slow dancing in a burning room | alison miller x fem!reader
Can we pretend this isn't the tenth post I've tried to make in a year and who knows how many months? Please ignore my absence. College got the best of me and my creativity went through the roof with it.
No, this isn't a definitive "hello again", but can we ignore that too and pretend I never went out?
Anyway, I was on vacation from work and college during the holidays, and it was the first time I was able to sit on the couch and watch an hour-long movie without pausing and dividing it into parts. That's how 'Hollow in the Land' came to me and that's how, in my years-long crush on Dianna Agron, I decided to try this as a comeback fanfic.
I don't think my readers outside America or countries that have access to this movie will understand half of what I feel about it, but I had to come and say that having baby Dianna Agron playing an entirely lesbian character on my screen was a blessing, despite a shallow script (which isn't really the case) for an indie film.
Anyway, without further ado, I think there was no better way to start posting again. I won't be responding to messages and comments for now, requests will remain closed until I feel safer to return.
Sorry if my writing sucks, and well, it's February already, but may we all have a happy 2025!
---------------------------
Prompt: Okay, so she just got out of a relationship - which can't really be considered a relationship because she's never had anything but secrets to reveal, despite her overprotectiveness and concern and devotion - but you're right there, in that bar, on your own, and if it weren't for her bad reputation, Alison would have hit on you by now. Probably.
TW: softdom!alison, sub!fem!reader, mentions of drug use, violence, bad language, sex scenes, stimulation, making out, quickie at a bar, sensitive topics, homosexuality, alcohol, spoilers of hollow in the land, mentions of situationship, dianna agron, butch masc dianna agron, butch masc dianna agron being gay and toxic and aggressive, butch masc dianna agron being the gayest of gays, terrible writing in english.
Charlene this, Charlene that…
Alison was tired of trying to get her mind to think about anything else after the traumatic sequence of events last fall. Every now and then, when she fell asleep, she still dreamed about Darryl getting shot, about the sheriff kicking her to the ground and pointing the gun at her, and about Brandon getting out of that car and into the middle of the lake with all those people, with bags under his eyes and a few bruises. And of course, there were nights when she dreamed about Ruth and Debbie and the farm and the two of them being a happy lesbian couple in broad daylight in a small town.
In fact, speaking of Brandon, he was hardly any help. Alison had told him that she wanted to stay away from anything involving Charlene, Earl, the sheriff and the recent events, but he still had that damn idea of ​​bringing Sophie to their house every night, and as if it wasn't enough to have to look into that girl's eyeliner-filled eyes - because they reminded her of Charlene's - she still had to listen to them fucking in the next room.
At least he had learned his hard lesson and stopped running away like he used to. He spent more hours at home and, when he didn't, he came home early, sober. Darryl was happy that he didn't have to babysit the boy at the police station anymore, too.
Alison was still a wreck, though. Charlene certainly didn't want her back, and after her husband's death was made public, she finally kicked her out of her circle. She started with the usual cliché: "I'm not good enough for a heart as pure as yours", or "I need to sort myself out first before I can get back into a relationship with someone worth having."
Well, at least Alison knew she was still worth having to Charlene. She just didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing (it was terrible, to be honest.)
The only way she could really get the ghosts out of her head was to drink.
And she was lucky that she didn't have to drive far to get to a nearby bar, unless she stopped at the convenience store on the corner and bought a few cheap cans. People kind of knew her because of the bad reputation of her last name (her father was a murderer, her brother was suspected of murder), and it wouldn't look good if she was showing off in the same ochre jacket on the streets at night. Besides, driving was more practical because she didn't put pressure on the bullet wound on her chest, which had been healed by needle and thread - literally.
Alison still wondered why she had been so lucky that day, with Ruth and Debbie. Why they hadn't let her die there, like anyone else who knew the Millers would have?
And she wondered why she had never moved on, after everything had been resolved and Brandon had returned, why she hadn't followed through with her plan to leave, why she had chickened out at the last minute? She could use the excuse that it had been for her brother, for the chance to take care of him, to heal his traumas as best she could, but she wasn't good for that either.
Until she met you. Or rather, she met you again.
It was a small town, everyone knew each other and knew the names and dirty dealings of the families that still lived there, but you weren't a regular visitor at the bar, much less in the city. It wasn't hard to recognize who the lonely girl at the bar could be, ordering a dry martini at one fifteen in the morning, even so. Alison remembered you because she used to play with you back in school, and skip class with you to throw rocks at other people's car windows in the parking lot. Times were good, but she wasn't that sloppy person anymore, nor did she have that wit anymore.
Luckily she still had a good memory, that would never change. She could swear she would make a good detective, if Darryl would let her be one, at least.
“Can I sit here?” she began, that night your eyes first met. It was a terrible first attempt at flirting, but she wasn’t really trying. She just wanted to be polite and pretend you weren’t there, if that was what you wanted, at least. She didn’t have to ask permission to sit on the damn bar stool, but she did anyway.
And thank goodness you nodded without frowning or thinking she was being weird.
Now that was flirting. And a bad flirting, if it counted for anything. Alison liked to be ironic while flirting with beautiful, attention-worthy women, and it always ended with her signing the embarrassment form of the week, by the way.
The bar wasn't really crowded, that was the bad part of flirting. Empty like all the streets in that shitty little town, with only weird, polite couples, or drunk men who had never seen a razor in their lives, or nearly naked women. She glanced around to confirm her hypothesis and then turned back to you, feeling a little bad for having started so poorly.
"Wait, I think I know you," you say, casually, turning to her and resting an arm around the bar. And Alison, not at all casually, smiles, knowing that she's finally found the reason she needed not to leave the city. "Your accent sounds familiar."
Pfft. Accent? Alison didn't have an accent at all. She had lost it when she decided to run away from the responsibility of taking care of the family, when her father started to show signs of not being very healthy, escaping to New York and understanding that it would be the perfect place to start over. At least, she would stop with that whole mining and construction and foundations and scaffolding thing. Real work. Two months in New York and she had a new accent. Two months in New York and her father killed a defenseless boy who was also the son of the owner of the construction company she worked for - and still works for -, God, it felt like purgatory.
"Miller. I used to live next door to you, on Riverside Street," she explains, now casually, because she likes to remember the time when she was a good little girl, when she was still enough like her mother to see herself in her and project her future. "Alison. I had a Cabbage Patch Doll, we used it to tie up that annoying girl's hair in kindergarten. You're (Y\N) (Y/LN), right?"
You smile, and boom. In an instant, Alison gets what she wants, without meaning to. Screw Charlene and her shitty family. Screw her mommy issues, the cause of her attraction to older women, according to any therapist worth her salt to diagnose her. There's no way of knowing, she's never been to one herself.
"Holy shit, Alison! You've changed so much! You look great, actually, it's just… wow, I guess it's been a while since we last saw each other, huh? I wouldn't remember anyway."
"It's okay, I'm not pressuring you to remember anything. Well, especially not from my side, right? The bad news has reached New Haven?"
She sees you stiffen. If she hadn't been so drunk and so loose just from a bottle of the cheapest beer they had at the bar, she would have held this part of the conversation. No one deserves to have to hear about the misfortunes that happened to her and her family last year, especially in a city like that, dark and terrifying, not to mention hell on Earth-like.
Anyway, you stiffen. You take a sip of your martini and turn to her again, your eyes wet and fearful, searching for the right word and expression. "Not entirely, but, well, you can't escape it for long, can you? I'm sorry about your dad. That must have been awful."
"It could have been worse," she says, trying to lighten the mood. "You kind of learn to deal with it. It taught me that I'm a great lone wolf, you know? And it taught me how to take care of a family. To be responsible for keeping a family together."
Pff, another joke. She hopes she won't have to do one of those again, but her condition would never let her get away with this one. She's never been good at taking care of her family, but you don't need to know that now.
"Is Brandon okay? I haven't seen him in a while, either."
"Oh, he's great. He's changed a lot since the last one, too," she hesitates, before leaning in a little closer, setting down the empty bottle with a thud from the bottom to indicate that she wants another drink. "But, okay, never mind my family, let's talk about yours. Did you bring everyone back here or did you come alone?"
“I’ve become a lone wolf myself,” you laugh again, and Alison knows she might die and hear the sound of that laugh, if she ever makes it to the gates of Heaven. “It’s temporary, actually. I came here to write my true crime book, and I ended up getting a job at the convenience store… there’s a woman leaving soon, and they gave me her shift.”
Charlene. Damn, she really could never get out of this, could she?
“Yeah, I think that’s cool,” she says, trying to sound casual again, terrified she might have made a face or something. “You said you’re writing a true crime book? Since when?”
You shrug and turn away, making Alison want to reach up and pull your face toward her again. She was never like that, grabbing people's faces and forcing them into a truly domineering proximity. Her type was more like staying up all night in case the significant other had a nightmare, or opening the car door when the significant other was driving, or kissing the significant other on the forehead to show affection and support… Anyway.
"Two years," you answer, your voice completely low and monotone. "The publishers hated all the chapters I sent, and I thought that if I had a real experience in a small town, I could get… I don't know, at least the premise approved."
Well, so you're here just for a real-life experience, just to dive into a fictional story of investigation and blood and violence.
And she thought she could get out of here with you crawling all over her, begging for more and her phone number…
When did she become like this? You never know. Why? Much less.
Alison's kind and empathetic nature returns for a moment, and she feels bad that you'll never get what you want so much. She herself will never get anything, having dropped out of school to be a rebel without a cause and having dropped out of college to take care of her drug-addicted brother who needed help after his father was arrested.
"I'm sorry about that," she says, and then she commits the first crazy act of the night. Her hand slides very close to yours, touching the skin of your index finger lightly, but causing the same shiver as a full touch. She doesn't pull away, even so. "I'm sure you'll get something soon. Something good. And then you'll rub it in the other publishers' faces."
You laugh, again. Another score for her. That's it!
"Thanks," you say, and she interrupts you with something completely unexpected and sudden, because the alcohol forces her to say things she would usually think before saying, on normal days.
"You have a beautiful smile. You always did, but, oh, now it's even more so."
And this is where she knows she's going to win you over, even if she's talking nonsense after nonsense. Even if she's drunk on a bottle of beer and is about to have a second one.
"Does your story have a romance? A helpless young lady, a high society lady who falls in love with the detective and becomes the target of the real killer's obsession?"
That question also came out of nowhere. It was supposed to be a metaphor about your life, but Alison's words are more easily jumbled at that moment, and the faces she makes to dramatize the matter don't help a damn thing.
You frown, but you don't seem ashamed of her at that moment, and of course you won't. Despite trying to make Alison's Cabbage Patch Doll eat her biggest rival's hair during childhood, you are a good person. You always see the best in people.
"No, actually, my protagonist is an old fisherman, and no, he doesn't have a romantic interest, yet," you say sweetly, so sweetly that Alison wants to kiss your hands and feet and worship you instead of doing anything highly malicious to you. "But I might think about it, as the story progresses, who knows."
"And in real life, do you have anyone? Are you seeing anyone?"
She just hopes you're not polite enough to ask her back. Her drunkenness will make her spill the beans about the situationship with Charlene and Earl and that would surely ruin the last of the chance she ever had with you.
Luckily for Alison, her voice is unintentionally deep, maybe from smoking or puberty, and that's enough to make you so intimidated that you forget the point of all the questions.
"Me? Oh, no, no," you say, shrugging again. Adorable, to say the least. "No, I'm not cut out for this, it's not my thing."
"Why not? You haven't found the right person yet, I bet."
Damn it, just stop making comments, Alison. Stop fucking talking!
You don't even seem to care about the ridiculous tone of the comment coming out of her mouth, and thank goodness you don't. Looking down, you sigh and down your martini in one go, putting an end to your suffering. "No, it's not that, it's just… okay, maybe it is, I just don't idealize, you know? And I don't really look for it either. And then people don't come to me as a result."
"It's a shame, because I would have come to you even if you hadn't been looking for me."
Okay, now that's flirting. She used it once with Charlene while they were talking in the empty parking lot outside the stupid party where Brandon and Sophie decided to make out for the first time. They didn't even care about their guardians, and Alison, having just come back from her failed college and with her father in jail, tried at least to seem decent in her first conversation with Charlene.
The difference is that she lied, that time. She wasn't getting a divorce yet and hadn't even thought about it. She probably just wanted to see how far Alison and her terrible shame would take her. The divorce thing only started after they had sex for the first time and Charlene realized that the blonde wasn't going to leave any time soon. "Wow," you say, catching her off guard and freeing her from those horrible thoughts that she should forget. "You really haven't changed at all. You keep on with the small talk like it's your nature."
She smiles, for the first time, and then reaches out again to touch your entire hand, her eyes fixed on yours. "Except this time, it's not idle talk, (Y\N), I really would."
Okay, that finally caught you off guard. The statement. The sudden touch, everything. Alison knew she had won you over right there, and now, she just needed the perfect bait to capture her prey, again, and end her own suffering.
"I need to pee. Too much alcohol messes with my bladder," she says, hoping you'll fall for it. "Want to come with me?"
"Girls together in the bathroom. Nothing more girly than that," she huffs. "No intention at all, seriously, and I'll be quick. You don't even have to go in the stall, you can wait for me outside."
That part, as you've probably figured out by now, was a lie.
You have no idea how this started. And neither does she, to be honest, but neither of you are complaining.
It feels like a dream. Alison feels empowered the moment she practically pushes you against the shaky, shaky wall of the bathroom stall and makes you slam your back against the door, which shakes with the weight of your skin, however light. She lifts your hands up above your head and realizes how easy it was to get you. How easy it would have been to get all the others, if she weren't weak.
Okay, she wasn't weak. It was just the first time. The first time any girl wanted to be with her who wasn't Charlene.
And, damn it, she'd survived nights sleeping in cars, a bullet wound, a poorly stitched skin, a murderous sheriff who'd plotted against her family with their enemy family. She'd survived, it was time to pick herself up, to start over.
As much as she misses being gentle and asking the classic "are you sure?" before pulling another girl's mouth away from hers and lifting the other girl's shirt; or whispering a sweet and completely misguided promise "I'll never hurt you" when the two of you are about to go all out, Alison knows she needs to change course. And she knows you'll like it once she starts.
She feels your skin slipping under her hands, the tremor in your bones, the murmurs of surrender coming out of your throat… She knows you want it all more than she does, and she knows that deep down, you only came back to that shitty town hoping she was alive just so she could fuck you for the first time.
It's not the first time she's kissed someone with this much passion, that hasn't changed, yet. She practically takes you with her mouth, making it so neither of you have to say anything before you start. You're hers. She's yours. It's decided right there, the moment that taste of beer takes over your throat, she knows she doesn't need to claim you, that she's already won you over without the slightest effort.
She freezes, the moment you moan her name on her lips, she freezes. And pulls away, her eyes wide.
"Is there a problem? Do you want me to stop here? Because I can stop if you want…" Even though I don't want to. She'll never finish that sentence, for God's sake.
"No, it's just that I was thinking…"
You look away from her. And, oh, only God knows how crazy that has been driving her for the last five minutes that you've rented that entire cabin for your makeout session.
"Hey, it's okay, look at me," she whispers, finally taking your chin in her pincer fingers, finally forcing you to do something, finally ensuring that she can show power, when she wants to. "Okay, it's okay, you've been a good girl, okay? I'll understand if you want to stop…"
You freeze. And she can feel it on her skin when her fingers warm your chin. Your face first goes white, before blushing and becoming the most adorable thing Alison has ever seen in all these years.
Oh, shit. Alison blushes too, unprepared to answer for that. She's a freak even when she's trying to dominate someone.
"Sorry, that was embarrassing. I shouldn't have said it, it's just, I'm not thinking straight and…"
"It's okay, Alison, it's okay," you say, and she finally takes a deep breath, pulling her hands away from your warm chin. "It's not embarrassing at all. It was funny, actually. But not in an embarrassing or humiliating way, it was… I don't know."
She swallows hard, trying to understand where you're going with this. Her heart races, she's on the verge of panic, hoping she hasn't ruined everything with you because of one word - well, two.
"I liked being called a good girl. I really like it."
She takes a deep breath, her body pausing for two seconds before coming back to life on its own. The color returns to her skin, and her eyes are wide at you, really trying to understand where this is all coming from.
"You like it?" she says, a little indignant. Confused, disturbed, more like.
You just nod, and she knows it's embarrassing for you too, now. "Do you want me to… oh, fuck, wait a minute…" She takes a deep breath. Back to the old habits of chivalry and hopeless romanticism, I guess. "Do you want me to keep calling you a good girl…?"
The question hangs in the air. You're speechless for more than five seconds, probably ruminating on the answer, and then you just nod, again, because that's you. And that's how you drive her crazy.
Suddenly, she goes back to kissing you, pinning your arms up again, holding them with one hand in the air while the other goes around your waist and makes an effort to pull you completely close without cracking your bones or stretching any muscles. It's a fierce kiss, full of chaos, noise and a lot of desire, and she can't control herself, nor control her impulses.
A short, wet tongue kiss is enough to make her lose control completely. Alison lowers her kisses to your cheek, behind your ear, and then your jaw, your jugular, and finally, the sides of your neck. She feels you trembling and tightening in her grip, in her kisses, an involuntary movement perhaps to escape her grip. But of course she won't let you get away like that.
"Uh-huh, you agreed to play, so now be a good girl for me, okay?", she murmurs, in the skin of your neck, her breath mixed with her hoarse voice going straight to your ear. You shiver, she feels your shivers and smiles, especially when you moan softly in her ear, your brain processing the first of many orgasms.
Now, she better end this soon before someone reports you.
"Listen to me, I give orders and you obey, got it?", she whispers, again in your ear, and makes you go crazy again, with the same mischievous smile. "I'm going to unbutton those jeans of yours, and you're going to sit right there on that toilet, legs open, and you're still going to be a good girl for me, okay?"
You nod, and she watches as you sit on the toilet, as she asked. Your jeans fall to the floor, and Alison finally kneels down to be at your level. She kisses your hands and knuckles before guiding them into your panties, forcing you to go down there to stimulate yourself while she kisses your thighs and legs.
Finally, she pulls down one side of your panties, pushing your hand away and kissing the divider of your legs and the entrance of your lower lips, calmly. Her lips are so cold that they make you stiffen, and make you laugh, immediately enjoying the terrifying and incredibly pleasurable situation between you.
Doing the same with the other, she feels you wetting the entire fabric of the piece and thinks it's time to rip it off for good. And then things get better. She kisses you all over your vagina, taking you completely, as if it were nothing. Listening to your moans and satisfying herself with just that, as if the world were going to end.
No sudden movements. Just you and her enjoying the pleasure of a quickie in the ladies' room.
It’s better than she imagined. It’s better than getting a kiss on the neck in Charlene’s shower stall. It’s better than having sex with her in bed with the unbearable smell of the late Earl’s cologne. It’s better than being the one holding back her moans because Sophie is sleeping in the next room, and Charlene is embarrassed to even know she’s pleasured a girl in her life.
It’s all too delicate with you. Despite being wild, lustful, brutal and almost carnal, Alison can’t seem to push her own domination. She’s still terrified of hurting you, even if it’s not really possible. When she slides her fingers and opens your most sensitive spot for her mouth, it’s clear she’s practically touching the gates of Heaven.
And hearing you moan softly, holding yourself back as you squeeze and throw your body back against the wall, trying to dodge, only makes it worse. Her coat is sweaty, the stitching Debbie did on her chest is about to come apart, it starts to hurt, burn, and bother her because she keeps pushing. And she shouldn't be pushing. The risk of breaking the stitches and causing an infection, according to the doctors, is high, and that could end her. But who the fuck cares what the doctor says? And why the hell did Helen Balkoff have to be such a good shot?
She's pleasuring you. She's in charge. None of that shit matters, in the end. The room could burn with the two of you, and she'd still keep dancing that dance. And if you asked for more, she'd do more. And you're begging for more, every incomplete whisper because your voice is as wet as your panties is a plea for more.
When she finally finishes, she throws her head back, and you imitate her movement right away. You're both panting, and you're sweating so much that you're sure you're going to need more than your daily allowance of water after that.
Alison sits on the floor, not caring about anything else, her legs folded. She sighs, hiding her face in her hands, contemplating what she had just done and trying to recover. As if she would ever recover from something like that.
"Are you okay?" she asks, because she can't help but ask. It's what anyone would ask after a… after that.
She looks up, and you nod, trying to stand up, your legs a little shaky. When you sit on the toilet again, with Alison's eyes burning into you, you know you're not the same person anymore.
"I'm fine…" you say, a whisper of voice, hoarse and thick as ever. She shivers all over. "Are you okay?"
"I've never been better," she says, and then, with a guilty conscience, she stands up, still shaking too, and extends her arm to you, the other one wrapping around you. "Come here, I'll help you. I've got you."
A chaste kiss on your forehead, and she knows that this time, it's for real, for both of you.
"Was it good?", she whispers, opening the cabin door and just checking to make sure there really isn't anyone outside. She hands you your pants, less hideous, and then passes you her own jacket, just in case. She has to be a gentlewoman, really. It's her nature.
"It was really good," you whisper, and then you pull her by the collar of the red flannel, Debbie's flannel, which she hasn't taken off since she got back, at least. (She showered and put it on more often, because she's that hygienic), wanting more.
For the first time, gentlemanly and restrained, Alison stops you.
"Just a minute, we can't…", she whispers, chuckling, before handing you her cell phone. "Give me your number. I'll call you and we'll set up something more… political. I promise. I won't mess up. I want to do this again. I want you to be my good girl many more times."
You give up, defeated, and only accept because you're still high from the sex in the bathroom stall with Alison Miller, your childhood friend.
"One more thing," she says, before opening the door for you, with a mischievous smile. "I think you should change that little story of yours. Maybe an erotic book about a girl having sex with an amateur detective would be much more appealing to publishers..."
