#undertaker x reader fake texts

[intheorangebedroom]

Pleased to meet you, chapter 10

Summary: it's Will's birthday, and everyone gathers at his place for a nice Sunday barbecue. You choose a particular -sensible- outfit, and some decisions are made in the heat of the moment.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x French fem!Reader.

Rating: Explicit 🔞

A/N: it occurred to me recently (thank you Fanna) that some of you had subscribed to the taglist without my knowledge... I'm an unworthy idiot and thought I'd get a notif of some sort, so I never thought to check the form out. I'm very sorry. I'm insanely grateful to anyone who interacts with this story. I will never tire of thanking you.

Word Count: 7.1k (I'm very sorry, I don't know what happened, I'm blaming the Millers on this one)

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Chapter 10: The Deal

(👆🏻 as per usual, from @nicolethered 's treasure trove)

-

Catfish, noun [C] (FISH) : a fish with a flat head and long hairs around its mouth that lives in rivers or lakes.

Catfish, noun [C] (FAKE), informal: someone who pretends on social media to be someone different, in order to trick or attract other people.

Padding out of the steamy bathroom into the adjacent bedroom, you press the home screen button to close the Cambridge Dictionary app and tap open your Larousse translator.

Catfish [‘kætfiʃ] (pl catfish or catfishes), noun : poisson-chat.

None of it makes any sense to you, not in any language you know. Perhaps you should try Spanish? Putain de merde.

None of it makes any sense to you, not in any language you know. Perhaps you should try Spanish? Putain de merde. 

Benny’s resounding voice echoes from the living-room, the velvety tones brushing against your naked skin. He’s strumming his guitar to a song you recognise as Creedence Clearwater Revival’s Fortunate Son. The hand holding your phone lowers slowly, your tense shoulders dropping in slow motion as you listen.

Ben’s voice is what you like best about him. It’s the very first thing you noticed, in the hardware store aisle, and also the first that charmed you after your first couple of dates. It trickles down your spine like honey, keeps your inside warm and your mind snug, and when he sings… well, when he sings, on a normal day, it’s plenty enough to turn you on like an electrical wire, and he never gets to play very long when you’re staying at his place.

Only nothing’s normal anymore.

You stood up Rosie at the last minute on Tuesday, unable to face her in the wake of this new reality, instead showing up at work on your day off without an explanation and unilaterally deciding to undertake a thorough inventory of the bookstore. Your boss, Suzanne, was pleasantly surprised, and if something seemed off to her, she didn’t say.

When Benny told you he would see the guys again on Friday night, you attempted to talk him out of it, as subtly as you could despite your nervousness, feeling as though he could see right through you. Which he didn’t.

After closing up that evening, you walked straight to your usual deli, just around the block corner from the bookstore, where the cashier is a Moroccan grandpa with whom you chat in French, much to your delight, and who calls you “cousine”, and bought your first pack of smokes since college.

Back at your apartment, you smoked all 20 cigarettes sitting by the windowsill of your living-room, waiting for a text or a phone call from Benny that never came. He’s not in the habit of texting nor calling you, on Friday nights. He has taught himself to respect your chosen moments of aloneness, with a childlike willingness, eager to please you.

What were you so nervous about, anyway? How likely is it that Frankie would walk up to his friend to tell him, “Hey, I fucked your girlfriend fifteen years ago, and she let me do things to her that she has denied you repeatedly. Want another beer?”

Your manic brain won’t let go about it, however, no matter how sternly you reason with yourself, no matter what logic you employ. Would that eventuality be so far-fetched? You don’t know what these men share. You know nothing of the strength and nature of their bond. Only that they’re like brothers. You’re foreign to that. You’re an outsider. How can you be sure that Benny wouldn’t cut you loose without a second look if his friend told him about what happened between you? Besides, if Catfish looked at you with such unabated anger, he might very well consider it his brotherly duty to warn his friend. “She’s a liar. She’ll never call you.”

The worst being that you can’t make up your mind about what would hurt most. Benny’s abandon. Or Frankie’s betrayal.

If only you knew what the fuck “Catfish” means. If you had this one clue, you might get an understanding of the man he has become. Or so you think.

You put down your phone and retrieve a cotton t-shirt from your travel bag, laying it flat on the bed next to your jeans, smoothing over the fabric with a frown. You brought another choice of outfit, more suitable to attend a birthday party, a cute little white cotton short-sleeves button-up with a red lining around the collar, a yellow one along the button placket and a dark green one on the breast pocket.

Picking up your phone again, you briefly consider running a Google image search, for the hundredth time or so, but instead angrily toss it on the bed, where it bounces off and ends up on the wooden floor with an ominous noise.

“Et merde!”

“Ooooh she’s naked!” Benny appears on the bedroom threshold, dirty blue jeans and shabby Kiss T-shirt, his massive silhouette dwarfing the doorway.

“Sorry, I’m dressing up, I’ll be ready in a minute,” you quickly shuffle back to the bag and crouch down, rummaging through it in search of your underwear. Benny offered weeks, no, months ago, to clear a drawer for you. And a shelf in his wardrobe. You’ve really mastered the art of deflecting, if anything else.

“That’s not what I meant,” he croons, joining you in two long strides, tugging at your arm until you stand up and face him.

“Stop it, we’re bringing the drinks, we can’t be late,” you tilt your head up with a raised eyebrow, your frustration visible.

“I do not care… Come on, I’ll be quick,” he promises with a cocky smile, wrapping both arms around your waist and pulling you flush against him.

“Oh, you’ll be quick? What about me?” you exclaim in mock offence.

It systematically takes you by surprise, every single time, the ease with which this man manages to lift up your mood. No matter how reluctant you are, he just drags the joy out of you.

“I can get you off fast. Three minutes—”

“Three minutes?!” you cry indignantly.

“I like a challenge, come on,” he chuckles, splaying his large hands across your cheeks, drifting toward the cleft of your ass as you try to wiggle out of his embrace.

“Benjamin, it’s late, stop it,” you giggle, but the drag of his lips along the line of your neck is making you weak in the knees already, a small heat flaring up in your belly.

His voice drops another octave and your entire body shudders against his rumbling chest, “Three minutes. Bend over the bed, baby.”

—

Three minutes turned out to be twenty, after what you had to take another shower, and now you’re definitely running late. You’re not cross, however, if anything you feel more relaxed than you have since the beginning of the week. More than quick, he’s been rough, pounding you ruthlessly into the mattress from behind while you frantically rubbed your clit, and perhaps it was just what you needed to straighten your head. To remind yourself that you’re precisely where -and with whom- you’re supposed to be. Because you are. Right?

As you apply mascara in the bathroom, Benny calls in from the living-room, announcing he’s going to start the car. You acknowledge the information for what it means: that gives you five extra minutes, it being the amount of time he likes to run the engine for, before pulling the Mustang out of the garage.

You briskly walk into the bedroom and slip into your sensible underwear and your jeans. The t-shirt you pulled out of your bag earlier slipped on the floor while Benny was fucking you, and you pick it up without looking at it, shoving it back unceremoniously inside the bag. You make a face at the rumpled cotton as you pull out your blouse and lay it on the mattress. As you vainly repeat your earlier motion, trying to smooth the shirt under your palm, you decide that you’re going to ask Benny again about the shelf and drawer, after all, nodding to yourself.

You put on the blouse and start buttoning it up, circling the bed to retrieve your phone from the corner of the room where it fell earlier, and as you pick up the device, the screen unlocks and lights up.

Catfish [‘kætfiʃ] (pl catfish or catfishes), noun : poisson-chat.

You pause for the briefest moment, clenching your jaw and about to rub your eyelids before remembering you’ve got makeup on. Sliding the phone in the back pocket of your jeans, you hurry back to your bag and choose the yellow t-shirt for the second time today.

—

Will is getting a grill for his birthday. An insanely expensive beast of a machine with more knobs than a sci-fi villain’s aircraft. Something he has no use for, since he’s had the same simple, basic charcoal grill since he moved in alone after splitting from Jean. Something Frankie’s dead sure he won’t even like. Pope and Redfly’s idea.

He tried objecting, but he’s no match for the two of them together, and Benny, typically, sided with the two men. So everyone chipped in, Yovanna and you included, he was informed, and Frankie was handed the money in cash and asked to take care of everything, from buying the damn thing, to storing it in his garage and bringing it over to Will’s house on Sunday morning. Everyone else too busy with their respective jobs, kids, girlfriends. He’s the one with the suspension and the big truck parked outside all year round. He’s the one with the empty garage and the empty bed.

When Will opens his front door, bare-chest and his hair still wet, Frankie gives him an eloquent glance from under the brim of his cap, as he moves to the side of the doorway to let his friend see what is hauled up at the back of the red truck.

“Fuck, man, you kidding me?” Will exclaims in his slow drawl. “Why did you let them do that?”

“I tried, brother, I tried. Happy birthday, anyway,” Frankie pats him on the shoulder before walking back to his truck to unload the monster with the help of a trolley.

It takes the two of them to carry it across the soft soil of the backyard, on which the trolley refuses to budge, and position it against the fence at the rear of the garden.

Yovanna and Pope come in soon after with the meats and side dishes, Pope’s winning argument to convince Will to throw a party being that he wouldn’t have to do a thing. While they help set everything on the large picnic table, Frankie starts the grill.

He had flipped through the thick manual the night before, shaking his head and occasionally chuckling at the convoluted instructions. He’d be damned if Will was going to use this thing once, and when he asked his friend whether he wanted him to take away the old grill, Will shot him a “don’t you dare” glance that got him wheezing.

Redfly arrives next with his two daughters, Tess, the eldest, looking like she’d rather stick a fork in her leg than be here with a bunch of old men, her headphones riveted to her head. Frankie notices for the first time, with a pang of sadness, how much she resembles her father, her defeated look reflected on his friend’s face.

The doorbell keeps ringing for a while, more guests pouring into the small backyard, arms full of drinks and food, and gathering around the table. First, the couple from across the street and their two toddlers, and Frankie inquires if they want the kids to eat first, the exhausted father gratefully agreeing to the suggestion. Then the next door neighbour, a cute redhead of indiscernible age named Clare who, Frankie observes, melts on her chair every time Will addresses her, and finally two of Will’s coworkers from the VA.

The table is quickly buried under heaps of food, egg salad, bowls of chips, biscuits and corn on the cob, three different salads, bags of buns and a large plate of homemade arepas brought by Yovanna… So Will neighbour’s suggests to lend him two plastic folding tables to accommodate everyone, that they install after retrieving them from his garage.

Pope plays some music through his Bluetooth speaker and everyone starts loosening up, happily chatting against the sizzling noises of grilling meat.

At which point, Frankie gets fidgety, his carefully crafted composure eroding slowly.

It’s not out of character for Benny to be late, quite the contrary. Even though he’s been tasked with providing the refreshments.

Only, he knows you too will be here. And he came prepared, deciding early on that this day would be a run test for future interactions. Specifically, is he capable of entertaining a polite and distant relationship with you, without feeling like his blood had been turned into lava. Without the need to take the anger out on himself afterward. Without wanting more than just that.

Judging from his increasingly shaky hand clasped around the fancy grill’s spatula, he might have to skip the next couple of happy family gatherings.

—

Will’s house is smaller than his brother’s, although it counts one more room. But being considerably tidier, you’ve always thought it to be much larger.

The front door opens directly into a wide but shallow room, arbitrarily divided into a living-room on the right and a dining area on the left. Beyond this first room, a corridor serves a bathroom and a kitchen to the left, and two small bedrooms to the right, and leads to the well-kept backyard, closed off by a neatly lined white fence.

You’ve been here once or twice before, but when you hang out with the Miller brothers, it’s usually at Ben’s place, or in a downtown bar. It’s not that Will’s house is uncomfortable, the couch is brand new, the fridge well stocked, the TV set modern. But everything about it is spartan, bordering impersonal.

Today, as Will greets you with one of his heartfelt, marked embrace, you can’t help but ponder one more time the contrast between the austere interior and what you know to be the man’s rich, limitless inner world.

“You’re late,” he shoots gruffly at his baby brother.

Ben shrugs carelessly and retorts, “It’s her fault,” tilting his head toward you, before making a beeline to the backyard, carrying a giant beer keg and a cooler filled with beverages with the same ease as if they were fluffy pillows.

Will throws you a skeptical glance and you answer silently with a shake of your head.

“Happy birthday, Will,” you say with a soft smile, and as he moves to follow Ben into the garden, you hold him back, tugging at his plaid shirt. “I’ve got something for you.”

“You mean you weren’t in on the present?” he asks as if it makes more sense, returning your smile.

“Oh no, I am, I wasn’t given a choice, but I got you something else.”

For some reason, you don’t feel comfortable handing him the rectangular, carefully wrapped package you extract from your tote bag in front of everyone, and he senses your hesitancy. He gives you a short nod and you follow him in silence towards the corridor. Somehow, his massive frame looks even more impressive as you walk sheepishly behind him, tall figure, wide shoulders, strong arms. You know him to be slightly smaller in height than his younger brother, but he’s all quiet strength and raw power. You wonder for a brief moment what it must feel like to be facing a man like him in battle, to find yourself on the wrong side of William Ironhead Miller.

He opens the door to the spare bedroom, where you’ve never been before, and before you have the time to withhold it, a faint gasp escapes you.

It’s an office, of sorts, and a cluttered one, with a desk positioned under the single window, covered in notebooks and scattered notes written on loose sheets, an old sofa bed, foam coming out of the thread-bare armrests, and so many bookshelves it looks as though they’re holding the ceilings, the walls barely visible. Rows of non-fiction, philosophical essays, geography textbooks and some exhibition catalogs, several framed military decorations, and framed photos. Dozens of photos.

You’re standing inside William’s brain.

You gape at him in bewilderment, your eyes asking a silent question, to which he replies, “It’s ok, you can take a look,” a knowing smile on his face, and you dart toward the nearest shelf without hesitation.

The picture of the two of them next to the golden retriever is the first one that holds your attention, but there are many more family portraits, some of them with a couple you easily identify as their parents, the boys bearing a striking resemblance to them, and one with a toddler, a girl, holding a very young William’s hand. Everything’s there, a colourful and assorted retrospective of their entire childhood: picnics, mountain hikes, birthdays, first bikes, fishing trips to the lake, graduations… Ben and Will at a variety of stages of their military carriers, lined up in chronological order, as far as you can tell, and because your mind so often works in the same ways as your friend’s.

A growing lump invades your throat, and you begin to blink wildly. You stand here, motionless, numb, unable to pull away from the images, fully aware of the privilege he’s granting you, admitting you into this sanctuary, tucked away from everyone else’s prying gaze.

And then you see it. A group picture of the five of them, siting around a camp fire in front of a large camouflage tent, in what looks like a Middle Eastern scenery. Pope, Redfly, Ironhead, Benny, and Catfish. All of them looking considerably younger. All of them grinning widely. Your heart sinks at the sight of his dimple. How old can he be? Thirty, thirty-five, you assume, his hair short, a soft caramel brown, his face clean-shaven, the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes shallow, still, but the crease between his brows deep, already.

You missed out on so much of him. You missed everything.

It takes all of your willpower to turn away and hand Will the package, without a word, not trusting your voice to be steady enough to speak.

He doesn’t tear the wrapping, instead tugging the adhesive open, until the busy book cover is revealed. It’s an exhibition catalog, Bauhaus 1919-1933: Workshops in Modernity, held at the MoMa in 2010, long before you met each other. The first time the two of you visited the museum together, you swung by the bookstore, and you observed him discreetly as he flipped through the catalog’s pages with covetous eyes, eventually replacing it on its pile, with evident regret. It took you a while, several weeks of getting to know him better, before you could understand why. Priced at $75, the book was an unaffordable luxury to him.

You see the surprise play across his handsome features, and you can tell the exact moment when he registers, the memory resurfacing, that milestone in your friendship, the fact that you remembered. You see this solid, pragmatic man, rarely surprised, always prepared, clearly shaken; and as you finally stir to leave the room, wanting to allow him the space you know he needs, he pulls you into his arms, hugging you so tightly it hurts, and he whispers, “Thanks, sister.”

—

“Alright, who wants some alcohol?” Ben shouts into the backyard, his question greeted by a collective and cheerful holler.

Frankie’s knuckles crack in his grip of the cooking utensil, and he has to make a conscious effort to stop gritting his teeth. Ok, he got this, he reminds himself. If he made it through Monday night, he can make it through Sunday afternoon. He turns around to face the house, and his front collides with Ben’s chest, who pats his back with a resounding grunt. You’re nowhere in sight.

“Hey man, wanna beer?” Ben asks brightly.

One of them had a good morning, at least.

“Yea, is it fresh?” Frankie’s voice comes out a bit tense, but he can work on it, he knows he can.

“It sure is,” Ben answers, cracking a can open and handing it to his friend.

Frankie takes a swig of the cool beverage and feels it flowing down his burning throat, scanning the door to the house. You’re still nowhere to be seen.

“You’re alone?” he asks, and immediately winces.

Off to a great start.

“Nah, she’s in there with Will, scheming.”

Ben tries to pick up a wiener from the grill and burns his fingers, swearing under his breath and mumbling something about the size of the machine. Something that Frankie doesn’t hear. His ears are filled with the frenetic thumping of his blood, even though his heart has stopped beating.

Will’s bulky silhouette appeared in the doorway, and as he stepped into the garden, you materialised behind him, pausing there for a moment to let your eyes adjust to the midday light. You’re wearing these jeans again, the ones that are way too tight on your hips, they’re Benny’s favourite, but Frankie doesn’t know that, and it’s not what he sees. What he sees is your t-shirt. A pale shade of yellow, and the print of a book cover. A black cat in a white bow tie, holding a gun in its clawed paw, winking straight at him, and the title in red, bold letters, etched over your breasts, that spell:

The Master and Margarita.

—

You find yourself behind Will again, walking down the narrow hallway to the backyard, but you have to stop on the threshold, blinded by the sudden daylight. It’s early in April, and you recall a Gainsbourg song about April inspiring love. There’s a stereo playing Jefferson Airplane and the smell of grilled meat fills the air. When your eyes adjust to the luminosity, you’re slightly taken aback. You didn’t expect that big of a crowd, and anxiety immediately kicks in at the thought of having to meet new people and make small talk. Something catches your eyes on your right, Yovanna is waving at you, standing next to Pope.

You smile back, relieved, about to step in and join her, when you see him.

A blue and brown plaid shirt pulled taut over his broad frame, the top two, no, three buttons undone, the dip of his collarbones exposed, rolled up sleeves revealing his forearms, locks of hair curling around his ears and on his nape.

When your eyes lock, a faint, wistful smile tugs at the corner of his lips and oh god, you want to crawl under his skin and forever live there.

—

The guests are all seated, now, divided into groups around the three tables in the cramped backyard, except for the neighbours’ kids, who are running around under the playful supervision of Tom’s youngest, Sue.

You’re sitting between Will and Benny, across from Yovanna and Pope, but more often than not, Will’s up and around, refilling people’s glasses, making sure everyone has everything they need. You know him to be more comfortable in quiet settings, but he makes for a very charming host, nonetheless.

Grilling food and preparing the burgers take up most of Frankie’s time, who has yet to sit down and enjoy his own plate. You’ve never seen so much meat, and you don’t think you’ll be able to swallow any for the next two weeks at least.

When Frankie comes over to your table to ask what your party would like to eat, you notice for the first time that he addresses Yovanna almost exclusively in Spanish, whereas Pope and him mostly use English. He’d told you he was born in Argentina, but you’d never heard him use his mother tongue, and it’s invading all your senses. His voice sounds different, softer, rounder, less gruff around the edges.

You won’t let it carry you back to the orange bedroom, not here, not like that, not with your boyfriend’s hand resting on your lap, his thumb rubbing your inner thigh. If you could just effectively control your goddamn breathing every time he lifts that cap and combs through his hair…

“What about you?” his husky voice jolts you out of your reverie. He’s looking straight at you, hands propped on his hips, “What do you want?”

You stare at him blankly, dumbstruck, an instantaneous acceleration in the rhythm of your heartbeat as you feel crimson creeping up your neck and cheeks. Will’s steely gaze is on you as you shift nervously on your hard plastic seat.

Meat. He’s asking about the meat.

“Burger. Rare. Please,” you answer without thinking, before adding hastily, “Wait! Can I have some extra cheese? Please?”

Pope bursts out laughing and Yovanna shoves her elbow in his ribs. A slow, devastating smile appears on Frankie’s face, so broad, so spontaneous, so sincere, all dimple and teeth, and for the first time in this life you’re facing your Frankie, despite the deep creases at the corner of his eyes, despite the cap hiding away his curls, despite the whiskered cheeks stranded with grey, and it’s more, much more than you can stand, you have to lower your eyes onto your egg salad.

The rest of the meal is a game of avoidance, played knowingly and with unexpected skill by the two of you. Every once in a while, you throw each other sideways glances, facing away mere milliseconds before your eyes can actually meet, holding your stare until the last possible moment. But for the most part, you concentrate on Yovanna, exchanging ideas on topics as diverse as politics or cinema, making plans for a girl’s night out with Rosie and some of her friends.

Frankie cooked the food you’re eating right now. You try not to linger on the thought. And he gave you extra cheese, alright, your burger disintegrating in your hands, nearly impossible to handle with the amount he managed to melt on top of the patty.

He loves the way you eat, grabbing the burger with both hands and unceremoniously pushing it into your mouth until you realise there are people around who might be watching.

Memories are resurfacing now, flowing into the gaping abyss vacated by his receding anger, flooding his brain, and his senses.

And if he can’t recall what the two of you ate during the single meal you shared over the course of the weekend, he remembers your voracity. To this day, you remain his best kiss. Like that first one on the balcony, no, not a balcony, a fire escape, when he hung on for dear life to your hips with a bruising grip as you pulled him in, a minute ago shy and self-conscious, all he had to do was show you the attraction was reciprocal.

And that other kiss you gave him after that meal, only it hadn’t been on his lips.

It was already Sunday, in the early afternoon, when you too had first thought of eating. You were together on that bed where you spent most of the weekend. Lying on his back, eyes closed and a smile dancing on his lips, he was focused on the sensation of the tip of your fingers tracing patterns along his torso.

Your stomach let out a very loud, very angry growl. Your eyebrows shot up and you rolled onto your side to cover your face in embarrassment, both of you bursting into a laughing fit. He wrestled you for a bit, trying to pull your arms away from your face, and he finally carried you out of bed. He couldn’t understand why he found the idea of feeding you so satisfactory, even then, as he still does today.

You slipped on his plaid shirt, the act so natural and familiar, you looked so fucking lovely. He felt a pang of possessiveness, a foreign feeling to him, one he’d never experienced until then. You followed him into the kitchen where you ate together in content silence, exchanging cheerful looks, like two happy puppies.

After eating, however, the atmosphere shifted. He felt your gaze on his bare skin and when he looked up, your hooded eyes told him everything he needed to know. You got up slowly, purposefully, and slowly, purposefully took off his shirt, draping it neatly over the back of the Formica chair. Fuck, he loved your tits, so damn much.

He found himself unable to move, mesmerised by your demeanour, confident and full of intent. It was new, and it was something else. You were not quite the same girl anymore, and he wasn’t sure if “girl” was still the fitting term.

Closing the distance between you in one stride, you kneeled in front of him, gently parting his legs with your hands, and you moved closer, holding his gaze. He felt dumbstruck, at your mercy, like he had when you first backed him against that same kitchen chair two nights ago, and he licked his bottom lips in a futile attempt to snap out of it.

You lowered your eyes to the growing bulge in his black briefs and his cock twitched. With parted lips, you leaned in to kiss him through the warm fabric, eyes closed in rapture under your raised brow. Softly, you nuzzled your cheek against the cottony material, and inhaled. He froze, eyes locked on you, his chest heaving, his mouth gone slack. You rested your cheek on the inside of his thigh for a short while.

Then, flicking your eyes open, you started quietly, “I really want to–” and paused, and it occurred to him you might not even know how to say it in English.

“You don’t have to, if you’re–”, he trailed off, hardly recognising his own breathy, shaky voice. What the fuck was he talking about? He might die if you stopped now.

“Please? Please let me. It’s just that… I know I’m not too good at it.”

He was already fully erect when you took him out of his briefs, hard and heavy, and when you hesitantly bit your bottom lip, his eyes squeezed shut. He felt the curled up tip of your tongue collecting the bead of precome from the head of his cock, heard your satisfied exhale, felt your cold mouth enveloping him -cereal, he remembers it now, you had cold milk with cereal-, felt the contrast of your warm hand wrapping around his base.

If you were fairly inexperienced, your eagerness more than made up for it, and he let out a muffled curse when you began licking up broad stripes, before dipping as far down on him as you could.

He wanted to bury his hands in your hair and thrust deeply into your mouth, fill you entirely, the thought of fucking your throat threatening to tip him over too soon, but a part of his brain somehow still functioning remained in control; instead he gripped the sides of his seat until his knuckles turned white.

Your mouth closed around him, you settled in a steady rhythm, tongue swirling around his fat tip, hand stroking up and down with a maddening twist of your wrist, but you were far too gentle. With his cock still in your mouth, your eyes flicked up to his with a question, to which he gave a short, rapid nod, yes, yes, do whatever the fuck you want with me and you withdrew your lips with a popping sound, your timid smile in complete contradiction with the filth of your actions, before spitting tenderly on the head of his cock.

You were going to be the death of him.

Spreading your spit down his length, you stroked harder, wrapping your lips around him again, this time sucking firmly up and down with hollowed cheeks. He saw you squirming, pressing your thighs together, he heard your moans, you were enjoying this. That realisation, combined with your ministrations, was overwhelming.

His hips locked into place, the muscles in his belly strained, his balls drew tighter, he was too fucking close; he reached for the soft hair on your nape and tried pulling you back before it was too late, but you resisted, sucking harder, looking at him from under your eyelashes with an expression that mirrored his when you had straddled him on that same chair. “Do it, use me.”

He came at once. His head rolled back, an obscene grunt echoing in the room, heavy ropes of spend hitting the back of your throat that you bravely tried to swallow, flooding past your closed lips and dribbling down your chin. You kept suckling him delicately through it and when he came around after a minute, or five, or ten, he noticed he was still holding your hair.

You looked dazed, dazed and pleased with yourself, holding him in your right hand, sitting back on your heels like a proud student waiting to be graded, and he laughed breathlessly.

He’s hoping now, looking at you as you wipe your chin clean of the dripping sauce from the burger he cooked especially for you, that he told you then how well you did for him. More women than he’d care to count have sucked his dick ever since, some of them professionals, none made him feel the way you did. All he can remember is that he had been eager to get you cleaned up.

And what happened then in the bathroom had been the beginning of the end for him.

—

When the neighbours bring their kids back home for nap time, the place becomes considerably quieter. Tom takes his leave shortly after, having to drive his daughters back to his ex-wife, and you’re slightly alarmed that his friends are letting him take the wheel, considering how much alcohol he’s had. Then it’s Will’s colleagues’ turn to go. There’s a pleasant, sated lull in the conversations, as the remaining guests stretch their limbs in the afternoon sun.

When Frankie joins your table, Benny sits up as if remembering something.

“Hey baby, I’ve been thinking,’ he starts, looking at you both, “Fish could help you with the car. He used to be a mechanic, right Fish?”

All the food you’ve ingested makes your body slow and heavy, but you think you could start shaking with the way Frankie’s eyes flick up to you, alight with an alarming gleam.

The car. Benny’s big project, getting you out of public transportation. You didn’t need one in Paris and you haven’t bought one here yet, you like the bus rides, you can read and listen to music and daydream. A real luxury. And you’re more than fine with Benny driving you around in the Mustang.

“We’ve talked about this, Ben, I’m not comfortable driving, here,” you remind him tentatively.

Frankie leans back in his chair, arms crossed on his broad chest, and you avoid the sight of his lean muscles rippling underneath the tanned skin of his forearms.

“Look, I don’t like you riding them buses alone at night. She won’t even take a cab,” he adds for his friend’s benefit. “Fish knows a lot about cars and engines and shit, he could help you choose a good one. I think that’s a good idea, that’s all I’m saying.”

Nothing about this is a good idea.

“Cheers, but I’m a big girl from a big city,” you answer with a hint of aggressiveness. “I mean I’m fine,” you try again, softer, “and I’m used to driving a stick, I would want a manual gear, anyway.”

A manual gear. Nice touch, very European, that was convincing.

“Yea I can help you with that, too,” Frankie lifts his head and you get a better view of his face under the brim of the cap, but you’ll be damned if you can decipher his expression.

This whole situation is throwing you off-balance, you can’t process what’s happening, but you know that you don’t like it, not in the least, what do you want, what does he want, what is he playing at?

He wants you safe. He wants you off the buses at night, is what he wants. Nothing else. Nothing more. Aside perhaps from the opportunity to ask you one question.

Clare provides you with a much welcome way out when she joins the discussion.

“I’ve been to Paris, like fifteen years ago? I loved it! What neighbourhood are you from, exactly?”

The topic seems forgotten and you carry out the conversation for as long as you can before excusing yourself and stepping inside for a glass of water. Talking about your hometown has cooled down your nerves, but you still need a moment to yourself.

Will’s kitchen is cleaner than an operating room. It’s disconcerting, and you wonder if he ever eats in. The hob is pristine, so is the oven, and you hardly resist the urge to open the fridge just to have a peek, refraining out of respect for your friend.

The first cabinet you open contains different sorts of coffee, teas and herbal infusions, canned soups and chocolate, something you didn’t expect. You find the glasses behind the second door you open, but your hand freezes on the handle as you hear someone coming into the kitchen behind you.

It’s him. The understanding instinctual. You recognize his gait, measured, calm, assertive, and before you can decide how to react, you’re surrounded by the scent of him. You were right, of course you were right, you do remember it vividly, only now it’s more potent, and it’s so close, too close, it’s there, you feel dizzy, he’s drawing nearer and you brace yourself for an impact that doesn’t come.

He stops half an inch short of your back, and it’s as if your very skin is reaching out for him.

He leans over you, his mouth to your ear, the thin hair on your nape standing, and his breath fans over your throat when he whispers, “Let me get that car with you.” It’s not a request. It’s not a question.

You feel the heat rolling off of him once it’s no longer there. You stand alone in the empty kitchen, eyes clenched, cold and perfectly still, your hand gripped onto the cabinet handle.

It’s a moment before you can walk out of the kitchen on shaky legs. You’re going to do this. You are really going to do this. You can’t pause to think.

You get to the garden and the sun blinds you, they’re all staring in your direction, if only in your head. You go back to your seat next to Benny and you put on a broad smile, willing your voice to sound perfectly casual.

“Ok you win. I’ll get that car. But a small one.”

Oh god he looks so fucking happy, like a child, and he kisses you deep, you hate yourself already when you notice Frankie’s watching, he hasn’t missed a thing. You recognise the sadness in his eyes, it’s the same that’s pinching your heart.

Everything happens too fast afterwards. Benny signals him to come over, and you exchange phone numbers, an ordinary social interaction that is anything but. The irony of the situation drops like an anvil in your stomach and you fear for a moment that you’re going to be sick. Neither Frankie nor you can look at each other as you tap the digits on the screens.

Your entire body shudders at the sound of Benny’s voice.

“Alright, then, Fish, I guess she’ll give you a call!”

—

Why you didn’t call is all he needs to know. He’ll back off once he knows. And he can’t stand the thought of you travelling by bus, alone at night. Two birds, one stone.

He didn’t recognise your scent. Standing so close to you in that clinically clean kitchen, he breathed in your hair, your neck, and it was intoxicating, but it wasn’t like it used to be. Not that he can remember your old scent. He’s forgotten about that, along with your taste, a long time ago, he just knows it’s not it. New shampoo, new perfume, maybe. New boyfriend.

The only thing he remembers after all these years, apart from your eyes and your face, is your skin. The feel of it under the pads of his fingers, under the palm of his hand, under his tongue, between his lips. How it shivered under his touch. The way it caught at his calloused digits. And your cool back against his burning chest. And your breasts, and your own hands as you ceaselessly caressed him.

Is it better to remember?

Around three years ago, he met a girl from Mexico, much younger than him, dark and beautiful, and she made him feel good for a while, he liked the sensation of her soft body underneath his, and he thought he might be in love until he realised it was nothing but a reminiscence of you. Of your skin. Over and over and over again. Always you. Only you. A life spent seeking you through all these stranger, distant bodies.

He got so close to your skin, earlier. He knows that’s how close he’s ever going to get, now. Benny’s never been this happy. Benny’s in love, it’s all over his face, on display for everyone else to see.

But it’s real. He’s got that. Everything that happened between you and him, has been real. That’s what you gave him, today, you clever, clever girl. He can be content with that, he thinks. If only…

If only he didn’t feel your skin reaching out for him.

—

In the orange bedroom, he’d fallen asleep first and you had fought through your own tiredness to stay awake just a little while longer. Looking at him, committing to memory all his singular details. The size of his hands, the shape of his nails, the colour of his eyelashes, the tattoo behind his ear and the one on his thumb, the curve of his nose, the line of his neck, the pattern of his freckles, the dip between his collarbones, the ones over his hips, the flawless shape of his length, the build of his thighs, the sharpness of his jawline, the breadth of his shoulders, the curls of his hair…

You couldn’t ever be satisfied but you didn’t want to disturb his slumber, so you got up for a glass of water and got reminded of the books piled up by the chair.

Kneeling down on the floor, you looked through a first column of physics and algebra textbooks. A few others, smaller, with eye-catching covers, were fiction. Mostly second-hand, judging by the yellowed paper. Some were in Spanish, from authors unknown to you yet, but some you knew and loved, Hemingway, O'Connor, Remarque, Capote… You picked up a beaten copy of Franny and Zooey, inhaling the old paper scent, and flipped through the pages. Here, some sentences were underlined, there, entire paragraphs. His bold handwriting sprawled in all caps in the margin, his thoughts laid down in ink, something you would never dare do.

You put down the book, resuming your browsing, you couldn’t figure out what you were looking for, only that you would know when you’d find it, and oh! there.

You held the book with both hands and murmured the title like one does a binding spell.

“Le Maître et Marguerite”

****

Taglist (Thank you 💕): @nicolethered @elegantduckturtle @mashomasho @lola766 @flowersandpotplantsandsunshine @littleone65 @bands-tv-movies-is-me @the-rambling-nerd @saintbedelia @pedrostories @trickstersp8

#Francisco Catfish Morales #The Pilot™️ #Frankie Morales #triple frontier fic #frankie morales x fem!reader #frankie morales x you #ben miller #my beloved Yovanna #benny miller #santiago pope garcia #will miller #william ironhead miller #adria arjona #pedro pascal #garret hedlund #oscar isaac #charlie hunnam #triple frontier #feral frankie friday #francisco catfish morales #the pilot™️ #the husband one #the one and only #Frankie #Frankie morales x fem!reader #frankie morales x ofc #frankie morales/fem!reader #frankie morales/you #frankie morales/ofc

[secret-ssociety]

Let me down pt.2

Pairing(s): Peter Parker x reader, reader x oc Warnings: angst???, curse words, endgame spoilers, interactions that I’m not sure if can be considered fluff Summary: five years have passed and as soon as Peter comes back from the blip he undertakes a search for all that he believed would always be there, but he’ll find that many things are not as he left them A/N: I really want to apologize for how long this took, but between lack of creativity and the fact the Tumblr didn’t save the draft when I was just about to finish it, it’s finally here. Also, this will have a part three, so behold.

Masterlist

part one

Peter looked around with unease, all the people from his school that had been bliped, like himself, were sitting in the gym while the new headmaster talked, saying something about how the school’s major priority was to integrate those who had to finish their studies with the ones that were already studying, but he hardly listened a single word.

Everyone, all of his friends and some people he never really talked to, had dull expressions, all of them looked tired, all of them looked like they had been crying a lot in the past weeks, all of them were pale and had huge bags under their eyes as if they hadn’t slept in ages, and Peter knew he was no exception. 

But he couldn’t find the one dull, tired, cried-out, sleep deprived, pale face he wanted to see.

He was staring at you in the school bus when everything started, when he needed to create a distraction to jump off the bus. It had been a year since you had broken up, the most painful year of his life, and he still hadn’t been able to fall out of love with you, the way you laughed, the way you talked, the way rolled your eyes at a stupid comment and the way you fiddled with the cross hanging from your neck.

If only he had only known that was the last time he was going to see you before everything went to hell. And now they were back, everyone. Peter felt a void in his chest, a constant sadness he couldn’t seem to shake, but he knew that when he saw you in the assembly the school had called, at least something in his life would be okay.

The problem was that you weren’t at the assembly.

“Hey, dude, have you seen Y/N?” he asked Flash, who was sitting next to him, in a whisper, he received an apologetic look “No, I’m sorry” Flash whispered back, too morally tired to mock him “maybe she transferred or decided not to come, a lot of people did.”

Peter sighed and waited patiently for the assembly to be over, he would ask someone later what the headmaster had said, right now all he needed was to go to the one place he would be able to get some answers. He practically ran to the secretary’s office, just to find in there a girl he had shortly known, a year older than him, except that now she was on her twenties.

“Hi, Peter” she smiled seeing him, “hi, Jess” he answered without hiding his surprise “how are you?” he stilted her head looking at him and Peter almost whined at the tone she had used to ask that question, already used and sick of it, but kept his smile “I’m fine, thank you. I actually wanted to ask about a friend that I didn’t see in today’s assembly, maybe you could tell me if they transferred or just didn’t come..”

“Yes, of course. What’s the name of your friend?”

“Y/N” he responded sadly and Jess’ head jumped to look at him. She adjusted her glasses awkwardly “Peter, she’s already graduated,” Peter’s eyebrows furrowed “what do you mean?” he asked and she sighed “well, y’know, when what we know happened and some people vanished... some of us didn’t. Y/N was one of them, us.”

Peter fell silent. He didn’t know what to feel. He didn’t know what would’ve hurt the most. So many questions started to build up in his head while a heaving feeling installed in his chest.

“D-do you know where can I find her?”

“No.”

“You’re lying.”

Jess sighed and took off her glasses, looking at him with sorry in her eyes “I’m not allowed to share that kind of information.”

“Why not?”

“Because I need this job.”

“Jess, come one.”

“Peter, I can’t.”

“Is this because of what happened with Liz?”

Jess blinked. “Do you seriously think I’m reprimanding you for something that happened nearly six years ago?”

“... Maybe?”

He leaned into her desk with pleading eyes “please, I’m begging you,” Jess sighed for what felt like the hundredth time “as a secretary I can’t tell you that” Peter sighed with a nod and started to make his way towards the door defeated “but as friend asking for a favor” he turned around quickly as she looked around her office and grabbed the first she saw “I’m kind of busy tonight and I was supposed to take this, uh, house plant to this address” he saw her scribble something down on a piece of paper and handed it to him with an accomplice smile.

“Thanks, Jess” he said quickly taking the house plant in his hands.

“Thank you, Peter,” he nodded and exited the office, stopping at the door when she called him “And, uh, Peter... go there with an open mind.”

That advice confused him but he was far too happy to even think about it.

To say that he spent the next couple hours overthinking is a serious understatement. What was he going to say? What could he say after five years? Should he bring some flowers, maybe? But why flowers, when he was already bringing a house plant? Wait, was he actually supposed to bring the house plant or had it just been Jess’ alibi to suply him the address?

He wasn’t going to go. He couldn’t go. What if you still hated him? The blip was still so recent and you had probably reencountered with other people who had also been bliped, showing up at your house would be too much of a shock. Yeah, no, it was a bad idea. He would wait until everyone was chill. It was too soon.

I’ll just wait a couple days, there’s no hurry, he thought and he was sure it was the perfect approach to the situtation. Yeah, that was what he was going to do, wait. That was, at least, until Ned texted him and told him to get his shit together.

With that motivation he found himself, half an hour later, in Brooklyn standing in front of a white house with the house plant in his hands. Given the size of it, it was a family house surrounded by a beautiful garden, full of plants that required a pretty low maintenance. That was the confirmation Peter needed to know it was your house.

He knocked the door so softly he feared whoever was inside woudn’t listen, not even bothering to look for a doorbell. Almost a minute after, when he was debating between knocking again or leaving, the door opened and he choked on his own breath. It couldn’t be you. I mean, of course it was you, he could recognize you anywhere. But it wasn’t the Y/N he remembered.

Your hair was longer, falling down your shoulders like a waterfall, your body had long ago abandoned its awkward teenage years and now, while young, it was more adult. But your face, the place he stared longily. It was still your nose, your soft skin, your vibrant eyes, everything was the same but with the difference that you were obviously in your early twenties. He realized that, stupidly, his brain hadn’t really thought about the fact that if five years had passed, then you would be five years older.j

“P-Peter?” you dared to ask quietly, not because you didn’t recognize him but as a confirmation that it was really him, standing in front of you.

He opened his mouth to say yes but found a tight not in the middle of his throat that made him understand that he would break down if he tried to talk, so he just nodded.

Quickly you stepped forward to wrap him a hug and his arms didn’t doubt finding place in our waist. Your eyes were full of tears that started to get released when you felt him hide his face on your neck. It was him, how could it be?

After a couple minutes you pulled away and looked at him with your eyebrows furrowed. You were tempted to ask what was he doing there, but you didn’t want to be rude, so you asked the next thing that came to your mind “what’s with the house plant?”

“Oh, yeah” he remembered “Jess said she couldn’t make it tonight,” seeing the confusion that took over your face he nodded “so it was the alibi, then.” You wanted to ask what did he mean by alibi, what did Jess had to do with anything, what was he doing in your house, how did he know where your house was, but again that would be rude, so you invited him to come in.

Peter’s knot untangled as soon as he stepped inside the house, finding himself draped over that familiar sense of security he used to feel when he came down to your room after patrolling. Maybe you just had that effect over spaces. The place was warm and welcoming, wooden floors, a fake fireplace and a wide couch covered by a couple blankets, among other things, he found in the living room while you walked to the kitchen.

Your head was spinning. How had this happened? What was happening? What was Peter Parker doing in your house looking the exact same as the last time you saw him after being missing for five years? You weren’t oblivious to the blip, many of your friends and family had been blipped and you had already talked to them, but still you were confused. You felt like you had all the answers, and yet you had none.

“You want something?” you asked making your way to the living room, his eyes looked in your direction and fell in the glass of white wine resting in your hand with an all too familiar sparkle “can I have some of what you’re drinking?” you suppressed a chuckle because of how child-like that question had been.

“I’ll need to see your ID” you answered before coming back to the kitchen and taking out of the fridge a Capri Sun. He pouted slightly when he saw the drink but grabbed without complaining. You sat beside him on the couch, complete silence upon the room.

“Well, this is awkward” you said after a couple minutes, taking a sip of your wine and he let out a chuckle “it’s not like there’s a manual of what to say to your ex boyfriend when he shows up in your porch after five years still being eighteen while you’re... old” he says and you kick him playfully “I’m twenty-three.”

“How are you holding up?” you asked, knowing that the current situation of the world was probably more painful for those who had been lost, “I’ll be better when everyone stops asking me that” he said harshly before being able to stop himself. He looked at you, expecting to see you taken back by his bitter response but you were looking at him fondly, almost motherly.

“I know it must be annoying to be surrounded by people that don’t know how to express their concern” you said, picking your words in your head “but like you said, there’s no manual on how to approach the situation” he nodded in understanding “I’m sorry,” you nudged him softly, as saying that it was okay.

“How’s the readjustment?” you decided to ask, remembering that Peter had never been one to like complaisance. He sighed. “Well, there’s no manual” he joked “May was also blipped, so I guess that makes it easier.”

“I feel lost” he continued “it’s the same world, but at the same it just... isn’t. I’m the same person and at the same time, someone completely different” without noticing, you had drank all the wine in the glass in just one gulp, “you should see how May is doing, decorating the apartment and trying to learn how to cook, again, and it sucks” he started to talk faster “because she is trying so hard to bring her life together and I’m just... stumbling.”

None of you said anything, so silence fell upon the room once again, except this time it wasn’t comfortable, but a comfort born from a past intimacy that allowed to be quiet. “What’s going to happen with Spider-Man?” you finally asked.

“I have no fucking idea” he said, “I don’t think the world needs him anymore. Christ, I don’t even know if the world wants it anymore!” he sighed and placed the untouched Capri Sun of the coffee table, and once again silence established until you talked again, “I think it does.” He looked at you, confused.

“People felt safe with you patrolling the streets and they felt proud” you sighed “I think you should go back to it, eventually. Not necessarily demon-slaughter Spider-Man, but friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.”

Peter rubbed his face “I don’t know if I can do it.”

“I know you do, you’ve had it in you since day one” you replied quickly. “You are entitled to your pain for as long as you need to feel it, but you’re the only person who gets to decide if your trauma is going to be the biggest part of your life. Pete, Spider-Man is part of who you are” he wasn’t looking at you, his eyes were fixed on the floor below his feet “you can’t just dispose it and you know it.”

Peter looked at you with half a smile “did you grow into a wise old man in the last few years?” your shrugged with a joking smile “kind of.” You both laughed and it relieved you a little to see Peter do it. “So do you live here by yourself?” he asked looking around and your frowned a little, but the door opened before you could respond.

Peter’s heart dropped when he saw a tall, handsome man make his way into the house with a couple grocery bags on his hands. Right behind him a smaller human sprinted in your direction squeaking a loud “mommy!” 

You couldn’t help the smile that fell upon your face when you saw her with her new hoodie and her long hair falling down her shoulders, despite all the effort you had poured into a ponytail that morning. Lovingly you placed her in your lap and tucked a strand of her behind her ear before looking at Peter “Pete, this is Claire, my-”

“Daughter” he finished before you, looking at her with a big smile but teary eyes.

“And Mark” you pointed at the man making her way to you from the kitchen, having placed the bags in the counter, “my husband.” Peter felt his heart break, even you had broken up a year ago (six for everyone else), but still he stood up and shook Mark’s hand. “This is Peter” you introduced “he’s an old friend.”

How had he not seen it? The wedding ring on your finger and all the photos of your new family spread across the living room, the fact the house was clearly a family house, that reality had been all over his face since the moment he set a foot in the house and, yet, he had managed to miss it. That was what Jess had meant when she told him to come with an open mind, she hadn’t been able to find the words to tell him that you were married and had a child.

“Do you like Spider-Man?” he asked with a kind smile to the little girl who looked at him curiously, noticing that the hoodie she was wearing had a draw of him on his first suits. The child’s face light up at the question “yeah, he’s the best!”

He chuckled “I like Spider-Man, too” he murmured, still loud enough to be heard. Claire jumped from your lap and grabbed his leg, "do you want to see my Spider-Man’s Uno edition?” Peter’s eyes widened “there’s an Spider-Man’s Uno edition?”

“Mom, can I show Peter the Uno?” she asked you and you nodded with a soft smile. Practically running, she pulled Peter upstairs towards her room “it was a limited edition, so I made Mum and Dad camp with me outside the store” she told him happily.

Once in the kitchen, stocking the groceries, you broke the silence between Mark and you “he’s my ex.” He looked at you, trying to seem casual “I wasn’t going to ask,” you laughed “yes, you were. You were just trying to find the words to do it without sounding toxic.”

“Okay, you caught me” he admitted and you chuckled “so... you used to date twelve-year-olds before we met?” you looked at him raising an eyebrow “why? Is it a deal breaker?” you joked and he smiled “kind of, I’ll worry when Claire starts inviting friends over” he followed on and didn’t talk again until your laughs faded “he was blipped, wasn’t he?”

You nodded “I just... when I opened that door, he looked so worn-out and lost,” you started saying before he shook his head and wrapped his arms around your waist “you don’t have to explain yourself, it’s okay. I saw that look on my brothers too, the world is a... strange place for him right now, yet he looked for you. He trusts you and I know you care about him, whatever the reason.” 

“I love you” you said, "I knew you’d understand.” He leaned down to give you a kiss, but Claire’s hurried steps, with Peter following closely behind, interrupted you. “Can Peter stay for dinner?” she asked, while the teenager’s eyes fell on your embrace and felt a bittersweet feeling.

“Do you want to, Pete?” you asked looking at him, “I don’t want to intrude” he said shyly, “you’re not intruding, Peter,” Mark said with a smile “we did buy ice cream for dessert, a guest is the perfect excuse” an amused smile. “You what?” you asked.

Peter laughed at the look you were sending your husband, and nodded, despite the weight on his heart.

taglist: @eridanuswave @iam-thevillain-of-thisstory @lovely-geek @princessdancingonthesunshine​ @marvel4geeks​

#peter parker #peter parker fic #peter parker angst #peter parker x reader #peter parker imagine #tom holland fic #tom holland imagine #tom holland x reader #tom holland angst #tom holland x oc #spiderman #MCU Spiderman #spiderman fic #spiderman angst #spiderman homecoming #spiderman far from home #MCU #marvel x reader #marvel x oc #taglist

[seven-tenwrites]

Move - Hoshi

As promised, this is a lil scenario inspired by this post about Hoshi dressing up as 'MOVE' era Taemin for halloween,,,,yes halloween,,it's very late, pls forgive me and I took several very long breaks writing it so I hope it's not too scattered and that you enjoy it :")

Pairing: Hoshi x reader

Type: Fluff ?? I guess? ?? Mostly just hosh dancing nothing Explicit happens

Words: 2,051

You slump into the couch against the wall, fingers absently tapping the rim of your empty plastic cup.

Your friend had escaped to the dancefloor what seems like ages ago, and you figure she’s found someone else to enjoy her halloween night with by now. You’re only waiting for her confirmation text to let you know you can leave without her.

You usually wouldn’t be up for such an undertaking as dressing up to go to a party that didn’t start until when you usually went to bed, but it had only taken seeing her face lit up in excitement and the insistence that you should take this opportunity to rest from your studies.

You let out a discontent sigh, adjusting the bunny ears she’d pushed onto your head as you wondered if this was really worth neglecting your studies for. You deposit your cup onto the coffee table adorned with fake webbing and plastic spiders in front of you, pulling your phone out of the pocket of the faux fur coat your friend also supplied, insisting you wear as little clothing beneath it as possible – you’d negotiated into a plain black camisole crop top and shorts instead of lingerie, like she’d tried to argue for, settling with the compromise of you wearing thigh-high stockings along with it. You really didn’t understand why Halloween had to constitute of wearing the “sexiest” clothing possible, yet here you are.

You tug the coat tighter around you before opening your phone to scroll through one of your social media accounts, cursing yourself for being far too acquiescent when it came to your friends.

Undeniably loud music pulses around you, colorful lights gliding across the walls and flashing to the beat, the occasional laughter and meaningless chatter filtering through it, but you pay it all no mind, looking through and liking your friends’ celebratory pictures.

It isn’t until the music shifts from someone’s generic halloween-themed playlist into things you might hear in a nightclub that you look up, taking that as your cue to leave. You could always wait for your friend’s text from the comfort of your room and come back to get her if she hadn’t already left – it wasn’t far from your apartment.

However, when you stand and gather yourself, you hear the starting tune of a familiar song and notice a crowd forming in the space between the living room and the kitchen.

Your phone buzzes, signalling a text from your friend saying she's safe and you're free to go, but you put off turning to leave for the moment because curiosity (and boredom) gets the best of you, and you're making your way towards the commotion, only having to take a few cautious steps around discarded items and pieces of costumes strewn across the dark floor.

You peek behind someone’s haphazardly worn wig to get a good view, and you instantly forget how to form any kind of coherent thought other than what your mouth moves to say, though your voice is barely a whisper and you can’t quite hear yourself over the music, “holy shit .”

The space is cleared for him, rightfully so. He moves to the music with such subdued intensity, such quiet grace – you hardly knew him (yet) – and you could tell he was born to dance.

Your mind clears of everything but awe and admiration at what you’re watching – and, if you’re honest, quite a bit of attraction, your heartbeat intensifying and seeming to follow his rhythm – but you realize you recognize him.

Soonyoung, sometimes Hoshi. You may have had a common class, but if not, it was almost impossible not to hear and know of him. Still a student, he already had a daunting reputation as a skilled dancer.

He was dressed in a sleeveless black turtleneck and tight black jeans strapped with suspenders, his hair styled back on one side to let the other fall over his forehead. You wonder vaguely what his costume is meant to be, until the chorus kicks in and it hits you all at once, like a punch to the stomach, knocking the breath from your lungs.

[The moves are starting again, under the dark lights]

The way he slowly sways his hips is quite possibly the most sensual thing you’ve ever witnessed, only topped by each coming dance move, your heart spasming when he crosses his arms above his head and thrusts those sinful hips.

[You got, got the rhythm]

He moves his feet in a way you wouldn’t dream of being able to follow, and the song smoothes into what must be its second verse, though to you, time has stopped and you wouldn’t be able to tell if it was the second or the eighth – you hoped it would play forever.

His outfit is so accurate to one of Taemin’s stages you recall watching in passing, you think that if you were to pull it up on your phone and make a comparison, there wouldn’t be any discrepancies, down to the slash on his brow – but to pry your eyes from him for even a tenth of a second would be a crime.

He’d be able to fool anyone. He moves as if the song is his, made for him and him alone, the movements so natural, so full of charisma it demands attention, commands it.

You shiver, inadvertently licking your lips and stuffing your hands, curled into fists, into your coat pockets.

[For a moment, I erased everything]

There’s a fiery passion in his eyes that’s hard to miss, and you want nothing more than for it to become your undoing.

[Only relying on my sight]

He turns, rolls his shoulder, and those foxlike eyes are fixed on your own, gaze steady and burning through you even as he continues to move, and you’re frozen in place, breath caught in your throat and your heart threatening to leap right out of it.

[With awe, I’m only looking at you]

You think you’re dreaming it, it must just be an illusion your lust-and-alcohol-addled brain is conjuring up from your complete and all-encompassing attraction and the implications of his movements, and not to mention the lyrics, the heavily sensual bass, but...

His lips curl into a satisfied smirk, and he holds your gaze so that there’s no mistaking that it’s you he’s directing that mischievous little wink at, as if he can read every doubt popping up in your mind.

[So your carefully applied makeup can smudge]

Then he’s undulating his hips in such a sinful manner, you aren’t sure how you keep watching without experiencing some kind of shock-related injury.

[Leave it alone, you’re beautiful]

He slows, and he’s still looking right at you, as if he’s speaking only to you, but his mouth doesn’t move from that beautiful little smirk – and then the chorus picks up again and you’re struggling to follow the speed of his movements.

[Under the dark lights…]

His gaze only breaks yours when he turns elegantly, exposing his back, and he’s moving his hips again, and despite the fact that you think, at that very moment, that to stare at his shapely bottom as it sways would be rude, you’re doing it anyway.

[…your moves captivate me]

Finally your internal battle comes to an end when he turns back to you, at the price of every other thought coming to an abrupt stop as well, because he finds you again, an even more self-satisfied glimmer in his eyes when he catches how your own flitted up from where you’d been looking.

[Your elegant gestures, secretive looks]

He moves his shoulders in what you can only describe as a continuous shrug, one of his hands up as if he’s snapping his fingers, and you can’t even begin to think about how funny it might be in another context, because he’s still holding your gaze, and his expression is serious, albeit a little smug.

Then the music slows and minimizes, giving way for the vocal bridge, and this is the part where you can remember a pause in the dance, a breather.

Except Soonyoung doesn’t pause. He doesn’t stop moving in any way, doesn’t let you breathe, as if he owned your lungs, though his movements slow with the song.

[Because we’re perfect just the way we are, don’t even worry at all]

Finally he pauses, but only for a moment, winking at you once more before abruptly bending down at the waist, touching the floor with one hand.

[Just like that, repeat]

Soonyoung holds the pose for a split second before slowly coming back up, swaggering a few steps forward and smirking at you as he spins and kicks a leg up, looking amused when you flinch at the sudden action.

He bends a little and moves his shoulders again, and though you can tell the song is coming to an end soon, your heartbeat never slows, your entire body taut, as tense as he seemed to be relaxed.

The chorus continues for the last time, and he’s swaying his hips and moving his arms with otherworldly grace, seemingly too complicated for you to follow completely but looking so effortless to him. He rolls his body and your mind goes blank, until he spins on his heel and bends down a little, hand extending to one side rather elegantly, as if he were asking someone at a ball to dance.

He holds that pose as the music slows to a stop, giving way for a wave of applause and scattered congratulatory whistles.

Soonyoung stands up straight, and when he grins he lights up the whole room, cheeks puffing out adorably and eyes pushing into narrow lines, and you could swear you’ve never seen anything so precious. It’s almost as if the he’s a completely different person from the one who’d been dancing. It breaks the spell, only to put you in yet another, melting your heart where only moments ago, your entire body had been frozen, mesmerized by his movements.

He swivels in his spot to bow gratefully to the crowd around him, sweet, contagious grin still on his face, until he turns back to you, and it melts into that smirk, the people around you dissipating from your thoughts.

Your legs move on their own, and you realize you’d been so captivated by him that you’d inadvertently inched towards him throughout his performance, until it only took you a few steps to reach him.

You give no thought to your appearance, your cliché and possibly quite seductive outfit long forgotten, the praise over his performance bubbling up within you suddenly pushed back for later, because he’s a lot closer, close enough to touch, and your train of thought crashes and explodes and takes the breath from your lungs with it. He’s even more beautiful, even more gorgeous from here, with sweat dotting the edges of his face, eyeliner slightly smudged, hair just a little bit disheveled, a grin you can tell he’s trying to mask under that smirk tugging at his surprisingly plump lips.

You introduce yourself rather awkwardly, the words jumping from your mouth before you can think them through, though he doesn’t seem to mind, his smirk morphing again, into something sweeter, warmer, soothing you before you can torture yourself with regret over your outburst.

“I’m Soonyoung,” he says, and you watch his lips move, your brain distracted and delaying in processing his words for a moment. “Or Hoshi, it doesn’t matter. But one of them means star.“ He takes this opportunity to wink, making your heart stop for what seems to be the thousandth time in the span of five minutes.

His eyes are shiny, you think, and as you hold his gaze, you realize they actually sparkle with something bright and playful, promising you something lovely if you manage to count the stars glimmering within his irises.

It’s extremely fitting.

“Hoshi,” you say, cheeks aflame as you savor the word on your tongue.

The boy in question grins, and it’s as if the sun has moved to the darkened living room of some well-off college student’s halloween party and rescheduled its daily rising to sometime between 1 and 2 in the morning.

Another song starts up and people start mingling on the makeshift dancefloor, but you pay them no mind; the ground could suddenly collapse around you and neither of you would notice, gazes still locked on each other.

“Star,” you breathe.

#hoshi #seventeen #svt #svt scenarios #svt fluff #hoshi scenarios #hoshi fluff #kwon soonyoung #my writing #oh god pls appreciate this i put too much work into this #too much time labor n research #but i love hosh n i love taemin so. its worth it #i think ? #im continuoulsy working on requests always ofc #but th eres. quite a bit so pls be patient #thx for reading ilu all !!

[fandomlife-giver]

His Maid, On Ice: 2

Summary: When you live as long as I, it’s important to not let the past and useless details choke your existence. Even if it may appear inescapable, and those within it appear again.

Pairings: Eventual Sebastian x Demon!reader

@wintersdoll

Warnings: Violence

Word Count: 3484

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Oh Satan....

It's him.. I knew I should've disposed of him when I had the chance.

You looked away from the Viscount and focused your gaze on Ciel as he pondered to himself.

"They're holding some contest? Why is he a judge?" He questioned while everyone except you stared at the angry group of people before you, the Viscount being one of them, though he was too busy admiring the white roses.

"Yes. Wasn't he just arrested for human trafficking? What a naughty man." Lau said from beside you.

You looked down when you noticed Sebastian had moved closer to you, to wear your sides were touching. Your eyebrow twitched and you were about to point it out, but froze when you felt an arm wrap around your waist and pull you, making you mold into a firm chest.

You looked to your right, seeing Undertaker with a smile on his face, his attention on Abberline when he responded. "He was released a few days ago." Abberline said with a scowl.

Ciel frowned. "Must have paid well."

Abberline stepped forward until he was before the mayor. "Excuse me, but this statue is now under the charge of Scotland Yard."

Unfortunately, the Mayor didn't seem very happy to cooperate. "Oh, no! I don't care if you are from Scotland Yard, sir! The frost fair is an event for our citizens. I will not let you disrupt it!"

"Just look at her beauty. Such an exquisitely noble lady. We could never allow her to be violated by anybody." Lord Druitt said as he hugged himself.

Your eyes narrowed at him. "You're certainly one to talk."

The viscount looked back, his eyes locking with yours as he smirked. "If you insist on possessing this lady, you should offer something of equal beauty."

"A well-spoken pronouncement from a true lover of art and beauty! As he says, if you want this statue, win the contest!" The mayor exclaimed.

"There's merit to your argument. The ring belongs to whomever is the winner of the contest. Nice and simple." Ciel agreed.

Abberline looked back at him. "Really, Ciel?"

Ciel looked up at him. "Don't worry, Inspector, I'll get the ring."

Abberline gritted his teeth. "But it's stolen property! Not to mention the fact that it's our key evidence in serial kidnappings of young girl—Ah!" He covered his mother with his eyes wide in realization of what he just revealed.

Ciel smiled. "I see, that's why the Yard is frantic to find it."

Abberline went back to frowning. "The legend is true; every person who has owned the ring has met a horrible end! It's a cursed stone, and you still try to win it?"

This only made Ciel's smile turn into a smirk. "Cursed, eh?" He looked down at his father's ring. "Then it sounds like the perfect ring for me."

Undertaker walked forward, which only made you be pulled forward with him as he now placed his arm lazily over your shoulders. "Come to think of it, isn't that family ring you wear set with a pretty blue stone as well, lord?"

Ciel looked up at him. "Yes."

Undertaker smiled. "Perhaps you should be careful. Diamonds are quite hard. Because they're hard, they're also... brittle. If you go too far, you may be shattered as well."

"I'm not concerned." He said before smiling as he raised his thumb to his face to gaze upon his ring. "My body, along with my family ring—" He kissed the diamond, then looked back at Undertaker. "—both have already been shattered and then reborn. I've been through too much to worry about that anymore." You felt your lips turn upwards into a smile by what he said and by glancing at Sebastian, it made his face contort as well.

You looked down at Ciel when he turned around and looked at you and Sebastian. "Win the contest, that's an order!"

Undertaker removed his arm and stepped back as you and Sebastian put your hands over your heart and stomach. "Indeed, young master."

. . .

Hmm, 547.

There were currently 547 people gathered at the foot of the stage you now stood on beside Sebastian amongst the other contestants. You both had fake smiles acting upon false happiness, but what was their excuse? Why do they care about a contest about carving blocks of ice? Does this entertain them?

These were the thoughts that ran through your mind behind the smile on your face as the announcer spoke. "Welcome one and all to the Thames Frost Fair! Now it is time for the traditional ice sculpture contest! You have until 3 p.m. All right. You may begin sculpting!"

Your smile widened. Perhaps this will be entertaining. And there is an interesting topic you would like to base this icy project on.

. . .

*bong* *bong* *bong* The clock rang out as it struck 3. "And now folks, the judging shall commence!"

You glanced around the stage, seeing the men all out of breath as they held up their tools, then at Sebastian, who kept his eyes locked on the audience.

That certainly shows our masculine men of London.

‘It's at least one attractive quality Sebastian bares that no other man does.’

Your eyes widened at your own thoughts. ‘Attractive? Why in the bloody hell would I even think of that word, let alone include Sebastian?’

You closed your eyes in an attempt to block out such vulgar thoughts. ‘What is wrong with you? Focus!’

Flashback...

"Has any other demon ever been so committed towards you? Has your beloved king ever shown such concern?"

You silently growled under your breath. "Shut up."

Sebastian was the only one to hear you and looked at you from the corner of his eye, but you avoided his gaze.

‘Lucifer, why must you do this to me?’

"First up, we have Scotland Yard and Its Merry Men, with their sculpture, "Guardian of London"!" All eyes went to the life size ice sculpture of Sir Arthur, that Abberline and another officer were saluting to, as if it were actually him.

The table of judges frowned at it, including the viscount at the end who shook his head. "Judges' scores!" They all held up their scores. "One, two, one, one, zero! For a total of five points!" You looked back at the sculpture, to see Arthur's head fall off.

"Next team, whose name is All Women's Dresses Should Be Tiny... And their entry!"

A few women gasped as children's eyes were covered from the ice sculpture of a naked Ran Mao, that's womanly parts were being censored by two white sheets, that two blushing men were holding.

You glanced at it with a raised eyebrow.

I mean, did they really have to go into detail? And for hell's sake, carved at least a dress on her!

"For obvious reasons, this ice sculpture has been disqualified."

Lau smiled and tilted his head. "But why?" He asked this while Ran Mao stood beside him, doing the same pose as the sculpture.

"How could you possibly think that was proper to display?!" Ciel snapped at him.

His smile dropped. "You know, when they hide bits like that I think it only makes it more erotic..."

The judges all held up X's, except for Lord Druitt, who held up a 10. Of course, it's not like you expected anything else.

Your gaze dropped to Ciel as he leaned closer into you and Sebastian. "Win this. You can, right?"

You chuckled. "Of course we can."

Without looking at him, Sebastian added on. "You explicitly ordered us to do so, and we exist only to fulfill your orders, my lord."

"And next, from the team known as Queen's Puppy, we have "The Ark of Noah"!"

A large sheet was dropped, revealing a large life size ice replica of Noah's Ark. You heard a chair scrape and looked back at the viscount as he marveled at it.

"What a sculpture! I've never seen it's like! That is art in its highest form!" The mayor exclaimed.

"An amazing piece! Let's see the total scores." The announcer said as he turned to the judges, until your hand shot up.

"One moment." He looked back down at you. "My apologies, but you haven't seen all of the sculpture yet." You looked to Sebastian as he walked over to it and snapped his fingers.

The Ark's roof cracked down the middle and fell apart, revealing 3D sculptures of various animals atop the Ark.

"Wow! They look like living animals!" You heard a man say amongst the audience that stared at it in awe.

"Brilliant! They deliberately made the seam of the roof weak so it would melt and fall apart in time!" The mayor shouted.

"Ah! Ahh! Our ancestor, the brave man who stood fearlessly against the flood of God's wrath: Noah! He is depicted here with his wife and child and the pairs of animals he was ordered to rescue, awaiting rebirth from the sea." The viscount dramatically said in a love-like trance.

"Astounding work, young man and young lady! It's high art! I declare the both of you ice sculptors of the highest caliber." The mayor announced.

You both looked up at him. "No, sir. You're too kind. We are simply one hell of a maid and butler." Sebastian said as he placed his hand on his heart.

"Is everyone ready for the final scores?"

"Hold it right there!" You all looked over at the queen’s ice sculpture where a man stood, pointing a gun towards the audience. "Hate to break up the party, but this ring is ours. We're taking what belongs to us."

"Hold on. That means you're the..." Abberline drifted off as the man smirked.

"That's right. We're the team of thieves all of London's been talking about. Maybe you'll recognize these." He pulled back his coat to reveal several sticks of dynamite strapped to his abdomen.

You rose an eyebrow. "Well that is very idiotic. I believe that is taking the term 'self destructive' to a more literal meaning than necessary."

Behind him, two other men knocked over a barrel, more sticks of dynamite spilling from it. The man grinned and held up a lighter, flicking on the flame. "You have ten seconds! Anyone who doesn't want to die should get the hell out of here."

"Ten!" The entire crowd of people ran from the area, all except Abberline, Ciel, and his faithful hellish servants.

You gave a closed eyed smile. "Well, this was certainly a dramatic turn of events, wasn't it?"

"Master." Sebastian called.

"Nine!"

"My orders remain the same. Do it now." Ciel ordered.

You both smiled and bowed. "Indeed, young master." You said, before you both disappeared from sight.

"Eight!"

Abberline looked back, seeing Ciel still standing there alone. "What are you doing?! Hurry up, we need to get out of here!"

"Seven!"

Ciel looked back at him. "You can go if you want to. Don't worry, I'll be fine."

"Six!"

Abberline gritted his teeth. "I can't leave you here!" Ciel looked back at him in surprise. "I joined Scotland Yard to protect our citizens!"

"Five!"

"That includes noblemen like you, Ciel!" He yelled, before he began to run towards Ciel.

"Four!"

Ciel smirked as he watched him. "What a fool."

He nearly got close to the man at the statue, before the man shot at his feet, stopping him. "Stay back, Inspector." The man turned to Ciel with his gun now to him. "You only have three seconds left. A sweet little boy like you, shouldn't you be running away?"

Ciel only stared at him. "I see no need for that. Look behind you."

His eyes widened, right before the gun was knocked out of his hand by Sebastian, who had jumped over him and kicked it with his ice skates. "What the?!"

Sebastian landed on the ice and skated around the statue as the men fired their guns at him. He jumped up and did a quadruple spin mid air.

"Impossible! He spun four whole times in the air!" The mayor exclaimed.

"A noble swan flying through a world of silvery-white snow! Lured by that devilish smile, the maiden is enfolded in his midnight black wings." Ciel visibly shuddered from the viscount's words.

As Sebastian skated by the Judge's table and knocked out the two men who had been shooting at him, the judges held up their scores. "Ten, ten, ten, ten, ten! That's it, a perfect score!"

Ciel was now smirking at the man, who was pulling out a dynamite stick and lit his lighter. "Damn you... little brat! I'm gonna blow you away!" Ciel's smirked dropped as the lit dynamite was hurled towards him.

But, before it landed, he was swept away by you as you held him above your head with one arm and skated away with a smile.

The man shielded his eyes as the stick landed and the ice exploded. "Another one?! I hate these people!" He angrily said as he lit several dynamite sticks and threw them towards you, but you managed to gracefully skate away from them, leaving a trail of explosions behind you.

"Please, Boss, stop doing that! Have you forgotten?! Look down! We're standing on top of ice!" His men said as they looked upon the now cracked ice that would break any second.

Haha. Idiot.

Ciel gasped and looked down at you as you continued to hold him up. "Y/N!"

You dropped your hand and grabbed onto his arms, swinging him around a few times, before letting go. He shrieked as he soared through the air, all while you gave him an amused smile as Sebastian caught him from where he stood.

The ice atop the river cracked, sending the thieves below the freezing depths, leaving a foggy cloud of ice.

Abberline looked upon the fog, but couldn't spot anything or anyone. "Where is he?" He questioned.

Lau smiled as he stood next to him. "My lord is stubborn as ever."

Abberline's eyes widened as the shadow of the Noah's Ark sculpture cane into view, with Ciel on top of it and his Maid and Butler standing behind him.

Lord Druitt outstretched his arms. "The ship sails on, leaving human despair behind! The ship sails on, carrying the future of the world! The ship sails on, despite the raging flood of icy waters seeking to drown it! ♪ The ship sails on! ♪"

Tears pricked the mayor's eyes as he stared at it. "It's the Ark! Truly a recreation of Noah's Ark! We've seen a miracle on the Thames!"

Ciel looked back at you with a frown. "Was tossing me about like that really necessary?"

You smiled. "My apologies, sir. But we did have an audience after all. I thought it might add a bit of a flair to the show."

His eye twitched, before he averted his gaze down at the river, where the queen ice sculpture was sinking, and the hope peace still on her finger. "The Hope Diamond will sleep safely at the bottom of the Thames...Not a bad end."

"But won't it curse all of London now?" Sebastian questioned.

"Somehow I doubt that will happen. Besides, if a ring can destroy the city, it wasn't meant to survive." He looked at his ring.

"After all, we Phantomhives have lived on..." He looked across the river at Abberline, who was kneeling down, helping one of the thieves out of the water.

"Grab my hand, I've got you!" He said as he reached out to him.

"Tell me something, Y/N." Ciel began as he watched him. "Earlier, you had accused Noah of being arrogant, but he was only trying to save a few. Wouldn't the desire to protect everyone be even more arrogant?"

You thought for a second, then looked ahead at Abberline. "Yes, it would seem so."

A small smile curved at Ciel's lips. "Ah well, an arrogant fool like that every now and then might not be so bad."

Once Abberline had pulled the bandits from the water, he looked up and stared at Ciel and his servants as they stood atop the sculpture. "Ciel... Who exactly are you?"

. . .

*sigh* ‘What am I doing? My work here is complete, so why? Why am I still here?’

You stared at the blood red ring upon your finger as your other naked hand mindlessly scraped against the roof of the manor. You started to think back to what Sebastian said on your first night with him...

Flashback...

He leaned down to your ear. "That is because they took place in his kingdom, but here you are vulnerable. Unlike all others, I will succeed, it is only a matter of time." He whispered.

‘He was right. Here, there are no guards, no king to have his hold on me. Damn you...why? Why did you make me come back? You bastard! Why?!’

You clenched your fist and looked away, down from where you were crouched, you glanced at the balcony of Ciel's study, where he sat at his desk with his chin his hand.

Flashback...

He sighed. "I would very much like if you would keep this from Ciel, not only as my servant, but as my friend. Please...will you do me this one favor... as my friend?"'

‘Oh... That's why.’ You laughed to yourself. "You really were full of surprises, weren't you master? To think you would go as far as to ask a demon from hell for a favor..."

You continued to watch Ciel, until he stood up and walked out of your view, the room's light going out a few seconds after.

You looked back at your ring and sighed as you closed your eyes.

‘Vincent...look what you've done to me.’

Silence filled the area, and for once you felt...relaxed.

♪Ooh Death Whooooah death, Won't you spare me over 'til another year?♪

Your eyes snapped open as you felt the wind pick up. The trees began to lean as a familiar tune rang out in the air.

♪Well what is this that I cant see, With ice cold hands taking hold of me♪

You immediately stood up and stared off in the distance, seeing a dark figure fly past the trees. Your eyes narrowed as you jumped off the roof and landed beside the fountain. You then proceeded to run into the woods.

♪Well I am death none can excel, I'll open the door to heaven or hell,  Whoa death someone would pray, Could you wait to call me another day♪

You followed after the figure that moved in a flash from tree to tree, it's voice growing louder as it rang in your ears.

♪The children prayed the preacher preached, Time and mercy is out of your reach, I'll fix your feet so you can't walk, I'll lock your jaw so you can't talk♪

You watched as the figure jumped up and disappeared into a large tree. Though it was dark, the rustling that sounded when you stopped below it was a dead giveaway.

♪I'll close your eyes so you cant see, This very hour come and go with me, Death I come to take the soul, Leave the body and leave it cold♪

A hissing sound from behind you made you turn around to see a snake slither down a tree and slowly make it's way to where it was inches from your face.

♪To drop the flesh up off the frame, Dirt and worm both have a claim♪

As it got closer, it's jaws began to open, with it's long, sharp fangs come closer and closer.

♪Oh death Whooooah death, Won't you spare me over 'til a another year?♪

You turned away from the snake with a small sigh and looked up into the tree the figure now stood in.

"Must you honestly disturb me from my work, especially at this ungodly hour?" It's sultry laugh only made you frown.

"Godly hour? You speak of god? Now is that any way to talk, Felis?" It jumped down from the tree and landed inches from you.

You watched as she slowly rose up, not caring how close she was and stared at you with her piercing violet eyes, her hot pink hair tickling your skin.

You showed no emotion whatsoever. "It's been quite a long time, hasn't it? Hello once again, Azah."

Her lips pulled back into a wicked grin, displaying her sharp pointed fangs. "Hello...sister."

#Sebastian Michaelis x reader #Black Butler x reader #black butler fanfiction