly under some throw blankets on the couch, both of you fell asleep watching the last movie. You check your wrist watch in the dark, the dials glowing in the dark, and you see it’s three in the morning. Odd, Holland hasn’t come in yet. Maybe, you should start expecting that he’s not very good with time.
You get up slowly and fix the blanket over Holly, tucking her in properly. You stretch your arms up to crack your back and you yawn. You quietly walk out of the living room to go to the kitchen, but you stop immediately when you hear a noise.
The backdoor is wide open, wind blowing in the cold night air. There’s rustling around the other living space, like someone going through papers on the coffee table. Your body immediately tensed up.
You slowly pick up a small glass lamp, sneakily unplugging it, and tip toe quietly to get a better view of the figure through the divider. It’s dark in the house, but the city lights from outside peers past the curtains. It’s a stubby figure. Definitely not March nor Healy. They’re frantically searching around the mounds of paper in that small space. You aren’t sure if you’re making out the face right but it seems like they’re wearing a shitty plastic Halloween mask.
You turn the corner and smash the lamp straight across the back of their head. The man falls over the coffee table with a groan. You take the cord from the end of the lamp, hurriedly wrapping it around the man’s neck, and you tighten it back with all your strength.
The man starts struggling, choking out air. He reaches back for your arm and throws you over him. He falls back and you fall into the couch, hitting your leg hard against the wooden frame.
He gasps for air and scurries backwards to get distance. You pull the small coffee table, (it’s surprising what the body can do with adrenaline), and you throw it as hard as you can towards the figure.
He braces for the coffee table with an arm and pushes it aside as he gets up. You grab the next heavy thing you can which ends up being a crystal bottle of tequila. You launch yourself towards the man and put all your might into beating the shit out of this intruder with the bottle.
He falls back again and grabs a larger metal lamp out of panic. He swings it hard against your side. You trip over to your side and the man starts trying to get to his feet. You claw onto his legs and drag him back down to the floor. He tries to awkwardly hit you with the lamp but you smack it out of his hands. You get on top of him, gripping his shirt, then you smack his body against the floor.
You pull the mask off to see some bloodied up man. He didn’t seem like anyone you knew, but you now had a personal vendetta against this man for intruding the house. You search for the bottle in the dark with your hand. When you find the bottle, you take no time to whack it against the man’s temple.
The man is knocked out with the swing, the only noises in the house were the wind blowing in and the sound of your heavy breathing.
“Hello?” Holly calls out groggily.
You clear your throat, “Hey, Holly, do me a favor and don’t come out here until I say so. I made a mess.” You call out.
“Okay…” She calls out softly, seemingly falling right back asleep.
The man is completely bloodied and knocked out below you. You search the man’s clothes before you get up, you only find a small pocket knife and nothing else. You stand up and reach over for the glass lamp you broke. You cut the cord from the body with the man’s pocket knife. You roll his body over and tie his hands up.
You searched around the house and found duct tape in a closet. You tape the man’s mouth, arms, and legs up. You drag his heavy body out to the pool with struggle and you slide him down the empty pool.
You clean up as quickly as you can in the small living space, throwing the coffee table out in the back because it's broken in half, you stack the papers onto the couch and you place back the metal lamp. You mop up the tequila that spilled over the floor and you grab the gun from the cookie jar.
You check the chamber and fill it up. You hold it in one hand, you close the curtains around the house and you turn off all the lights, hoping Holly sleeps for longer. You sit out at the pool and wait for the two men.
This man has to be involved with March and Healy’s case. Man in a mask just as they were looking into it? It can't be a coincidence.
It turns to five in the morning. The sky is beginning to turn blue and the sun is somewhere behind the hills. Holland walks into the house with Healy, both looking frustrated and tired.
“I’m crashing on your couch.” Healy speaks up.
Holland looks around, noticing the missing lamp at the foyer, and then the open back door. He notices you out at the pool, your back facing towards the house.
Healy and March walk out into the backyard together, slowly peaking over the swimming pool. They see the man at the bottom of the pool, then they look over at you, looking disheveled and defeated. Your sleeves are rolled up and there's bruises on your arms and legs, a scratch on the side of your face, your knuckles red, and your hair is wild.
“I tried to clean up as best as I could.” You spoke plainly as you looked off into the distance. Holland notices the coffee table in the grass. “I’m sorry about the coffee table, you can take it out of my pay.”
Holland keeps looking at the man in the pool then snaps his head towards you, “He’s not dead is he?” Holland asks.
“No. He’s just knocked out. Been knocked out for…” You look at your wrist watch, “... Two hours now.”
“You fucking caught Harry Golding.” Healy says amusingly.
Holland places his hands to his waist, “Holy shit.”
“Holland, you better fucking give her a raise.” Healy praises.
“He broke in around three. I think he was looking for something. I’m sorry about the tequila, I spilled it all over, and I’m realizing that it might've been really expensive.”
“Baby, you can spill all the drinks you want, you fucking caught Harry Golding.” Holland says giddily.
“Do any of you guys have a cigarette?” You look over at the pair, “I’m in so much fucking pain.” You groan.
Holland kneels beside you and takes out a pack. You take a cigarette and place it between your lips. He takes out a gold flip lighter and lights the end of your cigarette. You turn away and puff out.
You place the gun beside you and Holland takes it away. “So, now what?”
“We wait for the fucker to wake up. Question him, turn him in, get paid.” Healy states.
“Ugh. I should get home. I smell like tequila.” You slowly start getting up.
Holland, trying to be gentlemanly, reaches out to help you get up but his hand placements press against your fresh bruises, making you wince. He notices and tries to be more gentle with helping you.
He walks into the house with you, keeping an arm around your waist,“I don’t think you should be driving, I could drive you home?” He suggests.
You shake your head, “No thanks, the paps will still be there and that’ll only make them stay longer.”
“Or you can just stay, you can use my shower and I’ll bring you fresh clothes. I’ll patch you up even.” He suggests genuinely.
You think about it for a moment, “As long as you take good care of my body,” you joke.
“Of course, beautiful.” He winks.
He makes you laugh but then just as you let out the first laugh, you start coughing from the pain at your side.
He shows you to his room, (without not making some kind of flirty remark), shows you to the shower, and lays out clean clothes for you. He leaves you alone, closing the bathroom and bedroom door to leave you to your things.
When you come out of the bedroom, you’re wearing a similar dress shirt to Holland and some basketball shorts. You have a towel over your head when you walk over to them in the back. You stand between them.
“Is he still asleep?” You ask.
“He twitches in his sleep.” Holland points out.
You cross your arms, “Why don’t we just wake him up with ice water?”
“We’re not the mafia. We’re serious private investigators.” Holland states, almost offended.
“Your buddy is basically a dog in a human suit, what’s the difference?” You tease.
“Speak for yourself, you beat the man up in the dark, wrapped him up in duct tape and threw him into a puddle with cigarettes. Are you sure you didn’t kill your husband?” Healy questions amusingly.
“I did not kill my husband.” You groan.
“To be honest, I’m a little turned on right now,” Holland says seriously.
You and Healy slowly snap your head over to him and look at him with concern.
Holland notices the reactions, “What can I say? I love dangerous women.” He smirks.
“Your saying this over a man in a fucking caccoon of duct tape, March.” Healy looks at him with absolute concern for his friend.
“Dad?...” Holly calls over from behind with a groggy voice.
You all turn around stiffly at the sound of her voice.
Holly rubs her eyes and looks at the three of you, “Oh, you stayed over?” She asks you.
“Oh, good morning, Holly! Are you hungry for breakfast?” You quickly push her back into the house.
She notices the bruises all over you, “Did you get beat up?”
You dismiss her thoughts quickly, “Oh, no… I was just really clumsy… Tripped over the coffee table while I was trying to find the bathroom.”
You can hear Healy and March laughing at your attempts to cover up. You close the sliding door and push her towards the kitchen.
“Just sit down, I’ll make you breakfast. You want eggs? Bacon? Pancakes?”
Holly slowly sits down at the dining table, “Can I get all of that?” She asks shyly.
“Of course, honey.” You open the fridge to pull the carton of eggs out.
You finally get home after a long day. You stayed at the March house to keep Holly company until they figured out what to do with the guy. Eventually, Holly figured out what was going on in the back and stayed to watch around the sleeping guy. Holly even seemed impressed that you managed to do this all while she was sleeping. You made food for them, entertained Holly, Holland patched your wounds up, and you apologized a couple more times for breaking things around the house, but Holland really seemed to not care about it.
It’s dark now. You adjust your rear view mirror and see a shadowed figure across the street. You sigh and get out of the car, taking your dirty clothes with you into your arms. You walk into your house, throw the clothes at the base of the stairs, and slowly climb up the stairs.
You do your usual routine, shower, get dressed for bed, dry your hair, and look out the window to have an imaginary showdown with the figure across your house. Nothing out of the ordinary. You lie down on your bed, hold the gun in your hand, and go to sleep.
The next day, when you're coming down the stairs, you notice the clothes that you left at the base of the stairs are gone. It leaves a chill down your spine at the thought of someone entering your house while you rested. You looked around for the clothes but never found them. You brush it off as ‘maybe I was just really tired and I imagined it.’
As you're pulling up to the end of the cul-de-sac, you notice the next door neighbor is moving in. The man notices you stop, he’s carrying a large box, but he greets you with a nod. You give a friendly wave as you get out of the car.
You check your wrist watch for the time and it’s a quarter past eight in the morning.
You walk up to Holland’s front door with a small paper bag and knock on it.
It takes a lot longer than usual, but Holland opens the door groggily. His hair is messy and unkept, his eyes are still puffy from sleep, and he’s wearing his usual casual clothes. “Sorry, slept in.” He yawns. He opens the door wide for you to come in.
“You know, I don’t have to come in everyday especially if you’re gonna be here. I just feel like I’m draining you of your money.”
“Never, baby. Plus, Holly really likes having you around. She’s still asleep by the way.” He passes you to get to the kitchen. “You want coffee?”
You shake your head, “No, I’m alright… I actually have a question.”
He’s pouring himself a cup of coffee, “What is it, beautiful?”
“Did I leave my clothes here? I swear I brought them with me but I looked everywhere and couldn’t find it.” You look around for any sign of your clothes.
He takes a sip of the coffee, flinching when the coffee ends up being too hot on his tongue, “No. You took it with you. I offered to wash it but you said you were gonna do it at your place.”
You let out a simple ‘hm.’
He places his cup down and takes a long look at you, “What’s wrong, baby?”
“Nothing. Just a weird feeling.” You shrug.
“Anyways, I do have your clothes to return.” You hold up the paper bag, “Washed it and everything.” You sit on the stool across from him.
“You shouldn’t have.” He takes the bag from you, “Because now it smells like you.” He grins cheekily.
You roll your eyes at him, “You notice your new neighbor? Seems like just a guy living in that house.”
Holland looks out the window in the dining room, “Yeah, shocked that house got sold and had movers that quickly.”
“Maybe, he’s single and I’ll become your neighbor.” You grin.
He snaps his head back at you. “No way, he’s not that handsome. You won’t get with him.” He scoffs.
You stare at him dumbfoundedly.
“Unless… Is he your type?” He shrinks.
“Hm… I don’t know. Maybe, I’m more of a personality kind of gal.”
He scoffs, “No one is a personality kind of person, beautiful.”
You pretend to gasp and look at him with pleading eyes, “Does that mean you only care about my looks and not my personality, Holland?”
“No– Wait, that came out wrong.” He scrambles for excuses.
“What a shallow man, I suppose you are never going to get that date.” You click your tongue at him.
“Hold on! Wait!” He’s holding his hands together like he’s praying to you, “Please! Just one date, I promise I am not a shallow man.”
You shrug and look away.
Just as you turn your head away, you see Holly come out of her room.
“Hi, honey.” You coo out to her.
Holland straightens himself up and leans against the kitchen counter, “Hey, sweetie.”
Holly comes up to sit next to you at the stools. “I didn’t know you were coming early.” She rubs her eyes.
“Well, your dad’s a bit of a lonely loser, so he’s paying me to be his friend.” You joke.
Holly chuckles at that.
“I- I am not a lonely loser. I am NOT paying you to be my friend.” He defends himself.
“If you were, I’d be concerned by your taste in friends.” You admit.
“I have many friends besides you and Healy.” He pouts.
“Okay. Name one.”
He hesitates, “...Janet.”
“Dad, that’s my friend.” Holly rolls her eyes.
“She’s not even your friend, you hate her.” He furrows his eyebrows at her.
“I hate her, she’s not my friend and not yours either.”
“Ugh. Whatever.” He walks off to the direction of the office.
You and Holly watch him storm off and you both giggle at the sight.
When you leave for the night, Holland follows you up to your car. He pulls open your car door and you hop inside. He leans against the car door as you reach over to the glove box to put away the envelope of money. You look up at him and smile gently.
You speak softly, “Thank you for dinner. You’re surprisingly a good cook.”
“It’s the least I can do. I mean, hey, who do you think kept Holly and I fed all these years?”
You pretend to think for a moment, “Mmm… Holly?”
You and Holland laugh in unison.
His face then softens, “I’m being serious though, we should go out for a proper dinner. I’ll take you to a nice place, you can get dressed all pretty and I’ll even wear a three piece suit.”
You look ahead of you, tapping your finger on the steering wheel. In the distance, you can see the neighbor standing out on his porch watching the two of you. The dim light of his front porch light barely shining his face.
You sigh and look back at Holland, “I’ll think about it. Maybe when I know you more and life has calmed down for me.”
“I’ll wait then.” He says with a sincere tone.
“Goodnight, Holland.” You grab the handle to the door and he backs out.
“Goodnight, beautiful.”
You close the door and start the car. You drive away as he modestly waves you off.
You pull up to your place and immediately take notice of the missing figure across your street. You get in your house, do your usual routine, but when you stand in front of the window, the figure is standing right across like he’s been there the whole time.
You hesitantly turn off your lights and lie down on your bed. You sleep with the gun a little closer to your body that night.
Preview summary for the next part: Your life has significantly improved over the month of working for Holland March, except your personal life is getting more concerning. Your stalker grows bolder.
Cat!shifter reader x Simon (PLATONIC)
Part 1 | Part 2
Holy guacamole. I never thought I'd get this much traction. Thank you so much everyone, and I hope you enjoy. Apologies in advance for any typos/clunkiness.
This part mentions trafficking of shifters & animal cruelty. Proceed with care.
Present day
You're the most stubborn kid Simon's ever met.
He's tried every trick in the book short of outright kidnapping, to get you to come to him on your own. But you want nothing to do with him.
Can't you see he's trying to help get you off the streets? Into the care of someone who could ensure your safety? Shifters outside of sanctioned work don't have regulations put in to protect them. No oversight. No safety nets. It makes them easy targets for traffickers looking to carry out underground operations.
He's seen the worst of it; shifters tagged like livestock. Sedated and shock collared to keep in check. Some even bolted to the concrete floor or crammed in ill-fitting crates with the barest modicum of hygiene. Fed god knows what and forced to shift for the amusement of the buyers.
Johnny nearly killed one of the sellers they needed alive to interrogate — just about tore the man's throat before Simon stepped in.
The conditions were so abysmal that despite the overwhelming evidence, nothing changed. Nothing done to protect non-working shifters; they're less than human to the government, and treated as such.
Traffickers don't care if you're man, woman or child. A handful of shifters sold to the right buyer earns a small fortune.
And It's Simon's job to make sure you don't end up like that.
Which is why he's out here again, attempting to get you to trust him through association by food — the only method that works more often than not — at least when you're not in a mood.
He's late today, the sky streaked with oranges and purple, but he's not in a rush. You're not dumb enough to pass on free food now that you know he'll keep bringing it. Even when you're being a little shithead.
He adjusts his grip on the plastic baggy before coming to a stop in front of your current residence: an overturned cardboard box, marked with dirt and scratches, half-collapsed against a bush. Crude, but it makes do. You weren't very happy when he followed you back to your make-shift home a few days ago, threw a whole fit and everything.
You aren't inside when he crouches to take a look, but he knows you're nearby, evident with the meow that follows him cracking open a tin of wet cat food. Simon turns his head—
There.
A fixture in the hard shadow cast by the street-light, a pair of glowing eyes stare at him. He knows it's you. Any other cat would've already inched closer at the prospect of a free meal.
He sets the tin on the ground, "Hey kid, I've got dinner." Your feline form is already on the smaller end so he can't even tell how old you are, but he knows you need to eat. He'll get the specifics when he can get you to a specialist, but right now he's more worried about you eating enough to shift later.
After a couple moments with no response, Simon cuts his losses and stands, wiping his hands on his jeans, "Olright. That's tha' then. You better be 'ere tomorrow, you little menace"
He just hopes you don't piss in the food again.
────────────────────────────────────────────────
A week earlier:
Simon can't concentrate.
It's been less than 24 hours since you bit him and bolted. And you've been on the back of his mind since. A sense of dread dogs him; it feels wrong to have let you run, not when you're still at risk. What if someone else finds you first? While he's here, babysitting a bunch of recruits bumbling over themselves to impress him?
Scenario after scenario run through his head and he must've been glaring because Soap comes over to nudge him, "What's got you in a mood, L.T? Yer givin' the rookies a ghastly look. Did ya run out of your favorite tea today? Woke up on the wrong side of the bed, aye?"
"Negative." His reply is clipped.
"Ooh, tetchy today, ah see."
Take a deep breath. He isn't about to snap at Johnny for trying to lighten the mood when today's training is about building trust with your fellow soldiers. And Simon's here scowling at them.
He must've taken too long to respond, because the sergeant's smile tightens, "A word, Ghost?" and starts to herd him out of earshot of the rookies. Bloody mutt.
He sighs, "'m fine Mactavish."
"Aye, right! 'course you are L.T" The words are full of sarcasm, waiting for him to explain himself.
…
"How'd you reckon you earn a shifter's trust?" Simon finally asks, and before Soap can probe, he clarifies. "There's this kid…"
He explains the rest, how he met you and the apprehension at the situation. How is he supposed to gain your trust? Soap should know. He'd ask Price, but the old bear wouldn't be a lick useful, and bouncing ideas with Garrick would only have him back to square one; neither of them can tell what's going on in a shifter's mind.
"Ahm not sure but maybe…"
────────────────────────────────────────────────
(cue the montage)
After turning over Johnny's idea in his mind all night, Simon's equipped for a reunion the following day. And he's brought gifts.
It's more or less what he expected. You're avoidant, testy the moment you see him. It's clear you don't want him close, even when he comes bearing food and toys.
Just the other day he watched you throw a feather wand into oncoming traffic and stare at him.
Punk.
He knows you're hungry, but you refuse to eat with him nearby and you won't touch anything he hasn't opened right in front of you. The one time he opened the can before you arrived, you went ahead and pissed on it before bolting. The team won't let him live it down.
The neighbors started giving him pitiful looks after he faced rejection after rejection. A resident even told him that he'd have a better chance adopting any other cat than you. Apparently— you've got a bit of a reputation.
It was like trying to make peace with something that wants nothing to do with him, yet still waits for him every evening. He was late once and you threw a hissy fit, because surely how dare Simon be tardy when your feeding takes precedence over everything else?
He's trying to be patient. You're just scared. Testing him to make sure he won't pull any tricks on you or disappear, along with your meals.
Johnny said it would be slow progress. Simon just hopes you come around soon.
────────────────────────────────────────────────
Present day (a couple minutes later)
He's halfway back to the mart after dropping off your food when he hears it: A yowl, shrill in the distance.
It could be any other stray — there's no shortage of them in Manchester — but Simon's intuition is rarely wrong. He turns back, already jogging, and he doesn't have to get far: a black shape tears around the corner, little paws skitter on the pavement as you let out a series of distressed, frantic cries.
You see him. And bolt straight for him.
Simon's left dumbfounded as you pounce, scaling him like he's a bloody tree, and his hands reach up, uncertain. The question on his tongue dies when a woman rushes past with an empty dog leash, calling out a name.
No wonder.
He lets out a breath of relief.
"Did some mutt chase you? You olright?" He murmurs, resting his hand on your back to hold you up. You just mew pathetically into his jacket, claws biting into the fabric.
Simon exhales, and tucks you closer against his chest, "C'mon kid, let's get you sorted out."
summary: you try to beat your writers block by going to a cafe only to find a hot guy reading your novel, and he has some strong opinions about it
warnings: dark romance books bashed on briefly, kind of ooc jason ngl but shushshshshs, jason is a romance lover canon in my world idk, you think youre annoying, youre a little insecure but like its fine, cringe ig idk
Two and a half years ago, your very first novel was written. It was a romance, but it was the swirling, gentle kind that didn’t involve an abusive biker mafia boss. You pulled the good parts of yourself out and put them in the main character. You made something that was beautiful. You didn’t mind that it wasn’t exactly a smash hit. You weren’t getting billions of sales, but the people who did read it loved it. And your publishers wanted more from you. You wanted more from you. Your days had hit a lull, though. Your keyboard seemed to twist into something untouchable. Like it grew ten feet tall and glared down at you. You couldn’t even start to climb it and reach the first letter. Much less write something enjoyable.
You tried to find inspiration out of your house. You’d sit in the park and watch all the couples and eavesdrop on conversations. You’d take walks down the street, looking at advertisements and regular day-to-day people. You searched for inspiration in your own reading. You looked for it in museums and art. Nothing came to you. It was all boring.
You hoped maybe you needed a scenery change. So you packed up your laptop and headed down to a cafe. You settled into the corner, peeling open your laptop. You stared at the blinking cursor as the barista prepared your drink. You hovered your hands over the keys, focusing on the feeling of the cafe.
The warmth of the coffee shop prickled at his skin.
Prickled? Cold prickles. Not warmth. That makes no sense. Is this your first day writing holy-You eyes shot up at the sound of your name being called. You stood from your table, leaving your laptop behind. You pulled your coffee from the counter, turning back around to head towards your seat. Only your eyes caught on the cover of your book. You paused.
A big, hulking man was hunched over a small table. His back was to the window, the sun framing his large shoulders. At the part of his hair was a small patch of white. His face was scarred, but the pale lines didn’t cut through his beauty. It seemed almost like his face was carved with the scars in mind. They fit his face and made him look…
What’s that word? Reminds you of aubergine. Almost stunning. Not amazing, that’s too childish. Oh, what is that word?
He lifted his eyes, meeting yours. He curved an eyebrow. You felt doom crawling up your back and digging into your shoulders. You were being a creep and staring. Either you silently move away, pack yourself up and leave, or you start a conversation. You took a step closer.
“Enjoying the book?” You asked, glancing down at the page he was on. He looked about halfway through it. Your lips quirked at the sight of pen and highlighter covering the page. He was annotating your writing. The man glanced down at his book. He let out an awkward laugh, the points of his canines flashing. Hot.
“Yeah. It’s pretty good. Have you read it?” He asked, pulling his eyes back to you. You stared at the cover. What have you gotten yourself into? You technically have.
“Oh yes, a year or two ago.” You stated, feeling your face start to burn. His brows furrowed. He tilted his head to the side.
“I thought it came out this year.” He questioned. His hands started flipping through the pages to find the publication date. You jumped.
“Oh! Um- I got it early from one of those Goodreads giveaways. They give a couple people the books before the publication.” You covered. You were digging a hole and digging it fast. The opportunity to hear someone’s real thoughts was pushing you ahead. Especially because he was hot. His hands stopped flipping through the pages, returning to his last page. He nodded.
“That’s pretty cool.” He stated. He sounded genuinely impressed.
“It was signed too.” You added. Which was true. You had fucked your signature up so bad you couldn’t imagine anyone but you having it. The man looked up, his face twisting into a cringe.
“Doesn’t mean as much when it’s an unknown, does it? That would be cool if it was like-” He paused, tilting his head up to think. “Jane Austen or something.” He finished. You tried to ignore the twinge of pain that hit your stomach with the word ‘Unknown’.
“Well, that would be very impressive; they’d have to bring her back from the dead.” You chuckled. He grinned at you, letting out a small laugh.
“That’s a bad example.” He mumbled, pulling his bookmark from the table. He pressed it between the pages, closing his book. He turned all his attention to you. You felt your chest warm; this stranger was giving such a sign of devotion. To put your book away for a stranger? Obscene. He might as well have stripped down in front of you.
“What’s your favorite part?” You asked, drawing his attention back to your book. He thought quietly, wringing his hands on top of the table. He hummed. He turned his head from you, staring out the window in thought. You bounced on the balls of your feet. Jeez, your writing was so awful he couldn’t think of a single good part. His eyes snapped back to you.
“The letters. They’re incredibly moving and very clearly show their devotion,” he whispered, almost too quiet to hear over the chatter of the cafe. You nodded. That was your favorite part too.
“People don’t write love letters anymore.” You wistfully said. You truly missed love letters. You hadn’t gotten one, but you wished they were a part of society again. The man nodded.
“They really don’t.” He mumbled. You pointed to the book again.
“What’s your least favorite part?” You asked. You really wanted to know. You could use his input on your second novel.
“The main character.” He didn’t have to think for a second this time. You were starting to regret this conversation. He had to think so hard to find his favorite, but he didn’t have to consider anything to find his least favorite.
“Too annoying?” You asked. Yes, well, you were considered annoying sometimes, so clearly the character based on you must be too. He furrowed his brows, glaring at you.
“Not in the slightest. The issue I have is that they’re too perfect. There are no flaws. Real people aren’t like that. I understand it’s fiction, but it’s disappointing. It’s such a beautiful book that kind of falls flat because the main character is kind of two-dimensional. The book has this stunning message of unconditional love. It falls apart because it’s easy to love someone perfect. Real people aren’t like that. They’re horrifically flawed. They’re assholes sometimes; they blow up; they have things wrong with them. This character is like if the author made someone fall in love with a robot.'
'I can tell they’re capable of writing people with flaws because the love interest does. They just didn’t use that skill on the main character. But I guess I’m thinking about it too hard.” He rambled, leaning back to cross his arms over his chest. Your eyes dipped to his arms, following over the dipping and rising ocean waves of muscle. You sucked in a breath, looking back to his eyes. He’s right, of course he is. You didn’t give them any flaws. You worried that if you added the shitty parts of yourself, every reader would hate them. Your character was perfect, and that’s how you wanted to publish them. A simple character had to be better than an unintentionally hated one.
“You’re right. The main character is a little two-dimensional. You’d be great in a book club.” You said, pulling your coffee to your mouth. You stared at him over the rim of your drink. He watched you from the corner of his eyes.
“I don’t know about that.” He mumbled. He dropped his eyes to his lap, almost like he was flustered. You stared at his hair, zeroing in on the white streaks. At first, you thought it was bleached, a very good bleach job. But he didn’t have any black roots. So, unless he bleached it last night, it was natural.
“Do you have vitiligo?” You asked, your eyes still examining his scalp. He lifted his head, making you meet his eyes.
“What?” You lifted your hand, gesturing toward your head.
“Your hair. Vitiligo sometimes causes white streaks in hair. It looks natural; you don’t have any roots.” You furthered, dropping your hand from your head. He scoffed at his lap.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” He grumbled. You hummed. Weirdo. A hot weirdo. You gasped as the word came back to you. You snapped your fingers.
“Alluring. That’s the word I was looking for.” You muttered. The man stared at you as you started to mutter about amazing aubergines. You slipped away from his table, dropping back into your seat across the shop. You set your coffee down.
An alluring man with hunched shoulders sat in a coffee shop with a well-loved paperback book twisted in his hands.
That’s almost something. It's a good opener, maybe. He’s hot; that's made clear. The book has been read before, and he twists his books around. He’s hunched; he’s a little shy. You have something. You glanced over the edge of your laptop to find the man staring at you. His mouth was parted like you just called him a bitch. You tilted your head to the side, asking him a silent question. He pressed his mouth together, patting his hands against the table.
He’s been playing eye tag with the only other person in the shop engrossed in a novel for the past thirty minutes.
The man stands from his seat, taking his book with him. He advances on your table, sitting across from you.
“You left.”
“You’d make a great detective.” You mumbled, dropping your eyes back to the screen.
He liked to bend books to his whim. He got to lay claim to an entire universe and twist and pull it however he liked. Which was how his universe had treated him. Its twists and yanks left trailing scars across his skin.
“My name is Jason,” Jason mumbled. You lifted your eyes, tracing over his face again.
His cutting green eyes trailed across the pages.
You hummed in response. He frowned at you, pinching his lips together.
“What’s yours?” Jason pressed. You pressed your laptop screen down, breaking down the wall between the two of you. You leaned forward. You pointed your finger at your name sprawled across the cover of his book. Jason looked down at your hand, his eyes widening. He looked back up at you.
“You’re joking,” Jason stated. All the humor in his voice was gone; he was begging you to say yes- you were joking. You pulled the book from his hands, flipping to the back cover. You held the small black and white picture of you next to your face. Jason groaned, dropping his face into his hands.
“This is embarrassing.” He mumbled to himself. You hummed, closing your book again. You slid it across the table.
“It’s okay.” You tried. Jason shook his head in his hands.
“No. I totally insulted your writing to your face.” Jason grumbled. He pressed his hands into his face, completely mortified. You sighed.
“You were right. I didn’t give the main character flaws. You gave me good analysis. I appreciate it, seriously, Jason.” You reached out, gently pulling on his wrist to reveal his face again. He gave you an embarrassed look, hiding his lips inside of his mouth.
“I can’t believe I did that.” He whispered, staring at the cover of his book again. You smiled at him, watching him carefully. You were incredibly grateful he was reading his book in this coffee shop.
“I’m glad. I think I beat my writer’s block.” You almost giggled. Jason huffed.
“I’m mortified. I don’t think I’m living this down.” Jason muttered. You rolled your eyes.
“Let me make it up to you. We could maybe get dinner.” You ventured. Please say yes. Say yes. You could spend only one evening with him and still write a whole book. Clearly something about him was pushing all the buttons you needed to be inspired. He was hot and smart. That’s not a frequent combo. Jason lifted his eyes, his eyebrows shooting up. He nodded quickly.
“Yeah, yeah.” Jason stumbled out. You hummed. You moved to pull your phone out. The bell above the cafe door rang; another incredibly muscular man stepped through the door. His face was solid as his eyes swept over the people. His eyes landed on Jason, his face lighting up. He lifted his hand, waving back and forth.
“Jay!” He shouted, making the quiet cafe-goers grumble. Jason clammed up, his shoulders tightening.
“Oh, my god.” He mumbled. Jason pressed one of his pens into the cover of his book, sliding it towards you.
“I have to go.” He said. You hummed, peeling open the front cover of his book. You scribbled your signature on the cover and left him your number. You slid it back to him. Jason snatched it up, making quick work of the cafe. He herded the loud man out of the cafe. You could see them arguing through the window. You grinned at the sight of Jason pressing the book to his chest.
found out fanfic authors and their readers can fall in love and get married not saying i want that just saying it's something i learned 5'3 feminist with DDDs btw or i mean wtv
