flicker ₊⊹
warnings : gn!reader x adult!van . nsfw , mdni . cursing . jealous van . legal age gap .
you can find the request here ꨄ︎
the rain’s hammering the roof of the video store, a relentless drumbeat that barely drowns out the hum of the flickering fluorescent lights. you’re behind the counter, flipping through a tattered fangoria, stealing glances at the grainy horror flick playing on the corner tv. it’s a dead night, the kind where you’re counting the seconds until you can lock up and bail.
van’s in the back, supposedly sorting returns, but you can hear her wrestling with the ancient vcr, muttering “fuckin’ piece of shit” every time it jams. it’s almost cute, the way she gets so worked up over stubborn tech, like it’s personally out to get her.
you’ve been working here for a few months now, ever since you needed a job to cover rent while figuring out what the hell you’re doing with your life. van’s been your boss the whole time - sharp-tongued, red hair that flows over her shoulders, flannel sleeves rolled up like she’s ready to fight the world. she’s older, forty something, maybe, she’s never mentioned her age. and there’s this raw, electric edge to her that makes your pulse race when she looks at you too long.
and she’s been looking a lot lately.
you’re not oblivious. you’ve caught the way her eyes trail over you when you’re restocking shelves, lingering when you bend down to grab a tape. or how her voice dips, rough and teasing, when she rags on your movie picks. “scream over halloween? c’mon, kid, we gotta fix your taste.” she calls you kid like it’s a joke, but there’s something in it that sets your nerves on fire.
tonight, though, she’s off. her usual sharp banter’s gone, replaced by short answers and a jaw so tight it could crack walnuts. you’re pretty sure it’s because of the guy who came in earlier - some leather-jacket wannabe who leaned over the counter while you rang him up, smirking like he thought he was god’s gift.
“so, you free after your shift? bet i could show you a better time than this place.”
you brushed him off, said you had plans, but he kept at it, tossing out lines that were half-cringe, half-irritating. van was restocking horror nearby, and you could’ve sworn you saw her nearly snap a vhs case in half. she didn’t say a word, just vanished into the back room after he left.
now, with closing time creeping closer, you’re debating whether to call her out on it. you’re about to when the door’s bell jingles, and leather jacket. struts back in, looking like he’s got a point to prove.
“hey,” he says, all cocky swagger and cheap cologne, leaning on the counter. “thought i’d swing by, see if you’re ready for that drink yet.”
you sigh, dropping the magazine. “still got plans, dude. sorry.”
he leans closer, undeterred, and you feel van before you hear her - the air shifts, heavy and charged.
“everything okay here?” her voice is low, calm, but there’s a razor’s edge to it that makes the guy flinch. she’s right behind you now, close enough that you catch the cedar-and-smoke scent clinging to her flannel.
leather jacket smirks, missing the vibe entirely. “just trying to get your coworker here to loosen up. you know, have some fun.”
van’s laugh is sharp, cutting. “yeah, well, they’re working. and you’re holding up the line.”
there’s no line. the store’s a ghost town. but he gets the message, muttering as he grabs his rental and slinks out into the rain. the door slams shut, leaving a thick, buzzing silence.
you turn to van, eyebrow raised. “what was that about?”
she’s already moving, grabbing a stack of tapes to sort like she didn’t just run a guy off. “nothing. don’t like creeps bugging my employees.”
you snort, leaning against the counter. “he wasn’t bugging me. i had it handled.”
her hands still for a split second before she keeps sorting. “sure you did.”
there’s that edge again, sharp and biting, like she’s holding something back. maybe it’s the boredom, or the way her jaw ticks when she’s pissed, but you push.
“you jealous or something?”
the words slip out, half-teasing, half-daring. van freezes, her fingers clenched around a copy of nightmare on elm street. when she looks up, her green eyes are molten, pinning you in place, and the heat in them steals your breath.
“jealous?” she says, voice low, almost a growl. “of that prick? please.”
but she’s closing the distance now, slow and deliberate, until you can see every freckle on her nose, the way her lips press tight like she’s fighting herself. your heart’s pounding, but you don’t back down.
“then what’s your deal?” you ask, quieter, testing. “you’ve been weird all night.”
she’s silent for a beat, her gaze dropping to your mouth, then snapping back to your eyes. “you really wanna know?”
you nod, throat tight.
she steps closer, so close you can feel the heat radiating off her. her voice drops to a rough whisper. “my deal is you. the way you laugh at every dumb fuck who flirts with you like it’s no big deal. the way you don’t even see how you’re driving me crazy.”
your brain stalls, mouth dry. “van…”
her hand grazes your arm, light but intentional. “tell me to stop if you want.”
you don’t. you can’t.
that’s all she needs.
her lips crash into yours, desperate and searing, like she’s been starving for this. you match her intensity, kissing her back hard, hands finding her waist, pulling her flush against you. the counter bites into your back, but you barely notice, not with her tongue sliding against yours, her hands gripping your hips like she’s anchoring herself to you.
she tastes like coffee and something sweet - maybe the candy she was sneaking earlier - and it’s dizzying. your fingers knot in her hair, tugging just enough to draw a low groan from her throat, and that sound lights you up inside. she pulls back just enough to breathe, her forehead pressed to yours, eyes dark and wild.
“back room,” she rasps, voice thick with want.
you’re moving before she finishes the sentence.
the back room’s a mess - boxes of old tapes, a couch that’s one spring away from collapse - but it’s private, and that’s all you care about. the door’s barely shut before van’s on you, pushing you against the wall, her mouth claiming yours with a hunger that makes your knees weak. her hands are everywhere - sliding under your shirt, tracing the curve of your ribs, her calloused fingers rough and warm against your skin.
you fumble with her flannel, popping buttons until it falls open, exposing the soft line of her collarbone, the freckles dusting her chest. you press your lips there, tasting salt and heat, and she lets out a shaky breath, her head tipping back as your tongue grazes her skin.
“fuck,” she mutters, her hands dropping to your jeans, deftly undoing the button. “you don’t know what you do to me.”
you try to respond, but it’s just a choked “yeah?” as her fingers slip inside, brushing you through the thin fabric of your underwear. your hips buck, chasing her touch, and she smirks, slow and wicked, her thigh pressing between yours, pinning you to the wall.
“oh, yeah,” she murmurs, voice a low growl as she leans in, lips brushing your ear.
her hand moves with purpose, sliding past the fabric, finding you slick and aching. she curses softly, her fingers exploring, teasing, circling with a slow, deliberate pressure that has you gripping her shoulders to stay upright. her breath is hot against your neck, her teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear, and you can’t hold back the soft whimper that escapes.
she pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes blazing, lips parted. “you like that?” she asks, voice rough but laced with something softer, like she’s checking in. you nod, barely coherent, and she leans in to kiss you again, deep and messy, her tongue curling against yours as her fingers pick up the pace.
her touch is relentless now, two fingers curling inside you, finding that spot that makes your vision blur. her thumb brushes against you in tandem, a steady rhythm that has your thighs trembling, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. you’re clutching at her, nails digging into her arms, her name falling from your lips in a broken plea.
“van- fuck, please- ”
she doesn’t let up, but she shifts closer, her body pressing against yours, her free hand sliding up to cup your jaw, holding you steady as she kisses you like she’s trying to devour you. the heat builds, tight and overwhelming, your hips grinding against her hand as she works you closer to the edge. her lips trail down your jaw, your neck, sucking lightly at the pulse point until you’re sure she’s leaving marks you’ll have to explain later.
you don’t care. not when she’s murmuring your name against your skin, her voice low and wrecked, not when her fingers are hitting just the right angle, pushing you higher until you’re trembling, teetering on the brink. when you finally come, it’s with a sharp cry you barely muffle against her shoulder, your body arching, shuddering as waves of pleasure crash through you.
van doesn’t stop right away, her fingers slowing but still moving, drawing out every last shudder until you’re a boneless mess against the wall. she pulls back, her hand still resting lightly on your hip, her forehead pressed to yours as you both catch your breath. her lips are swollen, her eyes still dark with want, but there’s a softness there now, too.
“you okay?” she asks, voice low, almost tender as her thumb brushes your cheek.
you manage a breathless laugh, still reeling. “fuck, van. that was…”
she grins, a little smug but warm, and kisses you again, slow and lingering, like she’s not ready to let go yet. “told you i was jealous,” she murmurs against your lips, her tone teasing but heavy with truth.
you roll your eyes, smiling, your hands still tangled in her hair. “maybe i like you jealous.”
her laugh is soft, warm, and it sparks something new in your chest. “careful what you wish for, kid.”
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