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Webby's already so touchy with her, she should've realized it sooner. Holloway was looking over the checks and balances, leaning over the front counter of Miss Retro's before it's even open. She's got coffee brewing and a throbbing headache but she's sure it'll go away later. Hopefully. Maybe.
She knows that she's been going a little hard on those supernatural excursions, but being the only adult witch in Hatchetfield automatically signs you up for saving kids with the Gift and their adjacent problems at home. She doesn't know how Duke manages to be a social worker.
Holloway's eyes are blurring with exhaustion. She sets her pen down before rubbing at her temples, little twinges of pain behind her eyes as she kneads with her finger tips. She thinks she has enough ingredients to last the rest of the week, notwithstanding any special occasions that may arise, but there's always the chance of something going somewhere and the guarantee of it being unexpected.
But really, she should have realized how touchy Webby is.
Holloway barely hears that ethereal chime of a Queen in White behind her, and she has no time to turn around, meaning she's got hands -abnormally cool to the touch- wrapping around her waist and a chin resting on her shoulder and lips pressing to her jawline as the chest against her back rumbles with a low purr.
"You seem stressed."
Holloway sags against the counter, her head bowing just a little. Her head hurts. Her wrists are a little sore. She has the urge to crack her knuckles, but the feeling of Webby pressed against her is far too distracting and Holloway knows she opens in maybe an hour and she still has to do kitchen prep for the day and everything is building up in her head and-
"Yeah, there's just been a lot going on lately."
Webby hums. Her hands slide down to her hips, deft fingers toying with the waistband of her jeans and the way her skin brushes against Holloway's has her eyes sliding shut because damn, she needs a break badly.
Holloway makes a mental note of the fact that Webby was probably spying on her again. She has a tendency to, and though Holloway doesn't mind she hopes she didn't see the way she's neglected her own body in favor of taking care of literally everyone else who walks through her diner's doors. She can recall a hushed conversation they had once, curled up in Webby's bed one night in the White.
Holloway spreads herself thin. That's just a fact. Webby realized that ages ago, with her little spying habit. Holloway squeezes her already shut eyelids. She can just imagine the quiet reprimands Webby will give her.
Maybe if she promises to be good the rest of the week, Webby won't say anything.
"Want me to ease your stress a little?"
Holloway opens her eyes. Webby's thumbs are still teasing along the edge of her waistband, the rest of her fingers splayed to run over the threads of denim, the metal rivets, the edges of her pockets. Holloway can feel how her fingertips dip into them, cool skin barricaded by the thin cloth lining. It's tantalizing.
Holloway presses her lips together.
"You know I open soon."
"I can be quick."
Webby's fingers hook into the belt loops of her jeans. Holloway can feel the way she tugs firmly, bumping her ass against her own hips from behind. More of Webby's hands slide up her stomach, under her shirt, and Holloway feels her skin gain goosebumps as Webby cups her breasts.
"I promise I'll be quick."
Holloway sighs. Webby's always been touchy, but she can't deny the temptation to just give in. She has been pushing herself again, and the way her lover is purring and manhandling her has always been something she's desired. Holloway's under no illusion to the fact that she's horrendously, unequivocally, touch starved. She's not alone in it, Webby's probably worse. They're lucky they have each other, both so desperate for touch, for interaction.
For understanding.
"Then please."
Webby chuckles. Holloway feels the hands on her breasts squeeze her playfully, as the hands hooking her jeans move to her front, dexterously unbuttoning her fly and unzipping her quickly. Holloway keeps her hands on the counter in front of her and Webby's sliding her hand into her pants and cupping her gently, as the hands on her breasts slide under her bra and roll her nipples between fingers, and Holloway's breath hitches.
She should've realized sooner how much she needed this.
Webby's stroking at her slit, her fingertips dipping in between her folds and really, Holloway should have realized how wet she is already, she's got her hands on the counter, fingertips turning white with how hard she's pressing them into the cold surface, and she knows it'll only be worse when Webby bares her lips to nibble at the shell of her ear. Holloway's body shudders with arousal and she can't even be mad about it, Webby said she would be quick. It stands to reason she'd attack her weak spots.
"Oh, my beloved. You're so pent up."
Holloway doesn't grace her with a response. She's clutching at the counter and Webby's stroking at her folds and toying with her breasts and Holloway's lips are parted just to vent out the shaky gasps spilling out from her mouth and if she lets out a weak, strangled moan when Webby leans in to bite the crook of her shoulder, well, it's just the two of them in the diner, Holloway hasn't opened yet.
She's wet enough for Webby to immediately slide two fingers in, and she's already pushing back against Webby's hips as she moans, leaning forward enough to bear weight on her elbows, head hanging from her shoulders like her strings were cut. Webby takes it in stride, cooing all the same as she strokes Holloway throughout, her height was enough to bend over, and she sucks a hickey into her skin for good measure. Distantly, Holloway notes that she'll have to check that in the mirror, but she's too distracted by the way Webby's thumb finds her swollen clit, and she bites her lip to avoid screaming too loud.
Webby's gotten way too good at playing with her.
The hands on her breasts reach up to scratch lines into her collarbones, and Holloway whines at the way the pain gets her heart being faster, like a live wire directly to her clit. She's certain Webby can feel the way her pulse thrums from right under her skin, and the pinch to her nipples has Holloway biting her bottom lip hard enough to break skin. Webby's strokes are speeding up, and she adds a third finger inside that leaves Holloway breathless.
She's getting close now. Webby did promise she'd be quick.
The stretch of three fingers is satisfying, and the combination of her chest being played with, the scratches in her skin, the bruise on her neck and the fingers pumping impossibly quick in her cunt are enough to throw Holloway off the edge. A deep, throaty moan rips from her mouth and reverberates off the walls of the otherwise empty diner, her legs shake from weakness, and Webby's hands hold her steady and close to her own body, as Holloway's head slowly meets the cold surface of the counter in front of her. The chill is welcome on her sweaty, flushed skin.
Holloway's eyes are blissfully shut, as she gasps for air.
Webby slides her fingers out, as gently as she can. Holloway's hips still twitch as they come out, sticky with her slick. She doesn't have to have her eyes open to know Webby's hand is covered with the stuff, doesn't need to see how she languidly laps it off her fingers, humming melodically like she didn't just fuck her brains out.
She's being smug about it. Holloway can tell.
The hands that were on her breasts also leave, instead one rubs her back comfortingly, willing Holloway's heart to slow down with each slow circle, while the other wraps around her waist just to hold her close. Webby's always been touchy, and it suits Holloway just fine. She manages to crack her eyes open and her eyes meet the clock on the wall.
Half an hour has passed.
Holloway wrenches herself off the counter in a panic, the documents she was looking over wrinkle a little and while her headache was gone due to Webby, she can almost feel another one coming because she opens in half an hour and she hasn't started the day's prep-
One of Webby's copies comes waltzing out of the kitchen doors with today's pie in it's glass display. Another does the finishing touches on today's menu. A third Webby, in a chef's hat, twirls a spatula in her hands while a fourth shakes a basket of fries after pulling it out of the already hot oil.
Holloway blinks. Turns to the Webby who's still got a hand on her, fingers sucked clean. Webby shrugs.
"You just have to ask for help."
