#I still read some Marvel on occasion too

[morallyinept]

ADORATION - A Joel Miller x Breast Cancer/Mastectomy F!Reader One Shot

Written as part of my B O D I E S Series 🤎

BODIES MASTERLIST

Summary: After some completely unexpected and devastating news, a long journey of loss and healing, Joel shows you how beautiful he still finds you.

Pairing: No Outbreak Joel Miller x Breast Cancer/Mastectomy F!Reader (No name or physical description of reader in terms of ethnicity, hair colour etc... However, Reader had breasts and hair before treatment. I've imagined Reader to be around a similar age as Joel, who is 56 when writing this, however Reader's age is not mentioned, so you can determine/imagine it's you, if you'd like to, bub.)

Word Count: 8.3k

Scoville Smut Rating:🌶️🌶️🌶️ “You tell me I'm doing well, and then, you try to kill me."

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.

Triggers & warnings: Mentions of breast cancer/double mastectomy/surgery/grief/loss/depression/body issues/illness & recovery/fear/mentions of death. Established relationship/unprotected PIV (wrap up, folks)/breast worship/Joel loves on you hard.

NSFW. MINORS DNI! OVER 18’s ONLY. YOU ARE SOLELY RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOU READ.☝🏻Don’t come at me; you’ve been plenty warned.

I write for me, and I share with you. If this story isn't to your taste, that's fine. Just slip quietly out the back door. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.

Author’s Note: It's important to me that all types of readers are represented in my work, therefore this collection of stories is written for readers with REAL bodies. However, anyone can enjoy them. Whilst this story may not specifically represent your own personal journey, it is my hope that it resonates and offers comfort and enjoyment. The condition/disability mentioned in this story is not 'one size fits all' - everyone's journey is personal and unique, and I have undertaken as much research as I can to write accurately and respectfully. 🤎

MAIN MASTERLIST | JOEL MILLER MASTERLIST

Enjoy! 🖤

You’re whining, keening softly as your nose dusts the crown of greying curls resting just below your chin.

They tickle gently on the inside of your nostrils each time you inhale, smiling into the beam of sunlight that strobes onto the pillow, blinding you into a warm, balmy bliss.

Causing your body to spasm and jerk beneath him; little bursts of electricity soar with static, crackling down your spine. You arch your back, pushing your nipple further into his warm, wet mouth.

The insatiable pull around your nipple draws hisses from behind your teeth, eyes rolling back into the furthest reaches of your skull.

Your fingers press into the back of his cranium, cradling him close; losing yourself to the never-ending swirl of his tongue around that fleshy, hard bud as he tongues it, sucks it, nips it...

Hips grinding in a languid cadence against his crotch, a hard bulge catches on your clit as you grind against his cock; stiff and leaking into his faded, worn-out boxers.

Joel’s a self-confessed breast man. He likes pawing at your ass too on the very regular occasion, but he spends most of his foreplay time - and any time, really - latching onto your breasts like a hungry infant.

He likes to suck your nipples out of the puffy swell of your areolas on warm mornings when you wake nestled around him. Coax that stubborn left one out of it's invert with a probing, flickering tongue.

He loves to pinch the stiff, hardened peaks through your top when you're chilly to make you giggle and squirm against him. Feels closest to you when you sit together watching a rubbish film on Sunday evenings in his lap, and he casually has his hand up your shirt holding onto your breast like he would your hand.

It’s a comfort you both enjoy; a big, reassuring warmth holding onto you. He likes feeling the weight of them as they fill his palms, watching the bounce of them, mesmerized, as you ride on his cock vigorously.

Joel’s all up in your marvellous chest at any chance he can get. Sucking the pebbled teats between his lips, swirling his tongue around and around as you fist through his wavy locks and groan when he brings you to orgasm just by lavishing your breasts with his mouth - he loves how sensitive they are.

Especially the right one, it's almost as sensitive as your clit.

Just a few licks over it on this lazy weekend morning, has you panting and almost tearing the roots from his scalp as he squeezes the left one inside his deft fingers; flicking the nipple with his rough index pad and groping a lavish handful.

He’s rutting into you, on the cusp of just pulling his cock out of his boxers - that have seen better days - and slipping into his beautiful wife writhing underneath him; he can feel you seeping through the thin cotton against him.

Joel squeezes your breast again as he sucks at the other, humming at your moans. You croak out his name; each vowel rolling off your tongue with abject need.

Opening and closing his fist around the mound, grunting in rapture, he brushes his thumb along the underside, when he stops. Shiny nipple popping out of his wet mouth, with that furrowed brow pulling his face into a tight knot.

“Darlin’,” he says, with a pursed mouth; his heavy eyes falling to your breast, and his stubby thumb running under the obvious hardness of a lump. “Ya feel that?” He questions, gently.

You look down at him realising his pause.

“Why are you stopping?” You gasp, your hips still moving, slit making a sticky mess against his cottoned length.

You stop grinding, sitting up as you take your breast from him and squeeze all around it, slightly irritated at the interruption, until you find it for yourself.

You feel an unwelcome visitor nestled within the soft curve under your breast, inviting itself bluntly into yours and Joel’s lovemaking.

“God,” you say, his concerned eyes meeting yours.

A lump, no larger than a pea, yet heavy with the weight of uncertainty, that suddenly makes your blood run icy. Your heart pounds a frantic rhythm against your rib cage.

Fear, cold and unyielding, spreads poisoned rust through your veins as you trace its contours; your fingers lingering over the unfamiliar bobble of its terrain.

“It’s probably nothin’,” he reassures with a nod, with eyes so deep you could fall into them and never see light again.

"Yeah," you nod too, but your own eyes convey your trepidation.

And it’s enough to halt any chance of morning sex with your burly husband in its tracks, as you disappear quickly into the bathroom for a thorough inspection.

Disbelief, a fleeting hope that what your fingers trace is merely a figment of your imagination, or a cyst at best.

All weekend you fret and worry until you can call the doctor's office on Monday morning.

You can't count the number of times you touch it, prod at it. You tell yourself out loud that it’s probably nothing, like Joel suggests.

Yet, as reality sinks its claws into your rational thinking, fear takes root, gnawing away at the fragile threads of your composure.

Yeah. Probably a cyst.

Your breasts change all the time; lumpy and bumpy; they’re not as perky as they once were. Your monthly cycle sees them ache and weight heavy like granite blocks sometimes.

It’ll be fine. Nothing to worry about. You tell your weary reflection, but she has a hard time believing you as she stares back with unblinking eyes.

When Joel doesn't put his hand up your shirt as you nestle into him during your Sunday night film ritual, that's when the tears kick in.

Excusing yourself to the bathroom, you don’t cry in front of Joel, but he’s not so easy to convince that everything's fine, and it’s just allergies making your eyes red, when he knows it’s not allergy season. Or that you have any allergies.

“S’alright to be worried, darlin’. But ya gon’ be okay.” He tells you he’s coming to the doctor with you.

You argue that it’s fine, but he's insistent with his brooding frown and pursed lips like he’s constantly chewing on a wasp. He tells you he loves you no matter what, and you’ll be fine and that’s that, as he squeezes your hand.

He pulls you close as you watch the film together spread out on the sofa. Still no hand up your shirt. You see the colour moving on the screen, hear the dialogue and music, but none of it sinks in. You’re staring at the TV completely blank.

He excels at making you think clearly, challenges your fears and helps you confront them with simple questions and words to get you to think differently. It’s one of the main reasons you married him. He has a level head.

And you don’t realise how tense you are until Joel rubs your back and you melt fully into his chest.

With more soothing words and reassurances, eventually you believe him that you’re probably being irrational and panicking over nothing, because Joel has this knack of waving a magic wand and making everything okay.

But it isn’t okay, not this time.

Within two weeks you have a mammogram and a biopsy after the doctor murmurs hmms and huhs at you.

You’re told not to worry as there’s only a two per cent chance that it’ll be cancer, as you’re stripped bare before the prying eyes of medical professionals and the cold embrace of diagnostic tests.

The loss of control over your own physicality is so fast, leaving you feeling exposed and deprived of the autonomy you'd once taken for granted.

Unfamiliar hands groping and prodding on your breasts replace Joel’s warm, tender ones, and you try to hold it together inside the sterile walls.

You break the moment he has you in his arms outside in the long, lonely corridor of the hospital and asks you how it went.

Joel throws himself into work on the construction site, and you throw yourself into a sinking depression, clouded with worry and worst case scenarios.

You’re sent home with stitches and painkillers after the biopsy, and all you can do is wait.

The invasion of a hostile takeover of your once jaunty mood hovers thickly in the air between you both at home during that time.

You do the one thing you shouldn’t and Google fucking everything. Survival rates, post-op images, types of cancer and all the dread that your eyes can take in until you can take in no more.

You then switch tactics and try to stay occupied and distracted. You play Joel’s old country rock playlist full blast, deciding to turn the house upside down and clean and bleach the shit out of every nook and cranny of it, until Joel comes home, eyes stinging with the fumes, and asks if you’ve lost your damned mind.

You smell bleach on your fingers for days after and it reminds you bleakly of the smell in the hospital corridors.

You lay in bed side-by-side at night, awkwardly staring at the ceiling, recalling how most nights you can hardly get enough of one another. But Joel rolls over and mumbles an exhausted goodnight to you, and you try your hardest not to cry; but the tears slip silently out the creases of your eyes anyway.

You’re called to come in for your biopsy results almost a week later, and the car journey there is deathly silent as Joel and you stare out the windshield and don’t say anything the whole way there.

Joel glances at you and you feel the weight of his ginormous hand on your thigh, squeezing it, and you barely register the sensation at first, turning to him as he squints in the sunlight as he turns the wheel.

There’s no casual flirting, no animated discussions about supper; no singing along to Bennie And The Jets together on Rock FM.

You watch the town pass you by out the window like it’s a stranger, equal parts numb and terrified.

The specialist takes a seat opposite you both, their gaze never wavering as they speak in a soft voice laced delicate with empathy, and you immediately know from the look on their face.

“It’s gon’ be alright, darlin’.” He says.

Although you’re unsure if it’s for your benefit or his, as his eyes remain focused on the road and glaze over in their emptiness somehow.

"I wish there was an easier way to say this, but the results of your biopsy came back, and I'm afraid it's cancer..."

Your breath catches in your throat, your world dangerously spinning out of control as the weight of those words settle over you like a suffocating shroud.

"Cancer? Two per cent…" You whisper, your voice barely audible above the rush of blood in your ears.

The medical speak jumbles your brain. Triple-Negative. Faulty BRCA1. Aggressive…

The words fade out and so do you.

But when you come back, you're looking at Joel; at his profile as he speaks. Mouth moving at the specialist with questions fired behind stunned snarls.

You're not sure where you go, or for how long, it’s just all muffled and quiet. Like being underwater, it fills your ears completely as you sink. Peaceful in a way.

The first time in weeks you’ve had any peace inside the tornado of your mind. It all stills.

He’s so beautiful.

You think it’s odd how a man can be deemed beautiful, like it emasculates him somehow, but it's the right word, you think. Beautiful, with heavy features etched with concern, yet softened by an unwavering love that radiates from his soulful brown eyes.

In the opaque light filtering through the window, you notice the creases at the corners of his eyes, the remnants of countless laughter-filled moments you’ve shared; your mind reliving through all of them in a handmade scrapbook decorated with glitter glue.

You can hear that little breathy snuffle he makes as he chuckles at something you say, whether it’s genuinely funny or moronic. His eyes, once bright with hope and joy, now glisten with unshed tears filling round shiny scleras, reflecting the tumult of emotions churning within him.

He talks, asks all the right questions you can't even form into comprehensible words. And somewhere through the falling, the tumbling, you love him even more for it.

You spend a quiet moment tracing the prominent curve of his nose with your eyes down into the way his lips will quirk upwards in a playful, crooked grin that never fails to warm your heart.

Yet now, they’re drawn down into a thin pout of worry; a silent plea for reassurance amidst the uncertainty that looms over you both.

Joel's a practical man, hands on. He needs to know. He needs to have all the facts and weigh up all the options presented to him like a gloomy spread of cards on the desk before him.

You can’t help yourself, reaching your fingers out and tangling them in the soft tendrils of his hair as you brush them behind his ear.

But you're fixating on his hair, once a riot of chestnut curls that framed his face with youthful exuberance, now bear the distinguished marks of time - strands of silver threaded through the greying curls that fall in gentle waves around his temples.

It’s almost like they’re greying further in front of you as you watch him now.

When was the last time he got a haircut?

Your fingers brush against the fuzzy, silken stubble that adorns his jawline and top lip, a tactile reminder of the physicality of your love, recalling the way he rubs it against your face, your inner thighs...

His jaw clenches slightly, a reflexive response to the weight of your shared anguish, yet his grip on your hand remains steadfast.

Your eyes drop to the calloused knot of thick, squeezing tendons and bone crushing around your own.

The look in his coffee bean eyes as you advanced towards him, stacked chest puffed out; filled with love and pride that you were his. You remember his speech, how he choked around carefully thought out words relishing that he’ll get to spend every waking moment with his best friend.

The gleam of his wedding ring and the feel of the warm metal is no longer perfect in its circumference as you trace your finger over the tarnish of it. It’s flecked with tiny scratches from his work.

You remember how handsome he looked in his snug-fitting tux as he waited for you at the end of the aisle scattered with rose petals.

You squeeze your eyes shut as you picture him looking down into your coffin, wearing the same tux; red eyes and snot falling from his nose as he collapses, wailing your name in haunted howls, and it’s enough to have you fleeing from your chair, with a spine-chilling scrape against the floor, in search of the nearest bathroom as your stomach lurches.

You barely make it, spilling your insides into the toilet bowl uncontrollably.

No. No, no, no…

The harsh fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting eerie shadows against the cold, tiled wall with you pressed up against it; your breaths coming in ragged gasps that echo in the hollow confines of the tiny bathroom.

Tears stream down your cheeks, hot and relentless, as the weight of the diagnosis presses down upon you like a suffocating lead blanket, threatening to engulf you in its darkness.

Panic claws at your chest, its icy fingers tightening with each heartbeat, squeezing the air from your lungs until you feel as though you’ll suffocate beneath its crushing weight.

You can't breathe as you fumble at your buttons on your shirt trying to loosen them.

"I got ya, darlin'. I got ya." He soothes. "It's okay. I got ya. Sssh. Just breathe. I got ya..."

It doesn’t take Joel long to find you at all. All tiny and cowering in the cubicle; sobbing wildly as you reach for him, and he pulls you to him and lets you shatter against his broad shoulders.

His voice is your anchor, pulling you back slowly.

It's not fair. You can’t leave him.

You slur something about fucking it all, you’re going to die anyway, right? Might as well go down swinging, before he takes the bottle from you, muttering fucks of his own, as he prods you back up to bed and wraps band-aids around your bleeding toes.

You don’t remember him picking you up and taking you home, or holding you all night.

You don’t remember him finding you in the kitchen at around two AM, drinking yourself stupid with broken glass around your feet, and his concerned tone asking you what the hell you’re doing.

You eventually fall asleep encased inside of his arms and inhaling the spiced scent of his skin, breathing it in deeply so you don’t forget it.

He makes you breakfast in the morning that you don’t eat, irons clothes for you that you don’t wear.

Buys you brightly coloured flowers, that he knows you love, to cheer you up. But you simply let them wilt and die on the counter top, not bothering to get a vase out for them.

You just sit and watch them die; their velvety petals shrivelling and curling before your eyes over the course of days.

Cancer just doesn't affect you, it affects the people closest to you, too.

That’s what the website says that you’ve been directed to. You realise this when you notice Joel and you haven't had sex since the day he discovered the lump.

You haven’t kissed either, not passionately anyway. Your breasts have been unloved and untouched by him, for what feels like weeks, when the man usually can’t bear to not grope or pinch them playfully when he holds onto you. Or sneaks up behind you when you're washing up the dishes, making you splash bubbles in his face.

In a bout of feverish desperation, you climb into his lap whilst he’s watching a game and nursing a bottle of beer on his day off, kissing him with wanton bites on his neck making him frown, as you push your chest towards his face.

It only kills you further when he shakes his head and tells you not like this, darlin’ before he lifts you off of him.

It creates an argument. You accuse him of not finding you attractive anymore, and he growls at you that you’re being ridiculous, before you yell even louder.

You don’t even know why you’re yelling or how you even got to this point. Nothing makes sense anymore.

And yet now, for the first time, you don’t know what he’s thinking behind that knot of muscles pulling his face taught; what he’s feeling, and it fucking terrifies you as you plead for him to talk to you.

You and Joel never fight like this. You always talk about things that bother you both. You've never heard Joel raise his voice in the whole entire time you've known him.

Honesty and open communication has always driven your relationship and come naturally between you both.

But instead, he leaves to let you cool off. You don’t know that he doesn’t go far at all. He just drives his truck round the corner and sits there in it, sobbing helplessly into his thick palms until it gets dark and he goes to a bar in town to drown his sorrows further.

You don't know that it kills him not being able to touch you; he wants to. Fuck, he wants nothing more than to ravish you, but he’s terrified he’ll hurt you, or will do something dumb that only his own mounting panic convinces him he’ll do.

For the first time in his life, Joel feels completely helpless.

It’s not fair. He can’t lose you.

“Let me see,” you prompt, and he drops the ice-pack to reveal a nasty black eye in the early stages of birth.

You find him in the kitchen late when he eventually comes back home, and making no effort to hide the fact he’s had a heavy drink.

He looks up at you, holding an ice-pack to his face and waiting for the tirade from you.

Red grazes orbit around his fist too, knuckle skin missing, you note. His eye is almost sealed shut with the swelling that’s a mix between blue and purple, in stark contrast to his golden face. Broken blood vessels litter the area, and he sniffs deeply before he speaks again.

“Ya should see the other guy,” Joel assures with a tight mouth.

He has a large dimple on the left side of his face when he smiles; an almost perfect, crescent like the moon in its waxing phase. But it’s hard to coax a smile out of him for it to be fully revealed these days; his mouth constantly twitches into a downward arch most of the time.

As you look at him, there’s an old man somewhere inside of his face; a burdened man, exhausted and on the verge of giving up entirely.

Cancer just doesn't affect you, it affects the people closest to you, too.

“What happened?” You query, tentatively as you dab at his knuckles.

“I lost my shit.” He replies stoically, as you tend and fuss over him whilst sighing.

You look up at him and as much as you want to be mad with him, you can’t - he’s hurting too.

Comprehension is a difficult task to begin to tackle. You ask so many whys - why me? Why is this happening? But fail to find an answer to any them.

Everything has been spun one-eighty and you’re still dizzy from the shock of your diagnosis.

Hours and soon days disappear from your life, like sand falling in an hourglass, as you try to fully understand what’s happening around you.

You feel as though meandering through a blur, your body robotically doing the things you're supposed to, but your mind not being fully coherent. Get up, eat, work, go to bed and so on. It ticks continuously whilst your limbs belong to that of a zombie.

Questions, thoughts and images... all blinking through you trying to piece it all together whilst you move stagnantly. But eventually the anxiety begins to chip into your mentality and inserts thoughts that you daren’t venture down.

The exact truth is staring you in the face, but try as you might to refute it, it’s plainly obvious and it begins to terrify you in ways that are new.

You have cancer.

It invades your dreams and deprives you of sleep. Tears make themselves acknowledged, at the most inconvenient of times too, like shopping in the grocery store, or typing at your computer at your desk at work, and trying to hide them from the prying world is a task in itself.

And you don’t realise it at the time, but Joel’s going through the same. Questioning, worrying, just as paranoid and stressed as you are.

And you both need to talk about it, you know you do, but yet neither of you can quite summon the courage to do so.

“M’sorry,” he says into your hair, as he pulls you in for a crushing cuddle against him.

“It’s okay,” you murmur, as quiet tears absorb into the plaid flannel pulled tight over his chest from your eyes.

But it's not okay. You have cancer.

Over the course of your discussions with the doctors, specialists and oncologists - and other medical professionals, whose names, faces and titles get lost in the swampy fog of your brain - the words ‘bilateral mastectomy’ are tossed around.

It’s clear the risks aren’t worth you keeping both of your breasts when they tell you you’re at high risk of it potentially coming back. To add another punch to the blow, they suggest removing your ovaries too, mumbling the words just in case.

Just in case…

You look at Joel, devastated. You’d both agreed that children were something you weren't both keen on having years ago, but it still feels like that choice of having an open dialogue about it is ripped from you.

When you agree it’s the best way forward, and he agrees too with a face that looks like he’s just had a lobotomy and doesn’t know where he is, a date is put in the diary for the surgeries and treatments, and it’s sooner than you think it will be.

There’s hardly any time to breathe and take it all in.

A day before the surgery and you’re sitting at the kitchen table with a face on as Joel comes in from work, sawdust caked in his hair and boots.

Your voice cracks as you explain that perhaps you should just call it time. Let him find someone else. You won’t be upset, you want him to be happy as you mutter incoherently about death and divorce, and death again, until he shakes his head defiantly and huffs loudly.

He reaches into the fridge for a cool beer and offers you one, but you don’t reply. He looks down at your face.

At the face that Joel affectionately calls butt face.

The beer fizzes over the top in a foamy eruption as he slams it down on the counter top.

“Ya really are an idiot, ain’t ya?” He says, slumping down heavily into the chair beside you.

“But,” you begin and he makes the butt face at you, with pushed out lips and squinted eyes. “You won’t want me anymore.” You whisper.

His face pulls serious as he drags your hand into his blistered ones. “I ain’t fuckin’ goin’ anywhere.” He grits. “And neither are you.”

“But-”

“Quit with the butt face, darlin’. In sickness and in health. Ain’t that what we promised?”

“Yeah, but-”

He shakes his head again, his stubby fingers finding their home on your face, catching renegade tears in the whorls of his fingerprints.

“What, ya think m’gonna not love ya anymore because ya ain’t gonna have any breasts, is that it?”

That’s exactly it, hit the nail on the head, and although you don’t say it, he knows. Damn it, he knows.

“Ya really think m’that shallow?” He clicks his tongue around his teeth.

“No, of course I don’t,” you shake your head. “I’m just… I’m scared, Joel. I'm really fucking scared.” You gulp.

“I know.” He says, pulling you into his lap and wrapping those big, strong arms around you. “M’gonna be right there, when ya wake up, okay? M’gonna bring ya home and we’ll get through this, together. You n’ me. One day at a time. Okay, butt face?”

It’s the first time in weeks you smile and the first time in weeks you kiss; a soft, but tentative peck against your lips, that still holds back somewhat.

Pushing your foreheads together you sigh out, unable to think about anything else.

Two operations, four and a half months of chemotherapy and three weeks of radiotherapy, and it takes months for your hair to grow back.

You remember recoiling in horror as it fell out in clumps a few weeks after the chemo started, until you decided to just be done with it, and had Joel shave it off for you.

He offered to do his own in solidarity with you, until you snatched the clippers from him.

“Don’t you dare!” You almost shrieked as you ran your fingers through his tufty curls, smiling. “You’re never getting a haircut ever again.” And he smirked at that.

“Yes, ma’am.” He'd said as he put them away.

You had woken, groggy and aching, to Joel's face smiling at you and pushing a water beaker to your lips. You looked down to see your chest covered in bandages and drains under your hospital issue nightgown.

It was an odd feeling, you didn't feel much of a difference in those first few, post-op days; weighted down by the drains and dressings, and in and out with the pain meds.

They shifted you out of hospital the next day to recover at home, and Joel took up the role of carer, doctor and home cook as he fussed and got you comfy on the couch in a suffocating fort of pillows and blankets.

After the ovarian surgery, you started taking aromatase inhibitors, which were an added nightmare as these treatments bring on an almost immediate menopause with your ovaries now gone.

No gradual decline - a full push over the fucking cliff, face first. You can’t bear for Joel to touch you when you’re burning up and sweating; soaking the sheets through completely that you fear you’ve wet the bed.

When you’re sick from the radiotherapy, he feels useless hearing you heave behind a locked door. All you can do is lay in bed for days, struggling to keep food down and sleep it off.

You're too weak and exhausted to climb the stairs sometimes, so Joel carries you in his arms up them, even though it kills his knees and makes him groan silently when it pulls on his back. But he still does it anyway.

There are more discussions as the treatments carry on. More options, more pills, more chemicals. More time spent feeling like sludge.

Your bandages and dressings finally come off and you see yourself for the first time in front of a mirror, and there are a few moments when you can’t feel anything. Like there’s no water left in your body to cry anymore.

You just stare at your reflection with the nurse hovering by your side.

They warned you you’d be left with scarring. The scars from the mastectomy extend across the skin of your chest either side and into your armpits where you had lymph nodes removed too. They’ll fade over time, but will never completely disappear.

They warned you they’ll also feel permanently numb. And they’re right, as you touch your mutilated body with shaky fingers, you feel… nothing.

It’s another loss to mourn, the loss of your femininity, of yourself.

And that’s the worst feeling of all as you stare at the mess of your chest that was once curved and bouncy and shapely like a woman ought to be.

Now you’re flat as a board and there’s nothing remotely feminine about your body now, you think.

You can feel the sensation of touch to some degree, but it’s nothing like before. No sensitivity, no prickly feeling that creates goosebumps, just completely numbed out.

And over the course of some weeks, you can feel odd sensations arise, like you’ll touch your chest and you’ll feel it under your armpit. Your body feels all out of sorts as it slowly heals.

You have options; you can have more surgery to build you a pair of breasts if you'd like, but that comes with more pain and recovery and you decide you’re done with that.

You can wear a padded or filled out bra, you can have a tattoo which you briefly consider to cover the scarring.

But you settle on remaining as you are for now. Overwhelmed by the options out there, when you truly believed there was nothing that could make you feel even remotely feminine again.

Maybe something pretty, like flowers…

And Joel nods at all of them as you ask for his input, but ultimately he just wants what you want.

You cover the scars up with layers. You sleep with long sleeved tops and no longer undress in front of Joel. You can't bear him to see you like this, not yet.

Each day you think will be the day when you garner enough bravery to show him, but don't.

It feels weird, like some days they’re still there, akin to a phantom limb. You find yourself checking your chest as you feel the familiar bounce of them as you run down the stairs, or go to grope them with the suds to clean in the shower and the loss devastates you all over again.

He reassures you, telling you that you're beautiful with sincere eyes, and there's nothing that you need to worry about. But it still niggles away.

That lone, renegade thought that he might not be attracted to you anymore when he sees them, suddenly becomes the loudest of all.

They say time is a healer. Patience, understanding. And Joel has been all these things and more.

He’s carried you above the surface of the muddy water when all you’ve wanted to do is drown at times. He’s the one who nudges you awake each morning with a nose in your cheek and reminds you to take your pills.

He’s the one who brought you a beautiful coloured scarf to wear on your head when you lost your hair. A gorgeous floral print that you admired with a smile at the intricate pattern of petals as you ran your fingers over the silk of it.

He’s the one who, despite working all the hours God sends, still comes home and makes you something to eat because he knows you might not have any energy to cook.

He’s the one who still tells you he loves you, no matter what’s going on under your tops and sweaters that swamp you in their bagginess.

It isn’t time that does it at all, it’s him.

You wake one morning, months after, as the sun pools in the bedroom, and look at Joel on his back, asleep and snoring gently.

Joel’s seen you at your absolute worst; your most vulnerable, and he’s still here. Resilient, strong. A man who puts others to shame.

A man that you still desire, and you want him to desire you, even if you’re not whole anymore.

You reach out and touch him, hand brushing over the swell of his golden belly to convince yourself he’s real. Soft, downy hairs around his belly button tickle your palm gently.

He stirs at your stroking, sleepy eyes looking down at you as he blinks, adjusting to the light.

“Ya alright?” Joel asks, and you nod with a smile.

“I love you.” You say to him and he blushes, like he always does at that. Pink capillaries coming to life in his cheeks.

“I love you, darlin’.” He confirms, clutching your hand and kissing across the knuckles gently.

His hair is a tousled mess, the greys on his chest seem more plentiful and it stirs something within you; something the intense and gruelling treatments haven't fully killed off.

You straddle him and lean over, kissing him, much to his surprise. Your hands roam over his soft belly, squeezing gently as he smirks around your lips, and yelps a little when you pinch a ticklish spot. 

“Hey now,” he warns, as your tongue licks over his lips. 

He hums out as his hands sweep up your back, cupping the back of your head as he slips his tongue inside your mouth.

To taste him again is divine as your body instantly relaxes onto him. He nips gently on your lip and you groan out as you feel how hard he gets underneath you.

You can’t help but subtly grind on him as he groans into your mouth.

You break the kiss to sit upright, heart thrumming in your chest as he looks up at you with those dark, molten eyes.

"I'm ready to show you." You say and he straightens up.

"Okay," he nods, thumbs stroking over your thighs gently.

Without hesitation, you lift up your top revealing the flat, scarred wasteland that is your chest now, that you haven’t had the courage to let him fully see.

For a moment, his face is completely unreadable and you consider reaching for your top to cover up again.

You hold your breath as his eyes wander over the puckered welts; you feel his fingers twitch against your hips.

He sits up on his elbows, eyes locked onto yours, licking over his lips slowly as his peepers follow the lines back and forth.

His eyes dip further down to the two, little dimpled scars from where your ovaries were removed, either side of your tummy.

“Don’t ya dare,” he says, as if able to read your mind.

And you realise that he can, in his own way. He’s always been able to see you even though you try to hide sometimes. He just has the patience to wait until you're ready.

He never pushes, he just waits, because he knows that eventually, you’ll crawl out from whatever hole you need to hide in for a while to deal, to process - whatever it is you need to do. Then you’ll come back to him.

And he’ll always be there aith open arms when you do.

Joel takes you in his arms, twists you so you’re laying on your back and he kisses you there without hesitation. Kisses gently where your breasts once were in the same way that he used to.

Runs his mouth delicately over the numbed skin, dragging lips and leaving wet tracks with open mouthed kisses.

You gasp out as your eyes fill with water, your fingers finding their rightful place, raking through his curls as he glides his tongue over every creased line of your scars.

“Joel,” you whimper, cradling him as you feel his hardness press up against your centre.

You can feel a tingle of the warmth from his lips on your skin kissing gently as your eyes pool. He looks up to see you crying.

“Baby, baby. Does it hurt?” He asks, worried.

You shake your head. “No. No, I can feel you.” You gasp, shaking. “It’s weird, but I can.”

“Where?” He asks.

“There, kind of,” you say, as he brushes his lips over the spot where your right nipple used to be.

He kisses you there and runs his tongue gently over the area making you shudder, and you feel the tingles again, strangely in your armpit.

It makes you giggle at how your nerves have patched themselves up all wonky, and he smiles at you, chuckling as he licks and tests all places that might have an ebb of feeling, with little kisses and watching your reaction to each one.

All the tension leaves your body, muscles relaxing beneath his gentle ministrations; breath steadying as you surrender to the intimacy of this moment.

Reaching down, you cup his swollen cock over his boxers, with the fraying elastic tickling your wrist.

“We really need to get you some new underwear,” you titter at the state of them.

He simply shrugs with a smirk. “I could just simply take ‘em off.”

You nod eagerly and he pushes them down over his hips as you stroke him; your palm sticky with him as he leaks undeniably into it.

“Ya sure?” He queries gently as you swipe him against your folds.

"Mmm, Joel." You groan at the feel of him as you pump him. "God, I want you."

It feels so good to have him touching you, so close. The weight of his body pressed into yours, crushing you again. How warm he feels against your skin. 

“I fucking want you, Joel.” You plead, as you clutch his face in your other hand. His warm breath breathes life into your tired bones. “I don’t want you to be gentle either. I need you to fuck me, hard.”

“Ya so fuckin’ beautiful, darlin’,” he grunts as he pushes his thick cock head against your drenched hole.

You both groan out as he fills you, stretching you wide around him and pumping into you gently as you acclimatise to his girth - it's been a while.

You wrap your legs around his waist as he mouths at your neck; tongue trailing down to your chest and finding that spot again.

“Snug as a bug in a rug... damn.” Joel quips, his tongue running over his teeth and then shaking his hips from side-to-side, making you feel all those little movements as he furrows up so tightly in there.

He flexes his groin and begins moving back and forth inside of you, pressing on that sweetly, pinchy spot deep inside; slightly uncomfy and yet incredibly good at the same time.

“Fuck me, Joel,” you plead, gripping onto his arm skin, “fuck me hard, please…” You whine as he sets to ploughing you like you command and demand of him.

You’re so wet that the sounds coming out of your pussy are almost farcical, making you giggle and him grunt as they squeak and soak him. He slips out a few times trying to gain his momentum - it’s like a damn slip n’ slide.

Joel presses down on your knee, bearing his weight on it so you can’t shut your legs. Making you endure it - to ride that full gigantic wave smashing into your pussy and rising up through your body.

“Ya so fuckin’ wet, ya drenched.” He’s panting, beside himself with the state you're in. “Gushing for me already, huh, darlin’?”

Your eyes roll back into your head and he smirks as he fucks hard into you like you want.

“Like this? This how ya want it?” 

“Yeah, Joel. Don’t stop!” You wail. 

“Ain’t gon’ stop til’ ya come for me, baby.” 

He only slows to lean in and kiss you as he pistons in deeper, winding those hips of his into you further.

“Joel…” you drone. It feels so good as he grinds, so deep.

“Darlin’ ya feel too good. Fuck, m’not gon’ last like this…” he whines with a panting smirk.

“Slow it down,” you moan as he grips a hold of your thighs and brings you back onto him slower, deeper.

He licks over your mouth clumsily, tongue swiping across your nostrils, grunting out loud as your pussy clenches around him as you shudder underneath him.

He watches with a smile, lighting up the contours of his heavy set brow as you come around him.

And it’s like staring at the sun for too long; his smile brands itself into the back of your eyelids - a permanent scorch that you never want to forget.  

And you feel every inch of him like this. He fucks into you slowly; your breaths hitching and falling from your chest quicker as you both work to build you up again.

“Joel!”

He reaches forward, stroking his thick fingers over the marred scars; feeling the smoothness of healing skin juxtaposed with the slight roughness of the scar tissue.

He strokes up to your neck, pulling you upright gently as you cry out when his cock hits so deep. 

“Like that, darlin’...” he croons, as he winds further into you. “Mmm, fuck!”

You tremble and shake uncontrollably as he brings you to another orgasm.

“There ya are, baby. There ya are…” Joel smiles, kissing over your nose and cheeks. "So fuckin' beautiful, ain't ya?"

And he’s right there with you, head pressed into yours, watching; feeling as you squeeze and contract. Feeling you tremble and shake.

Watching as your eyes water and you gasp; your hands squeeze around his biceps, nails digging in. 

You claw at him. Pulling him closer as he whimpers. A ragged cry escapes from his throat as he drives his hips deeper and struggles to contain himself.

You feel his teeth on your shoulder, grazing and desperate to bite down through the flesh. Your nails rake through his scalp, twisting and pulling as you pant and groan.

He watches in awe at you shaking on the end of his thick cock, rattling about as he turns you out and finally has his way with his gorgeous wife again.

His eyes fall over your chest and he looks at you adoringly, tongue weaving across the scars again without hesitation. Planting kisses and mouthing over the scars.

“Oh God! Oh Fuck!” You holler.

Making you feel every thick, beastly inch of him, as he pounds up into your insides like a boxer taking his fury out on the bag.

Joel pulls you by the hips upright, as he rolls onto his back, so you’re now on top of him. Everything’s fluid, swift and in a blur.

He anchors you down by your waist, making you sit on him; making you unable to escape him.

“Holy shit, oh shit-shit! Joel!” You exclaim as you gasp and struggle to swallow as the frantic intakes of breath choke you. “Oh my God!”

“Ya can take it… ya can do it, that’s it. Ride it.” Joel encourages. “So fuckin’ beautiful when ya take my cock like this, darlin’. God damn."

He just keeps coming at you; powering and thundering through you, without any hesitation in letting up anytime soon. He’s a powerhouse of sweat and grunts, breathing like he’s dying; small, quick rasps and wheezes gurgle in the back of his throat.

You find your pace, pressing palms into his broad chest and letting your hips bounce, and it feels so damn good as the curve of his cock rubs in all the sweet spots deep inside.

You reach down and stroke your clit, groaning at the feel of it tingling wildly under your fingertips.

“Stroke that pretty clit for me,” Joel croons, hammering up into you.

You stroke and rub the sticky nub, and then bring your digits up towards your mouth, sucking and teasing your lips with your fingers, and he watches enthralled.

“Suck those fingers, darlin’.” Joel hisses. “Tell me how good ya taste.”

“So good,” you smirk. You push your fingers to his lips, and he sucks them too.

"Yeah, ya do. Taste so fuckin' good."

You feel his thumb circle over your clit bringing you closer and closer with each swish of his pad against it.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes. YES!” You pant, as he grips around your waist tighter.

“Ya want me to fill ya up, hmm?”

“I want all of you, Joel.” You whine, desperate for him.

“That’s it, grind on my cock. Just like that.” He coos; his lip caught between his teeth as he cranks you around, holding onto your hips.

Your head flops onto his shoulder, your hand gripping onto the other as your lower half powers through.

“Mmm, Joel... please!” You groan, feeling your body tighten and clench again.

“Ya close again, baby?” He wheezes in your ear. "Gonna come for me?"

“Mhm… so close.”

“Come all over my cock.” He encourages. “Soak it, I want it all.”

“Oh God!” You whine.

“So damn good, fuck,” he grunts as you move around and around, your back tensing. He rubs it fondly with his big hands. “Right there, that’s it. Oh fuck, that’s so sweet, darlin’.” He groans. “M’gonna come so deep inside of ya.”

You cry out; your body shuddering and trembling on top of him, and you feel him tense and grunt out on a long, satisfied sigh.

You come, your head expanding and your body floating; your cunt clenching around him as you milk him completely dry. Tingles flood your body, your back arches and you can see the sun burning behind your eyes again.

Unable to think or say anything, Joel kisses you; silencing you before you have the chance to ruin this moment by shrinking back or wrapping yourself back up and hiding your body away from him.

For one millisecond, he’s weak; just a sweaty mess of bewildered man meat beneath you. Joel loses himself inside the holistic spiral of your irises for a moment, unable to get out or find his way through the maze of them.

And part of him wants to stay lost in them forever.

He trembles as he rocks slowly, feeling himself empty and deflate with a final grunt of your name, and his shoulders sag in unison into the mattress.

You wrap your arms around him and finally collapse upon him and lay there for a few minutes, listening to nothing but his heartbeat thrumming in your ears, eventually slowing its pace back to its normal rhythm.

Joel looks down at you as you run your fingers across his scalp and it makes him shiver; goosebumps travelling down his spine at breakneck speeds.

You stop winding the curls, shifting and resting your head up against his as you catch your breath.

He holds you, kissing you gently over your eyelashes and cheeks.

“Ya more fuckin’ beautiful to me than you’ve ever been, ya know that?” He murmurs into your face.

"They made 'em neater than I thought they'd be." He says.

You feel his knuckles sweep over your chest gently, unafraid to touch you at all, and you feel like a weight as been lifted as he does it.

You watch as he traces the ridge of the scars delicately.

"Yeah." You nod. You lift your arm up so he can see them run into your pit.

"Do ya feel much pain still? I didn't hurt ya, did I?"

You smile and shake your head. "No. It's just mostly numb. Just feels different. I'm really happy that I could feel something when you kissed me. Even if it was in my armpit," you chuckle.

"Ya still fuckin' beautiful," he smiles, and kisses inside your armpit.

You smile bashfully, headbutting his chin gently as you try not to let the tears water your eyes.

“Look at me, darlin’.” His fingers tip your chin up to him. Thumbs smearing away any tears. “I mean it. You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever known. Fuckin’ balls on ya are bigger than mine.”

“I don’t know about that,” you say, reaching down to cup and stroke the soft swell of his between your fingers.

He groans, biting on his lip before his mouth finds yours again. "Ya tryin' to kill me?" He slips his tongue inside and tastes you all over again, his hands slipping down your back and groping your ass. “Ya so fuckin' sexy."

"You think so?" You smile.

"Oh, I know so. Ya always have been. Don't hide from me anymore, okay?"

"Okay." You breathe.

"Want ya sleepin' naked next to me again." He thinks for a moment. "Why don't I take ya out to dinner tonight? Anywhere ya want. If ya feelin' up for it?"

"You taking me out on a date, hmm?"

"Yeah. I am. Maybe put one of them nice dresses ya got on. I'll put on that shirt ya like. The green plaid one. Spruce myself up for ya."

"That's my favourite." You agree.

"Ya deserve to feel good, darlin'. Wanna take ya out. Show the world how fuckin' lucky I am."

You smile into his face. "What did I do to deserve you, Mr Miller?"

He kisses you again. Soft lips brushing against yours. "M’gonna keep loving ya. You n’ ya stupid butt face. Ya hear me, Mrs Miller?”

You nod, chuckling, safe in his arms; a place where you can feel safe and heal, and begin to feel like yourself again.

“I hear you.” You smile, as he pelts your face with swamping kisses in the warm sunlit bedroom. "I love you."

He smiles and he's never looked more beautiful.

“I love ya too, butt face.” Joel hums, as he crushes you to his chest and never lets you go.

I really hope you enjoyed reading this story with Joel, and welcome your comments/thoughts. I'd appreciate a re-blog if you liked it so others can find it on their dash to read and enjoy too - thank you very much! 🖤

BODIES MASTERLIST

MAIN MASTERLIST

JOEL MILLER MASTERLIST

#pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal #joel miller #joel miller x reader #pedro pascal characters #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller smut #joel miller fluff #tw breast cancer #tw cancer #tw illness #tw medical #bodies series #every body is beautiful #real bodies #real love #diversity #inclusivity #jett's writing

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Steal Your Heart (Part 1)

When the calling card of the infamous Knave of Hearts arrives, he’ll rob his victims blind of their most treasured items on the appointed date. Enter ace detective Yuu accompanied by rookie cop Deuce Spade, both seeking to apprehend the Knave and bring him to justice.

Will they succeed, or will the phantom thief steal their valuables--and their hearts--first?

This was originally meant to be one fic, but it was getting to be WAY too long. I decided to split it in half and release this part now and the second part (which I am still working on!) later. This first part focuses more on Yuu and Deuce; the second part will be more Yuu and Ace.

(Please note: there are slight romantic implications in the form of an Ace/Yuu/Deuce love triangle, but those elements could also be interpreted as platonic or as just playful teasing with no additional meaning. It’s all in the eyes of the reader!)

Imagine this...

The police station’s waiting room was a familiar sight.

With time, the shiny checkered floor had grown matte, marred with scratches and scuffs from the boots that crossed it on a daily basis. Someone had taken to attempt to pretty up the otherwise dull space by hanging out abstract paintings on the cream-colored walls, and a vase of white roses dripping with red paint at the check-in desk. There was as even a glass tank which housed a small family of colorful hedgehogs.

Maybe they were meant to be welcoming—but really, they were more clashing than anything. Certainly not a fit for the stiff atmosphere of the station.

Still the fluorescent lightbulbs buzzed faintly, flickering in and out on occasion. The sound distracted from the old television mounted in a corner to entertain guests. It seemed to play commercials on a loop more often than it played actual shows. Currently, an Olympus Corp. branded tablet was being toted as the next big technological marvel—though the TV’s audio was fuzzy at best, and the image half static.

A coffee table pushed to the wall, stacked with a new stash of magazines. Whoever updated the reading materials—most likely the friendly senior officer with orange waves for hair—was into the latest trends, often selecting fashion magazines with high gloss finishes. A dangerously beautiful man graced the covers of many of them, dressed in the hottest summertime styles while looking the part of an untouchable ice queen.

As usual, the station was scented with coffee and tea, the beverages of choice for many officers burning the midnight oil or working overtime. The chief demanded it at times to meet deadlines and goals—he was such a stickler for them—and the caffeine helped those under him stay sane as they went about their duties.

In the afternoons, most were either out on lunch or on patrol, lessening the foot traffic at HQ. There was only one man in uniform, seated behind the desk and filing some papers.

Yuu shifted in their own chair, adjusting the rim of the baseball cap upon their head. They were suited in an inconspicuous jacket and sneakers, fingers toying with a badge in a pocket, hidden out of view. To the common man, they were a jogger--but one flash of their lilac gemstone bound to a black and white striped ribbon, and there would be no doubt as to what their true identity was.

The smell of coffee and tea grew stronger, and Yuu glanced up from behind the bill of their hat.

The bespectacled man from behind the fro

nt desk had approached. He had a sheepish smile, bearing a paper cup filled with hot brown liquid and a napkin with a donut laid upon it. Bright pink icing dusted with sugared violet petals crowned the golden fried pastry.

“Detective.”

“Mr. Clover.” Yuu nodded—a terse, polite greeting. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Please, just ‘Trey’ is fine.” He offered the treats, which they readily accepted. “Sorry for calling you in on such short notice. I’m sure you’re busy juggling your other cases—but I think I speak for the entire department when I say we’re thankful that you were able to make it.”

“No worries, I’m used to it in this line of work,” Yuu replied. “It must be something pretty urgent this time around. The Chief sounded frantic over the phone.”

Trey rubbed at his chin, grasping for the right words. “Let’s just say he’s not in the best of moods right now. You’ll need that sugar to get through this in one piece.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you.”

“Just trying to avoid any trouble. You’d better finish them before you step into his office. You know how he hates it when there are crumbs or spills in there.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Yuu gave a joking salute before starting to pack away at their snack. The drink was the instant kind, and practically scalding, but it was easy to tell that the donut was homemade. The pastry, flaky on the outside and fluffy on the inside, dusted with sugar granules and sweet icing. “Wouldn’t want the Chief to be blowing a fuse again.”

“No, definitely not. He’s done too much of that lately.” Trey carefully eyed Yuu’s donut, now only half of it left. “Oh, but be sure to brush your teeth a thorough cleaning tonight, or I might have some problems with you. Cavities and staining are real dangers, you know.”

“Are you Assistant Chief of Police or my dental hygienist?” Yuu took a generous swig, then a bite just as big. “You worry too much about everything.”

“Ahahah… Do I? It’s a habit, I guess. Comes with the job.”

“That stressful, huh?”

“Well, I do what I can to smooth things over. Hopefully you can too. It’s been difficult on our department with the Chief all rattled up about the… situation.” He stopped himself. “I’m sure you’ll hear all about it from him.”

So the case is top-secret, Yuu concluded with the last of their donut. Not to be discussed in the public.

They ran their tongue across the length of their mouth, lapping up the remains of sugary residue. “I understand. The details are not to leave his office.”

“You catch on quickly. No wonder why the Chief thinks so highly of your abilities.”

“Flattery’s a part of your tool kit as well, Trey?”

He raised his eyebrows. “… You’ve worked long enough with us to figure these things out. Nothing gets by you, it seems.”

“UGIGIGIGIGGGGHHHH!!”

The remainder of Yuu’s drink sloshed around in its cup, set into motion by the bloodcurdling scream.

A familiar man with orange waves erupted from the chief’s office, hurriedly slamming the door shut behind him. His typically relaxed features were arranged in panic, his hair frazzled.

“How did trying to calm him work out, Cater?” Trey inquired half-heartedly. It was a courtesy more than genuine curiosity.

“What do you think?” the senior officer groaned, sinking where he stood.

Yuu quickly finished their drink, tossing their trash—the evidence they had been there—away and then stood, adjusting their jacket. “That sounds like it’s my cue.”

“Yeah, it is.” Trey sighed, frowning. “He’s in a tough spot right. Be kind to him, will you? That’s all I ask.”

“You got it.” Yuu tipped their baseball cap as they passed the officer. “Thank you for the pick-me-up. I’ll be seeing you, then. Officer Diamond—get some rest.”

“Good luck.”

“You’ll need it, Yuu-chan! Brace yourself.”

The Police Chief was a small but serious man.

His character came through in his office space: books on law and order neatly arranged on shelves, papers and files alphabetically organized in their cabinets, and pens evenly spaced apart and arranged in rows. A crystal vase with deep red roses was poised beside his writing implements. A plate polished to a fine shine was propped up at his desk, reading: Riddle Rosehearts, Chief of Police.

Perched imposingly despite his short stature in his seat, he impatiently tapped a finger on an arm. Riddle’s face was a telltale red and veiny, proof of his earlier outburst, but was beginning to cool into a faint, smooth pink.

There was already another man in the office, sitting across from the Police Chief. He was pale and jittery in a suit the color of the night and sewn with blue sequins and glitter. A top hat rested upon his raven locks, the brim of it shading his hauntingly golden eyes.

Yuu removed their hat and, keeping it to their chest, gave a shallow bow as they entered. “Sir.”

One move out of line, one hair out of place, and they suspected he, in his volatile and vulnerable state, would explode anew.

“Welcome, Detective. I’m glad you could join us today.” Every word was a gruff puff of air, a leash with which to wrest control of his rage. Riddle gestured to the empty chair beside the nervous man. “Sit.”

Yuu obeyed, sinking into the seat offered. They casted a glance at the stranger adjacent to them, who was fiddling with his velvet-lined gloves.

“Mr. Crowley, this is the independent detective from Stray Cat Investigations that I had previously mentioned to you. The force has collaborated with them for a number of difficult cases in the past. Their wit and strategic skills have made them an invaluable asset. I thought it prudent to have them return to join us for your case as well.

“Yuu, meet Dire Crowley. He is the esteemed director and curator for the Sage’s Island Museum, and he’s come to us with his woes.”

“Hello, Mr. Crowley,” Yuu said politely. “It’s nice to meet you.”

He responded with a tired attempt at a smile. “Yes, you too.”

“Now that we’re all acquainted with one another...” Riddle produced a file from beneath his desk and placed it before himself. “Do you care to explain, or shall I?”

“I-I’ll elaborate!” Crowley crowed. He picked at a collection of keys belted to his waist, glistening gold under artificial lights. “The Sage’s Island Museum is planning a new exhibition on the Great Seven. As part of the exhibit, we are having many priceless artifacts flown in from all over Twisted Wonderland. We have donations from even Briar Valley’s royal family!!

“There will also be a great number of important VIP guests present for the grand opening of the exhibit. Royalty, wealthy benefactors, important diplomats, businessmen, celebrities... All individuals who wish to see their history on display! This is very important, you see!! M-My reputation--er, I mean, the museum’s reputation--is on the line here!!”

“Right.” Yuu nodded as they parsed through the information. “I’m following what you’re putting down. And where does your problem arise, Mr. Crowley?”

“Ah, now that,” Riddle smirked, “is the question of the hour.”

He opened his file, pulling out...

A single playing card, its back facing Yuu.

“I trust you’ve been keeping up with the news?”

“As any good detective would. There have been several robberies lately. Terrible, really.” Yuu’s expression clouded with concentration. “Hmm... but if it’s a potential robbery that you’re concerned about, Mr. Crowley... Doesn’t the Sage’s Island Museum boast a state-of-the-art security system from Olympus Corp.? I doubt the average thief would be able to bypass it.”

“That’s just the trouble,” Crowley loudly lamented.

“We are dealing with no ordinary thief,” Riddle clarified.

“It’s not?”

“No. Far from it.” The Police Chief exhaled sharply. “The string of robberies from before--they’re connected by a single thread, perpetuated by the same lone culprit. And now that scoundrel intends to continue his crime spree.”

“I’ve never heard of this before.”

“You shouldn’t have. It was a top-secret operation within my force since the first of its kind.”

“Why am I being told of it now?”

“Because, loathe as I am to admit it, the culprit has managed to outwit us and elude capture each and every time, He employs a bag of cheap parlor tricks and smoke and mirrors like the coward he is,” Riddle confessed begrudgingly. The blue-grey of his eyes were steely and stubborn. “A case as important as this needs the additional man—and brain—power, Detective.”

He placed the playing card down and slid it toward the detective. “This arrived in the morning at Mr. Crowley’s desk, the same as all the prior robberies. It gave him quite the fright. He rushed all the way to the station to beg for our assistance.”

“This is...” Yuu gingerly turned the card over, revealing a message scrawled on the other side in bright red gel ink. Each letter was big and bubbly, bursting with cheek and pomp.

Their heart jumped.

To the Old Crow that safeguards the Museum,

Heyo~

Your pockets look a lil’ heavy there, so I’ll help you out. (Aren’t I so kind?) Three days from now, I’ll claim one of your most prized treasures at the stroke of midnight.

Stand back and watch as I perform the greatest magic trick you’ll ever see... and make the portrait of the Queen of Hearts vanish before your very eyes. It’ll be a show-stopper!!

Until then,

Phantom Thief Knave of Hearts <3

P.S. Send the cops my regards, they can’t catch me lol (especially when their teapot tyrant’s patience is in SHORT supply geddit)

“They’re just flat-out announcing what their intentions are,” Yuu realized. They were half impressed, half shocked at the gall. “You said all of the victims received messages like this?”

“Calling cards, yes.” The fury had returned to Riddle’s features, causing his voice to spike and strain. “It’s infuriating!! What does he get off on, misappropriating magic as cheap parlor tricks for crime, writing notes in such a cocksure manner, taunting us to pursue him?!

“Not only is he poking fun at my height and committing a crime, but for mere SPORT?! For the THRILL of it?! He’s making a mockery of the good people of this island and of my men and our efforts to secure the peace!!”

The Police Chief slammed a fist down on his desk, rattling his glass vase and setting his perfectly straight pens askew. Crowley shrunk back in fear. “That Knave of Hearts...!! He must be stopped at all costs!!”

“Y-Yes, absolutely!!” Crowley chimed in. “For my--er, I mean, for the museum’s sake, this criminal must be put behind bars!! That’s why I’ve come to you, my good people!

“My taxpayer dollars help fund the police force, so I’ve come to collect on what its promise to protect and to serve the community!! Well, here’s the community at your doorstep asking you to protect and to serve!!”

“That’s why you want to put me on this case,” Yuu concluded, clasping the calling card to their racing heart. “To prevent this from going down tonight.”

“And furthermore,” Riddle added, “to investigate the identity of this so-called phantom thief once the museum is safely secured.”

“That’s a tall order, sir.”

“You’ll have access to our force’s resources, and to my officers. You will assist in overseeing this operation, with maps and outlines of the museum’s security detail from Mr. Crowley. We’ll cooperate to create a plan of attack to apprehend the Knave.”

“You misunderstand me. I never said I wouldn’t take the job,” Yuu coolly informed the Chief. Their mouth cocked upwards with confidence. “I’m always up for a challenge.”

“Oh, blessed day!! From the very bottom of my oh-so-generous heart, thank you very much!!” Crowley cried tearfully.

For the first time the entire briefing, Riddle smiled back at Yuu. “Hmph. That’s what I like to hear. Happy to be working with you again, Detective.”

“Likewise, Chief.”

The sun had already set when Yuu exited the station, the stars blinking into existence. Several hours had been spent picking the museum curator’s brain with a fine-toothed comb, looking over layouts, and memorizing security detail. The information had been well-stocked, and now came the time to let it marinate and bloom into plans.

Stuffing their hands in their pockets, Yuu shuffled down the sidewalk and past rows of parked vehicles. Ahead, neon lights flashed in and out, and the trains rattled on their well-worn tracks, buses and cars honking at each other, the chatter of street vendors filling the air.

And something different than the usual tonight.

The city never slept, always buzzed with energy. Yuu had become accustomed to its sights and sounds, finding them even comforting. Their best ideas were conceived against the hum of the cityscape. It was just soft enough to not fully distract, but just noticeable enough to tug at their thoughts for long enough to stray into new territories and concepts.

Light from lonely streetlamps created tears in the darkness, illuminating the path to their favorite downtown thinking spot: the Mostro Lounge. A good (albeit overpriced) drink would chase away their tiredness.

Yuu continued with that promise in mind, every step catlike. First quick, next slow, then quick, moderate, slow, quick, slow, quick, moderate. Their speed, ever alternating.

Their ears strained against the sounds of the city, slowly parsing through the individual elements.

Trains, buses, cars, chatter… and the soft footsteps masked by them. Footsteps which matched Yuu’s pace.

There was no mistaking it now.

I’m being followed.

They didn’t look to see who it was—the first rule of tailing a target was to never alert them to your awareness. Yuu would know (as oftentimes they were the one in the position of tailer).

They cast their eyes across the street, which was busy with bodies. Once Yuu merged with the crowd, they could easily shake off their stalker.

Their feet picked up their pace again, hurrying to the crosswalk. It was a glaring red, advising pedestrians to stop.

Shoot, Yuu cursed.

They felt a presence step up beside them. From the corner of their eye, they could make out a dark form--clothes. Yuu pretended to check the time on their phone, and glimpsed him in the reflection.

He was in a hoodie, with the hood pulled up and head down to conceal his features. His hands, too, were out of sight, a sea of baggy fabric hiding identifying features, save for his frame. Lanky, but reasonably packed with muscle to keep up with Yuu.

The man shifted, and his sight grazed theirs. His eyes were hard and icy, a silent threat.

Yuu quickly focused on the crosswalk light. Their heartbeat became as loud as the surrounding sounds. Screeching above the vehicles, shouting from the rooftops. THA-THUMP, THA-THUMP, THA-THUMP.

At last, the light turned from red to white.

Walk.

They started--and so did he.

“Excuse me.” A hand came upon their shoulder. The other pulled at something with a sinister glint. “Do you have a second?”

No walking, Yuu corrected themselves. Run!!

They sprinted down the crosswalk, jostling pedestrians with a hasty “sorry!” thrown back at them. As Yuu weaved through the crowd as fast as they could, they could not completely shunt out the man after them.

“Hey, please wait!! Where are you going?! C-Come back, I need to talk to you!”

His voice carried above the others. People jolted back, the crowd parting to make way for the man to charge forth. His volume swelled louder and louder as he gained on them.

Towering apartments seemed to bear down on Yuu. Their windows, glaring.

A shop. Find a shop and get inside!!

Yuu pumped their arms, pleaded for their legs to move more efficiently.

Again, a weight fell upon their shoulder. It was a clamp, fingers biting Yuu’s skin through their jacket as they dug in and held firm.

The other hand wielded the same shining object that it had before. Yuu looked more closely this time, and the unease in them dissipated. It was not the pointed tip of a knife, but the glint of a familiar officer’s badge wreathed in golden roses.

The man tore off his hood with a sigh--though Yuu noticed that he wasn’t one bit out of breath. Navy bangs fell across his forehead, his eyes a peacock green-blue, much friendlier under the streetlamps than the crosswalk signs.

He smiled at Yuu as though he were greeting an old friend. His grip turned into a tender squeeze. “I finally caught up with you!”

The detective awkwardly pulled away, confusion scrawled on their face. “Um... Sorry, who are you? I don’t believe we’ve met before.”

“Oh! Uh...” The man jumped, retracting his hand. “That’s because we haven’t! Er, not officially anyway, but I’ve heard a lot about you!!”

Yuu pointed to his badge. “That. You’re an officer?”

“Yessir!” The man offered the proof of his identity and stiffly saluted. “Officer Deuce Spade, sir!! I’m a new recruit...!! I just joined the force a few weeks ago!”

Yuu mustered a faint smile. The darned fool was going to give them away. “... Am I in trouble, officer?”

“Nossir! Not at all!” His entire face shone with eagerness, earnest, and a slightly nervous energy. Maybe Yuu would have found it adorable (in the same way that a child trying hard was adorable), were he not blasting your occupation to the public. “Why would you be in trouble, sir?! You’re working with...”

“Okaaay, that’s enough out of you!” Yuu slapped a hand over Deuce’s mouth, silencing him.

Curious onlookers murmured amongst themselves. Some had taken to halt and full-on gawk. Children pointed, adult narrowing their eyes with suspicion.

Yuu frowned, removing their hand to shoo pedestrians away. “Nothing to see here, folks. Just a misunderstanding. Move along, Wonder Boy and I can settle this ourselves.”

“Wonder Boy?” Deuce, in a daze, pointed to himself. “Is that... me?”

“Who else would I be talking about?” Yuu folded their arms. “I assume you’re free now?”

“I am, sir! I was just let off my shift a little while ago, sir!”

“First, drop the ‘sir’. It’s giving me a headache,” Yuu instructed. “Second, if you’re free, then you’ll be joining me for a drink and a chat. We have things to discuss--chief among them being why you were following me.”

Ring-a-ling!

A bell sounded as the door to the Mostro Lounge swung open. Deuce stepped into a new world, Yuu at his side.

The interior itself was dim, but glass lights fastened in the shape of jellyfish projected swimming incandescent lights in purple, blue, and pink. Velvet booths lined one half of the eatery, the other, a glossy bar with tall, narrow stools, the shelves behind it healthily stocked with bottles in jeweled tones. Strangers poised with drink took residence in most of the seats.

The entire back wall had been repurposed into a massive aquarium teeming with aquatic plants and exotic creatures. Seaweed and coral gently swayed to the rhythm of the smooth jazz floating through the lounge, fish frolicking among them.

“Whoooa,” Deuce gasped, craning his head to drink in every detail. “I’ve never been to a place as classy as this. It looks so expensive. You think my salary’s enough to cover at least an appetizer?”

“Hang on tight to your wallet,” Yuu warned. “This place will squeeze you for every thaumark you’re worth and then some—and they won’t feel a bit of remorse about it.”

The detective raised an arm, flagging a nearby waiter.

Their uniform was simple yet sleek: dark dress pants, a white bow tie, spotless gloves, and a cummerbund and suspenders over a lavender button-up shirt. It allowed for slight variation—one waiter skidded by with his shirt buttoned as low as food safety regulations deemed safe. Another jotted down orders with a jacket thrown over his shoulders and a pair of glasses tucked into the crevice of his buttons.

The waiter Yuu called out to approached like a shark fin cutting through still water, neatly bowing to greet their waiting customers. He was prim and proper compared to the other servers, not a button out of place.

When he raised his head, Deuce marveled at his mismatched olive and gold irises, the teal of his hair marred by a stripe of black. Three diamond-shaped scales dangled from his left ear, as sharp as his eyes.

“I bid you welcome to the Mostro Lounge, honored guests,” the waiter said smoothly. He gaze immediately cut to Deuce. “I see you’ve brought a friend with you, today, Yuu-san. How delightfully rare.”

“Acquaintance. We just met outside under… less than ideal circumstances.”

“Oya, how quick you were to seize on that chance encounter. I may even deem you a bigger opportunist than our dear manager.”

“… Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” Deuce inquired.

“Perhaps you will find the answer to your question, should you act as a patron at our establishment for long enough.”

“Quit toying with him, Jade. You know what we’re here for,” Yuu grumbled. “My usual.”

“If that is what you wish. And for this gentleman acquaintance of yours?”

“Just ice water is fine, sir!”

Jade maintained his polite smile. “Very well. One glass of ice cold water for you. I will bring you a menu as well, in case you begin to feel peckish late into the night.”

“Oh, thanks!”

“Right this way then.” Jade gestured for the two to follow him.

“He’s upselling you, you know,” Yuu pointed out under their breath. “Hoping that you’ll buy something when presented with the opportunity to spend.”

“E-Eh, he is?! I didn’t even realize…”

“Fufufu. Please, do not let your worries consume you. You have come to relax, correct? We at the Mostro Lounge ask that you put your fins and your feet up and enjoy yourself while the night is still young.”

They were escorted to two empty stools in a (relatively) quiet corner of the bar. The glass jellyfish lights were clustered in the center of the main dining area, leaving the corner like a slice of dark, uncharted waters. Jass music and conversation filtered into a muffled melody.

Yuu plopped down with relief, followed by an apprehensive Deuce. He slowly sank into the cushy seat.

“I will be right back with your drinks. If you will excuse me.” With another bow, Jade rounded the bar and rolled up his sleeves—the transition from waiter to bartender. Presenting his back to the duo, he set to plucking bottles off of the shelves.

Deuce blinked. He still hadn’t taken to fully processing his new surroundings. “Are we really going kick back and have drinks when there’s a serial thief on the loose?”

“We can’t talk about that in public, or risk blowing my cover. It’s safe to talk here,” Yuu reassured him. “What happens in the Mostro Lounge stays in the Mostro Lounge. Say what you want about the slimy staff, but they know how to keep their patrons’ secrets. Client confidentiality and all.”

The young officer brightened. “Ooooh, I get it!”

“… You’re not the sharpest tool in the shed,” Yuu remarked bluntly. They slipped off their baseball cap, letting loose their hair. “So? Let’s have it.”

“Have what?”

“Your reason for following me.”

“Oh!! That.” Deuce nervously scratched at the back of his neck. “That’s kind of…”

The detective drummed their fingers on the polished counter. Methodical, deliberate. “You mentioned that you recently joined the force. However, only senior officials in the police department and myself were privy to this operation. How did you come to learn about it?”

Deuce stiffened, thrown off his beat (if he had any to begin with). “Th-That’s…!”

“I’m asking you a question, Mr. Spade. Please answer me truthfully.”

“I… um… Truth is, I…” Deuce stared at his lap, unable to meet the detective’s eyes. “I might have eavesdropped when I returned from my patrol shift…”

“Go on,” Yuu coaxed.

“There was a report I had to submit to the Chief, but it sounded like he was busy in his office. It’s hard to not notice him when he raises his voice, sir. I decided to wait outside until he was done, and… well, I got curious.”

“Wasn’t Assistant Chief Clover also present? He just let you do that without a single protest?”

“Assistant Chief Clover was very nice to me! He laughed a little and said ‘make sure you don’t get caught with your hand in the cookie jar’!”

Darn it, Trey!! You could’ve been a LITTLE stricter with this guy…! Yuu groaned, massaging the bridge of their nose. “Okay, I think I’m starting to get a better picture of what went down. You followed me wanting to learn more about the operation.”

Like a curious child chasing after a white rabbit. Still immature, still wondering, and still way over their head.

“Yes, but that’s not all!” Deuce insisted. He abruptly stood from the table. “There’s an even more important reason than just satisfying my curiosity, sir!”

Yuu quirked an eyebrow. “And what’s that?”

“I had to talk to you—without the Chief around. I had to. That’s why I followed you in secret.” The officer nibbled his lower lip, as if biting back something harsh and bitter from coming up.

“Out with it, Mr. Spade.”

“Pardon the intrusion,” Jade coolly interjected. His tone was nonchalant but his bemused smile was a telltale sign that he was relishing in every second of the hot gossip. “Your beverages.”

He slid two glasses between Yuu and Deuce before departing. One was tall and slim—a highball—loaded with carbonated water and fruity gummies. Yellow for jeweled pineapples, red for ruby berries, green for frozen mint, black for floral cacao, and blue from pure azure salt. It was Yuu’s usual, the famed Mystery Drink. The other glass was, by comparison, an ordinary drink of water, a single large, clear cube of ice floating in it.

A bead of sweat ran down Deuce’s jawline. Condensation forming and racing on his glass of water.

Suddenly, the officer slapped both hands on the counter, slamming his face down upon its surface. His navy hair splayed, forehead touching the table in a display of humility.

Yuu almost spilled their drink. “What are you doing?”

“I’m begging you, sir!! P-Please put me on the mission!!” Deuce pleaded, his voice shaky but resolute. “I… I want to help catch the Knave of Hearts too!!”

“If that’s all you wanted, why ask me? Go through the proper channels to…”

“I can’t!! The Chief would never allow it.” His expression creased with shame. “He says rookies need to work their way up from meter maid to working on cases.”

“He’s right. You need to grow into these things, not rush in head-first in a burst of passion.” Yuu made to take a sip of their drink—but the officer’s fist collided with the counter, the liquid inside the glass sloshing overboard. Seltzer water splashed onto their pant leg, leaving a sticky wet spot on a thigh.

“P-Please reconsider! I know how to handle myself in a fight! I’m fast, I could easily catch up with him if it’s a race on foot!”

“Look,” the detective said irritably, “I don’t know what you’re hoping to accomplish here. Fact is, no matter how much you ask, I wouldn’t want to take you on for this case. You’re too green behind the ears—and sorry, but I just don’t see you as an asset.

“You may be strong and quick on your feet, but it’ll take more than strength and speed to catch the Knave of Hearts. There’s a reason he hasn’t been caught yet.” Yuu tapped at their temple. “It’s this. He’s got smarts, and we need to combat that with smarts of our own.”

“I-I can be smart!! I can try to, at least! Please, just let me try…!!”

Frustrated, Yuu scrutinized the young man again. Their eyes roaming, searching, for detail wrong, a hair out of place.

Years of sleuthing had built up a great amount of cynicism and distrust in the detective. How many times had they pulled back the curtain, revealing the ugly truths hidden out of plain sight? How many bruised egos--both clients and coworkers--had they encountered? People seeking status or to feed their own pride.

Yet when they looked at Deuce, none of that ugliness or ego came through. Here was someone who stubbornly stared right back at Yuu, unwilling to back down, even when his dignity lay in tatters on the floor the instant he prostrated himself.

Another selfish bid for recognition? They ventured, toying with the idea. Maybe personal ambition, looking to climb up in the world.

“... One reason,” Yuu said, holding up an index finger. “Give me one good reason why I should take you on. Convince me.”

Deuce recoiled--as though even he hadn’t expected to have made it this far, or to be taken seriously at all. His brows creased with effort as he racked the recesses of his mind to find the right phrasing.

A second later, he let out a piercing shout.

“GAAAAAAAAH!!”

With a grunt, Deuce grasped his cup of ice water and lifted it to his lips. He hammered the drink in a single swig, releasing a satisfied hoot. The liquid courage had revived the man, returning the spark to him.

In a voice as clear as the drink he had just downed, Deuce said, “It’s for my mom. She’s just about the sweetest, most hard-working person I know.”

He hung his head and slammed his empty cup down, shaking the entire table.

“She raised me as a single parent. Mom never once complained, only wanted the best life for me.” Deuce glared into his glass, speaking with scorn and anger--not at others, but for himself. “And how did I repay her? I... turned to delinquency.

“I acted out because I wasn’t man enough to do the mature thing and work on myself!! She blamed herself for my stupid decisions! I made mom worry for me so, so much...”

Plip, plip.

Deuce faltered, letting quiet tears dribble down his cheeks and landing on the cube of ice left in his glass. Once they made contact with the frozen block, it was impossible to tell what was water and what was salt.

“I swore to myself that I would turn my life around... to show mom that it’s not her fault, that she did all she could to raised someone who could contribute to society!! So I studied really hard at the police academy, and even though my grades were crappy, I managed to graduate...!!”

He choked up, a concoction of fiery passion infused in his stuttering words. “I can finally be that model officer and make a change in the community! But I haven’t done a damn thing...! I just play meter maid while bad guys are out there running free, when I could be out there making this city a safer place for mom and everyone that lives here...!!”

The noises of the lounge seemed to fade into a stoic silence around Deuce. His declaration reverberated loudly. “I have to do this. I need to do this.”

He bowed again, his forehead pressed hard against the surface of the table. The single word he uttered was hoarse, desperate.

“Please.”

Deuce pried himself up almost painfully. The eyes were aquamarine, wet with hot tears. Something shone through them in shades of blue and green, priceless as any treasure: an honesty that burned like an eternal flame.

Yuu startled, striken by a single, haunting revelation: He’s telling the truth.

“... I don’t think I’ve met someone like you before,” they said cryptically. “I don’t doubt your story—but as touching as it is, I don’t know if...”

Hesitation reared its head, and Yuu forced themselves to look away. Couldn’t bear to see him, that wide-eyed sincerity.

Emotion clashing with their sound logic. Two things that shouldn’t have belonged together colliding. 

Wait... things that don’t belong together? Things I didn’t expect, surprises and twists to the tale...

A ex-delinquent turned into a policeman. A selfishness turned selfless. An anticipated lie turned into a truth. Something there that hadn’t been before.

The detective’s mind raced, quickly outpacing the words leaving their mouth. A solution which subverted expectations, a trap laced with honey for a man with sticky fingers.

That’s it. We’ll pull a trick of our own.

“Okay, I’ve changed my mind,” Yuu abruptly announced. “You’re in on this operation, Mr. Spade.”

“R-Really?!” Deuce’s face nearly tore in half, his volume revving up like a motorcycle engine. “You mean it?!”

“I do.”

Yuu took a cool sip of their Mystery Drink. Flavors from all over Twisted Wonderland cascaded over their tongue—a triumphant, fleeting pleasure.

They set their glass down and bent over, gripping Deuce by the strings of his hoodie. Yuu tugged, bringing the policeman lurching forward.

His clammy forehead against theirs. Centimeters away, his eyes widened. A flushed heat climbed to his cheeks, his voice set in a stammer.

“S-Sir, what are we...”

“You’ll have to follow my instructions very carefully,” Yuu replied with a devious grin. “Listen up, rookie: cuz you’re going to be the star of this show. Here’s the plan...”

The ambience of the lounge drowned out Yuu’s whispers. From afar, their words could only be read through the shapes of their mouth, the increasingly confused and alarmed expressions that Deuce pulled.

Jade observed them patiently, chuckling to himself. “My, my, it seems like our genius detective has found yet another solution.”

CLATTER, CLATTER!!

A tray piled high with empty plates and dishes was slammed down. Jade’s twin peered around the stack, leaning lazily against the bar.

“Eeeh, but I bet against them this time.”

“Playing the contrarian runs its risks.” Jade picked up a glass, staring at his brother through it. The golden orb called his left eye was clear as a topaz. “As for myself, I’m excited to see how this plays out.”

PLAP.

A notepad came down on the table as a third waiter joined them.

“Both of you need to stop gossiping and get back to work,” their manager chided, sliding the notepad—scrawled with fresh orders—to Jade. “Leave the customers to tend to their own business. We’ll soon know the outcome.”

[To be continued...]

#twst #twisted wonderland #Ace Trappola #twst x reader #twst imagines #twisted wonderland imagines #Deuce Spade #twst scenarios #twisted wonderland scenarios #disney twisted wonderland #Ace Trappola x Reader #Deuce Spade x Reader #Dire Crowley #twst AU #twisted wonderland AU #Riddle Rosehearts #AU #beyond the looking glass #Octavinelle #Heartslabyul #Yuu #Ace Trappola x Yuu #Deuce Spade x Yuu #Trey Clover #Cater Diamond #Azul Ashengrotto #Jade Leech #Floyd Leech #Tweels

[farfromstrange]

Mismatched Bridesmaid | Matt Murdock x F!Reader

PART 2 of The Vault

See this post for more information on my Valentine's Day Special & Follower Celebration, but these fics can be read separately!

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Summary: Deciding to go to your old college roommate's wedding turns into a bad idea when you suddenly have to function as a bridesmaid until you're paired with a very handsome groomsman.

Warnings: Fluff, attempt at humor, SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI), oral f!receiving, use of "good girl", One-Night Stand, shameless flirting, kind of "horny at first sight", so cheesy it might make you hate cheese

Word Count: 4.3k

A/n: I was wondering why this didn't post until I saw that I hit "save draft" instead of schedule, so this may come on time for some and too late for others, but I'm still awake, so it counts as the 15th. Also, when I wrote this it was after hinting at it on here, and I was excited at first, but I'm not too happy with it now because it's just silly and falls a little flat, in my opinion. This is why I went back in and edited a hell of a lot, adding some things, etc. Nevertheless, I promised to clear out the vault for this event, so this is it. I got inspired by seeing the She-Hulk clips when the episode with Matty came out. It may or may not be noticeable. We're also working with the Nelson, Murdock & Page narrative. Enjoy!

You are not made for white-veil occasions. 

While weddings, in their essence, symbolize unity while covering different facets of romantic beauty, they are also inherently stressful for nearly everyone involved in the proceedings. Over the years of adulthood, you’ve found that weddings tend to end in disaster when you attend—and you are not particularly fond of engaging in drama.

When your old college roommate sent you an invitation to her wedding in June, you considered responding with no. You’ve been close for a few years, but then you graduated, found separate careers, and then never talked again. You weren’t sure why she would send you an invitation until you called the number on the back of the card and you began catching up. She told you that she wanted to invite you because you were a vital part of her early twenties, and it reminded you that you are both adults and you have both grown beyond what you thought possible, so you couldn’t find it in yourself to tell her that you couldn’t make it to her wedding. Instead, you told her that you wouldn’t miss it for the world. That answer though seemed to have turned destiny against you. 

You were excited when you arrived at the chapel this morning, but as soon as your foot touched the holy ground, everything went wrong. Maybe it is because you’re an atheist and God hates you, or maybe Karma just really fucking loves toying with you. Either way, when your friend’s maid of honor—also one of the few people you hung out with during your wild college days—came up to you, looking pale and panicked, you knew that the curse you always bring to weddings was only continuing to wreak havoc. 

She said to you, “One of the girls got into a car accident on her way here. Don’t worry, she’s not dead, just a broken wrist, but that means we are one bridesmaid short. I need someone to step in before Janet finds out and cuts off my head for ruining her wedding day,” and she was deadly serious about it, too.

You knew that it was a mistake to come to this wedding, especially without a date or a plus-one to fall back on. 

You were so focused on marveling at the beautiful white and golden decorations living the aisle, fantasizing about the day you might be walking down one of those that you didn’t think anything could go wrong since everything had been going so right. You should have known better than to trust that treacherous feeling of excitement that you made sure to nurture before breakfast so you could enjoy the ceremony and the party afterward without making it dependent on the open bar—although that fact did help.

Instead of dreaming about free drinks though, you’re being squeezed into a satin green dress with a low cut in the front, and someone you don’t know is slathering burgundy lipstick onto your lips. They are purposely trying to turn you into a copy of all the other bridesmaids, and you hate it. You hate it so much you get the sudden urge to scratch your eyes out and tear the skin off your lips. 

Janet, the maid of honor, comes back up to you. She’s aged at least ten years since you last saw her when she pulled you away from the aisle. You feel for her. The entire weight of this wedding rests on her shoulders. 

She eyes you, checking your outfit, before giving you a curt nod. “Thank God, you’re hot,” she mutters. You’re not sure if you were supposed to hear it. 

“Thank you?” you answer awkwardly. 

“Alright.” She fixes the corners of your lipstick. “We need to pair you with a different guy than Miss I-Don’t-Know-How-To-Drive was supposed to walk down the aisle with. Your looks don’t match. You’ll get Kathy’s partner,” she says. “And we need to line up, like, now because shit is happening in five minutes, not a second later. We can’t give Bridezilla the time to kill us all.”

With a frown, you ask, “Is she aware at all of what’s happening?” 

Janet shakes her head. “No, and it’s better this way. Trust me.”

You stop questioning her. She knows what she’s doing. 

When she guides you outside to line up, you’re not sure what to expect. You don’t know the groom, and you don’t know his friends. You’re here on your own, and now you’re part of a bridal party that you are also barely familiar with, wearing a dress that you were forced into for the sake of aesthetics. You hate when something is reduced to aesthetics because beauty has many facets, and you would have walked down that aisle with anyone as long as you could get it over with. 

Until you see him. Strikingly dark hair in a perfectly cut tuxedo that underlines the muscles hiding underneath the fabric. His eyes are hidden behind round, red glasses that reflect the sunlight coming in through the already stained glass of the chapel’s windows. In his hands, he’s holding a white cane, leaning his entire weight on it as he waits. And he waits for none other than you. 

Janet paired you with the most beautiful man on this planet, you can’t deny that. The way he stands there, his sharp jawline on full display—he looks ethereal. Just looking at him makes you sweat, and you’re starting to panic. What if she made a mistake? You can’t do this. You can’t—

“Matt,” she says and shoves you beside him into the line of bridesmaids and groomsmen. 

Janet introduces you, and then she’s gone. She pushes you into the cold water, forcing you to learn how to swim. 

He tilts his head in your direction. “Hi,” he says. The sound of his voice resembles the purr of a black cat as it reverberates, but his grin reminds you of the Devil himself. 

Fuck. Me. 

You either did something very wrong to land here, or you did everything right. 

“Hi,” you stammer. One look at him, and the blood rushes to your cheeks. Your face is burning. 

He offers you his hand. “I’m Matt,” he says as if Janet didn’t already expose that to you.

Still, you take his hand. It’s the polite thing to do. “And I’m not supposed to be here.” Mentally, you curse yourself for being so stupid.

Matt chuckles. Even his laugh sounds bittersweet. Like dark chocolate. “I, uh, gathered as much.”

“I’m sorry,” you bite your lip, “I’m not—this is really weird. I don’t even know what to say.” You pray for the ground to open up and swallow you whole, maybe that will make it less embarrassing.

His features soften. There is no judgment. You can’t see his eyes, but there is a certain softness about him that throws you off guard, but you no longer feel like you’re drowning. “If it helps, I’m only here because I helped the groom graduate law school by writing his essays, and he feels like he owes me, so…I also don’t want to be here,” he says, and he reaches up to adjust his glasses. You get a small glimpse of his eyes. They’re hazel. Beautiful. He has an aura that draws you in; it’s not just his physical beauty that strikes you.

This man—this magnetic force of a man called Matt—is a stranger. He’s a man you were paired with to walk down the aisle even though you were never meant to be a bridesmaid in this wedding in the first place. So many things are happening to and around you at once, and you can feel the flames starting to burn and sizzle away at your skin. 

You should pull yourself together. You shouldn’t stare at him. You shouldn’t listen to your heart which is hammering against your ribcage. But the emotions are already running high and you can’t possibly focus on anything else. He’s like a lifeline to you.

And God, you want him to put those calloused hands on your skin and take you to bed. But that’s not something to think about in a place of God. On the day of someone else’s wedding. Except that you can’t think of anyone else, and his proximity isn’t making the situation any better for you.

Another blush threatens to take over your features. “Oh, you’re a lawyer?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says. “I have a firm. Nelson, Murdock & Page.”

“Here in New York?”

“Hell’s Kitchen, yeah. Me and my associates just reopened our doors to the public after a rough year.”

“Oh, that’s...cool. I’m happy for you.”

“Thank you. And what do you do, if I may ask?”

His interest takes you off guard, but you don’t hesitate to answer his question. You tell him your profession, and how you met the bride, and he listens without another word. No man has ever paid you this much attention before.

Though Janet meant it when she said that you will have to start walking in exactly five minutes, not a second longer. She passed by everyone, handing out bouquets. Green with hints of red and gold. It fits the theme. They’re beautiful, but the flowers within the bouquet become a problem when she hands you your own set. 

“Janet,” you stop her from leaving. “I can’t take these.”

“The fuck you can’t,” she retorts. 

“Seriously, I can’t. I’m allergic to Jasmines. I’ll sneeze.”

She glares at you. “Then fucking hold it.”

There is no arguing with her, and she passes by you to continue putting everyone in their places. You stare down at the bouquet, your nose already starting to itch. The smell alone is enough to make you nauseous.

To your surprise, Matt reaches for the flowers. “May I?” he asks, but he has already grabbed a hold of them.

“Sure,” you answer, curious about where he’s going with this.

“Hold this.” He guides the top of his cane into your hand.

His fingers feel along the red ribbon. He takes a whiff. There are so many scents that would be overwhelming even to someone without heightened senses due to a lacking fifth one, so you’re even more surprised when he finds the Jasmines without a struggle. He traces the petals just to make sure, and he quickly pulls the flowers out of the bouquet, tightening the ribbon around the now smaller girth in the process.

Tossing them behind one of the pillars in the corridor, he hands them back to you. “Here,” he murmurs. “For you.”

Words elude you. 

“Are you allergic to anything else?” The question is valid, considering you’re still not making a move to take the bouquet from him. 

You exhale a shaky breath, reaching for the flowers, and answer without missing another beat, “Weddings.”

That elicits a giggle from him. The sound is enough to make your heart melt. Does he know what he’s doing to you?

Matt opens his mouth to respond, but the sound of heels clicking against the marble floors stops you both dead in your tracks.

Your entire body recoils when the bride’s voice rings out, echoing, “Who the fuck mismatched my bridesmaids?”

A hand rests on your bicep, and you don’t even have to look down to know that it is Matt’s. He’s the only one standing to your right, anyway. He squeezes as though to let you know that you won’t lose your head, but you’re not so sure now that your college roommate is glaring at you in a white dress that reminds you of a pastry, and her eyes are full of fury. He can’t see it, but he would cower in fear if he did.

Thankfully, Janet pulls her aside, explaining the situation to her. 

“She what?!” she screeches. “On my wedding day? Are you kidding me?”

“Yes, because car accidents respect timing when it comes to special occasions,” Janet counters.

You snort. Matt beside you digs his teeth into his bottom lip, but even he can’t hide his amusement.

“Oh, snap,” you mutter under your breath. 

“Shots have been fired,” he says.

“I think we’re witnessing a double homicide.”

“I’m not a very credible witness. I can only describe how it sounded, unfortunately.”

Your snort turns into a laugh. The bride’s head snaps around, and you go quiet. “Sorry. I’m sorry,” you choke out.

“If she decides to throw a punch at your pretty face,” Matt’s breath tickles your ear, “I can be your attorney and sue her ass.”

This time, you’re conscious enough to slap a hand in front of your mouth to stifle your reaction. “How do you know I’m pretty?” you whisper back between little giggles.

He shrugs with a smirk of his own. “I just know.”

He’s got you wrapped around his little finger, and you have no choice but to submit.

Janet manages to bring some calm back to her friend eventually, and then it’s showtime. Right on the second, it’s time for you to walk down the aisle, and you have never been happier about a strict schedule and someone adamant about keeping that schedule for the sake of all of your lives.

Your roommate has always been a very dominant personality, so you’re aware of the things she can do when she doesn’t get what she wants. 

An 80s pop ballad begins to play. You make sure to match your pace to everyone else but also make sure that you’re not running away from your partner.

You may have been a mismatched bridesmaid, but you can’t complain about the company. 

Against all odds, the service is beyond beautiful. It’s not often you get to stand so close when two people who seem to truly love each other make a vow to be there for each other for the rest of their lives. You can’t help but shed a tear. They complement each other perfectly. Is that ever in the cards for you? Will you ever be able to have what they have? Or will you always feel like you’re not worthy of this kind of unconditional love and endless devotion—of someone wanting to spend the rest of their life with you?

You look over at Matt. The hint of a cross necklace is starting to peek out underneath his dress shirt. Of course, he’s Catholic. 

He carries himself with such a grace that puts everyone else in this room to shame. Does he know that you’re staring at him? You hope not.

After the ceremony, you lose sight of Matt in the masses. He doesn’t owe you a goodbye, but you still feel a little disappointed when you return to the dressing room and finally peel the satin dress off of your very sweaty skin. 

At the party afterward, he’s still nowhere to be found. You give up. Not that you want to spend the evening with him anyway, but you kind of do. You drown your sorrows in a glass of vodka cranberry and a bowl of olives. They taste like rotten meat, but there are too many people by the buffet for your liking. The last thing you want to do is mingle and get asked stupid questions by people you don’t even know. So, you stay back, and you watch from afar as everyone is having the time of their lives not so far away from you, but far enough for you to breathe.

“And here I thought weddings were supposed to be a joyous occasion,” Matt pipes up beside you, and you twirl around in your chair to face him with wide eyes.

You didn’t expect to see him back here. “Hi!” you exclaim. “What’re you—I thought you left.”

“Nah,” he says. “I just had to take care of some things.”

“Oh, yeah? Like what?”

He smirks. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Yes, that’s why I asked.”

Folding his cane, Matt lowers himself down on one of the chairs beside you and orders himself a beer with the bartender. “Let’s just say that I have an important court case coming up and I had to make a call.”

You take another sip from your drink. “That sounds a lot more exciting than my life, to be honest.”

“You are sulking at a wedding. Thinking about an ex?”

“More like life in general.”

“Ah, yes, the eternal fear of dying alone.” He raises his bottle to yours. “I’ll drink to that.”

A laugh escapes you. “That was cynical,” you say.

“And you’re not?”

He beats you at your own damn game, and he finally gets that smile he has been vying for. 

“Are you smiling?” his voice is barely above a whisper. 

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips. “Maybe.” But the smile is audible in your voice, giving you away.

Matt smirks, nodding his head. “Good girl.” 

The sharp vodka runs down the wrong pipe. You cough. Did he just—

He did.

He pats your back, and his hand lingers a lot longer than it should. He looks so smug. Pleased with himself. That part of him is stupidly attractive to you, even though you would usually hate such cockiness in any other man. But Matt isn’t like any other man.

You apologize for your reaction, but he should be the one apologizing to you for throwing you off your game. What is he doing? You can’t read him. You wish you could because that would make this so much easier, but that’s probably the point. He wants to tease you. He wants to mess with your head. He’s a dick. A fucking attractive dick that could tell you to do just about anything and you in your flustered state would go along with it without hesitations. That’s the kind of control he has over you, and you just met. It feels like a twisted form of destiny, but you can’t quite believe it. Yet.

“Do you always do that?” you dare to ask.

He frowns. “Do what?”

“Flirt with women who were forced to be bridesmaids even though they were only supposed to be guests?”

A playful smirk plays on his lips.  

“It’s been known to happen,” says Matt.

You poke your tongue against the soft tissue of your cheek. “Cheeky,” you murmur.

“That’s also been known to happen.”

“What, being cheeky with—”

“—with women who were forced to be bridesmaids even though they were only supposed to be guests? Yes.” He’s catching on quickly.

You laugh and nod. “Yeah, that.”

“I do have to say though,” he adds, and for a second you think he might ruin the joke instead of playing it out further, but Matt is full of surprises, “Out of all the mismatched bridesmaids I’ve met in my thirty-something years of, um, living, you’re my favorite so far.”

With your hand, you start fanning your face rather dramatically. “I feel honored,” you say. 

Again, he chuckles. “You should be.”

“Why, because you’re so irresistible?”

“I was going to say that I don’t like a lot of people because, you know, they’re dicks, but that works too.”

“Wow.” You take another sip. The liquor burns its way down your sore esophagus. “You have balls, man.”

“Is that a problem?” he counters with a question.

The answer comes naturally. “No,” you say. “I like it.”

“Good.” Hearing you clink the ice cubes against your empty glass by swirling it around, Matt concludes that you need a refill. “Can I get you another drink?” he asks.

The question sounds so innocent, but the look on his face renders you speechless. His hand inches dangerously close to yours on the counter, his knee brushing yours, and the heat shoots straight to your neglected cunt. 

Fuck this.

“You could do that, or we could skip that part and just…you know.”

One brush of your hand against his thigh, that’s all it takes for him to know. 

Pushing you through the door to his apartment a few minutes later, his lips are on you. The door falls shut with a loud bang, and he presses you against the wall of his hallway. 

His lips feel like a silky cloud of lewdness. The way he kisses you is utterly erotic. Your lips part in a delicious moan that he swallows with a grunt of his own. He swallows it all, shoving his tongue into the tight confines of your mouth, and exploring every inch he can reach. He tastes you. He consumes you. 

His hands desperately search for an ounce of bare skin. He’s tugging at your clothes, sliding and tearing them aside. Once his fingers finally brush over the bare skin of your stomach, he melts. 

You tangle your fingers in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer. Your leg hooks around his waist. You can’t wait. He has ignited a fire within you that no one has been able to light before. He’s touching you with a precision that puts your former lovers to shame. He’s paying attention to your every breath and heartbeat, and with every touch, he asks, “May I?” 

You don’t even make it to the bedroom. Once he has successfully removed the bottom half of your clothes, he falls to his knees. He is a sight to behold. The disarray of colors that shines into his apartment illuminates his face, bathing it in a selection of hues that bring out his best features. 

Matt has yet to take off his glasses, and you take the opportunity to tear them away from his face. You’re gentle though. You ask him, “May I?” mirror the question he has been asking you throughout the night, and after a thick swallow, he nods.

You caress his cheek as you remove his glasses, and when you finally see his hazel eyes in all of their glory, you have to bow down to capture his lips in a soft kiss. 

“You’re beautiful,” you whisper. “So fucking beautiful, Matt.”

He whimpers. You could have sworn to have imagined it, but when you stroke his cheek with such a gentleness it almost makes him recoil in anguish, you know that you didn’t imagine the sound from his lips. You kiss it away. You kiss all of his insecurities away. You want him to feel as good as he is making you feel. You don’t know him, but you want to get to know him, and if he’s ready to surrender himself to you, you are more than ready to do the same for him. He can feel that with every brush of your fingertips and every kiss you deliver to his plump lips that taste like heaven and hell in itself.

Your words don’t leave him cold. His cock is aching in his pants—you take note of his impressionable size, which only makes you more excited for what’s to come—but he refuses to take it out. Not until you’re fully satisfied. To be honest, you could come just from staring at him on his knees in front of you, looking like he would lay the world to your feet and kill everyone who has ever dared to hurt you, but that is not enough for him. 

He needs the experience. Feeling your skin, tasting you, and breathing in all facets of your natural scent mixed with the artificial one from your shampoo. He can’t get enough of it. Of you. Of everything about and within you. He’s as attracted to your body as he is consumed by your soul. You’ve got him in a deadlock, but he would never complain about that.

You gasp when Matt grabs your thigh and throws it over his shoulder. Your panties are gone within seconds, torn on the floor somewhere. You’re completely bare to him. 

You want to warn him that you didn’t shave, but he doesn’t care. 

Before you know it, he has flattened his tongue against your pussy, and he licks a long stripe from your hole to your clit. 

“Fuck!” you cry out, reaching for support on the wall behind you.

He flicks the sensitive bundle of nerves with the tip of his tongue, testing the waters before he sucks it into his mouth. 

His grip on your thigh becomes bruising. Matt eats you out like he has been starving for years and you are his first and last meal. He sucks on your clit, and he fucks you with his tongue. Your pussy is the altar he worships at. Your arousal is his holy water. He dives deeper and deeper into the wetness between your thighs, and he moans loudly when you pull at his hair.

“Fuck, Matt–” You’re clawing at whatever you can find. It feels so good. You’re higher than you have ever been.

The sound of his mouth working your slick folds toward eternal bliss is obscene and utterly sinful. His stubble scratches against your inner thighs. The pain grounds you in the here and now, making you focus on the tidal wave that is about to crash into you and tear you to shreds. 

You can’t even warn him before your orgasm takes over, and it takes you into another dimension. You come with a shout of his name. It’s nothing short of explosive. The orgasm drags on through his mouth on your clit, relentlessly sucking until the nerves jump, and you’re begging him to stop. 

His face glistens. With every kiss up your body, Matt marks you. By the time he has reached your quivering lips, he still tastes like you.

“You did so well,” he whispers. “Such a good girl for me.”

You exhale. Without his shoulders to hold onto, you would probably lose your footing. “You’re crazy,” is all you can say. 

He smirks. “In a good way, I hope.”

“Yes. Fuck.”

“Regret coming home with me?”

“Absolutely not.”

That’s all he needed to hear. He lifts you with ease. “Then I’m going to make it worth your while.”

And when your back hits the soft mattress and silk sheets of his bed, you don’t doubt that he is going to make good on his promise. 

Matt Murdock Smut Tag List: @acharliecoxedfan @gpenguin666 @linamarr @mcugeekposts @itwasthereaminuteago @norestfortheshelbywicked @yarrystyleeza @littlenerdyravenclaw @etanordoesbullsh1t @thychuvaluswife @harleycao @schneeflocky @imjustcal @pipsqueakkitten @merlinbtch @sya-skies @amberritonicole @ravenclaw617 @pigeonmama

#matt murdock #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x f!reader #daredevil #matt murdock x you #matt murdock smut #matt murdock fluff #daredevil x reader #reader insert #lizzi’s vault #charlie cox

[circyexistforcontent]

The boys with a succubus/incubus god?

CULT AU WITH A DEMON READER

❀ synopsis: “And no marvel; for Satan himself is transformed into an angel of light.” 2 CORINTHIANS 11:14

❀ warnings: slight suggestive content, biblical themes, cult themes, yandere themes, just dark content ahead. Remember you're trespassing on big boy/girl/kid territory, so just be aware of what you're reading ok?

❀ notes: This will contain a lot of dark themes since this is a cult AU and Sagau. But again, thank you all for 400 followers! I don't know how to thank you all (maybe I do, I want to start a event, but let me clear my inbox real quick). spoilers for genshin lore guys...

Being summoned to another world is...certainly interesting...

You didn't expect the moment you open your eyes to be greeted with such colorful characters, and in an RPG game no less. But you aren't complaining of course! This just makes things more entertaining for your part. And being worshipped as a god? This is an entire amusement park!

Your poor, poor acolytes...they have no idea what they have just brought upon this world. If you really were the creator of all no wonder Celestia decided to just one day order the archons to commit genocide. Your influence must have also greatly affected your creations which can explain why some of your acolytes have a questionable history.

Being in your presence just heightens their obsessive tendencies, if they weren't the type to hesitate to kill for you they sure aren't hesitating now. Some might even go as far as to kill in public in front of other devotees. It doesn't matter if it's supposed to be a joyous occasion, you were in danger (or at least they try to justify their actions..) and as your devoted acolyte, they should protect you. (Shenhe, Traveler, Heizou, and Childe)

There are already ones that kill for you, but with your dark influence, they start to get a little bolder with their feelings. It would just start with lingering thoughts of your touch before it gets more provocative and they start imagining it more often. If they were brave enough, they would think about it while you were still in the same room as them. How sinful, but you don't mind♡ (Cyno, Gorou, Ei, and Zhongli)

They are the ones who know something was wrong with the supposed "Almighty one". They can just sense that something was not right and will immediately distance themselves from you as much as it hurts them too. They would observe you from afar to confirm any of their claims, but it backfires. Your voice is one of a siren, and like a pirate, they follow your voice only to be drowned in the very ocean they loved. But they didn't know drowning in the ocean can be this...euphoric (Dainslef, Venti, Ayaka, Kazuha)

This batch has more control over their yandere tendencies, but their acts of worship intensify. Festivals/Holidays will be hosted by them, and while some of them don't have the influence and money to host an event they will be helping with the preparations for the event (Jean, Noelle, Ayato, Ningguang, Diluc)

They will worship you, but some may take a step back after seeing you out of character. You were always so considerate and kind, they didn't think you would order them to draw your symbol with the khanreian's hilichurls blood. At the end of the day, they will still do what you please in hopes you will have a reward for them.

If you have any features from your demon form (slit pupils, horns, claws, sharp teeth, wings, etc) they won't think anything ill of them. If anything some would adore them openly. Dragons exist, and hybrids aren't uncommon on Teyvat. They would assume you might be a hybrid of a greater celestial species, and it would have many legends based off of it. The acolytes that have horns or any sort of similar feature would feel connected to you in a way and are honored to even have something in common with you.

But no matter how they claim to adore you or how honored they are to worship you, they can feel themselves hurl at your mere presence. Some even feel ill when they stay beside you for too long, and they would assume they are being punished. Or you are feeling negative and one of your powers is to project your emotions onto the environment around you.

But is it really? You have the same smile on your face while they choke on their own blood. You laugh at them after they confess to you about the night terrors that they get every time they spend a day with you. You left them to die after you "trained" them to get stronger.

They are foolish to convince themselves that you care, but some like to believe that you are doing this cause you care for them, how pitiful of them. I'm going to give an example, Venti would try to argue with you if you ever try to spur trouble on Monstadt, saying how it's not right and that the people should have a say in your decision. But after hours of gaslighting convincing he would shut his mouth as you declare a new law that restricts basic human rights. His people will understand, this is normal for sure...right?

The other archons like Ei and Zhongli, mostly Ei, will not think twice about your new changes in their nation. Nahida would be the ONLY normal archon who would know that you are no god. You're just a poser, a demon, a vermin from the underworld taking advantage of your follower's obsession. She will try her best to make her nation aware of who you really are, but what's the guarantee they will listen to her?

#🍒sagau #🍒dark content #sagau x reader #sagau brainrot #sagau cult au #self aware au #self aware genshin #self aware genshin impact #genshin self aware #genshin cult au #cult au #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #yandere genshin x reader #yandere genshin au #yandere venti x reader #sagau zhongli #sagau ei #genshin impact sagau #genshin sagau #yandere sagau

[all-the-things-2020]

Joel’s Pony Party

Summary: You are planning a birthday party for your six year old niece. Turns out the guy who runs the pony party place offers you more than just a pony ride.

Rating: R (some sexual content toward the end); 18+ only, please!

Word Count: 6200+

Notes: I saw a horse trailer one day with a sign reading “Joel’s Pony Party” and my mind went on from there. This is an AU where there is no outbreak and Sarah and Ellie are the same age.

Maybe this was a huge mistake, you think as you steer your car down the increasingly potholed road. Obviously, a place with horses would be outside of town, but this didn’t look like the most savory area. Still, the pictures on the website had made it look nice, so you owed it to Ashley to check it out.

It had made so much sense at the time to volunteer to plan your niece’s sixth birthday party. Your sister was still knee deep in diapers with her youngest, Ashley’s little brother Jacob. Your brother-in-law was a sweetheart but useless at this sort of thing. His idea of entertaining was buying a 24 pack of beer instead of a 6 pack and buying the name brand chips for the queso dip. No, Ashley deserved a special birthday and you were going to give it to her.

You checked the directions you’d printed out from the internet. You should be close. The road curved slightly and you saw the neatly painted sign. “Joel’s Pony Party — Birthdays and Special Occasions.” The property looked much nicer than some of the places you’d driven past. The fencing was new and the driveway was freshly graded. So far, so good.

You drove through the gate and marveled at the paddock full of ponies and a couple of horses. Some of them lifted their heads from the grass to watch you drive past. They all looked healthy and well groomed. One of the bigger ponies, a flashy black and white pinto, tossed its head and galloped along the fence line, racing your car. 

You parked in the graveled lot clearly marked “Guest Parking” and turned off the engine. A teenaged girl with an abundance of curly hair waved at you from the door of a tidy red barn. “Dad will be with you in a minute,” she called out. “You can pet the ponies if you want.”

The little pinto was trying to reach over the fence to you, so you obliged, scratching its nose and forehead. The pony smelled wonderful, like fresh hay and sunshine and that undeniable smell of horse that brought back your childhood. Trips to the pony ride at the park had been the highlight of your existence when you were five years old.

”She doesn’t have anything for you, Oreo.” The voice was slow and easy, not too deep. “Sorry, he’s a beggar. I’m Joel Miller.” The man held out his hand and you shook it. His grip was firm but gentle and his hand engulfed yours. You tried not to stare as you took in his broad shoulders and the neatly trimmed scruff on his face. A delightful combination of cowboy and businessman. 

You introduced yourself. “I have to admit, I was a little concerned after driving past some of those places down the road, but you have a beautiful property.”

Joel nodded his head. “Thank you, ma’am. Sarah and I try to keep it up to snuff.” He tilted his head toward the girl. “If she ever outgrows her horse phase, I’m in deep trouble. Can’t keep this place goin’ without her.” He looked wistful for a moment, then snapped back to business mode. “So, you’re lookin’ for a place for your niece’s birthday. Let me give you a tour.”

He led you through the barn, which was cleaner than some houses you’d been to, and showed you the party area, a covered patio with brightly painted wooden picnic tables. Beyond it was a miniature race track. “The pony path,” Joel said. “Rather than one of those mechanical hot walker contraptions, we put the kids on a pony in there and let them walk around. Me or Sarah will stand in the middle and keep the ponies moving if they get too lazy, but otherwise the kids get to be in charge.” He chuckled. “Well, as in charge as anyone can be with a pony. Got some characters.”

Joel gestured toward a large shade tree. “Here’s where we hang the piñata.” Then toward a long table under a colorful awning. “And that’s where you can put the gifts and the cake. Keeps them out of the way of the kids.” He shuffled his boots in the dust. “We have two packages: Pony Princess and Cowpoke Experience. Most boys go for cowpoke but girls are pretty evenly split. Or we can do a hybrid if you’ve got boys and girls coming.”

He pulled a brochure out of his back pocket and spread it out on one of the picnic tables. As he leaned over, his shirt strained at his shoulders and it was all you could do to keep your focus on the brochure. And his thick finger as he pointed out the options.

”Pony Princess comes with a unicorn and the piñata is a dragon. We also have a trunk of dress up clothes. Fairy wings and princess dresses and magic wands, stuff like that. The birthday girl gets to wear a crown, ‘cause she’s the princess.”

”Cowpoke Experience comes with roping lessons and the piñata is a cowboy boot. No guns, but we have cowboy hats and bandanas and leather vests for dress up. And the birthday kid wears the sheriff’s badge.”

You glanced at the prices at the bottom of the pages and nodded. Yes, this would do. And even if it was a bit more than you’d planned, you’d gladly pay it to spend more time with Joel. 

“Definitely Pony Princess for Ashley,” you said. “She’s in her Disney Princess stage right now and all her friends are into fairies and magic and everything.”

”All right, let’s get the calendar and see if we can get this scheduled for you. Sarah!”

Sarah popped out of nowhere. “Yeah, Dad?”

”Run and get the booking calendar, would you? Need to set up a party for this nice lady’s niece.”

”She seems like a good kid,” you said, desperate to make small talk so you wouldn’t gawk at the man in front of you.

”She is,” he said with a smile. “A lot like her mama was.”

”Her mother …” you didn’t know how to ask without seeming nosey.

”Passed on when Sarah was little,” Joel said softly. “It’s been  just the two of us. Well, and my brother, when he’s around. And now the horses.” He sighed. “I used to be a contractor but I messed up my back pretty good and my cousin Louis was moving to Alabama so he offered me the place. Already had a good business doing pony rides, and it was Sarah’s idea to start doing birthday parties and events. She’s gonna be a party planner or something like that when she grows up. Organized and on top of everything.” He shook his head, a soft smile on his lips. He was clearly very proud of his daughter.

Sarah dashed up with a battered leather planner in her hands. As she laid it down on the table, she pulled a pencil out of her pocket. “See,” Joel said. “Always prepared.”

Sarah rolled her eyes. “It’s just common sense, Dad.” She flipped the pages to the current date. “Hope we can fit you in close to your niece’s actual birthday.”

You perused the calendar. There were two sets of handwriting, one neat and precise but masculine, the other just as neat but more exuberant. You spotted the Saturday before Ashley’s birthday. “How about this day? I see you have something at 9:00 am but maybe we can do the afternoon?”

”Perfect,” said Joel. “How’s 2 o’clock? Gives us time to clean up after the morning event and then you don’t have to provide lunch, just cake and ice cream.” He smiled and you smiled back. Cake and ice cream were included in the price of the package, but lunches and snacks were not. You’d save a bit that way.

”Sounds like a deal,” you said. “Do we need to sign a contract or anything?”

”Give me a day or two to write it up and you can come back to sign it, if that’s not too much trouble?” He fixed his chocolate brown eyes on you and for a moment you couldn’t even breath, let alone form a coherent thought.

”Um, yeah, that’d be great,” you managed to say after an awkward moment. “You can call me when it’s ready and I’ll come out as soon as I can.” You scribbled your cell phone number on the margin of the planner, along with your name.

”Much obliged,” Joel said. “Pony Princess party, 2 o’clock on Saturday the 15th.”

”And when you come back to sign the paperwork, you can meet all the ponies,” Sarah said. “You can pick out which one your niece gets to ride.” She glanced slyly at Joel. “Maybe Dad can take you out on one of the horses, if you have the right shoes.” She looked down at your tennis shoes and shook her head. Like Joel, she had on well worn cowboy boots, the working kind, not the fashionable kind.

”I might have some boots that would work,” you said. “But I haven’t been on a horse in years. Maybe we’d better leave that to the kids.”

Joel looked you up and down, which made your face heat up. “You’d look good on a horse,” he said. “I think maybe Guapo?”

Sarah nodded firmly. “Oh, yeah, Guapo would be perfect for you. He’s a real softie, good with beginners but not one of those dead to the world type they give you at rental stables.” 

“We’ll see,” you said. “I’d — I’d better be going. I have some errands to run before I head home and I’m sure you’re both busy. I’ll see you in a few days.”

”I’ll call you when I have the contract ready,” Joel said, nodding his head. If he’d been wearing a hat, he would have tipped it. “Nice to meet you.”

As you walked back toward your car, you heard Sarah giggling and Joel shushing her sternly. The kid was a pretty good wingwoman. You wondered how much a pair of real riding boots cost.

***************************************************************************

Joel called you two days later and you arranged to come by that Thursday to sign the contract and finalize the details. You rarely took time off work, so no one batted an eye when you put in for a half day of personal necessity because of an appointment. You left work and stopped off at home to change into jeans and a pair of low heeled boots. You finished off the outfit with a t-shirt that you’d gotten compliments on before. 

As you turned into the drive at Joel’s place, you saw that the way was blocked by a large blue pickup. Joel was in the bed, tossing flakes of hay over the fence into the pasture. 

“I’ll be done in a few minutes, then I’ll get outta your way,” he called out. He was wearing a dirty grey t-shirt with a couple of holes in it and his jeans were covered with dust, but he looked amazing. You didn’t mind waiting with a view like that.

”No worries,” you called back. “Do you need any help?”

”Ah, no darlin’, I’ve got this. Been bucking hay for quite a few years now.” He paused and wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his arm. “Louis’ dad, my uncle, used to have a full on cattle ranch when we were kids. Spent summers out there helping with the horses until I was thirteen.”

You got out of your car and leaned against the fender. “Must have been a dream come true for a Texas kid.”  

Joel shrugged. “It was just work. Tommy always conveniently disappeared when it was time to muck out stalls, but I covered for him.” He returned to his task, easily breaking a bale of hay into flakes and tossing them expertly over the fence, each one landing a few feet from the previous one. The horses and ponies each claimed a flake of their own, except for a few squabbles involving the tiniest pony, a chestnut with a broad white blaze on its face.

”Stop it, you little shit,” Joel yelled, shaking his head. “That li’l Sebastian is the worst. He’s actually a miniature horse, not a pony, so he can’t be ridden and he knows it. Spoiled rotten. But he’s gentle with the little kids and the ones who can’t ride or are too afraid. Gets petted and fed carrots and never does a lick of work.”

Sebastian lifted his nose and pranced toward a tall white horse. He snorted and swished his tail and the big horse reluctantly yielded its hay to the little guy. “See?” Joel said. “Guapo, just step on him.” 

The white horse sighed deeply and shook his head. Joel tossed a flake in his direction and it landed neatly in front of him. Then Joel hopped down from the truck bed. “I’ll get this ol’ beast out of the way and you can drive up to the parking area. I’ve just got to run up to the house for the paperwork, wash my hands, and I’ll be right back.”

You tried not to notice his backside as he stepped into the cab of the truck, but it was right there in front of you. He filled out a pair of jeans nicely.

You parked in the visitor lot, while Joel parked his truck off to the side. “Go on through the barn and sit at one of the tables,” he called out. “I’ll be there in a minute.” He walked quickly toward the neatly painted white ranch style house that stood behind the pasture, his gait a bit stiff. He’d mentioned hurting his back at work before starting the party business. It looked like it still bothered him. 

You sat at one of the picnic tables. It was pleasant under the patio roof, which blocked the sun but allowed a nice breeze. Whoever had designed this place knew what he was doing.

Joel hurried back with a sheaf of papers in his hand. His hands were clean but the rest of him was still dusty. There were bits of hay stuck to his shirt and in his hair. “Okay,” he said, settling down next to you. “Let’s go over the details and then get this contract signed.” 

It was hard to concentrate on the paperwork with him sitting beside you. He smelled like hay and sweat and horses and something else, maybe aftershave or deodorant that had a hint of something woodsy. Whatever it was, the entire cocktail of scents was enticing.

”So, the standard party comes with a sheet cake from Kroger and vanilla ice cream. The cake will say Happy Birthday and your niece’s name. You get to pick what color icing for the words and the border. And we put a plastic unicorn on top that she gets to keep.”

”Um, purple, she’s into purple right now.”

Joel nodded and wrote “purple” into a blank on the sheet in front of him. His handwriting was neat and precise.

”Okay, and the piñata will be a dragon, unless you want something else. No extra charge, all the piñatas are the same price.”

”Dragon is fine,” you said, distracted by a piece of hay that was lodged in the curls just above his temple. You fought the urge to reach out and remove it.

”You okay?” Joel asked. 

“Um, yeah, you just … you have some hay …” You gestured toward his head and he brushed his hand through his hair.

”Occupational hazard,” he said with a gentle laugh. “Did I get it?”

”Not quite. Do you mind …?”

He leaned toward you and you plucked the hay stem from his hair, which was silky soft. You wanted to run your fingers through it so badly, but you contented yourself with removing the hay. “There, now you look presentable,” you said.

”Thanks,” he said softly. There was a pause, charged with something that certainly wasn’t business related. He cleared his throat. “Okay, so we have games.”

You half listened as Joel went over the games and activities that would be provided. You just nodded and agreed to all the standard choices. Ashley would just be thrilled to be around ponies and dress up with her friends. And if you weren’t talking, that meant you got to listen to Joel’s voice even more.

You reached the end of the paperwork and Joel handed you the pen to sign the contract. It was still warm from his hand and you shook just a little as you wrote your signature on the dotted line.

”All done,” Joel said. His eyes swept up and down your body. “So, you ready for that ride?”

Your tongue wouldn’t move. Had he really just suggested …? 

“I mean, you wore jeans and boots, so I figured you were planning to take me up on Sarah’s offer.”

”Oh, yeah,” you said, shaking your head as the blood rushed to your face. “Sorry, I was just … yeah, a horseback ride would be wonderful.”

Joel swept the paperwork up. “Back in two jiffs,” he said. “I’ll just put this in the office and then we’ll get the horses ready.”

He ducked into a small room in the barn, then handed you a lead rope. You followed him to the pasture, where the horses were still nibbling at their hay. Joel opened the gate and walked inside, catching first the white horse, Guapo, and then a big strong looking bay horse. He took the lead rope from you and clipped it onto Guapo’s halter.

”He’s a sweetheart,” he said. “Just walk and he’ll go with you. Take him into the breezeway in the barn.”  

You were nervous. You’d never handled a horse before, but Guapo was just as gentle as Joel promised. He walked alongside you, his head bobbing with the rhythm of his hooves, which clip-clopped against the hard packed dirt and the concrete of the barn floor.

Joel soon followed with the bay horse. You watched as he tied both horses to rings set in the wall and gave them a quick brushing. Then he brought out the saddles, which he handled as if they weighed nothing. It was fascinating to watch him tack up the horses, moving gently but quickly as he got them ready for the ride. Soon they were both saddled and bridled and you started to feel nervous again.

Joel showed you how to lead Guapo by the cheek piece of his bridle. “Just walk him over to the mounting block,” he said. “He knows the drill.”

Sure enough, the white horse stood next to the set of wooden steps so that they were perfectly aligned with his saddle. Joel smiled at you as he took the reins just under Guapo’s chin. “You okay to get on by yourself?”

”I think so,” you said. “It’s been years since I rode a horse.”

”Just remember, left foot in the stirrup, then hop up and swing the right leg over.” You felt incredibly exposed as you fumbled your way into the saddle. If you hadn’t felt Joel’s eyes on you the whole time, it would have been easier.

Once you were in the saddle, Joel led Guapo forward a few steps and then took your ankle in his hand. “Slip your foot out,” he said quietly. “I need to adjust the stirrups.” He pushed your leg forward so that your foot was on Guapo’s shoulder, then tugged at the leather straps. When he was done, he grabbed your foot and put it back into the stirrup. His hands were big and strong. He nodded and then went around the other side to adjust the right stirrup. Being man-handled, even so gently, was making you very aware of your body. You shifted in the saddle, glad your jeans were thick enough to hide the dampness that was spreading through your panties.

Once Joel was satisfied that your stirrups were good, he fetched the bay horse from the barn and swung into the saddle with a grunt that made your insides clench. “I’m supposed to use the mounting block,” he said, “‘cause of my back, but just don’t tell Sarah, okay?”

You nodded. “Okay, remember, hold the reins in your left hand, just above the saddle horn. Keep your fist up, like you're gonna do a thumbs up. Steer him like using a joystick on one of those old Atari games. Move your hand to the right to go right, left to go left, back toward your belly to stop or slow down. And sit back in the saddle when you ask him to stop. All right, let’s go.”

He tapped his heels against the bay horse’s sides and they walked off. Guapo followed behind after you gave him a gentle tap. It was a different world from up on a horse’s back. You could feel Guapo’s muscles moving beneath the saddle, hear his breathing and snorts as the other horse kicked up dust in his face, and the creaking of the saddle leather. 

“Wow, this is so cool,” you said. 

“This is nothing,” Joel said over his shoulder. “This is just a pony ride. You get good enough, there’s a place down by the river where the sand is level and smooth and you can gallop. Talk about a real cowgirl experience. Ah, shit, that didn’t sound right, I’m sorry.”

You laughed. “I know what you meant. And either way, it sounds amazing.” You felt the blood rush to your face again as the words popped out of your mouth. You hadn’t meant to flirt so hard. This was technically still a business transaction, after all.

Joel laughed heartily. “Yeah, it does, doesn’t it?” His eyes skimmed over your body once again. “You look good on a horse. Not everyone does.”

”Thanks,” you said. “So do you.”

The trail widened out and Joel pulled his horse back so that you were riding side by side. “You know, Sarah would kill me if I didn’t take the opportunity to ask you out. After the party, of course.”

”Of course,” you said. “And she’d probably kill me if I didn’t say yes. I mean, how often does someone literally bring you a white horse?”

”Gray,” Joel said. “Guapo’s not white, he’s gray.” He shook his head. “Shit, sorry, I’m used to teaching the kids about how white horses are really rare and most of the ones you see that look white are really grays … and I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

”Yeah, but it’s adorable,” you said. “Makes me feel a little less awkward myself.”

You rode in silence for a moment. “Can I ask you something?”

”Sure,” Joel said.

”Why’s he named Guapo? I mean he’s not ugly or anything but he’s certainly not Trigger or the Black Stallion, is he?”

Joel smiled. “Louis went to the horse auction to get some ponies. Saw this fellow in the pen and he looked like hell. Skinny, had a skin rash, just messed up. Knew he’d end up with the kill buyers, so he bought him. Everyone teased him about buying an ugly horse, but his assistant, Reynaldo, stood up for him. He said ‘Don’t let them laugh at you, you’re muy guapo, my friend.’ And it turns out, after they got him cleaned up and fed and everything, they checked his lip tattoo and he’s a Thoroughbred. Ran thirty races in his career and won three. Even was in a stakes over at Sam Houston when he was three. Finished up the track, but at least he had a shot at glory.”

”Wow, you were a racehorse?” You leaned forward to pat Guapo’s neck. He flicked an ear back at you. “He’s so gentle.”

”Smart horses, Thoroughbreds,” Joel said. “King here, he’s half quarter horse, half Andalusian. Talk about smart.” He patted the bay horse on the neck. “But he needs an experienced rider. Guapo knows how to take care of a beginner. King would just take advantage of them.”

You chatted back and forth as the horses walked down the trail. Joel was relaxed, sitting his horse easily, his eyes crinkled against the sun. You could have looked at him all day. And the way his hips moved with the rhythm of King’s stride … 

Eventually, Joel glanced at his watch. “Better head back,” he said with a sigh. “Sarah will be getting home from school any minute and if she has to do more than her fair share of the barn chores I’ll get an earful.” 

He turned King around and headed back up the trail. Guapo followed suit and before you knew it, both horses were trotting, eager to get home. Joel hardly moved in his saddle, but you were jolting all over the place.

”Ouch! How do you stay sitting down when they do this?”

Joel laughed mischievously. “Well, it helps that King’s got that smooth Quarter Horse jog,” he said. “Guapo was taught two speeds: walk and run. Off track Thoroughbreds have a real rough trot. Probably should have warned you.” He reined King back to a walk and Guapo dropped back into a less bone-jolting gait as well. 

“Thought I was going to fall off for a second there,” you said. 

“You were bouncing around quite a bit,” Joel admitted, although from the look on his face, he hadn’t minded watching you jiggle. 

“You did that on purpose,” you realized. 

“Had to give you the full cowgirl experience,” he said with a wink. You had reached the narrow beginning of the trail again, and he pulled King in front of Guapo, so you only had a view of his back, but you were certain he was smirking. You didn’t mind too much, though; the view was worth any amount of teasing you had to endure. Joel Miller had a mighty fine seat.

***************************************************

Sarah was leaning smugly against the side of the barn when you rode up. “Trying to stick me with all the chores while you’re off having fun, huh, Dad?”

”If I recall, it was your idea I take her out for a ride,” he said, swinging easily off King’s back. Sarah took the reins and led the bay toward the barn. Joel came and stood next to Guapo’s shoulder. 

”You need any help getting down?”

”I think I can manage,” you said. You weren’t as graceful as he was, though, and stumbled a bit as your left foot caught in the stirrup on the way down. Joel’s hands were there to steady you.

”Kick both feet clear before you get off next time, then you won’t have that problem,” he said gently. “But otherwise, I’d give it a seven.” His hands were warm against your arms.

”Ah, geez, Mr. M, there’s kids here.”

Joel rolled his eyes. “Ellie, what the hell are you doing here?”

You both turned to see another girl leaning against the barn. She was around Sarah’s age, her brown hair pulled back in an untidy pony tail and a defiant smirk on her face.

”Sarah invited me,” she said. “Said you were making chili for dinner and you know they don’t feed me at that place.”

”That is one hundred percent grade A bullshit,” Joel said. “I know for a fact that Mrs. Morales is a great cook. She brings stuff to the PTA meetings all the time and we all fight over it.”

Ellie shrugged. “Exactly. All us kids have to fight over it, too. At least around here there’s only two other people I have to compete with.” Her eyes narrowed at you. “Maybe three, huh?”

”She’s not staying for dinner,” Joel said. “Unless you want to …?”

”Thank you, but I should probably get going. I left work early today and there’s some stuff I need to take care of before I go in tomorrow.” If it had just been him and Sarah, you would have said yes in a heartbeat. 

Sarah came back out of the barn and took Guapo’s reins. “Way to just stand there, Ellie,” she said. “You could have helped.”

”I thought I was a guest,” Ellie whined, as she followed Sarah and Guapo into the barn.

”It’s still polite to offer help,” Sarah said.

”Sorry, I wasn’t raised in a barn like some people,” Ellie replied.

Joel shook his head. “Those two. Ellie’s in foster care. Nice family but poor kid’s been bounced around so much she keeps a wall up. She likes Sarah, though. And she’d never admit it, but she loves the ponies. Caught her braiding flowers into Sebastian’s mane one day.”

He walked you back to your car. “So, I guess I’ll see you on the day of the party.” He shuffled his boots in the gravel. 

“Yeah, I guess so,” you replied. “Um, thanks again for the ride. I had a lot of fun. Although my backside might have another opinion by the time I get home.” You rubbed at the seat of your jeans.

”You and your backside are welcome any time,” he said. “And I meant it about that date after the party. We’ll go somewhere nice, I promise. You won’t have to wear jeans.”

”Anywhere is fine if it’s with you,” you said without thinking. “I mean … I’m not fussy. I don’t expect a first date to be …”

Joel ducked his head and smiled. “I hear ya,” he said. “I just want it to be special because I think you’re pretty special. I mean, doing all this for your niece … you’re a good aunt.”

”Just kiss her already,” Ellie yelled from the barn. “There’s barn chores to do, Mr. M!”

Joel shook his head. “I swear, if that kid hadn’t already had such a rough life …” He leaned forward and kissed you on the cheek. “That’s an IOU for a real kiss. Once you’re no longer a customer.”

”I expect full payment on that,” you said. “I’ll see you at the party.”

You got into your car and pulled out. Joel stood watching you drive away and you got butterflies in your stomach. Maybe this whole party thing was turning out to be more of a present for yourself than for Ashley.

*************************************************************

The morning of the party was pure chaos. Ashley couldn’t decide which princess dress to wear, the baby was fussy, your brother-in-law had a cold and was sneezing his head off, and your sister was about ready to break down in tears.

”I’ve got this,” you said as soon as you arrived at their house. “Ashley, why don’t you wear the purple dress? It’ll match your cake. And you can wear your jeans underneath so it’ll be more comfortable riding the ponies.” You took Jacob and started to bounce him up and down. “Sis, go get yourself ready.” You turned to your brother-in-law. “And you, go take a dose of DayQuil and then sit down and rest.”

Eventually, everyone was in the minivan and ready to go. You volunteered to drive, since you knew the way. Your sister sat in the passenger seat beside you.

”Thank you again for planning all this,” she said. “I know it was a lot of work, but Ashley is so excited to ride the ponies.”

”Well, it wasn’t all that hard,” you admitted. “Joel’s got a really nice set up and he took care of all the details. All I have to do is show up and pay the bill.”

”You like him, don’t you? I can tell by the way your face lights up when you talk about him. And you’ve been talking about him an awful lot for someone you’re doing business with.” She winked.

”I do like him,” you said. “We’re going to go out soon. After the party is over, when I’m not a client anymore.”

”Good for you. You deserve it.”

You were the first car to arrive, which made you sigh with relief. Sarah waved at you from the barn. “Welcome! Is this the birthday girl?”

”It is,” you said, leading Ashley over while your sister and brother-in-law got Jacob out of his car seat. “Ashley, this is Sarah. Her daddy owns this place.”

”Lady Sarah Miller at your service, Your Majesty,” Sarah said with a curtsy. “You’re the princess today, so let’s get your crown!” 

She led you through the barn and both you and Ashley gasped when you saw the party area. There were pink and purple streamers and balloons hanging from the roof and every table had a runner of white butcher paper and several small buckets of crayons. A big gold painted armchair sat at the end of the table closest to the gift table. It was draped with purple cloth and a glittery plastic crown sat on a purple cushion.

”This is your throne,” Sarah said. “Because it’s your special day and you’re the princess, you get to sit in the best seat in the house.” She helped Ashley put on the crown and secure it to her hair with bobby pins. 

“And now, before your guests arrive, let’s meet your unicorn!”

Joel appeared, leading a white pony with a golden horn attached to its forehead. Its mane had been dyed all the colors of the rainbow. “This is Alabaster,” he said gently, crouching down to Ashley’s level. “She’s a very special unicorn and she only comes to visit the farm on days when there’s a princess here. So we’re lucky you came.”

Ashley fell in love with Alabaster and immediately started petting her. Sarah showed her how to offer carrots on a flat palm so that Alabaster couldn’t accidentally nip her. “Unicorns love carrots,” Sarah said. “They’re like candy to them, so sometimes they get a little bit greedy, just like we do. So we have to be careful they don’t hurt us with their magical teeth.”

You turned to Joel. “This is beautiful,” you said. “She’s going to remember this day for the rest of her life. Thank you.”

”Just doin’ my job,” Joel said. “Although we did throw in a few extra touches special for Ashley. And there’s one more surprise just for you.” He gestured for you to follow him. Around the side of the barn stood Guapo, his mane braided with flowers and a silvery unicorn horn parting his forelock. “Sarah and Ellie thought you might enjoy a unicorn of your own. Ellie did the mane, believe it or not.”

“Oh, Joel, he’s … he’s beautiful.” You stroked Guapo’s face. The gelding looked a bit embarrassed to be all gussied up, but he leaned into your hand. “But you know a real unicorn can only be tamed by a maiden fair. And it’s been a long time since I was a maiden, if you know what I mean.”

Joel grinned. “Well, Guapo’s a special kind of unicorn. He doesn’t care about all that. He just looks for a woman who’s pure of heart, the kind of woman who would go to great lengths to give her niece a special birthday.”  He laid his hand on Guapo’s face, his fingers just brushing against yours. “And as his human sponsor, I for one have no use for fair maidens.” His voice lowered. “I like my ladies a bit more experienced.”

”Oh, I know how to ride,” you said. “Guapo can tell you that.”

“Well, there’s a difference between what Guapo and I expect on a ride,” he said. “But we can talk about that later. Right now, we’ve got a pony party to put on!”

********************************************************************

”Damn, girl, you weren’t kidding when you said you knew how to ride,” Joel said, his hands digging into your hips. You were straddling him, his cock buried deep within you, chasing your second orgasm of the night. 

“Helps if you have a good mount,” you said. “One who’s well trained, knows what he’s doing, and listens to your cues.” You worked your hips against him, inching ever closer to a climax.

Joel bucked under you. “Helps the mount if the rider is good,” he panted. “Gotta work as a team.”

You’d had dinner at a local Italian restaurant and then had gone back to his place. Sarah was spending the night with a friend, so you had the whole house to yourselves. 

Your body stiffened as you tipped over the edge, and Joel soon followed you, giving one final thrust as he spent himself inside you. “Hot damn,” he said, as you slid off of him, careful not to disturb the condom. “I don’t normally do this on a first date, you know.”

You flopped down beside him. “Neither do I,” you said. “But with Sarah out of the house it was too good an opportunity to pass up, don’t you think?”

He disposed of the condom and brought a washcloth from the bathroom. After you had cleaned yourselves up, he gently held your chin. “I like you,” he said seriously. “Sarah likes you. The horses like you. I think … maybe we can make this work.”

”So do I,” you said. “I want to try, as least.”

”Guapo’s a good judge of character,” he said.

”Unicorns usually are.”

#joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller the last of us #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #horses #ponies #unicorns #the last of us AU

[jerzwriter]

The Big ONE

Happy Birthday to little Samantha, who turned one on April 20th!

I asked @/artbyainna (IG) to help create artwork to commemorate the special occasion, and I'm simply squealing at the results! While Tobias and Casey are captivated with their little angel, Pietro is all too happy to jump in and get a bit of that cake he's been eyeing all afternoon! I'm just blown away by this!

I wrote a fic highlighting a few moments during Sammy's big day below. I hope you enjoy the sugary sweetness as much as I do!

Book: Open Heart Pairing: Tobias Carrick x Casey Carrick (F!MC) Characters: Vivian Carrick (F!OC), Jordan Carrick (M!OC), Rose and David MacTavish (OCs), the OH gang, and of course, Pietro - the original cat. Rating: Teen Words: 1,700 A/N: @choicesaprilchallenge24 / Kitchen Table

Standing at her kitchen sink didn't typically usher in so much joy, but then, today wasn't any ordinary day. Casey's heart was full as she peered out the kitchen window into her backyard. It was tiny by suburban standards, but in Boston, it may as well have been an acre. The storms that had been forecasted earlier in the week held off, and the bright sun and azure blue skies provided the perfect canopy for their guests who came to celebrate.

The telltale rattle of the backdoor handle interrupted the silence, and Casey turned to find her husband coming inside. He looked so gorgeous in the fitted pink shirt he bought just for this occasion that she didn't initially catch his expression. Was it bewilderment? Vexation? She couldn't quite make it out.

He reached into the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of Sam Adams. Popping the cap off, he leaned against the counter and shook his head.

"I can't believe there's a freaking petting zoo in my yard."

Casey chuckled as she closed the distance between them, her head coming to rest on his shoulder as her arms encircled his waist.

"It’s not like you weren’t warned... albeit inadvertently.”

“Still...” he sighed.

“You know, from what I’ve heard, this place was a perpetual petting zoo in the past. Of course, it wasn’t the G-rated type, but even so... this shouldn't be so foreign to you.”

She closed her eyes and pressed closer against him, relishing the way his chest reverberated against her as he laughed.

“While the stories of my past can be a bit on the wild side, they tend to be overexaggerated, my dear.”  

Casey squeezed him tighter. “I can’t believe our baby girl is a year old already.”

“I know,” Tobias replied with amazement. “It all went by in a flash.”

“It did,” Casey agreed. “Although, some of the nights felt like they lasted an eternity. Especially in the beginning. God, sometimes I didn’t think I’d survive.”

“You?” Tobias marveled. “No way! You had the whole motherhood thing down pat from the start. You're a natural, babe.”

“A natural?” She laughed. “Are you kidding me? From the moment I found out I was pregnant, I was a hyperventilating mess!" Her hands rubbed along the silky fabric covering his chest, and her voice filled with emotion. “If not for your bright outlook and constant support, I wouldn’t have been able to do it. You’re my rock, T.”

The tender moment was interrupted when the door handle rattled again, and several of their friends stepped inside.

“Jesus!” Jackie groaned. “Do you two ever stop with that lovey-dovey shit?”

“Aw! Leave them alone!” Sienna smiled. “I think they’re adorable.”

“I might be more accepting of that adorable title if it was any random day,” Bryce interjected. “But what the hell are you doing inside with this kissy face crap when you have a freaking petting zoo and bouncy house in your yard?”

“Yeah,” Tobias chuckled. “Ma didn’t read the memo when we said we wanted a simple party with our friends."

“She also didn’t get that none of our friends have children, and Sammy’s too young for friends of her own... I don’t know that we needed all this.”

“Are you kidding?” Bryce gasped in horror. Vivian is a goddess! I’ve been in the bouncy house for the past hour, and that little wallaby out there is now my best friend. You two really need to come out.”

“Oh, I will so be in the bouncy house before this day is over!” Casey enthused.

“And I’ll be there to gleefully record every second,” Tobias winked. “But we’re going to set up to have the cake in here now.”

A peal of laughter wafted in through the open window, and everyone looked outside to see Sammy flying through the air—her face aglow as she giggled with abandon.

“Give her back to me!” Tobias’s brother, Jordan, insisted as Ethan swung the little one around again.

“Sorry,” Ethan responded. “She’s made her position clear. I’m her favorite uncle. You’ll just have to acclimate to being number two, Jordan.”

“Number two,” Bryce blurted as he was about to stick his hand into the nacho dip. “He’s not number two! And Ethan’s not number one! Sorry guys, I have to get out there and reclaim my ground!”

Jackie heaved out a sigh. “I suppose I should go supervise the children.”

“And I’ll make sure she doesn’t hurt anyone,” Sienna said, quick on her friend's heels.

Tobias slid behind Casey, wrapping his strong arms around her as they watched the joyful scene unfolding outside.

“Oh, no! Our parents are getting in on this now,” Casey observed as Tobias kissed her shoulder. “We better go retrieve Sammy before she's more spoiled than she is already."

"Nah," Tobias declined. "She's in very good hands, and I want just one more moment alone with my beautiful wife."

Casey turned around in Tobias's arms and gently kissed him, but he turned that little kiss into one with decidedly more passion.

"Keep that up, and we'll end up with baby number two," she giggled.

"Damn, she's on to my plan," he winked.

~~~~

A short time later, the circus had moved inside as the guests crowded into the family's living room to open gifts.

“I was told we were coming inside for cake,” Bryce pouted. 

Vivian, seated next to him, promptly slapped his knee.

“OW!”

“It’s presents before cake, Lahela. Everyone knows that.”

“I don’t think Sammy would mind either way,” he replied but acquiesced when he saw how happy the little girl was ripping into the gift wrap on her presents.

“Look!” Sienna said, tapping Casey’s Mom, Rose, on the shoulder. “She loves the stuffed pony you got her!”

“She does,” Rose beamed. “Although Grandma Vivian supplied the real pony in the yard!”

“Yeah,” Casey’s father, David, laughed. “We’ll have to up our game next year, hon. Vivian here is stealing our thunder.”

“NO!” Tobias and Casey yelled in unison.

“Don’t worry,” Tobias insisted. “My mother is going to be banished from next year’s celebration! We can have some normalcy.”

“Like hell I will be!” she spat as Jordan roared with laughter.

“Please, you have a better chance of Derek Jeter being elected mayor of Boston than you do of Ma missing any of Sammy’s birthdays.”

“That’s right! This fool made me wait almost four decades to be a grandma, I'm not missing any of it now!"

Tobias wrapped his arm around his mother’s shoulders and squeezed her close. “I know you wouldn’t, Ma. And we wouldn't want you to, but... can we celebrate without so many animals next year?”

“I don’t know,” Vivian smirked. “I think it would be wrong not to include your friends.”

~~~~~

A pile of opened gifts sat stacked neatly in the corner as little Pietro played happily with the bits of colorful gift wrap that remained taped to the boxes. But the cat wasn’t the only one excited; after all, it was finally time for CAKE!

“Casey, you look great!” Jordan stated. “But, Tobias, I need you to move a bit to the right.”

“For God's sake,” Tobias groused. “Can you just take the picture already?"

“Can we start singing?” Vivian asked. "I want to sing to my grandbaby."

“As soon as I get this picture,” Jordan replied. “All right! Casey, Tobias... perfect! Now, everyone, help me get Sammy to look this way.”

Everyone gathered behind Jordan, making faces, clapping their hands, and doing all they could to get the precious little girl to look their way. But Sammy only had eyes for one thing... the fluffy pink birthday cake that was just outside of her reach. That is until her feline best friend hopped on the table, stealing her attention and leaving her squealing with delight.

Casey lifted him, placing him gently back on the floor. “Not on the table, Pietro.”

“Yeah!” Jackie replied smugly. “No cake for you.”

The cat hissed at his nemesis as the clamoring to get Sammy to look at the camera continued.

“Oh, for the love of God,” Tobias bewailed. “Can you just take the picture!”

“I sure can,” Jordan nodded. “On the count of three! One... two... three!”

But just as her uncle snapped the photo, Sammy lurched forward and grabbed a fistful of the cotton candy colored icing, and when Tobias attempted to intervene, he ended up with a tiny fistful of sticky, sugary goodness splattered onto his face. A family photo that would be celebrated for generations to come was born.

Beaming, Tobias lifted Sammy off Casey’s lap as her chubby little hands mashed the icing deeper into her father’s beard.

Laughing, Casey pulled her phone out of her pocket to snap some shots of her own. “Our little girl has you wrapped around her finger, T!”

Tobias reached over and pulled Casey close; the sticky icing became a family affair when he kissed her cheek. “She sure does. Just like her, Momma!”

Amidst all the chaos, Pietro saw an opportunity, and he took it! Leaping onto the table, he stuck his paws into the cake and delighted in his sugary bonanza until Casey spotted him out of the corner of her eye.

“Pietro! No!” she hollered as Jackie, the only one who had seen the cat on the table, broke out laughing.

“You saw him and didn’t rat him out?” Casey teased. "What's happened to you?"

Jackie merely shrugged. “You have to admire him. He wanted something, saw an opening, and took it. I’m not about to turn him in for that.”

"Are you and that cat... bonding?" Casey asked.

"I guess Sammy's birthday is capable of miracles."

~~~~~ 

Hours later, after the final guest had gone home, Casey and Tobias snuggled together on the couch. Sammy slept in her playpen just feet away while Pierto kept a protective watch over her. Despite being exhausted, the proud parents couldn’t wipe the grins off their faces.

“This was such a great day,” Casey smiled. “I knew it would be, but it exceeded all expectations.”

“It was a really great day,” Tobias agreed. “And I think Ma only violated three town ordinances by insisting a wallaby was included in the petting zoo."

“She didn’t break any ordinances,” Casey laughed, her eyes suddenly going wide. “At least, not any that we know of.”

“Well, if she did, we successfully evaded charges, and that's all I can ask for."

“Mmmm,” Casey hummed, snuggling closer to him. “So, do you still want to add another Carrick to all this craziness?”

Tobias sat up, his interest piqued. “Damn straight, I do. Honestly, I want our girls to be close together. Jordan and I had a big age difference, and I’d like Sammy to grow up with her sister, you know?”

“Tobias,” Casey chuckled. “You know we have no way of knowing if we'd have another girl!”

His eyes lit up, and that little dimple Casey found so irresistible took center stage. “Oh, yes, I do. Now the big question... are you ready to have bambina number two?”

Casey sunk back into the fluffy couch cushions with a smile. “Soon? Maybe we can start trying around the end of summer. You know, it might not happen right away, but if we start then, maybe Sammy can have a little sister... or brother... by the end of next year. What do you say?"

“First, sister,” Tobias grinned. “And it will happen right away. Look at how fast it happened with Sammy.”

“Babe, we weren’t planning on Sammy.”

“Exactly,” Tobias grinned, holding Casey close. "I work that damn well when we weren't even trying... you just wait until we are."

Sammy made a funny little noise, and when Mom and Dad realized she was just having a happy dream, they returned to holding each other close.

"Well, I feel a lot better right now than I did a year ago at this time," Casey stated. "I mean, a day of family and friends is a cakewalk next to labor and delivery."

"Yet, you're willing to do it again," Tobias chuckled.

"Yeah, I think I'll make it through," she smiled. "I love our little family, T."

"So do I," he said with a kiss on her forehead. "And I love you."

~~~~~

That's some serious sweetness here, my friends! I hope you enjoyed it... Pietro sure did!

@choicesficwriterscreations @choicesaprilchallenge24 @openheartfanfics

Tagging others separately.

#choices fanfic #choices fanart #open heart #open heart fanfic #open heart fanart #tobias carrick #tobias carrick x f!mc #samantha carrick #open heart choices #choices open heart #choices stories you play #playchoices

[copias-girl]

The Papas vs Technology Headcanons

Ask and you shall receive! @ivyanddaisies

Prompt here

Primo

Ok Peepaw has no use for social media or technology. He’s still marvelling at his vintage tube tv, because he’s old and he was around before the tv <3 And he’d literally rather send a raven with a message rather than text. You pushed him to give it a shot, and being the sweet elder goth that he is, he gave it the good old college try just for you. Alas, he grew frustrated easily. He kept having to whip out the reading glasses to read what was on the screen, and he couldn’t tell if that vibrating in his pocket was the iPhone or if he was having a seizure. Not to mention, he accidentally activated Siri on several occasions and he thought the spirit of a demon was speaking to him and apparently telling him the weather forecast. The only thing he really found a use for was the gardening stuff on Pinterest, but he has plenty of books in the library for that anyway. And as for nudes? He has a Polaroid camera for that. Our sweet old man much prefers the feeling of answering calls on his candlestick phone, and he’ll gladly leave the selfie-taking to you ♥︎

Secondo

Alright, Mr. Worldwide tries to be hip and cool, so he definitely owns the latest iPhone. However, he’s had to replace it several times because when he gets frustrated, that thing goes flying across the room. He tried to use the voice dictation one time and his entire text came out hilariously wrong so he threw his phone out of one of the ministry windows. He texts with one finger like an old man, never uses emojis (he calls them hieroglyphics), and he keeps telling you that he wants to “duck your brains out”. He genuinely tries to take selfies, and that can be hit or miss. Sometimes it’s a typical old man selfie where you can see all the way up his nose, but he did execute this fantastic shirtless selfie one time,,, Bone Daddy starts an Instagram where he makes a few adorably lame posts trying to be edgy and dark. But he mainly uses that to post selfies (ones you’ve taken of the both of you) to show you off. He loves when you send him dirty pictures and he’s also found that FaceTime is perfect for some,,, fun activities 👀

Terzo

Oh my god, the biggest social media whore. He’s only two months younger than Secondo, but he’s somehow overcome his oldness and mastered the art of the iPhone. He has an Instagram, where he posts pictures of the two of you on dates or in bed together covered in rose petals and lip prints. Dude even has Snapchat, where he updates his story with some chaotic videos every now and then. He can text with his thumbs, but he does make some really hilarious typos which are exceptionally frustrating when he’s trying to sext with you (this man demands nudes from you constantly). He actually knows what most emojis mean- he will literally text you the eggplant emoji next to everything 🍆- and only has to ask for your help to decipher some of them. He rubs it in his brothers’ faces as much as he can, calling them old men because they don’t know how to use tech as well as he does. And Secondo finds his use of emojis really irritating because he has no idea what the fuck ‘🤪😝🙃🫠🥴🙄🥸💀’ means

Copia

Oh, Copia. Sweet pitiful Copia. He tries, he really does, but this man has no idea how to use emojis. He types with one finger, makes plenty of typos, and always uses the rat emoji for no apparent reason. Also, he disperses emojis into sentences so his texts always read like this:

Ciao 👋🏻🐀 bella 😚 I am going 🔜 to feed 🧀 my rats 🐀 want to come 😀 with me?🤝🏻

He’s such a dork and you never ever correct him because it’s just too charming. His selfies are often painfully awkward, because he thinks that just staring dead-eyed into the camera and snapping the picture constitutes as a selfie. And he’ll post those on Insta too, sometimes with captions that he got off Pinterest. Or sometimes the captions will be about rats for literally no reason. However, he does make awfully sweet posts about you that have your heart melting when you read them. This sweet man LOVES when you send him naughty pictures and rile him up via text. It gives him a thrill and makes him feel so special. Copia also surprisingly uses Pinterest occasionally, because he finds it relaxing. He’s such a gentle soul, and he enjoys saving things about pet rats, aesthetic things that he’d like to show you later, or even some recipes that the two of you could cook together. However, he doesn’t use Pinterest correctly. He doesn’t pin things, he just screenshots them (because you taught him how to take a screenshot). So even though he isn’t the most religious social media user or the best at working technology, he tries and has a good time ♥︎

#my headcanons #thoughts about copia <3 #thoughts about papa <3 #copia my beloved #copia is my husband #ghost headcanon #the band ghost headcanons #ghost band headcanons #copia #secondo #papa secondo #terzo #papa terzo #primo #papa primo #popia #copia headcanons #ghost bc headcanons #secondo x reader #primo x reader #terzo x reader #copia x reader #papa i #papa ii #papa iii #papa iv #papa emeritus #popia copia #Cardinal copia #cardinal copia headcanons

[moni-logues]

Kintsugi 4

Pairing: Yoongi x reader

Genre: strangers-to-friends-to-lovers, non-idol!au, angst, smut, tiny bit of eventual fluff

Summary: In a fit of spiteful, post-break-up self-improvement, you sign up to a baking class. Yoongi, in a bid to appease his demanding girlfriend, signs up, too. Determined to make him your friend, you end up with more than you ever imagined.

Word count: 8.1k

Content: none! there is no content lmaooo nah there is just none that needs to be warned for, I don't think, so enjoy freely!!!!!

A/N: I know, I know, it's taken an age but here we are!! And I'm honestly kind of nervous to see how people react!!!! huge thank you to my betas @blog-name-idk @amethystwritesbts and @here2bbtstrash

Chapter Three | Masterlist | Chapter Five

Chapter Four – Someone Old, Someone New 

The message came in shortly after lunch. 

Mei.97: hey girl! Long time no see!!! I’m going to be in Seoul this week, pleeeeaaasse tell me you’re free for dinner tomorrow?!!? It’s been too long!!! Xxx 

You had to read the message twice to be sure you were reading it right. You hadn’t heard from Mei—an old university friend—since your first ‘breakdown’. You wondered what on earth she could want. But you weren’t in any position to be turning down an outreached hand. 

You: sure! It would be great to see you! 

A few months ago, that would have been a huge lie. Now, it was only a little one. You weren’t looking forward to having to smooth over the details of your breakdown, or your break-up, but you had been close as students and it would be easier with her—she moved back to Busan after graduating, so you could put a little bit of the blame for your losing contact on that, too. You knew you weren’t quite there yet, but you felt like you were healing, you were making progress; you sometimes even felt, on occasion, pretty good about life. And you wanted to share that.  

The first thing you heard upon walking into the bar you had suggested was the loud screech of your name. Then Mei was running over. You had barely even noticed her before she was wrapping her long arms around you in a huge hug. Her hair was as long and silky as it had ever been; she was still wearing the same perfume she always used to wear, and too much of it, as she always had; she looked almost exactly the same, except a little richer, a little chicer, like someone who had truly settled into themselves. She outshone the whole restaurant and looked as if she didn’t notice, as she always used to. The real world didn’t seem to have dimmed any of her at all. You were pleased with yourself that this didn’t make you completely sick with envy. 

“Girl, oh my god, it is so good to see you! You look amazing! I can’t believe it; you’ve barely changed! Love the hair, though,” she announced to basically the whole bar. 

You’d forgotten that she was possibly the only person in the world who was louder and talked more than you did. You’d forgotten how much you liked her. You had no need to be nervous, you realised, because it would never occur to her to judge someone; she just wasn’t that sort of person because she wouldn’t even have the time for it. She was more than just a rolling stone: this rolling stone had an engine and jet fuel. 

“I ordered a bottle of wine because I wasn’t sure if you were still into the same drinks and I figured, wine is a safe option, right? You want some?” she asked but she was already pouring into your glass. “Tell me everything, babe. It has been so long. What is up?” 

You took a deep breath. Where to start? 

* 

You marvelled at how painless the night had been. It was fun. Somehow, despite all the discussion you’d had about your life since university, your life now, it wasn’t painful. Not really. Mei was single, too, and courting every man in Busan before her parents tightened the screws on her to settle down. She was enjoying working for the family business (if a corporation can be called merely a ‘business’). She was earning a salary that made you wince and made her promise dinner was on her. You were doing reasonably well in your career, too, actually. You were earning enough to live in Seoul on your own. Things weren’t perfect, but Mei was such a positive and enthusiastic steam-roller that she made you feel like you were thriving, not wilting. She was exactly what you needed.  

You were just wishing that she didn’t have to leave Seoul, that she could move and stay forever when she took her ice-cream spoon from her mouth and looked sheepishly at her empty bowl. 

“I have a confession to make,” she began. “I had a teeny ulterior motive for asking you to dinner.” 

Your stomach lurched. 

“Oh?” 

“You remember my cousin Sungbin? He came to visit that time at uni?” 

“The one we had to carry back to your room?” 

“You mean the one we had to find someone else to carry back to my room?” 

“Yes!” You laughed. “Yes, I remember! How could I forget?” 

He was a sweet, tall drink of water who accepted every shot and drink foisted on him by his cousin and her friends until he passed out in the bar. You and Mei had dragged him through the streets of Hongdae asking every passerby if they could help you get him home. You didn’t remember who actually helped or much of the rest of the night, but that arduous 100-meter drag was almost as painful as your hangover had been the following day. 

“What about him?” 

“Ok, so my uncle is retiring, right? He’s still going to be on the board but he’s retiring from his actual position so, of course, Sungbin, oldest son, he’s got to step up. He's moving to the big city, girl! Taking up a position at the HQ here. My ulterior motive is me asking you a huge favour.” 

“What’s the favour?” 

“He doesn’t know anyone here, right? Never lived here before. Would you maybe like, take him out for drinks or lunch or something – super casual, no big deal! – just so he’s got a friendly face? Give him some recommendations for stuff, I don’t know, just so he doesn’t feel overwhelmed and on his own?” 

You didn’t really know how to feel about it. Of course, you would. Of course, you would be happy to take Sungbin out, show him around, help him if he needed. You felt flattered that Mei would even ask you, that she thought you would be up to the job. That she thought of you at all, to be honest. Had you not just been thinking that you needed new friends? And now one was landing straight in your lap.  

It all felt a little too good to be true. It was too easy. Things had been too easy recently; this was just too much good, surely? You weren’t used to this. It felt wrong. Made you anxious. And, usually, that anxiety made you make things worse all on your own. But your therapist had told you to stop looking for the bad, to trust the good, appreciate its presence. You could do that. Right? You could do that. 

“Yeah, sure! Of course, I can take him out.” 

Mei dramatically fell to the table in relief and held tight to both your arms. 

“You are an angel! Thank you! Here’s the bad part, though: any chance you can do it tomorrow? I’m leaving in the morning and he’s going to be on his own for the first time since moving-” 

“Oh, he’s already here?” 

“Yeah! That’s why I’m here, girly! I helped him move! Any chance you’re free tomorrow?” 

You didn’t know how to say yes without letting her know that you were the sort of person who had no plans at the weekend but you didn’t want to say no because you were the sort of person who had no plans, and it would be nice to get out of the apartment. You did not look into the fact that she was asking you this last-minute, assuming you would have no plans already. You shrugged. 

“Yeah, I can do drinks or something tomorrow night?” 

“Babe, you are my favourite person in this whole world. I’m going to give you his number; just text him. He doesn’t know anyone here so he literally has nothing better to do and I’ve already told him I’d put you guys in touch.” 

From anyone else, that might have prickled a little; the assumptions might have rubbed you the wrong way, but Mei was relentlessly optimistic, having never had any real hardship in her life (she would admit to this, too), so she had never had any reason to believe that things wouldn’t go the way she expected. Far from wanting to burst her bubble, you wanted to protect her naivety. Because you wished you could have it, too.  

As you walked and subwayed and walked home, you thought about Mei and her life, and your life, and how different things could be. You wondered who you would be if you weren’t so broken, if your head could just have got its shit together—rather, if your head had never gone to shit in the first place. Would you have been like Mei? Would life have found another way to break you? Were things destined or was everyone, including the universe, just making things up as they went along?  

Could you ever be like Mei? Was anyone like her? Did she have secret pain?  

It wasn’t lost on you, the possibility that she wasn’t as happy-go-lucky as she seemed. The shock and surprise of everyone you knew when you ended up in hospital was almost the worst part. If you never heard someone say ‘I had no idea!’ again, it would be too soon. You thought about it a lot, how normal you were (or weren’t). You couldn’t believe that everyone else went through life not thinking the things you thought, that everyone else was somehow just able to get on with things without the sometimes-debilitating urge to sink into the floor forever. 

You shook your head, because you knew you weren’t supposed to be thinking like this. You’d had a really fun time with an old friend and you were going to have a really fun time tomorrow with a new friend. That was all. There was no need to ruin it by overthinking and second-guessing.  

You tapped a finger nervously on the bar as you sat on your stool. You used to come here a lot, or at least semi-frequently, but you hadn’t ventured into this part of the city since you moved out of the apartment you had shared with your ex. He got the apartment, so he got the neighbourhood, too.  

You couldn’t really miss it, not on its own, because your life had changed dramatically after the break-up: you moved somewhere else, lost most of your friends, and stopped going out. This was really the only ‘out’ that you knew. And, crucially, it was close enough to Sungbin to become his neighbourhood, too. So here you were, tapping at the bar, staring at the door, trying not to gulp your drink and be drunk before he even arrived.  

It was bright and hot and humid. It had rained solidly for three days and the water still hung in the air, clung to your skin, even as the sun tried its best to burn it away. You pressed your palm against your cold glass and tried to will yourself cooler without success. You already felt sticky with sweat and you didn’t know if that was entirely down to the weather, or if your nerves were also to blame.  

You knew you didn’t have to be so nervous. What was the worst that could happen? Taehyung had, very patiently, talked you through it: all possible outcomes, all likely scenarios, best- and worst-case situations; he had reminded you that you were an adult human being who knew how to speak to other people. You did. You did know. But it had been a very long time since you had been in this situation. It wasn’t a date. Obviously, it wasn’t a date, but it was the closest you had got to one for many years; you were meeting a man, in a bar, alone. You didn’t know each other; you were hoping he would like you.  

You took another gulp of your drink and repeated Taehyung’s words back to yourself. You reminded yourself of how good things were, ran through your gratitude list, tried to persuade yourself not to psych yourself out before the date (it was not a date! NOT. A. DATE.) had even begun. 

You had turned from the door, realising how awkward it might be for you to have to stare at each other as he walked towards you and were now just glancing over your shoulder every single time you heard the door open. To stop it being awkward. You had done well to pace yourself and it was as you lifted your glass to your lips for another sip that you heard someone call your name. You turned and came face to face with a man you knew could not be Sungbin. 

“Hi,” he said somewhat awkwardly as you continued to drink. “I don’t know if you remember me but I’m Mei’s cousin, Sungbin.” 

You gasped as you drank and it all came out in a choke and a splutter and you were blushing and fumbling to put your glass down, find a napkin, rewind time by ten seconds. The napkin came from his hand and you took your time drying your face and hands to try to will your blushes away. You were so embarrassed you could barely look at him.  

And there was so much of him to look at. This was not tiny, tall drink of water Sungbin from your university days. He was huge. He must have grown at least six inches taller, not to mention wider. His biceps were the size of thighs and his thighs were almost bursting out of his skinny jeans. You didn’t know where to look. 

“You can’t be Sungbin!” you cried. “You’ve got to be the guy that ate him!” 

He laughed and tugged at his hair a little self-consciously. 

“Yeah, I guess I’ve grown a bit.” 

“A bit!  You’re... You’re a hulk!”  

You were off your stool and gripping his bicep before he’d even finished the sentence—your fingertips didn’t even come close to touching. You were gawking, gaping, ogling this poor man without an attempt to hide it. You gestured broadly to his entire body with your other hand and only when you looked back up did you notice the blush on his face, the awkward way he averted his gaze. You stood back and gasped again, this time without choking. 

“I’m so sorry,” you told him. “Oh my god, that was so rude of me. I’m so sorry! What a dickhead! This is a terrible first impression for me to be making!” 

“Technically, not a first impression; we have met before.” He chuckled awkwardly. “And I didn’t exactly cover myself in glory then; I was, uh, a little worse for wear, I think.” 

“A little?! We were worse for wear; you were... the worst for wear! I’m amazed you survived.” 

“The joys of youth. Not sure I’d survive doing it now, just in case you had any ideas.” 

“Mei and I could barely get you home then, there is no way on God’s green earth I’d be able to carry you home by myself now! I wouldn’t risk it.” 

“So, we’re agreed then: both getting home in one piece?” 

You lifted your glass. 

“I’ll drink to that!”  

*  

You moved from one bar to the next, almost retracing steps you used to take in what felt like your former life. Sungbin paid great attention to where you were going and what else was around, cataloguing his new area, making notes for his new life. Your nerves were long gone, as were his, and you were enjoying a night out with a relative stranger as if you were a real person who did things like this: a real person who made new friends, who went out at the weekend, who had a proper life again. You had to pinch yourself to make sure this was all really happening, that this was all really going well. Your problems felt miles away, lightyears. You wondered if this is what it felt like to be normal. Whole. Fixed. You made a mental note to tell your therapist. 

You were on a roof terrace, carpeted with fake grass, decorated with fake flowers. Everything was clean and bright and the sun was still high in the summer sky. It was still a little too warm and a little too sticky, your glasses sweating as well as your bodies, but the lightest of breezes lifted the ends of your hair every now and then, and you couldn’t have imagined a more comfortable feeling than the soft rush of wind across your hot skin. You took seats under a white, wooden pergola where the sunlight was dappled through the fronds twisted along the frame.  

This heat usually enervated you, made you lethargic and sloth-like. That night, though, sitting under fake foliage, you felt solar-powered. There was a summer spring in your step. You felt, dare you believe it, like you were glowing. Like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon. A brand new thing. A better thing. Being here, an old place, with Sungbin, a new friend, could have felt awkward, uncomfortable, like trying to fit a square peg in a round hole—you had expected it to—but no. You felt bigger and brighter, not smaller and duller. You were conscious of the possibility of your old life encroaching on your new one, the possibility of running into someone you used to know, but you decided to push those thoughts away. Compartmentalise them. Ignore them. You didn’t need them.  

Sungbin was talking about his ex. It was an awkward break-up; they’d not been together long enough for her to move to Seoul with him, or for him to even ask her to, but it had been long enough that it felt significant, felt like throwing something away when they ended things. But he was young and he wasn’t worried. You didn’t say it out loud but you thought to yourself that a man like him surely would never have to worry: looking like he did, having the position he had, being a sweet, polite kind of guy; women would be queueing up for even a chance with him.  

“I don’t really miss her that much, because there’s so much going on here that I haven’t really even had the time to. That, if nothing else, tells me it was the right decision for us.” 

The words reached your ears but didn’t go in. You could feel your heart pounding hard in your chest and sweat begin to prick in your palms. Your eyes had flicked over the crowd in front of you, people walking in and out, to and from the bar, looking for tables, looking for friends. They had skimmed over the faces of strangers until they hit upon someone familiar. The face had immediately disappeared back into the crowd, but you were sure it was him. It had to be. Why else would your whole body have gone into panic mode? Why else would your legs be like jelly? Why else would your fingers feel numb? A quiet ringing grew louder in your ears and you kept looking for him again, waiting for that dark head above a white shirt to break through the crowd again. You had to be sure it was him. 

“Are you ok?” 

You wanted to stand. You had to stand and get a better view. You wished it weren’t so busy. Why did it have to be a Saturday night? Why were all these people out?  

“Are you ok?” 

A touch on your arm drew you back and your head span to Sungbin. He looked confused, concerned. 

“I think I saw my ex,” you told him, your voice hoarse.  

“Ah. A bad break-up?” 

Your eyes had already gone back to the crowd, scanning and searching.  

FUCK. 

It was him. It really was him. It had to be. It couldn’t be.  

“Yeah, no, I don’t know,” you answered vaguely. 

You were still staring at him and then his eyes flicked to yours and you flinched so hard you almost knocked over your glass. You turned away, turned back; he looked as surprised as you were. He looked unsure. He looked like he was walking over to you. 

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,” you said under your breath, looking at the table, trying to work out how on earth you were going to handle this. You wondered, if you thought hard enough, if you would be able to make yourself disappear. You wondered if you could just run: leg it out of the bar as fast as you could and not look back. You felt dizzy. You felt sick. You felt... drunk. Too drunk. Of all the places and all the times you might have imagined seeing him again, this wasn’t one. This would probably be the very last place you’d have chosen to run into him.  

Sungbin’s hand was back on your arm, less tentative now. He scooted his chair closer to yours. His hand slid down your wrist and he tangled his fingers in yours. You could only look at him; you didn’t have the mental capacity to even form the question in your mind. 

“Don’t worry,” came his reply. “I got you.”  

Then he winked.  

“Hi.” 

You looked up and there he was. San. Just as he always had been. Maybe his hair was a little shorter, you could kid yourself there was an extra line or two on his face. But it was him, no denying. 

“Hi,” you squeaked back. 

You were trying to think of all the things you wanted to say to him, trying to think of all the things you could say to him, that would be appropriate to say to him here, in this bar, whilst holding the hand of another man. 

“Hi, I’m Sungbin.”  

He was confident. He stuck out his free hand and gave San a generous smile. 

“Oh, uh, San.” 

“Nice to meet you.” 

“Nice to meet you, too.” San turned his face back to you. “How have you been?” 

You looked at Sungbin for help: this relative stranger, this potential new friend pretending to be your new boyfriend in front of your old boyfriend, this man who seemed to have much better control of this situation than you did. You could barely think at all. It was a desperate ringing, alarm bells, sirens wailing, a maelstrom of panic. Sungbin smiled at you. You had no idea how long you looked at him before answering, had no sense of time anymore. 

“Yeah, fine,” you said, eventually tearing your gaze from Sungbin to stare into San and the sun behind him. Sungbin gave your hand a squeeze. “Good, actually. You?” 

“Yeah, same old same old, you know how things are. Didn’t expect to see you here.” 

“Oh, that’s my fault.” Sungbin stepping in to save you again. “I live in the area so I’m always dragging her over this way.”  

You stammered for a second, trying to take in San’s surprise and Sungbin’s sweet, encouraging smile. 

“Y-yeah, he does,” you confirmed. “I don’t- I don’t mind, though, really.” 

“Mm, you always liked this bar. I remember.”  

“Yeah.” 

You noticed the way San’s eyes flicked to your hands, clasped together on the table, not just once but again and again. You wished you could peer inside his head, know what he was thinking.  

You were hardly thinking at all. Your brain was trying so hard to be quick that it had overloaded itself, stalled, got stuck. You couldn’t get over the fact of him, there, in front of you. It had been months. Seasons had changed since you saw him last. You had changed. Could he see that? Did you want him to? Did you want him to miss you? Did you want him to be bothered by Sungbin—gentle giant, Sungbin, holding your hand so casually, talking about you as if you really were together? You tried not to imagine what San was doing there, who he was with. You didn’t know if you would care. You wouldn’t be surprised to learn he was dating. He was a catch, you knew that.  

There were too many things happening at once, too many things to process. You felt like you were spinning out of control. What if San knew Sungbin wasn’t your boyfriend? What if he knew this was all pretend? What if he asked more about it? What if everything unravelled before your very eyes and the ground didn’t show mercy and swallow you whole? 

“Are you still living around here?” San asked you. “I would’ve expected to see you around more.” 

“Oh, uh, no. I’m over the river. I just-…"  

You couldn’t commit yourself to the lie, had to let yourself trail off just looking at Sungbin, desperate for a sign you were doing ok, you were playing this the right way. He grinned at you. 

“Like I said, my fault.”  

He shrugged with a light chuckle and San faintly followed suit, mouth moving but no sound actually coming out. 

“Right, well,” he began in the tell-tale way that said he was backing out of this conversation. “I’d better get back to my table. It was uh, nice meeting you, Sungbin. Good to see you, too-” his eyes rested on you, needled into you like he was searching for something specific in your face. “I’m glad you’re doing well.” 

“Yeah, me too. I mean, me for you, you know what I mean.” 

A genuine smile. And a nod. Then he was retreating back into the sea of people, disappearing and leaving no trace. No trace but the hammering of your heart. No trace but the sweat pooling in your palms and sticking your dress to your back. No trace but the sudden exhaustion of the relief you felt being out of his presence. Sungbin squeezed your hand again. 

“Bad break-up?” 

You rested your forehead on the fingers of your free hand and shook your head. 

“It was for me. It was the right decision but yeah, it was bad for me. I haven’t... I haven’t seen him since I moved the last of my shit out from our apartment – what used to be our apartment.” 

Sungbin nodded knowingly and placed his hand on top of yours just for a second. Then he let you go completely. 

“I’m sorry if I overstepped. I realise I didn’t really give you a chance to disagree; I’m sorry about that. I-” 

You shook your head and waved your hand.  

“It’s absolutely fine,” you reassured him. “It was good, actually.”  

You were deeply grateful for his quick-thinking, presumptuous though it may have been. You wanted to splash your face with cold water, give yourself a shock, try to bring yourself back into the room. You didn’t want to look like you were still completely hung up on your ex; you didn’t want to look like a mess; you just needed a second to take a breath. 

“That was... not expected,” you went on, more for your benefit than for his. “I have thought so many times about what I would say and what I would do if I saw him again but I guess I never really believed it would happen and then suddenly, he was fucking right in front of me and I just felt like dying!” 

Sungbin laughed, as you knew he would, because it was a joke. It was a joke. But you didn’t not feel like dying for at least a second there.  

“When did you break up?” 

“Oh, months ago now. Kind of feels like I should be over it, I guess. I mean, I am, really. I just-...” 

“You were caught off-guard. I get it; it’s rough seeing them again.”  

It was rough. And you believed that he did get it. And he smiled at you so sincerely that you could have cried. It surprised you, that people could be nice to you; that people could like you, even; that people could see you and still smile at you. You looked at each other a little longer, Sungbin’s quiet calm radiating through you, your heartrate slowing and your spinning head coming to a stop. 

“Thank you,” you said as you picked up your glass to take a sip to cover awkwardness that only you felt. “That was quick thinking and um, yeah, I think it helped. You didn’t have to do that.” 

Sungbin shrugged.  

“You’re doing me a big favour tonight; it was the least I could do. Happy to be your fake boyfriend whenever you need!”  

He laughed and then you laughed and it felt good. You drained the last of your drink and Sungbin suggested you go somewhere else for your next one. You agreed. You didn’t look for San on your way out, just kept your eyes on Sungbin’s back as he led you, your hand in his (just in case), back through the bar and out onto the street. 

* 

“You don’t have to literally walk me to my door,” Sungbin said as you stepped into the lift with him. “I maintain that it should be me walking you home.” 

You shrugged. 

“That argument might hold water if you had even half a clue of how to get to my apartment. But you don’t. Besides, I was taking you out tonight; it only follows that I walk you back, too. Why break tradition?” 

Sungbin bit back a grin. 

“How long before I live that down?” 

“Oh, at least five more years.” 

“Well, if you’re going to make me suffer that, don’t you think we should do this correctly? Now, how did it go again?” 

He moved behind you and draped himself over your shoulders, slowly leaning his weight onto you. You cried out and could do nothing but collapse underneath him. 

“NO! I couldn’t carry you then; now you’re just trying to kill me!” 

You knelt on the floor of the lift with your hands outstretched above you, as if they would in any way hold him off. He straightened and pulled you up by them. 

“Fine,” he conceded as he stepped out at his floor. “But next time, you’re going to have to let me walk you home. Deal?” 

You shrugged. You nodded. You didn’t take that as a promise.  

“About your ex,” Sungbin started, standing in front of his door. 

“Yeah?” 

“Where exactly are you at with that?” 

That had you on the backfoot. You didn’t know how to answer the question for yourself, let alone for him. Your first thought was that you probably would have to ask your therapist; did she think you were over it? Would she think you had closure? You blinked and opened your mouth as if somehow an answer would fall out of it without your having to compile it first.  

“I just mean,” he continued, “are you dating? Would it be alright if I asked you out?” 

“Oh, uh, I-”  

Would it be alright? Wouldn’t it be? You had told yourself you were off dating. You weren’t ready for it; you had been emphatic when you’d said as much to Yoongi only a few weeks ago. Was that still true? You had spent so much time that day reminding yourself that this wasn’t a date, but... what if it had been? San aside, it had gone well, hadn’t it? You had had fun; Sungbin seemed like he had, too. He was the one who pretended to be your boyfriend first. Maybe... Maybe it would be ok? Maybe you were ready? There was only one way to really find out.  

“Yeah, I guess that would be fine.” 

He smiled. 

“Good. I’ll do that then.”  

He took your hand in his and pressed a kiss to your knuckles; everything inside you fluttered. Then he winked and dropped your hand to enter his door code. 

“Text me when you get home safe, yeah?”  

You nodded, mute. He smiled at you again. 

“It was really nice to see you again.” And when he said your name, it sounded new.  

You didn’t leave immediately. Couldn’t. You stood outside his apartment, in shock, processing, looking at his closed front door, to the left, to the right, looking for an answer to what just happened. Sungbin did not just ask you out. But he did say he would. He was going to ask you out.  

And you had already kind of said yes.  

To a date. 

You fumbled in your bag for your phone and had it to your ear before you realised you absolutely had to leave, lest Sungbin hear you speaking. You scuttled back down the hallway and into the lift while Taehyung’s phone rang and rang and eventually went to voicemail. You hung up and tried again. And then again. And then you sent him a text. 

You: TEDDY!!! PICK UPP!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

You tried calling for a fourth time and for a fourth time, you heard the automated voice of his voicemail service.  

You threw your phone back into your bag, defeated, but jittery with nerves and adrenaline. You could barely remember how this felt. In fact, with San you had seen it coming. You had engineered it. You had been flirting for weeks; you practically demanded he ask you out. Then he did. This had come out of the blue. Blindsided you. For the second time that evening. You were so shocked by Sungbin’s question that you had, momentarily, forgotten about running into San.  

What a fucking night. One that you had almost no idea how or where to start processing. Everything was-… you threw your hands in the air, by yourself, in the lift, shaking your head, completely bewildered. Taehyung was your go-to person for this. He was your sounding board. You picked up your phone to call him just one more time.  

* 

Your phone rang as you were changing into your pyjamas and you picked it up with your vest only half pulled down over your chest. 

“Teddy! Finally!” 

“Are you dying?” 

“No.” 

“Are you hurt or injured or maimed in any way?” 

“No.” 

“Then stop calling!” 

“Hey! I need to talk to you!” 

“Well, it’s going to have to wait, princess; I’m busy.” 

“Not even for five minutes?” 

“No.” 

“But I saw San!” 

There was a pause as Taehyung digested the information. 

“Are you ok?” he asked simply. 

“Yeah.” 

“Then it’s going to have to wait until tomorrow.” 

You heard a rustling in the background, another voice. 

“Oh my god,” you gasped, turning your voice down to a loud stage whisper. “Are you with someone?” 

“... Yes.” 

“OH MY GOD! Oh my god, please tell me it’s the barista. Is it the barista? It is, right?!” 

“... Yes.” 

You squealed and fell onto your sofa to kick your feet in the air. 

“WE HAVE SO MUCH TO TALK ABOUT!” you screamed down the phone. 

“Yes, but tomorrow.” 

“Yeah, fine, tomorrow. Oh my god. I am SO excited, Teddybear.” 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever. I’ll talk to you later. I’m going now.” 

“Bye, Teddy!” 

“Good night, babe; love you.” 

“Love you!” 

It was entirely possible that you weren’t going to be able to sleep at all now.  

You squealed as you opened your door and let Taehyung into your apartment. He handed over an ice-cold, sweating cup of coffee and flopped onto your sofa.  

“Tell me literally everything,” you demanded. 

He merely shrugged. 

“Don’t be fucking coy, you piece of shit! I want to know everything! It’s THE BARISTA.” 

The barista worked at a coffee shop not far from Taehyung’s apartment. The barista was a fine, delicate-boned, ethereal beauty, probably the prettiest person you had ever seen in real life. Even Taehyung—unflappable, cool, calm and collected Taehyung—had been flustered the first time the barista had flashed him his pearly whites. And, last night, something had finally happened between them.  

“There’s really not that much to tell,” Taehyung countered. “I asked him out and he said yes.” 

You hit him hard with a cushion. 

“I said I want to know everything! And you can’t just say it like it was that simple; you’ve been daydreaming about that guy for months!” 

“Firstly, I was sussing out his situation. I understand tact and diplomacy and how to not say every stupid thing that’s in my head at any given moment-” 

“Uncalled for, but go on.” 

“-So I had to bide my time.-” 

“Also, you’re a massive chicken and he made you go knock-kneed and goo-goo-eyed.” 

“-Do you want me to tell you what happened? Or would you prefer to just make up your own version?” 

You cackled. 

“You know I’d love to make up my own story, but no, sorry, I’ll stop interrup-” 

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, babygir-” 

“Ok, now who’s interrupting?!” 

“I’m the one trying to tell you a story!” 

“Ok! Ok! Fine, spin your yarn and give me the entire confection, please.” 

* 

“I’m seeing him again tonight. Truth be told, I’d be with him right now if someone hadn’t already laid claim to my time.” 

“Teddy!”  

You felt bad for tearing him away from his One True Love, you did. But he’d already seen his success with the barista (Hyunjin to those in the know) and could go running right back to him as soon as he was done here. All you had was a too-warm apartment to stew in until whatever hour or day Sungbin would choose to actually, officially do the asking.  

“Come on, then,” Taehyung said, with a shrug, and nudged you with his foot. “How the fuck did you see San again?” 

Shit, that too.  

“Right, well, you know I was out with Sungbin last night—and, by the way, do NOT let me forget to show you his instagram. Oh my god. There are no words. And there’s also something else I need to tell you about him after this. But, yes, San, ok.” 

It felt like trying to describe a blur. You still didn’t know how you felt about it. The whole night felt surreal to you now, like a dream. It was frustrating to have met him but not really met him, to have seen him and not been able to talk. Everything that you had been working through—trying to work through—felt bundled up inside you and you wanted him to know. You didn’t need him to think you were dating again, you didn’t need to ‘win’; you needed him to know that you understood. That maybe there would always be some kind of thing between you—history, old intimacies like ink stains in your skin—but it didn’t mean that that past would hold you back forever. You wanted him to see that you understood that. 

But you came to those conclusions this morning, after a deep sleep, after another man had made implicit promises to ask you out. And, once he’d actually asked you, would anything you had to say to San matter anymore? Did it really matter now?  

“I don’t know how I feel about it because... I had this blind panic, y’know? But I don’t know why I panicked because San is a good person and I understand why he broke up with me and I don’t blame him for that and there really shouldn’t have been any reason for it to be awkward, right?” 

“I mean, another man pretending to be your boyfriend might make it a little awkward.” 

“Maybe... But that’s not Sungbin’s fault; he was trying to help. I thought I’d be cool seeing him again, because I’ve thought so much about things I want to say to him or would say if I could, but when he was actually in front of me, it was like I couldn’t think at all. I don’t know what that means.” 

“It doesn’t have to mean anything. You were surprised.” 

“Yeah, but shouldn’t I be over him? Should he have that effect on me even now?” 

“I don’t think ‘should’ is a helpful word here, sugarplum. There is no should or shouldn’t about feelings; isn’t that therapy 101?” 

“I just don’t know... I guess I thought that seeing him again would make everything crystal clear, written in stone. Sure. But... Well—ok, the other thing is that Sungbin kind of asked me out.” 

“On a date?” 

“Yeah.” 

“What did you say?” 

“Well, he asked me if it would be alright if he asked me out. And I said yes. So he said he would. But he hasn’t actually asked me yet.” 

“And you want to know if you should go out with him or not?” 

“I guess?”  

You shrugged. You wanted to go out with Sungbin. You knew you wanted to because you could picture his smiling face and bulging biceps and you saw clearly, outside of the moment, how quickly and easily he stepped in to support you, no questions asked and no favours owed. He wanted to date you. You knew you wanted to date him. But- 

“I don’t want it to be a mistake,” you said.  

“That’s natural. No one likes making mistakes.” 

“No, I mean, I don’t want it to be a mistake for Sungbin.” 

“Why would it be?” 

You looked at him, trying to say, without saying, what you meant. Because it had been for San—you had been. He was better off without you and maybe Sungbin would be, too. He was young and rich and free; he had just moved to the biggest city in the country; he had the world at his feet. Were you really going to let him limit himself, stop himself at your door?  

Taehyung looked cross for a moment, lips pursed and eyebrows drawn, then he took a sip of his coffee (mostly iced water at this point) and, when he turned back to you, his gaze was softer.  

“Baby,” he cooed and he held his arms out to you. Despite the heat in your poorly air-conditioned apartment, you climbed into his lap and let him stroke your hair. “There’s only one way to know for sure if something’s a mistake and that’s to do it. Sungbin clearly wants to. If you also want to, then you’re just going to have to dive in. The water’s great.” 

You nodded and let him hold you, so grateful to him and all his tact and diplomacy and gentleness. He wasn’t always—or often—gentle with you, because usually that’s not what you needed and he knew it. Just like he knew that today, that was what you needed. 

“I do have one question, though,” he said and his hesitance made your stomach drop. 

“Ok.” 

“Where does Yoongi fit in with all of this?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well, I don’t know; I thought you guys were-” 

“-Friends! Just friends! Have I not said it a million times?! We’re just friends! We’ve always just been friends!” 

“But you did have sex-” 

“ONE TIME!” 

You pushed away from him to better display your indignation and displeasure. Taehyung had a bee in his bonnet about Yoongi—had done since you’d first mentioned him—even though he didn’t know the guy, didn’t know anything. 

“Ok, ok!” He held his hands up in defeat. “I just sort of figured you guys were heading in that direction.” 

“Why?” 

“You seem to like him a lot.” 

“I do. Because we’re friends. I like you a lot, too, and we’re not going to shack up.” 

“Yes, love, but I’m gay and you are not a man.” 

You pushed him. 

“You know what I mean!” 

“I take your point. If you want to date Sungbin and feel good about it, then you have my blessing-” 

“I don’t need your blessing, Teddy; I can do what I like!” 

He fixed his eyes on you and simply waited you out. 

“Ok, fine!” you cried, exasperated, after probably not more than five seconds. “Thank you, yes, I did want your approval.” 

“And you have it, my sweet. As long as you’re happy and not being a complete idiot, I’m on board.” 

“I mean... Thanks, I guess?” 

"Don’t mention it.” 

“Babe!” you cried as soon as Yoongi step foot inside the classroom the following Thursday. You beckoned him closer, telling him to hurry, and grabbed him by the arm as soon as he was within reach. “I have so much to tell you.” 

He looked surprised, blinked, and then shrugged with a slight nod of his head. You didn’t pause for thought as you unloaded both your bags and your gossip onto the counter. You were sieving flour as you told him about your dinner with Mei; beating eggs into the mixture when you told him about drinks with Sungbin; and watching Yoongi almost drop the entire thing as he placed it in the oven when you mentioned San. 

“What was that like?” he asked with genuine, but guarded, curiosity.  

“A blur. Kind of a panicked mess but also fine. I sort of want a do-over but mostly for my pride, y’know? It was bumping into an ex, not actually meeting up with them so I think that made it better. But also worse because I had no time to prepare but there was also no opportunity to get into the difficult stuff which meant we didn’t have to get into it.” 

“Do you still want to do that? Talk to him?” 

“There’s a lot I want to say to him, but they are things I want to say more than things I think he would need or want to hear. If we met, it would be for my benefit and I don’t know if he deserves to be pulled in for that. Do you know what I mean?” 

He looked thoughtful for a moment and nodded.  

“And that was before Sungbin asked me out, too, so maybe I would be saying something different if that hadn’t happened.” 

“He asked you out?” 

Yoongi was turning towards his counter, looking at his sugar in his pan, turning on the hob, his head inclined just slightly towards you to indicate that he was listening. He needlessly pushed a hand through his hair which, far from tucking it behind his ear, made it fall in front of his face. You were, likewise, distracted by your sugar syrup and altogether too excited to take note of much else. 

“Yes!” you cried in answer. “So, on the Saturday he asked if he could and, obviously, I said yes. Then it took him until Wednesday to actually do the damn thing, but yes, he asked me out and I said yes and we’re going out tomorrow for our first actual date.” 

“Wow.” 

“I know, right? I had no idea it was coming—the bit where he asked if he could ask me out, I mean. We ran into my ex at drinks! And he asked me out?! And I was... I was discombobulated, you might say; I stood at his door for five minutes just in shock at what had happened. I was in disbelief. Especially because I wasn’t expecting it! At all. I mean, I was just doing Mei a favour! I didn’t think anything of it and now I can’t stop thinking about it! Or, well, him. I had forgotten how exciting this part is? It’s terrifying, yeah, completely horrifying, really, but I also just feel like I’m alive, y’know?” 

You paused briefly, glancing at the oven timer and stirring your syrup.  

“I just...” you started and then stopped, staring off into space to let the thought coalesce in your brain. “It’s so crazy that you can think one thing and then someone comes into your life and, suddenly, everything is so different. All it takes is one person to—ok, this is dramatic but you know me now so you’re going to have to let me be—change your whole life. A chance encounter? And suddenly I’m not the world’s loneliest, bitterest, most miserable single person alive? Suddenly, I have something to be excited about? To look forward to? I’m getting ahead of myself, I know I am, but I’m allowing it. I’m allowed to indulge in this because it’s been so long. I’ve been miserable for ages now. And I’m finally not. Don’t get me wrong when I say this, because therapy works, or at least it helps, it really does, but man, having a crush on someone is fucking electric, right? Years of counselling and it turns out nothing makes you feel the joy of being alive like when you really fucking like someone.” 

Yoongi hummed. 

Chapter Three | Masterlist | Chapter Five

#yoongi x reader #bts x reader #yoongi fic #bts fic #yoongi angst #bts angst #suga x reader

[pedrito-friskito]

HAPPY SLEEPOVER!! If you’ve still got a marvel slot available, may I request some fluffiness for Matt Murdock with the prompt: “Do you want me to carry you?”

ohohohohohohhhhhhoooooo kay is in a fluffy mood let’s GO thank you bby 💕

🔥friday night fever!🔥

Matt Murdock is a lullaby all his own. It didn’t take you long to figure out that the best place to fall asleep isn’t your own bed anymore, but his arms, no matter where you are. Tucked under his shoulder on the subway, sprawled on your bed with your head on his chest, curled up on his couch. The steady beat of his heart is the sound of dreamland now, the gentle thump-thump the only thing that can lull you to sleep with ease.

Couple that with the scent of him, warm and musky, invading your senses. It comes stronger when he adjusts himself beneath you, slotting a leg between your knees or pulling you higher up his body so your head can fit into the crook of his neck. The scent lingers on your clothes even when you’re not with him, and you’re sure to steal a t-shirt or sweater from his apartment each time you leave, returning them only after you’ve slept in them multiple nights and the smell has faded almost completely. He notices — of course he does — and it’s a rare occasion that he doesn’t show up at your apartment on the weekend without a few extra layers, ‘forgetting’ one or two when he leaves the next morning.

Then there’s the feel of him. And not just the ridges of muscle and the softness in those strong hands. His body is a marvel all it’s own, and you’ve dozed off tracing his scars more than once, thumb caught in the dip along his hip or side or chest. No, it’s more than that. It’s the…aura he carries with him, that all-encompassing feeling of being safe, of knowing that no matter what happens, he’ll protect you.

Even before you know what he does in the dark, it feels like that. The first time you fall asleep in front of him is your second date, and you blame it on that feeling, the security and comfort you feel around Matt Murdock. He laughs and brushes off your mumbled apologies. “You held onto me pretty tight. I didn’t have the heart to wake you.”

He kissed your cheek when he heard the rush of blood to your face, the flush that heated your skin.

But nothing compares to Matt’s voice.

The first time you met, you already knew it was your favourite sound. That occasionally low rasp, the way it climbed with passion when he wanted to prove a point, the soft whispers when he roused you in the morning. The way it felt growled against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. He’s articulate without being condescending, and you could listen to him talk forever.

In the early days of your relationship, you spend hours on the phone with him, talking about anything and everything, refusing to be the one who hangs up first, just so you can hear his soft goodnight, sweetheart one more time. You beg him to send you voice notes throughout the day, saving the best ones to listen to before bed when you can’t have him at your side.

Tonight, you’re tired. Bone-tired, the weight of the week behind you too much to bear. It’s Friday, you know you should be out at the bar, cavorting the night away before work starts again Monday, but you can’t find it in you, opting for a bottle of wine and a good book for each of you, cuddled up on Matt’s couch, the leather warm beneath you, your legs covered by a soft blanket. Matt’s braille copy of Stardust is balanced on the arm as he moves his fingers over the pages.

Your glass of wine is long empty, and you lie on your side, your head in his lap, his free hand carding through your hair as he reads aloud. “The silver chain was now nothing but smoke and vapour. For a heartbeat it hung on the air, then a sharp gust of wind and rain blew it out into nothing at all.”

He keeps reading, you’re sure, but your eyes have been closed a while now, there’s the gentle drag of his nails against your scalp, combined with the sound of his voice, the headiness lingering from the wine, and the warmth of his body. You’re a goner. 

“Mmm,” you groan happily, interrupting his reading and you can hear the smile in his voice as he continues. Your brain shuts off, no longer interested in the story, much more intrigued by the idea of sleep and Matt and cuddles and warmth.

“Sweetheart?” he calls, his voice a little too loud. Some time has passed, you know, because when you open your eyes, the sky outside the living room window is pitch-black (save for the too-bright billboard of course) and the candle you’d been burning has been reduced to nothing, the wick giving off smoke instead of flame. “Honey, let’s go to bed.”

“Nuh-huh,” you groan, trying to burrow deeper into his lap, turning onto your side so your face is pressed to his stomach. “Don’t wanna move.”

“Do you want me to carry you?” he asks, and you make a questioning noise, starting to move, but before you can, he’s pulling you gently upright and into his lap. You wrap yourself around him, pushing your face into his neck as he stands, both hands under your ass and holding you aloft in his arms. Your legs automatically wind around his waist, ankles locking together, and he kisses your temple as he starts to walk through the apartment towards the bedroom. Forehead against his throat, you lift your jaw, returning his kiss, pressing yours against his pulse.

He sets you gently on the bed, your eyes slipping completely shut once more as he pulls the sheets back and tucks you under them. You feel him slide in beside you, and you gravitate towards him automatically, your head finding it’s rightful place on his chest, one leg hooked around his knee.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” he hums, mouth against the crown of your head.

If he says anything else, you don’t hear it, falling deeply into dreamland, lulled to sleep by the lullaby that is Matt Murdock.

—————

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[cuffmeinblack]

You Need Only Ask

Garreth Weasley x Ominis Gaunt

Christmas Special

Tags: fluff | slice of life | past trauma | light angst 5.3k words

Summary: Garreth is determined to make Christmas extra special for Ominis and Sebastian, with a bit of Weasley hospitality.

ao3 link

A/n: Technically chapter eight, yet could be read as a standalone because it's just slice of life stuff. Ominis and Garreth are very much in love and share a flat with Sebastian, that's the plot. This is the second fic I've written this year with a Weasley family Christmas, albeit a different generation. What can I say, it's comforting.

Christmas was a joyous occasion, or so Ominis had been told. He supposed the festivities could be fun in a place like Hogwarts, and the food rather marvellous, but for the most part he despised the holiday and all its associations. His hatred set him apart from the rest of his colleagues, who decorated their office with gaudy garlands and an offensively large fir tree that always seemed to snag on his clothes. This was but another trait to thank his wonderful family for. As wizards and muggles alike had settled into their cosy traditions, Tiberius Gaunt had much more sinister motivations. He used the celebrations as an opportunity to lure unsuspecting Muggles, inebriated and distracted, to their manor with promises of extravagance for the festive season. Homeless men and women were offered shelter, food, and drink, all in the name of good will.

These were Ominis' victims.

His source of deepest shame, and the screams he heard in his worst nightmares.

For months he'd been dreading the invitation he knew would be coming, and on the first of December no less it arrived. Not by owl, but by Garreth bounding into their flat and announcing it to Ominis and Sebastian, to be met only with silence. The pair had been quietly reading in the living room, an armchair each and heads buried in their own books, only to be startled out of their concentration by the exuberant redhead. Garreth stammered at their lack of response, but ever the optimist and always keen for a party, he decided to try to change their minds. 

“Oh, come on! Do you really want to hang around here for Christmas on our own?”

“Actually, yes,” Ominis said.

“There’ll be loads of food, mum makes the best mince pies. Wait until you’ve tried the pudding! I’ll bet she’d make roast beef for you too, Ominis…”

“I wouldn't mind…”

“There, Sebastian’s already on board!”

Ominis calmly tucked a bookmark between the pages and stowed his wand, placing the hardback next to him as he gathered his thoughts. Of course Sebastian knew exactly why Ominis was so hesitant. He’d told his best friend many years ago, though only once and never again. After that, Sebastian had insisted that Ominis spend his Christmas holidays with him in Feldcroft. This was Ominis’ first festive season with Garreth, and there were still things he’d not yet revealed about his family; whether through shame or because the right opportunity hadn’t presented itself, he wasn’t sure. It wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have, yet there was no hiding from it now.

“Sebastian, can we have some privacy?” Ominis asked quietly.

He didn't hear his friend reply, met only the shuffle of paper, the shift of weight off the creaking armchair and footsteps receding into silence.

“What’s wrong?” Garreth asked as soon as the door shut behind Sebastian.

He sounded worried, and Ominis felt a surge of guilt for having dampened his spirits so quickly and thoroughly. 

“Sit next to me?”

He was soon enveloped by Garreth’s warmth, large hands wrapping his and the press of a firm thigh as he squeezed himself into the chair. Ominis rearranged himself to be practically on Garreth’s lap, not minding the closeness as he barely managed to whisper his explanation.

“I haven’t celebrated Christmas for…well, for as long as I can remember. As a child, my family only used it as an excuse for their sick little games. What celebration could be complete without Muggle torture, after all?”

Ominis exhaled deeply and let out a shaky sigh, recalling the very worst of those memories whilst Garreth waited patiently. His hands were sweaty.

“I remember the Christmas before I went to Hogwarts most vividly. Perhaps my family knew that it would be my last in their company. I never…participated as willingly as my brother. They made sure that I did that year. Christmas Eve, the very last time I cast the cruciatus curse.”

Ominis' shudder seemed to shake the furniture and Garreth gripped him tighter, almost suffocating him with his concern. Ominis thought he might just throw up after confessing such a thing, expecting Garreth to sprint out of the door of their shared home, to never return. Sometimes he thought that it was what he deserved; no matter how much he atoned for his sins, some things could never be forgiven. Garreth had a pure heart, and it was a testament to just how good he was that he didn't hesitate to turn Ominis' face to meet him, their foreheads pressing together as if he were trying to wordlessly absorb Ominis' pain.

“I’m so sorry, my love. That's…disgusting. And you were just a child...”

“You see why my association with Christmas isn't quite normal.”

“I do, but I want to change that.”

“Garreth…”

“Christmas is about family, and being with the people you love. You're…you're my family now, and I want to spend it with you, as it should be. You deserve so much more than what your family gave you…”

Ominis’ heart swelled in his chest, the love he had for Garreth threatening to overflow and smother his niggling doubt and trepidation. It meant so much to Garreth, ever the family man—how could Ominis keep him from them, or worse, make him choose?

“I can't promise I'll be entirely present.”

“I understand. If you want to leave, we can. I know my mum wants to see you, and Sebastian…she's been banging on about it in her owls for weeks now.”

Ominis smiled despite himself. Feeling wanted was a rather new experience, one which he didn't plan to snub.

“I'll come, Garreth.”

Ominis was promptly wrapped up in Garreth's arms, his face nestled amongst wild curls laced with his familiarly spicy scent.  He was right, of course—this strange little trio was Ominis' family now, and the Weasleys had all but adopted him into their clan. If anyone could convince him that Christmas was worth celebrating, it was them.

-

Garreth has started counting the days to Christmas as soon as Ominis had accepted his mum's invitation. He had work to do now, to make Garreth's favourite time of year Ominis' too. Whilst he had grand plans for new brews (and rent to pay besides), he dedicated every spare minute doing all the things he associated with the festive season. Having heard Ominis' frequent grumblings about ‘that damned tree’ at work, he'd decided a little work was in order for that particular tradition. 

“What in Merlin's name is that?”

Ah, Sebastian was home, then.

The tired auror-in-training limped into the living room as Garreth was finishing the final touches to his masterpiece and the mince pies he'd baked cooled on the windowsill. They were slightly burnt, but only because he'd been so distracted by what stood in front of him.

“What's wrong with you?” Garreth asked, noticing the way Sebastian was walking. “You look terrible.”

“Thanks. It stinks in here, what did you burn?”

Sebastian flopped into an armchair, loosening his waistcoat and ruffling his hair whilst trying to mask the grimace as his leg bent at an awkward angle.

“Nothing, probably a sprain. I haven't had a chance to do anything about it until now,” he replied, pulling out his wand. “Anyway, you've not answered me—what is that?”

“What does it look like?”

“It looks like a bloody great tree in the middle of our living room. I thought Ominis said no tree.”

“Yes but this one has a cushioning and repellant charm around it so it won't snag on his clothes! I've also enchanted it to stay fresh without water.”

Garreth sniffed the air and sighed. “That fresh fir smell…”

Sebastian was busy muttering a healing charm over his ankle, paying no attention to Garreth's ramblings. Clearly he had his work cut out for him when it came to getting his flatmates into the Christmas spirit.

“I don't know why you've gone to so much trouble,” he finally said.

“Because, it's exciting. Doing all this…it's not just for me. Did you not celebrate when you were younger?”

“When I was much younger, when my parents were still alive…”

Sebastian stared at the floor, deep in thought, and Garreth waited as he clearly had more to say. He placed his wand in his pocket and perched next to his plate of mince pies, staving off the desire to nibble on the pastry.

“Christmas was always so magical as a kid, with Anne…it hasn't been the same since I lost my family. Me and Ominis, we just try to forget.”

“I can take this all down if you want…”

“No, leave it. It's actually nice. Doesn't feel quite as weird as putting them up in Feldcroft.”

Garreth nodded, fighting back the urge to hug Sebastian—that would have been a step too far even for their growing friendship. Instead, he picked up the plate next to him and walked over to where Sebastian was now slumped, looking just about done with the day despite the early hour.

“Mince pie?” Garreth offered with a warm smile.

Sebastian took one and without even a second to inspect it, took a large bite out of the pie, pastry flaking onto his smart black suit. There was a time when he'd refuse anything Garreth offered him for fear of being spiked with some experimental potion. Sebastian's trust meant a lot to Garreth, and not only because it meant a lot to Ominis.

“Mm-…this is really good.”

“Always the tone of surprise,” Garreth chuckled.

-

On Christmas Day, unexpectedly, Ominis woke first. He drifted into consciousness still clinging to a dream that faded with every groggy second; something comforting and sweet that had his chest fluttering. It took him a few seconds to remember today's occasion, laying silently and listening to the pigeons cooing and Garreth's gentle snores. With a groan, he tried to drift off again, burying his head into his boyfriend's hair, yet his mind had finally cleared from its sleep state, rushing and turbulent in its thoughts. He patted the bedside table, over his wand, until he reached a small clock. His fingers drifted over the hands, discerning that it was just past six o’clock.

Well, time for a cup of tea, then.

“Garreth,” he whispered.

“Hmm? Ominis?”

“Good morning. And Merry Christmas.”

“Mm…oh! Christmas!”

Garreth sat bolt upright, almost knocking Ominis out of bed, for which he apologised profusely whilst attacking him with kisses like a lovesick puppy.

“Garreth…Garreth!”

“Right, sorry. Breakfast? What's the time? Six?!”

“I know, I woke up early and couldn't get back to sleep. I wondered if you wanted a cup of tea in bed.”

“May as well get up now, we can open our presents,” Garreth said, the smile on his face obvious by the tone of his voice.

Ominis allowed himself a few more seconds pressing kisses into Garreth's heated skin before dragging himself out of bed, immediately missing the warmth of their duvet. The flat was cold, the fireplaces empty overnight, so Ominis wrapped himself in a dressing gown, donned his slippers and set to work warming the place with his magic. He could hear Garreth hopping about on the floorboards as he struggled to dress,far too excited for what to Ominis was yet another day. Yet he knew to Garreth, it was one of the highlights of his year, as with millions of others; witches, wizards and muggles alike. 

A cup of tea did him wonders, clearing the cobwebs from his brain whilst Garreth started cooking breakfast. Ominis wasn't hungry, but he could eat, and the smell really was delicious. Bacon, sausages and eggs were sizzling away and filling the flat with an aroma that tempted his saliva glands into action. It didn't take long for all of Garreth's clattering about to rouse Sebastian, the first sound from his mouth a loud groan as he shuffled into the kitchen.

“Merry Christmas, Sebastian!” Garreth called over the scraping and clinking of food being plated up.

“Yeah, Happy Christmas…why are we awake? What's the point in having a day off work if we're going to wake up in the dark?”

“Let Garreth have his day, Sebastian. Don't be such a Scrooge,” Ominis chided, hiding a smirk behind his teacup.

“You read that book, then?”

“Dickens? Yes, I did.”

“And did it get you into the Christmas spirit?” Sebastian asked, sitting next to him at the kitchen table.

“Marginally.”

“Well, here's some more Christmas spirit,” Garreth said, with yet more accompanying noise.

Breakfast was served, along with another pot of tea and some sort of sickly sweet cream liqueur with cinnamon, that Garreth insisted they all try to ‘start the day off right’.

“What exactly is it?” Sebastian asked.

Ominis took a sip of the drink, raising his eyebrows in pleasant surprise as the liquid warmed his insides with just the right amount of spice and a little something that seemed to give him a burst of energy.

“You know I can't tell you my recipes. Suffice it to say, it's next on my list to find a distributor.”

“It's delicious…right, I'm going to get showered and dressed and then we can open our presents,” Ominis announced, his chair scraping along the floor as he stood up hastily.

His brain was running a mile a minute, muscles twitching for something to do. Even his speech had sped up. Without waiting for an answer, he was off, getting ready for the day in record time. He dressed in smart trousers, a crisp shirt and his new waistcoat which Garreth insisted was tastefully festive—as long as it wasn't embroidered with Christmas trees, Ominis didn't mind. The effects of the drink didn't wear off until he'd made it back to the living room, where Garreth and Sebastian were using their boost of energy to argue.

“...just for a few hours, stop making a big deal out of nothing, Weasley.”

The only time Sebastian used Garreth's last name these days was when they argued, which thankfully grew less and less often as time went by. Ominis settled down by the fire and waited for the pair to finish their tiff, reading through the Daily Prophet, scanning the headlines with his wand.

“It’s Christmas day! And you know how much I want to make it special for Ominis. Despite you being an insufferable git sometimes, you are his best friend.”

“Don't drag Ominis into this. I doubt I'll even have to go, so just leave it.”

The mention of his name did, in fact, drag Ominis into the conversation, with a sigh and albeit reluctantly.

“What are you two fussing about now?”

“Sebastian has decided that work is more important than celebrating Christmas with his friends.”

“I've said I'll be on call if anything were to happen. You know, even criminals and dark wizards celebrate Christmas, so I'm not expecting much action today,” Sebastian drawled.

“It's fine, Garreth. You are right about him being an insufferable git sometimes though, I will give you that,” Ominis said.

“Oh, charming. Just because Weasley spends his time cooking for a living, doesn't mean some of us don't have real jobs.”

“Sebastian.”

Ominis knew he'd crossed a line and he stood up to find Garreth's side before things could escalate further. The last thing he needed was to mediate some ridiculous shouting match on a day he was already slightly dreading. 

“Stop it, both of you. For me.”

Garreth huffed and let Ominis pull him to the sofa whilst Sebastian threw himself into an armchair in silence. Neither would willingly apologise, but Ominis would take the cessation of hostilities for now. There were presents to open and spirits to maintain until the Weasley family party later that morning. Garreth was thankfully quick to forget any tensions as soon as he was passed a gift, wrapped by Ominis' own hand, it likely looked a mess; but no matter, the paper was swiftly ripped apart anyway.

“Brilliant! Wait, Ominis, these must have cost far too much…”

Ominis had bundled together his favourite sweets; treacle fudge, chocolate frogs and honeycomb; along with something a little more extravagant he knew would be appreciated. The Chudley Cannons tickets were hard to come by, but a colleague thankfully had contacts in the Ministry's Department of Magical Games and Sports—Ominis had been told the seats were excellent, and judging by Garreth's cheering, it hadn't been a lie.

“Enjoy it. If I can't spend my hard earned money on the man I love then what is the point in enduring my colleague’s gossipping?” Ominis said.

“You're incredible, you know,” Garreth replied, wrapping him up in a tight embrace.

“My thanks is not having to attend with you.”

Garreth chuckled and squeezed his hand.

“Maybe I'll ask Oscar…he'll owe me forever.”

“How am I meant to follow that?” Sebastian sighed.

Of course all three of them were grateful for every gift exchanged, even if the thanks between Garreth and Sebastian were still a little frosty. Sebastian received books, charmed gloves, a handsome tie pin and a bottle of fine firewhiskey; Garreth yet more sweets, a selection of potioneer’s tools and a cashmere jumper that would likely end up singed within the week; Ominis a selection of music, sugar quills and smart new brogues. Garreth had saved Ominis' final present for the end, handing him a small box tied with ribbon.

“It's a bit experimental, I hope it's okay…”

“Another drink?” Ominis asked, pulling a tiny glass bottle out of the box.

The bottle’s glass was ornately cut and the stopper wasn't suitable for a drink. As soon as Ominis pulled it off, he understood. The earthy, leathery scent hit him, along with a hint of patchouli if he wasn't mistaken.

“Did you make this?” 

“Yes…I've never tried perfume before but I thought well, how hard could it be? Erm…is it okay?”

Ominis dabbed the concoction on his neck, inhaling deeply. 

“It's delightful,” Ominis sighed. “You can add perfumer to your list of talents.”

Sebastian made himself scarce as soon as Ominis decided to show Garreth just how much he appreciated his gift, kissing him fervently until the newfound privacy prompted a yet more heated exchange. Ominis almost dragged him back to bed with his cock throbbing needily inside his tailored trousers, not returning until after he'd buried himself inside his boyfriend and heard his addictive moans. All in all, his Christmas was shaping up to be far better than any he'd previously experienced.

-

Despite waking so early, they were now running rather late. The impromptu trip to the bedroom hadn’t really helped matters, though Garreth certainly wasn’t complaining about that. He'd given up trying to tame his curls, running a little pomade through the fringe in some attempt at tidiness and called it a job well done. Sebastian and Ominis were waiting for him by the fireplace, holding yet more presents and sporting the gifts they'd received earlier that morning; new shoes, new tie pin, new jumper. Today would involve a whole host of newness—whilst the Weasley family home was now familiar to them all, the idea of a big Christmas celebration was not. With a slight churn of his stomach that signalled nerves, he took the lead in guiding his flatmates into the floo.

He was greeted not by his mum, but by his brother Oscar, who appeared to be on guest welcoming duty. He slapped Garreth on the back and directed them to the back of the house, where his family had been hard at work transforming the overflowing kitchen and conservatory into an impressive party space, all encased in warming charms and candlelight. The pièce de résistance in Garreth's view was the Christmas tree—cut from the local forest, it had been decorated with handmade baubles and sprigs of holly, just as it had been when he was a child. 

“Hey, Os…want to see the Cannons with me?”

“Hm, what do you mean?” His brother asked whilst nibbling on a mince pie (completely unburned, unlike his own).

“Ominis got me tickets to their match against the Wasps!”

“Are you serious? Of course I want to come! Nice one, Ominis!”

Oscar pulled an unsuspecting Ominis into a hug, his green eyes sparkling with excitement. His older brother was an even bigger Quidditch enthusiast than himself; he'd even entertained the idea of playing professionally once. When he'd relinquished his grip on a chuckling Ominis, Oscar leaned over to Garreth as he walked past, his mouth close to his ear.

“Marry that one, brother.”

And with that, Oscar was gone, only to be replaced with his mum, bedecked in Christmas decorations of her own.

“Mum…,” Garreth grumbled, looking her up and down.

“Looking good, Mrs Weasley,” Sebastian commented, turning her cheeks pink.

Garreth rolled his eyes. He was used to a festive jumper or sprig of berries in her hair, but she'd really gone all out this year. The flower crown of festive foliage atop her head appeared to be sparkling, or rather sparking with tiny red lights, and her handmade dress was embroidered with gold stars from top to toe.

“Sebastian, Ominis, lovely to see you both,” Harriet said. “Get yourself a drink, we've plenty.”

“I've more here, Mrs Weasley. A little something for you and Mr Weasley, though perhaps you might like to keep it for yourselves,” Ominis said, handing over his present.

The bottle of vintage cognac had cost a pretty knut, but Ominis had insisted. Harriet clutched the bottle tightly whilst quite speechless, not used to such extravagance. Garreth had thought she might be embarrassed by the gesture, but instead she was elated, calling Griffith over to open it right away, eager to share it amongst their friends and family. As the trio wove their way through the room, they greeted the rest of Garreth's siblings and relatives with Charlotte staying close by to Ominis and Sebastian. They indulged her endless barrage of questions as if she'd been deprived of their company for years rather than a couple of months.

The party began to fill the house, slowly but steadily until lunch was served; a traditional roast goose with stuffing and all the trimmings, and there was even a small side of roast beef that he knew as for Ominis’ benefit. Griffith thanked everyone for joining them with a toast as the extended table groaned under the weight of food. Of course, every dish was delicious. Glazed carrots, four different types of potatoes and lashings of gravy were passed from one end of the table to the other until everyone's plates were full. Sebastian seemed to be enjoying the company of Garreth's cousin next to him and paying the rest of them no mind, but Ominis stayed close to Garreth with their hands clasped under the table whilst he made small talk with another Weasley that Garreth couldn't quite place.

The sun was setting by the time dessert came, and the sky an inky black as the last mouthful of Christmas pudding was finished. Stuffed with food and drink, Garreth slumped against the back of his chair and let Ominis' head rest against his shoulder. Presents still hadn't been opened, yet Garreth always preferred the food, company and games at Christmas. At one point, he'd have been running around with Oscar and wreaking havoc, but now that crown had passed to his sister and younger cousins who were just as eager to disrupt the adults’ conversations with demands for gifts and practical jokes. 

“A word, Garreth?”

The question came from his aunt Matilda who had appeared out of nowhere, jolting Garreth out of his stupor.

“Oh, hello auntie…yes, okay.”

Muttering an apology to Ominis, Garreth followed her out into the living room. She'd adopted her ‘professor persona’, clasping her hands in front of her and peering at him with a calmly professional smile. Garreth almost flinched away, reminded of the countless times he'd looked into those eyes and subsequently been told off for something-or-other.

“We're having a career day at Hogwarts in the new term, you remember those?”

“Yes…”

“Well, would you like to come back to Hogwarts and talk to the O.W.L students about your entrepreneurial venture? I'm sure they'd appreciate hearing from you amongst the healers and aurors and teachers.”

Garreth was almost stunned into silence. Almost. If there was any time to punch the air and brag, it would have been now. Instead, he smiled widely and tried his best to contain his excitement.

“Of course. Maybe I can even bring along my new brew for students to try? Well, maybe not that one…unless they're allowed a little swig of alcohol…no? No…”

His aunt was now looking at him with raised eyebrows, likely wondering what had possessed her to approach her nephew for this important role.

“I'm sure you'll think of something more suitable, Garreth. Now, back to the party, I have a delicious-looking Christmas cake to tuck in to.”

Buzzing with pride, Garreth returned to where he'd left Ominis, finding only his little sister in a flood of tears. Charlotte's curls bounced as she sobbed and Garreth pushed them out of her face as he crouched to meet her eye line.

“Charlotte, calm down…what's wrong?”

His sister didn't seem willing or able to reply. It wasn't long before he was joined by their mother, fussing and shoving Garreth out of the way.

“What's wrong, sweetheart? Tell mummy!”

“I just asked her that, she won't…”

“I was…was talking to Omi…and…,” Charlotte sniffled, wiping her eyes on her frock. “...he got really upset. I didn't mean…I wasn't mean!”

Garreth's mind blanked for a second and then kicked into a frenzy. He spun around, looking for his boyfriend amongst the sea of red, only spotting Sebastian's chestnut mane as he chatted animatedly to Garreth's cousin. With Charlotte in the care of his mum, Garreth fled, winding through the crowd to get to Sebastian. He felt awful, more than awful. Clearly Ominis hadn't been ready, he'd pushed too hard. His hand landed on a shoulder and earned him an irritated scowl; clearly Sebastian had been turning on his charm judging by the way his cousin was grinning and twirling her hair.

“Have you seen Ominis?”

“No…no, why?”

“I think he's run away, I don't know.”

“What? Run away where?”

“Just bloody help me look, will you?”

They both muttered their apologies and started their search. Garreth kept his eyes peeled for blond hair, easily recognisable amongst his family. He wasn't in the living room, the hallways, the kitchen. They stood in the conservatory, looking out into the night and Garreth wondered if he'd simply gone home. The thought filled him with sadness. Sebastian suggested searching upstairs, but then Garreth saw him; or rather the flash of his brand new brogue poking out from behind the Christmas tree. 

“Ominis…?”

Ominis was leaning against the glass, deep in thought and arms crossed defensively. Though his head tilted downwards, Garreth could see the slight redness around his eyes and prayed to Merlin he hadn't been crying.

“Are you okay, Ominis?” Sebastian asked.

“Yes, I'm fine.”

Sebastian gave Garreth a look of concern, but stepped back. No matter how close the friends were, he devolved to Garreth this time. He knew that Garreth had Ominis' best interests at heart, and saw first hand how much he loved his best friend.

“Tell me what happened, Ominis.”

“It’s nothing. Charlotte was asking me questions about my family Christmases and…I panicked. I had no idea what to say, so I left. I must apologise to her…,” he said, making to leave.

But Ominis hesitated after taking only a step. He seemed apprehensive to leave his hiding place in the conservatory, as if the idea of rejoining the crowds was suddenly overwhelming. 

“We could stay, if you want? Or go for a walk?”

“Isn’t it snowing?”

Garreth looked out across the garden, blanketed in a thick layer of snow yet the sky was peacefully clear. Not even the trees in the nearby woodland swayed, the air so still that barely a leaf rustled.

“Not anymore.”

Ominis nodded his approval, hastening to leave the glass enclosure like a trapped mouse. Once outside, he calmed, the remaining din from the party silenced by the thick stone walls of the cottage. They walked, not knowing where to—the destination wasn’t important, merely that they were together, alone at last. Ominis kept them warm with a charm that melted the snow beneath their feet forming puddles that froze as soon as they passed. A winding trail of ice to mark their meandering. Garreth held his hand tightly, letting Ominis unwind in the silence. To not talk was a challenge for him, truth be told, but he employed every shred of patience and self-restraint he had until Ominis finally spoke.

“I’m sorry I worried you, Garreth.”

“Don’t be sorry, please. I’m sorry for pushing you to come. I can’t exactly blame Charlotte, she’s just curious...”

“No, I don’t blame either of you. There’s none to lay. I really have had a wonderful time. Perhaps…it’s time for me to talk about my family more, so moments like this don’t catch me unawares.”

“Only if you want to.”

“I think I do. At least, I want to share it with you—all of it. There are horrors in my past and skeletons in my closet that frankly I’ve been terrified to speak of, in case they scared you off.”

“Ominis, you could tell me you’re the devil himself and I’d still love you.”

Ominis smiled serenely, the curve of his lips lit only by the soft moonlight and smattering of stars. Garreth meant every word. There may have been a time he’d have been horrified to hear what he had, yet now he knew Ominis; knew unequivocally that he was good, kind, and nothing at all like his father and brother.

“Shall we head back inside? I imagine your family misses you.”

“Not likely. Do you want to stay out here a little while? I can conjure us a couple of chairs and we can enjoy the silence before the storm.”

“By storm you mean your sister?”

“Of course,” Garreth grinned.

“I’d love to,” Ominis said in barely a whisper, squeezing Garreth’s hand and pulling him to a stop.

They were quite a way from the house now; the illuminated windows mere pinpricks in the distance. The cottage was inviting, sure enough, yet with magic they could create all the cosiness they could want. Hidden by a large box hedge, Garreth set to conjuring a couple of basic chairs, blankets and bluebell flames encased in jars which he levitated to head-height. The flames didn’t give off much heat, but Ominis worked on warming charms to envelop the pair as they settled next to each other, their fingers still tightly laced.

“I could get used to this, you know,” Ominis sighed. “The idea of Christmas, I mean. The memories are still there, but they're not as potent when I'm with you and your family.”

“It will get easier, I promise,” Garreth said, turning his attention from the clear night sky to the person he loved most.

“I'd like to talk about my aunt, if that's okay.”

“I'd love to hear about her.”

Ominis told Garreth all about the woman who had influenced him growing up, her kindness helping to shield him from his family's influence and moulding him into the man he was today. Garreth felt eternally grateful, despite never having met her. He wished he had. In many ways, she sounded like his own mother—strong, fiercely protective and always willing to do what was right, despite the repercussions. Garreth held Ominis close as he told him the stories. It must have been painful, as well as cathartic and bittersweet to share, but by the end of the night, Ominis was smiling, and that's all Garreth had wished for this Christmas.

#garreth weasley #ominis gaunt #garrinis #ominis gaunt x garreth weasley

[just-french-me-up]

it was so hard to pick just one!! but:

10. "You don't know what you do to me."

Fandom : The Sandman

Pairing : Dream of the Endless x Fem!Nameless!Reader (3rd person, no (Y/N))

Rating : M/E (more suggestive than outright smut, but it has its moments)

Tags : Established relationship | PWP with feelings | 1.3K | Angst and comfort

The King of Dreams and Nightmares was a cold, distant creature. Or at least that was how he had been described to her on many occasions. Her own experience had proven those detractors wrong. There was nothing cold about Morpheus, except, perhaps, the spot he left in her bed once he returned to his duties, the memories of his hands and his mouth keeping her warm.

No, the Lord of the Dreaming was not the aloof being some liked to whisper about. Or so she thought.

Lately things had been... different. Upsetting was the word she would use, should she let herself think about it for too long. Ever since he let her in the heart of the Dreaming, she had barely even seen his shadow. At first, she told herself it was the order of things. King he was, and king he remained, with all the duties that came attached to the title. But then, there had been other instances. Avoiding her eyes. Barely looking at her when she stood in the same room as him. Exchanging but a few terse words whenever he failed to avoid her altogether.

It was no wonder to her, then, why the rumours about his nature were so grim. His indifference was not cold. It was glacial.

As a consequence, she spent most of her time alone, exploring a palace she had been let it without a guide. The library was by far the most comforting place she had found so far. She would spend her time there, browsing, marvelling at the sheer endlessness of it. She could have sworn that each night brought a new row of shelves which was not there the day before.

She had taken to reading every unwritten poetry book she could get her hands on. Words scribbled on a restaurant napkin. Half-written confessions. Cries for help. Songs of kinship. She was engulfed in her second volume of the night when footsteps echoed around her and, eventually, stopped.

"I trust you have found the Library to your liking."

Her head snapped up at the sound of his voice. That was more words than he had given her whole week. Standing a few feet away, Morpheus was looking at her, his impassive demeanour in keeping with the rest of his recent aloofness. The first few days, she'd been saddened by it. Now, her melancholy had soured, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth.

"I have," she said, trying and failing not to let resentment colour her words.

He looked, no, observed her from far. Whatever his thoughts were, his face let nothing through.

"I shall leave you to it."

Morpheus had almost turned his back when she snapped her book closed.

"Have I done something?" she asked, standing up from her seat.

He turned around to face her, his brow twitching slightly. His beauty was almost cruel.

"My love?"

"Have you grown tired of me? Do you regret bringing me here? You have barely looked at me since I set foot in the palace."

Something in his expression changed. The stoic mask slipped somewhat as he held her gaze. He did not look angry. He looked hurt.

"You don't know what you do to me."

His words hung in the air between them, almost like a confession. She could have sworn the light filtering through the windows of the library had dimmed.

"Everything here came from me," he continued, looking around them. "Every wall, every stone, every detail was but a thought at first. I made it all. I can feel all of it, for it was once part of me. Nowhere is it more true than here, in the palace. Its entirety could shift, with a single thought of mine."

He took a hesitant step closer, his eyes still gazing deeply into hers. A warm breeze blew against her, although no window was open.

"I did not anticipate how much my thoughts would... wander, once I brought you here."

Although she never averted her eyes, her vision was overwhelmed with images. She saw herself, her back against a bookshelf, hair tangled and cheeks flushed, Morpheus standing between her legs, her thighs held against each side of his hips. She could feel it all, the bite of the wood against her shoulder blades, the fingers digging into her flesh, his hot breath blowing against her neck, the warmth of him against her, inside her.

The vision was gone before she could draw another breath. Behind her, a full shelf of books fell on the floor, making her jump. When she turned back to Morpheus, the heat on her cheeks was no illusion. The room itself felt warmer, almost unbearably so.

"My thoughts rule the Dreaming," he continued, a slight rasp in his voice. "Your presence tends to make them more difficult control."

Another vision struck her. The bookshelf was gone, replaced by the table on her right. Her dress was a mess, fabric hanging from her shoulders, her skirts gathered at her waist. Her hand was lost in a mess of wild hair as Morpheus, knelt on the hardwood floor, worshipped at her altar. Another flick of his tongue overwhelmed her, making her thighs shiver with pleasure. A real, audible moan echoed the vision's, filling the silence of the library.

She slammed her hand against her mouth. Morpheus was closer now, within reach.

"Is it like this all the time?" she asked.

"Whenever you are in my presence," he confirmed.

An onslaught of images flickered before her eyes, mere glances into what she understood to be broader, more consuming fantasies. The feeling of wood against her knees and the salty taste of him. The sensation of soft sheets and his warm skin against her back. His fingers bringing her to completion. His tongue teasing hers.

The echoes of pleasure left her wanting, her breathing short and her knees weak. Morpheus seemed the farthest thing from indifferent now, his gaze studying her intently, as though coming up with other fantasies tailored to this very moment.

"Forgive me, my love," he murmured. "I have neglected you, trying to keep these thoughts from ruling me."

"Will it always be like this? Will you always keep away?"

A faint smile danced on his lips.

"No. I will master them soon. It is only a matter of time. I merely wish to keep my subject from experiencing them until I do. It would make carrying out my duties rather... embarrassing."

"I see. I did not know the Lord of the Dreaming could feel embarrassment."

"Some things are better left between the two us. I do not need the entire realm to know what we sound like in the throes of pleasure."

"Is that a possibility?"

"Very much so."

Morpheus ran a hand through her hair. The touch was accompanied by a phantom kiss in her neck, the hint of unseen teeth teasing her skin. How unfair it was that she could not retaliate. Then again, if she felt him this way, how much did he feel himself, the catalyst of every unconscious thought? The frustration of it had to be unbearable.

"I shall have it under my control soon," he assured her. "Do not deprive yourself of all the Dreaming has to offer in the meantime."

"I did not intend to. Morpheus?"

"Yes?"

She took his hand and kissed his palm, her lips purposefully insistent. He was warm against her, never cold. There was a shift in his eyes, and the light of the room dimmed further, almost plunging them in the darkness.

"Do not just show me, next time, yes?"

"I'm afraid we would need eons for me to put it all in practice, love of mine," he chuckled softly.

"We've got nothing but time."

send me a smutty prompt?

#the sandman #sandman #the sandman netflix #sandman fics #my writing #dream x reader #dream x y/n #i guess #dream x oc #the oc who shall not be named #morpheus x reader #morpheus x y/n #morpheus x oc #listen i liked that concept it's fun!!!! #mainly because dream being consumed by lust is my favorite trope #and his lack of communication is STELLAR #that's not canon in the WIP but i do like that idea very much :'))))) #he has so many daydreams he doesn't know where to PUT THEM #listen there are so many smut possibilities #dream being able to give pleasure without touch? YES #dream being able to have replicas of himself?????????????????? NOW. NOW DONT TEMPT ME #the dreaming is a literal sandbox and everything is possible and i'll make it everyone's problem

[sciderman]

Being told Daniel Ways Deadpool is just a crazy™ idiot from a looney tunes show just to read it (for a third time, now as an adult, after seeing something past the first two issues) and see that while YES, Wade is crazy™ in the book, to the point of just randomly having halucinations and a second voice (whitch both still kinda piss me off, because while NOW it's supposed to be Madcap, back then it was just kinda offensive), he was also a pretty fucking smart individual, to the point of tricking everyone on a bunch of occasions, that whole scene of him alone on a boat after killing a shark, his sometimes dark and kinda depressing inner thoughts, it was just kinda a shock.

And while Wades jokes don't always land for me, the book actualy got me to laugh a bunch of times, while the portrayl of mental illness outside of depression is out-dated and offensive, at least he wasn't JUST a crazy idiot, and Medinas art for Wade is so good imo.

(Also the Bullseye arc was so fucking fun, with the look into Wades backstory, the more and more cartoonish violence, the art, the jokes, the pay-off at the end of the story too)

do we think that the white box is something inherently offensive? because i mean - i write wade with the white box. it's not related to madcap - it's something that's part of him - but i don't think it's anything that isn't just, part of any human – the voice of self-doubt that makes you question your worth. the intrusive voice in your head that makes you fall into destructive habits – i think it's something very real (for everyone) but it just manifests in different, more extreme ways for someone who's been through as much as wade wilson. (that's why peter has red, too. peter has his own boxes of self-doubt.)

i think there's a lot to enjoy about way's run. i love the boxes, and i think they're something that sets wade as a character that's kind of unique. yeah, it wasn't exactly handled in the most sensitive way in regards to proper representation of mental illness, but – i think it's a huge loss that it was erased. because wade could be such an interesting, unique representation that you don't normally see taken in a sympathetic and likeable light. you always see these sorts of disorders as something terrifying - something only in horrors and tragedies - you don't see it manifested in the characters you're meant to root for. the characters who are striving to do better.

i think white box was such an interesting device that gave deadpool a unique voice - gave us an in into his head - kept an entertaining dialogue going with wade even when there were no other characters present - and gave us opportunities for comedy in unexpected places. and i honestly kind of feel like it's some sort of erasure to get rid of those boxes, and make wade just like every other marvel character. i think a writer who's sensitive and creative could do something so, so interesting with those boxes.

i miss you, wade's boxes. i could write an essay on thi

#sci speaks #sci talks comics #wade could be such great representation on a LOT of things. #he has chronic pain. he's pansexual. he deals with all kinds of unnamed undiagnosed mental health issues. #it's right there on paper but every freaking deadpool writer is terrified to actually DO anything with it. #it's on the paper but marvel doesn't actually want to delve into it in any meaningful way. #so wade is representation but? only outside the pages. #only for the people who read between lines and project onto him. #he's representation that is basically invisible to neurotypical heterosexual audiences. so he doesn't make them uncomfortable. #marvel. h8 you. #i know wade wasn't created with the boxes and the boxes are kind of disliked in hindsight but i think it's only because #that entire era of deadpool is kind of considered “cringe” now. #but i am cringe and i am free. and i say the boxes should stay.

[silver-pieces]

you will beg

Pairing: dom!Wanda x (afab) fem!reader

Word Count: 4.3k

Synopsis: Wanda intimidates you, but you desperately need her help.

Warnings: 18+, MINORS DO NOT READ OR INTERACT, smut (fingering), spanking, dom/sub, injury & falling, reader is kept in a cell

A/N: Day Two of Marvel Girlfriend May!! ❤ Did I mention these are meant to be drabbles? Someone please for the love of Wanda STOP ME. I don’t even know how this became 4.3k. Please reblog if you enjoy this story!

Divider ❊ Masterlist ❊ More Wanda ❊ Taglist

Series Masterlist > two

"What are you doing?”

You freeze at the sound of her voice.

Wanda, The Avengers Wanda, stands at the door with her arms crossed, eyebrows raised expectantly.

You slowly lower the shield back down. “Sorry,” you blurt out, “got lost?”

“You shouldn’t be back here.”

Fuck.

You nod, trying to hide the shakiness in your voice. “I’ll just go.”

She doesn’t move from the doorway, and you’re subjected to her disapproving glare as you edge past.

Turning your back on her feels foolish, but you don’t have much choice. Your heart beating wildly in your chest, you take a step towards the sounds of the party.

A sudden force encloses around your neck. You choke before coming to a standstill, and it immediately dissipates - the red tendrils of her magic evaporating in front of your face like smoke.

You feel her presence behind you. “Don’t let me catch you snooping again.” The words a softly spoken threat that sends a shiver down your spine.

The encounter with Wanda leaves you shaken. You find yourself avoiding her whenever possible, and on the rare occasion you are forced to be in her presence, you hide behind the others.

It’s difficult being around her, and not just because of that first awkward encounter. There’s something about the sight of her commanding, attractive form, that leaves your knees weak. Her voice, low and lilting, like it could send you into a trance if you stopped and listened for too long. And those eyes... they draw you in until you can’t help but make eye contact again.

She’s always looking at you when you do. Catching you in the act.

It tugs something in your chest.

In the privacy of your own room, you’ve started getting yourself off to the thought of her. Imagining her pinning you against a wall, or stripping you down, or bending you over the nearest table and making you see stars until you beg for mercy.

She’s come to haunt your dreams too. Most often, it’s simply her eyes, meeting yours from across a crowded room, a sense of longing you can’t quite latch onto, and a red sunrise casting everything else in shadow behind her.

A part of you wants to confront her, to accuse her of using her powers to manipulate your mind, but you can’t bring yourself to admit to her, let alone everyone else, how much you dream of her.

“Are you with us, agent?”

You blink.

Steve Rogers is in your vision, wearing a patient smile.

“I’m here,” you say with an affirmative nod. No more thoughts of Wanda, you tell yourself. This is your very first mission as a part of the Avengers - you can’t give any of them a reason to doubt you now.

“Glad to hear it.” He steps back as another agent hands him the shield, which he braces to the side. “As I was saying, the target is to be neutralised with extreme caution. We believe he has some kind of biotechnology that allows him to...”

Your gaze is drawn to the shield by a force that feels beyond your control. There, in the polished vibranium reflection, is the familiar stern, heart-shaped face of Wanda, her dark gaze locked on Steve as he continues the briefing.

Your mouth goes dry, and you try to look away before she catches you, you really do.

Her eyes flick to yours before you can.

You are still thinking about those eyes by the time you’re infiltrating the target’s hideout.

The place was supposed to be abandoned, but a fully-fledged team of fighters are waiting for you when you arrive.

“We can take them!” you insist over comms. Two more men appear through another door as if in response.

“Agent, wait for backup, that is an order,” Steve growls back. You see him across the warehouse, pursuing the target across the high platforms. To your left, Natasha is silently fending off a group of them. Sam flies beneath the platform you’re on, and ices the two guys coming for you.

You wave at him as he flies by, thankful for the brief reprieve.

“You’re welcome!” he calls through the comms, and you think you hear him chuckle.

Turning your mind back to the mission, you touch your comms. “Steve? Steve I can - ”

A zap of electricity rings out.

It takes you a second to understand that the bolt struck you.

You look down, and theres a tear in your pants, and smoke. Blood begins to seep through.

“Shhhhhhit - ”

Your legs start to give. You reach for the rail - and miss. The platform gives way, or you fall off the side, you’re not really sure. One second you’re on solid ground and the next, the machinery on the floor of the warehouse is rushing up at you.

You hear the rushing wind of Sam’s wings as he flies for you, his yelling over the comms in your ear - 

“Jeez, who died?”

Wanda glances over at Tony as he strolls through the kitchen. He has his hands in his pockets, which he only seems to do when he wants something from her.

“Nobody,” she responds, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I got bored. I am... running out of things to watch.”

He looks pointedly at the mess before her. She’s been setting pieces of newspaper on fire and levitating them over the bin so the ashes fall in.

She glares at him.

He decides not to push it. “How are your people skills? Bruce needs you for something.”

Her... people skills? “Why?”

“Uh, well, apparently the newbie got zapped, fell into a vat of chemicals, and now she’s conducting electricity strong enough to give Point Break a run for his money.” He counts all these points out on his hand.

Wanda stiffens. “What happened? Is she - is she okay?”

He nods. “She is fine. It’s everybody else who’s gettin’ hurt. Bruce is trying to help, but - ”

She’s already grabbing her jacket, breezing past him without moment’s hesitation.

Of course you would get into trouble on your first mission - you’ve never been like the rest of them. Sure, Wanda herself was quiet and shy upon joining, but you are fucking fragile.

And what exactly are they expecting her to do? It’s like you need a full-time babysitter.

“Where is she?” she demands as she enters the lab.

Bruce is hunched over a screen, and he just points in the direction of the containment cells. “I’ll be there in just a second.”

She barely hears him, because there you are, limping as you pace around in the white cell, looking angry as hell. Your uniform is looking worse for wear, you’ve got a bandage on your leg, and electricity runs down your arms and crackles between your fingers.

And there, in her chest, is that familiar pull she feels whenever she catches sight of you. She has never denied it - ever since that first day, her attraction has only grown to the point where her entire being demands it. Being with you feels like an inevitability. But you’re never around, and she has a feeling it’s because you’re afraid of her. Perhaps you’re right to be.

Bruce’s face appears in the reflection next to Wanda’s. “She’s unstable. Traumatised. Angry with everyone for keeping her locked up.” 

She takes in the tension in your stance, the pain shining through in your eyes. “I know the feeling.”

“Yeah, well, she won’t even talk to me.” He adjusts his glasses. “And we can’t get close to her without risking serious harm.”

“You want me to get in there with her.”

He sighs. “I believe you’re strong enough to withstand her. And if she won’t talk to you, then maybe,” he shrugs, “you can subdue her? Help her control it?”

A thrill races through her. A twisted image flashes through her head - making you submit to her. It’s what she’s wanted ever since she met you. The way she always catches you looking at her tells her you want the exact same thing.

In the cell, you curl your hand into a fist. The electricity crackling in your hand zaps out suddenly, hitting the walls and harmlessly dissipating. You glare at the scorch mark.

“Okay.” Wanda looks to Bruce. “Put me in there.”

You would like to wake up from this dream now.

The last thing you remember is falling. Then, white walls and people in lab suits running tests. After waking up, you had tensed for a moment - just a moment - and electricity had shot from your hands like a beam.

It’s for your own good, being locked in here, but that doesn’t change how you feel. Trapped.

The rational agent side of your brain must still be trying to wake up. The rest of you can’t stand this. Any of it.

You’ve seen the containment cells in action, and you know zapping it won’t do anything, but you’re buzzing with energy beneath your skin, and it wants out. So you lash out in the only way you can, over and over.

The sound of the door opening makes you jump. You turn, electricity crackling in the palm of your hands, before your bravado suddenly falters.

Wanda steps into the room, a red glow in her eyes. “Don’t. Move.” The door slides shut behind her.

What is she doing here? You take in her casual clothes, her hands twisting as they harness her magic.

“I just want to talk.”

Electricity shoots from your fingers, hitting the wall beside you. “Talk?” You glare at the woman who has intimidated you so much over the past few weeks. “Just let me out of here, so I can get a decent fucking night’s sleep. Maybe then I’ll be in the mood.”

She tilts her head at you. “That’s not going to happen until you get this under control.”

You curl your hands into fists. The buzzing beneath your skin rises. “I can’t.”

She takes another step forward. “Yes, you can.”

But the crackling of your fists is taking over. “Get back.”

“Just breathe. Control it.”

You inhale sharply, and meet her gaze, the strange red glow of her eyes so different to the darkness you’re used to. “Wanda - ” The electricity releases from your fists and into the cell. White light darts up the walls, flooding the room in blinding light. It’s channelling through your hands and you’re helpless to stop it.

Red magic pulls taut around your wrists, bringing them together in front of you, and instantly the lighting stops. She’s holding your wrists in her magic, glaring at you with her red gaze. “Remember your training, agent - ” she snarls.

Another burst of energy releases from you, this time from your chest. You scream and struggle against the restraints. “Let me out!”

“No.”

A force pushes you to your knees, and then down, further, until she’s pressing your face to the ground. Your hands are yanked behind your back and held in place behind you.

Forced down, to submit beneath her, your struggles slow into sobs, and at some point the electricity just... calms. The buzzing is still there, but for the first time since you woke up, it feels tempered.

Finally you relax.

“If you won’t control it,” Wanda snarls from above you, “then I will.” Her restraints pulse against your skin.

You manage to peer up at her. “I think it worked,” you breathe.

She blinks, and falls back. Her magic fades, allowing you to sit up. You clench your thighs together, embarrassed to find yourself wet. You know what it was even if you don’t want to admit it. Wanda, exerting her control over you. God.

“Bruce wants a blood test.”

You nod, unable to meet her gaze anymore than you already have today.

Wanda can’t stop herself from coming to check on you the next day.

“You’re here early,” Bruce comments in a knowing tone, which she promptly ignores.

“Has she been good?” she asks as she peers at you through the cell window.

You’re wearing a different clothes now, sitting with your head back against the wall and your eyes shut. A tendril of electricity runs down your arm and across your knuckles.

“Her control over the electricity was pretty good after you left, but it’s been getting unstable again this morning. She still won’t talk about it, and now she’s refusing to eat.”

A muscle tenses in Wanda’s jaw. “I think I need to talk to her alone.”

There’s a pregnant pause as Bruce stares at her, taking in what she’s saying. “Alone? Like, you want me to leave the room, alone?”

She nods. “If I want to get through to her, I need some privacy.”

He blinks, adjusting his glasses. “Well, okay then.” He grabs the tablet and gestures to it. “I can run my blood samples from the room next door, and still monitor her vitals. But just let me know when you’re done.”

“Of course,” she smiles patiently at him.

She watches until he leaves the room, and then turns her attention back on you.

You only open your eyes when she opens the door to your cell and steps inside. “Bruce tells me you haven’t been eating.” She tilts her head at you. “Why?”

There’s a spark in your eyes that looks like excitement, but you quickly hide it with a glare. “I’m not hungry.”

“Oh? And when was the last time you ate?” She pins you with a knowing look.

Electricity zaps from your hands.

Instantly she summons her magic, pulling your wrists out in front of you. You make a cute gasp as your arms are yanked forward, pulling you off the wall.

“Do I need to take control again?”

You glare harder. Your hands curl into fists, and you almost seem to willingly summon more electricity.

Well fuck. Wanda is only too happy to oblige.

She pulls you forward by your wrists, onto your stomach on the floor. You fight uselessly, electricity zapping in short bursts.

“Hm. This seemed to work last time.”

“Then why isn’t it now?” you grit out.

“You tell me.” She raises you up by the throat until you’re floating off the ground in front of her. “Tell me how your powers work.”

“I don’t know!” You strain beneath her grip.

“Yes you do. Don’t think about it - just feel.”

"Control!” You gasp. “I gave you control. You made me... you made me submit.”

Satisfaction. Wanda forces herself to temper down the feeling. She knew it - knew she was the cause. But to hear you say it...

“Then submit.”

“No,” you whimper. “I can’t. The buzzing...”

“Do I have to make you? Is that what you want?”

You shut your mouth, refusing to answer. 

It’s enough. “Very well.” She tilts her head at you and pulls you closer. “If I cross a line, you tell me, okay?”

You say nothing at first. And then, so quiet she barely hears it, “Okay.”

Immediately, she uses her magic to set you back on the ground, so you’re standing before her with your wrists still bound. She takes you by the arm and leads you to the bunk you’ve been sleeping on, where she sits on the edge. “Over my lap.”

You stare at her. “You can’t be serious.”

In response, her eyes flare with red magic, and you find yourself pulled over her lap.

You feel a pulse between your legs as your wrists are restrained behind you. “I don’t think - ”

“You will learn that disobedience gets you punished.” She spanks you.

You squeak in shock. “What was that?”

She chuckles, and the sound is low and deadly. “That was my hand, over your pants. You must be sensitive there, huh?”

You make no response.

“Here is the deal,” she says, smoothing her palm over your backside. “You tell me you submit to my control, and I will stop immediately. You don’t, and I keep going.”

You snarl at her, and your electricity flares up for a fleeting second, before - 

She quashes it with another thoroughly hard spank. “You lose control of your powers too much, and I will be spanking your bare skin instead.”

“What? No!”

But she spanks you again, and your protests become squeaks and cries of shock. The sting only grows as she begins her assault on your backside. You’ve never been treated like this before, and your mind struggles to catch up.

You don’t want to submit - you don’t. And deep down, there’s a part of you that feels like your submission needs to be earned. Her willingness to take on that challenge is strangely exciting.

But your behind is getting sore as she goes on. Her magic never loosens from your wrists, and when you move too much she holds you down with more of her magic - on your neck, your ankles, the small of your back. Always forcing you into the position she wants.

It’s making you impossibly turned on, and it doesn’t help that she keeps saying things to you that make your mind go blank.

“I want to hear you say the words.” She spanks you three more times. “And you will beg me to let you say them to me.” Spank spank spank.

Yes, your mind tells you, teetering on the edge of pain and bliss. “No!” you cry out, and suddenly you’re summoning all of the electricity you can. It crackles in the air around you, and you don’t hesitate before lashing out.

It barely touches her, but it definitely provokes her. She pulls your wrists tighter and spanks you harder until you start to apologise, a rush of "I'm sorry! I'm sorry - please!" over and over until her hand stills on the hem of your clothes.

"I told you what would happen if you lost control of your powers, didn't I?"

"No - I am in control of them!"

She pulls your clothes down, exposing your backside. "I am in control."

Fuck, if that doesn’t make your pussy pulse with need.

Her palm wanders over your backside, inspecting you. Your skin feels hot beneath her touch, and you reflexively clench your thighs, hoping to hide the wetness between your legs from her sight. Shame fills you at the thought.

The next spank is the first on your bare skin. It stings. It has you reassessing. How much more can you take? Every spank adds to the heat of your backside, and adds to the wetness forming between your legs.

The next one lands, and you feel your resolve fraying. “Wait!”

She stops.

You take a breath, and force yourself to say the words. “I submit.”

You think you hear her breath catch. Her hand gently strokes over your skin, the touch soothing. “Good.” She sounds almost surprised.

“Can you let me up now?”

“Soon,” she says, her voice a lot softer now. Her hand wanders, and you swallow as she gets closer to your wetness. “I think you will need this again, won’t you?”

She’s right. The buzzing beneath your skin has calmed, but you can sense that it will come back again soon.

Her magic tightens around your wrist when you don’t respond. “Answer me.”

“Yes!” you gasp.

She strokes your head. “Good. Then you will submit to my punishments from now on.”

Outrage washes over you, followed swiftly by humiliation. Because she’s right, and you can’t deny that you want her. “Fine.”

She pinches you, causing heat to bloom on your already-hot skin. “Without the attitude.”

“Ah! God!” you cry out. “Yes, you can punish me! I agree to it!”

She lets go. “Prove it.”

“What?”

“I’m going to give you ten spanks now - more if you argue. And after each one, I want you say the words, ‘you are in charge of my punishments.’ Am I clear?”

“But you said - ”

She cuts you off with another spank, making your asscheek smart with sudden heat. “None of these spanks count as part of the ten, unless you say the words.”

You huff. “I don’t want to.”

“Fine!” She spanks you again.

“Fuck,” you hiss. You can’t take this...

She lifts her hand to go again.

“You are - ” you grit out - “you are... in charge of my punishments.”

Spank. “That’s one.”

“You are in charge of my punishments.”

Spank. “Two.”

It goes on. You make it all the way up to five before you break, and the words are forced out between sobs.

“Do you want me to stop?” Wanda asks gently, soothing her palm over your very sore skin. “Is this the line?”

A burst of gratefulness fills you. “Keep going,” you whimper. The tears feel good, actually, like a release you didn’t realise you needed.

She does.

The words become blurred, blurted out on autopilot.

On eight, the words become, “You are in charge of me.” instead. Your pussy is dripping.

As you finish taking your punishment, saying the words obediently, she gently starts to stroke you, starting on the crown of your head, all the way along your back, and over the curves of your soreness. “Shh...”

“Do the others have to know?” you murmur.

“No. Not unless you want them to.”

You instantly shake your head.

“Then it will be our little secret, solnyshko.”

“Thank you.”

She hums in response. Her hand wanders closer to your wetness, and you find yourself holding your breath as she lightly skims her fingers over your folds. “You need release,” she observes.

If you were thinking straight, you would probably protest or try to hide in humiliation. But she has broken down your defences, made you fall apart in her lap, and you can do nothing but murmur in agreement, not wanting to lie to her.

“Spread your legs.”

You obey immediately.

“How is the buzzing?” she asks, and pushes her finger inside you.

“Gone,” you gasp. Your legs try to close on instinct as your walls clench around her, but the inner side of your legs hits an invisible force, keeping them open.

“Be good,” she patiently reprimands.

“Sorry.”

She begins working her finger in and out of your pussy, forcing the occasional whimper and moan from you as the pressure increases. Then, she inserts a second finger, and a third.

Your pleasure begins to crest. The shaking of your thighs is on full display for her with the way she’s holding your legs apart.

Her fingers slow, and she growls. “You don’t come without my permission.”

“Oh God, please,” you groan, already there.

“Hold it.”

Your entire world is focused on the sensation of her hand between your legs, and the hot touch of her magic entwined around your wrists and between your thighs. Your vision nothing but stars. “Wanda, I really can’t.”

“Not. Yet.” Her magic restraints pulse, and suddenly you feel a warm sensation on your clit. Like a warm tongue, or a collection of bristles that spark against your nerves. Her magic.

You shudder and moan loudly at the erotic sensation.

“Fuck,” Wanda hisses, “my fingers are so far inside your pussy, taking me so well. You are so tight and wet. Fuck.”

“Wanda!” you cry out.

“Do it. Come.”

You crest instantly, wetness spilling out onto her hand and thighs shaking with pleasure. Electricity sparks between your bound hands, provoking her to bind your wrists even tighter.

She works you through your orgasm, sending you higher and higher into bliss. “That’s it, let it all out.”

Finally the pleasure calms, and you relax, enjoying the way she has reduced you to a limp mess.

Then she pulls you up into her arms, letting you lean against her body and rest your face into the crook of her neck.

“Wanda,” you sigh.

She shushes you, stroking circles on the small of your back. Her long hair brushes over your face, silky and beautiful, and you breathe in her scent.

The kitchen looks just how you remember it, except much more crowded than normal. You smile half-heartedly as the team cheers at you when you enter.

“There she is, our trooper!” Steve claps you on the shoulder. “You gave us quite the scare there.”

You shrug. “You know how I like to be dramatic.” A glass is shoved in your hand, and you’re pulled over to the centre of the room, where handshakes and quips are exchanged with a few of the other Avengers. Bruce, Sam, Tony, and Nat you know, but Thor and Carol Danvers are also here, and Clint, and Vision, and Peter, and more, and it’s getting far too crowded for your liking.

A little spark of electricity jets from your hand. It’s tiny, nothing more than a burst of light.

Nervous laughter comes from all around you as the others brush it off, but as you flex your hand, you catch Wanda staring at you from across the room.

Flashes of memories from the past week spent in that cell go through your mind. Wanda has dominated you in so many different ways by now. The spankings, which she calls ‘maintenance punishments’, occurred daily while you were in there, but still there were some days where you refused to co-operate afterwards, and she came back inside the cell with a gleam in her eye that promised swift retribution. Your skin prickles at the thought.

“I should go, get some air,” you say to the others, your eyes not straying from hers.

She pushes off the wall and heads out the back entrance.

You barely hear the others as you push through the room to follow.

Series Masterlist > two

#wanda x reader #wanda x you #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #scarlet witch x reader #scarlet witch x you #wanda #wanda maximoff #scarlet witch #wandavision #mcu x reader #sil's writing

[traincat]

Hey, so quick question: which version of Spider-Man you consider canon? I mean, the writers SAY a lot about the character and while he’s relatively relatable, he’s ALSO a wish fullfiliment kind of person so you can imagine yourself as him.

For example: he’s POOR, so WHY the heck is he still in New York since that's a EXPENSIVE City to live on? He hadn't suffered NEARLY as many tragedies as some other characters like Hulk or Jessica Jones.

Or, he's a loser, but... that's not true at all?? I like Peter, but I can't deny that he isn't necessarily THAT much of a woobie or an overall asshole on occasion (he ain't this saint people tend to claim, if anything he occasionaly behaves like a kid??). To be honest, he kinda has it... easy? Like, he can't have relationships, he's almost NEVER not in one, yet... they claim otherwise.

So yeah, I DO like the little asshole, but Marvel's tendency to retcon and don't show, but tell is... really confusing.

(The only thing that DOES help over that is their admitance it's on purpose, that it's not supposed to be realistic, still... is annoying.)

So I have a direct answer to "which version of Spider-Man do I consider canon" and then I have a lot of more nebulous thoughts about "versions" of characters, reader interpretation, and canon.

My Peter Parker is always going to be 616 Peter, from 1962 through to ugh. Probably about 2014, that's when I personally think the steady downhill slide in characterization that started around Brand New Day entered into irrevocable character damage territory. And I've talked before about how I think, despite what various creators may have said and despite different movie interpretations and the kind of fanon that shows up when you have an extremely large fandom with various levels of interest in actually reading the original-original source material, 616 Peter has traditionally remained a remarkably consistent character. Like yes you have to allow for different writers having slightly different takes, and no superhero who has been written by different creators over decades and decades is ever going to be 100% consistent, but given those factors, and given the character's growth -- like, these are all things that just apply to superhero comics by their very nature, but Peter Parker went five decades where he was a character who just made sense. When I call him fully realized, I really mean it. He feels real and completely fleshed out.

Which is why I kind of feel like the rest of your inquiries veer into more of a discussion on reader interpretation vs actual hard canon fact. And when I say reader interpretation I'm talking about the people who write the comics, too, because again we're working with a medium where fans often become creators, and bring all their own previous interpretations and related baggage with them into the story. Which has pros and cons! I don't mean to make it sound all negative.

I've talked about the relatable trap a lot and that I think there's been a troubling cultural shift from "this character is relatable because he relates to the basic human condition" to "this character is supposed to be relatable so he has to be exactly like me and have all of my exact problems" which feeds back into what you're saying re: "IS Peter a loser? Does he have troubles with girls?" Because it's like, if he's supposed to be a reflection of the Average Comic Book Reader (which I don't think he is) and if the Average Comic Book Reader is a Stereotypical Nerd (insulting implication) then obviously he has to be a loser who has problems with women. But like you said, that's not actually what's reflected in the comics. So what we're up against is this conglomeration of various reader interpretations all kind of tossed together and competing for attention and drowning out the actual comic character. Which is also the problem with calling him wish fulfillment -- whose wishes are we fulfilling? (My wish is to just read good Spider-Man comics currently, so obviously not mine.)

I also think it's a trap to go "well he's poor so obviously he shouldn't live in New York City" when the comics themselves go into this. His aunt and uncle lived in that house for a long time; most likely it's paid off. When he's lived in trendy Manhattan neighborhoods, it's often been in apartments owned by Harry Osborn. Mary Jane pays their bills a lot of the time! We have canon explanations for these things, we don't need to be having arguments about how they're not realistic because at the end of the day, Peter Parker is a fictional character -- writers have the ability to make these things make sense. He's in New York because he is New York; I don't see people jumping at the bit for him to move to Boise, Idaho, or for him to move back to Portland.

I think it's easy to say Peter hasn't had as many tragedies, or has suffered comparatively less than other major comic book figures, but that's opinion. His parents died! His uncle died! His aunt being in ill health in his youth meant an incredible about of responsibility was foisted on him much younger than his peers, leading to a sense of isolation! His girlfriend died! His best friend tried to kill him! Repeatedly! His best friend died! He was cloned! He was convinced that he was a clone and that his whole life was a lie and that he wasn't the real him! His clone, who he viewed as his brother, died! His baby died! On the same night! He thought that his aunt died but actually she'd been replaced by an actress and so he suffered through that grief and loss and tried to move on and then it turned out she wasn't dead! The world assumed his wife was dead for months and his friend group tried to force him to move on! The entirety of One More Day hinges on his inability to move on from the fact that when he instinctively saved his wife from gunfire, he left his aunt in the path of it! Like it's ALL tragedy, it's tragedy all the way down. Spider-Man is a tragedy. But because Peter Parker has earned this false title of being like, a funny little guy who is perpetually in high school and only ever cracks jokes and never engages in Serious Violence or whatever, that gets lost in translation. But for me, that's not a "version" of Peter Parker. That's just misinformation that's unfortunately become popular on a cultural scale and now it's impossible to get away from it. It's not an honest reflection of the source material.

Show, don't tell is the basis of a lot of writing -- whether or not you think that's good advice -- and I think a lot of these issues come down to people looking at small slices of a very large story and thinking that because it doesn't tell them everything in a huge Star Wars credits info dump at the very beginning of the each individual installment of the story that the whole thing doesn't make sense and that they need to "fix" it by declaring that if Peter is poor, he can't live in New York. If he's ever joked about having women troubles, he must be a total loser, so it's not realistic because he's actually always dating someone. Because a bomb didn't go off in his face, he's suffered less than other heroes. But that's not how long running superhero stories work, and sometimes it is necessary to look at the big picture to grasp the smaller details about a character.

#peter parker #traincat talks comics #*replies #getting heated about the nature of canon and reader interpretation and fanon #like unfortunately a lot of this does come down to this all actually being in the comics

[babyjakes]

forever and a day | 52. retraining.

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summary | a story in which america’s favorite captain gives a new life and family to a five-year-old girl who has suffered well beyond her years at the hands of hydra.

characters | dad!steve rogers, girl/willa rogers (original character)

warnings | AU similar enough to OU to include spoilers to many Marvel movies (Age of Ultron and beyond). action and fight scenes with violence and killing. injuries/mild gore. mature themes related to and semi-graphic depictions of child abuse/neglect, past CSA and CSM, and their aftermath (emaciation, wounds, scarring, etc). medical abuse (including sterilization) and experimentation. ptsd/trauma symptoms in a child (developmental discrepancies, de-humanized behavior, detachment, extreme fears). medical treatment of CSM and other aftermath of abuse.trauma-informed therapeutic treatment of ECT. minor mentions of disordered eating. themes relating to abuse of power/authority and immoral interrogation tactics including SA (with brief depictions.) evil!Tony Stark.

[Steve]

"Tell me, Mr. Rogers," the kind young lady had said as she sat beside me in one of the light brown armchairs in the living room, holding a small notepad on her lap where she was jotting down points from our first discussion together.

"You can call me Steve," I had interjected at that point, causing her to look up for a moment and smile. Her eyes shined with a certain gentleness through their soft shades of grey and blue, helping me to relax ever so slightly through the daunting interview.

"Steve," she corrected, nodding politely. "Tell me, Steve, what are your biggest worries for Willa? Or what are the challenges you find most serious when it comes to her emotional and behavioral wellbeing?"

"Oh god," I had said, shaking my head at the overwhelming question. "I... I don't even know where to begin. I mean... she's just been through so much. And even though she's been out of captivity for a decent amount of time, she still functions as if she's in constant danger. I just don't know how to show her that she's safe, that she can let her walls down now and let me take care of her."

"That makes sense," Jenny had said, scribbling down a few more lines on her notepad. "I'm planning on completing a proper set of evaluations to offer a clinical diagnosis, but from what I've already spoken with Dr. Banner about, my best guess is that she's probably developed a severe case of post-traumatic stress disorder. Given the nature of the trauma she endured, it'll likely take a lot of time and therapy to help her overcome some of the emotional barriers she's built up as defense mechanisms."

"Yeah, that's what I figured," I had mumbled.

"Do you have any idea of where you'd like to start? Because she is so young, and you're her primary caregiver, I'd like to involve you as much as possible in her treatment as long as you feel comfortable participating."

"Of course," I had agreed, "I want to do whatever I can to help. And as far as where to begin... I'm not sure. I think the thing I worry about the most at the moment is Willa's inability to accept help. There have been several occasions where she's hurt herself or gotten herself into a situation where she's needed assistance, but she's just been too terrified of coming to me for help to actually let me know. And when I've realized it and tried to help her, she's resisted me as much as she could. I'm not exactly sure where her fear comes from, but I'm assuming it's rooted in what Hydra did to her and how they must've trained her to not ever ask for things." After pausing for a moment, I had added, "I mean, I guess it's not even just asking for help. It's really asking for anything. If I try to get her opinion on something, or ask her what she wants to do for the day, she'll clearly be thinking of an answer, but completely unwilling to share it at all."

"That does sound very problematic," Jenny had nodded, "even though she's trying her best not to be. It makes me think of a few specific documents I read out of her files from Hydra; they were recordings of training sessions she went through that had originally been written in another language, so Dr. Banner wasn't able to understand them. After running them through a translator, they revealed that when she was a toddler, her captors had put her through electric shock treatment to train her to not seek help or comfort." My heart had dropped into the pit of my stomach when she revealed this, but I simply nodded, sensing she had more to share. "They would put a shock collar on her, similar to one that might be used on a dog, and set her on the floor. A few feet away, they would place something she might have wanted. Sometimes it was food, after they had starved her for days. Other times, it was a person. Initially, her instincts would drive her to approach another human in hopes of being held or interacted with, as children that small naturally need and seek affection. But as soon as she would move towards them, or the food, or whatever it was she was being trained with, she would be electrocuted through the neck. Eventually, this changed the fundamental patterns in her brain so that she would no longer pursue things she wanted or needed. They continued the treatment until she would cower back in fear as soon as the food was placed down on the floor."

"Oh my god," I had breathed out, angry tears built up in the back of my eyes. "And she was just a toddler?"

"I believe the training began when she was two," the doctor replied. A sick, nauseous feeling bubbled up in my stomach as I processed the information I had been given. No wonder why she never asks for help, never asks for anything, for that matter, I had thought to myself. "It wouldn't surprise me if as soon as she's offered help or faced with having to ask for things now, she's automatically reminded of her experiences and even still physically feels what her body was put through during that training. Even though concrete memories aren't generally formed during toddlerhood, the body simply has fascinating ways of remembering traumas from any age."

"My poor Willa," I had mumbled in defeat, absolutely disgusted by what Hydra had put her through. "Now I feel bad for not being more patient with her; I had no idea something that horrific had happened to make her afraid of me in that way. How do we- how can I help her? How can I show her that it's safe now, that she won't ever be put through anything like that again?"

"Well, it's going to be a long process," Jenny had admitted. "But what I can tell you is that every time she experiences something that contradicts her past experiences, her brain is relearning the ways of the world. This process is called 'reparenting'; I am assuming Dr. Banner might have mentioned it to you?" I nodded, having recognized the term. "It's going to be very hard and very frightening for her for a long time. And the fear might never go away completely. But eventually, little by little, she should start building up more confidence in her safety with you. The most important thing will be for you to always be as patient and gentle with her as you can, as this is what her brain will be replacing all of her previous experiences with."

"Okay, that makes sense," I had said. "How do I start? What can I do?"

"There are some exercises you can run through with her; they're similar to exposure therapy, but more trauma-centered and focused directly on reparenting. I'll give her a simple one today at the end of our session together, something that hopefully won't feel like too much to start out with. I'll let you run it with her, just the two of you, and next time we meet, we can discuss how it went."

"Alright. An exercise?" I had asked, not completely understanding what she meant.

"I'll just give her something to ask you for. If you'd like, you can initiate it with her after I leave so that she doesn't have the pressure of bringing it up herself." I nodded, the idea making sense as something that might help slowly easing her into growing more comfortable with advocating for herself.

"Great. I'll be sure to do it with her then," I had promised the doctor.

Which brings me to this moment, in which Willa is standing before me, her big green eyes filled with tears as she stares at the hard-wood floor beneath her bare feet, her bottom lip trembling violently as she attempts to swallow down her fear. Jenny left about an hour ago, and I was sure to give the little girl a bit of time to recover and breathe before deciding to bring up the exercise with her. Just moments ago, I called her into the kitchen, and as soon as I told her I wanted to try the exposure, as the doctor had called it, her mood went completely out the window.

"Sweetheart," I say as I kneel down just a few feet away from the shaking child, keeping my voice as soft and unintimidating as I can. "Remember when Jenny talked to you today about trying to ask Daddy for something? Did she talk to you about that?" I remind her. Not daring to look up at me, the little girl's terrified body language immediately gives away the answer to my (probably pointless) question. "Hey, Willa-bug," I murmur, an image popping up in my head of the poor child's neck wrapped in an electric collar, helping me maintain the gentle disposition I need. "It's okay, peanut; you can do it. You can always ask Daddy for things, okay? You'll never be in trouble for it, never ever," I promise, but unsurprisingly, my words seem to do little to change her mind.

"P-please," the poor thing whimpers, the word seeming to be her go-to plea when she's too afraid to say much of anything else.

"'Please' what, baby?" I coo, hating to see her so distraught. "There's no need for 'please's with me, sweetheart," I remind her carefully, "there's no scary here, Willa. No scary at all."

"Please, please don't," she begs, a single tear trailing down to the tip of her rosy nose as she sniffles quietly. "Jenny said you-... you're gonna retrain me; please don't g-get the collar, please don't."

"Retrain you?" I ask, my brow furrowing immediately in concern. "Willa, sweetheart, did she explain to you what that means? It's not the same kind of training you did with Hydra, honey. It's retraining your brain to not be scared of- hey, sweetheart, hey," I hum, only growing more worried as the little girl's chest begins to rise and fall more rapidly, her panic clearly escalating despite my efforts to reassure her.

"P-please, please don't," she hiccups again fearfully.

"There's no collar, Willa. We don't do that here, of course we don't. The retraining just means we're gonna show you it's safe, doll. The whole point of the exposure is to teach your brain that it's safe."

"N-no collar, please no c-collar," she mumbles.

"No collar," I coo, "can you ask me, sweetheart? Nobody's gonna put a collar on you; you're just gonna ask and it's gonna be safe for you, I promise."

Sucking in a shaky breath, Willa squeezes her eyes shut, taking a long pause before finally finding the courage to say, "W-will you-... please... c-can-... Willa and Daddy-... Willa and D-Daddy-..." Sniffling, she gasps for another breath before finishing, "you-... I-I-... snuggles?" Silent sobs begin wracking through the little child's body as she waits in anticipation, her entire body tensed up and ready to receive whatever punishment is coming.

But against her predictions, I simply wrap the small girl up in my arms warmly, lifting her into the air as I rise to my feet and cradle her close to my chest. Rocking her back and forth as I begin to brush her hair down gently with my hand, I murmur soothing words to the child. "Shhh," I ease, coaxing her head softly against my shoulder as I hold her safely, her whole body shaking as I grant her request. "Of course we can snuggle, Willa-bug. You're my snuggle bear, after all; aren't you?" I croon gently, my quiet words of comfort slowly beginning to help her relax. "Here, how about we cuddle up in Daddy's bed? It's the biggest one in the house," I suggest as I carry the sweet girl back through the apartment to my bedroom, walking over and pulling back the blankets and sheets atop the mattress.

"D-Daddy's bed," Willa stutters quietly as I climb in with her still cradled closely to me, resting back against the pillows and pulling the soft blankets up over us as she snuggles warmly into my chest. "Big."

"Big bed, that's right," I agree. "Lots of space to snuggle."

"N-no collar," she says carefully, the fear almost completely gone from her voice.

"No collar," I confirm, brushing back her hair with a soothing hand as one of her thumbs finds its way into her mouth. "No collar ever, sweetie. I promise you; I pinky promise." Wrapping my little finger around her own, I lean down, planting a kiss on her head.

"Scratchy pinky p'omise," she tells me at the gentle roughness of my beard grazing over her bare skin. Looking up at me with wide eyes, I'm able to relax slightly as I see a hint of playfulness shining in the little girl's gaze.

"Scratchy, huh? You don't like Daddy's new beard?" I raise my eyebrow in jest.

"No, still like it," she assures me, rubbing her little forehead against the coarse hair lovingly. "Daddy looks so han'some. Bucky told me- m-my daddy's the mos' han'some man in the world."

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#faad #faad: retraining #eun's writing #steve rogers #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers series #steve rogers au #steve rogers angst #steve rogers fluff #hurt/comfort #steve rogers x child!oc #dad!steve rogers #the avengers #avengers fanfiction #mcu #mcu fanfiction #captain america #captain america fanfiction #chris evans #chris evans fanfiction

[gregxb]

Gargoyles Doesn’t Need Marvel.

“Wouldn’t it be great to see Xanatos battle Tony Stark?” “How about Dr. Strange versus Oberon!” “I want to see Brooklyn join the Avengers!” “Magneto and Demona would make an awesome alliance!” “There’s no reason not to merge Gargoyles into the Marvel Universe!”

There’s a reason not to. There's a lot of reasons.

First of all, the two universes are pretty incompatible. Time travel works differently in both universe for one. In "Gargoyles" you cannot alter history, and that series is so much better for it. If it were a part of Marvel, it would be too easy for Goliath to, let's say, go back in time and prevent the massacre of his clan back in 994 Scotland.

I suppose you could retcon away those Marvel time travel stories like "Age of Apocalypse" and "Days of Future Past." While I would not mind that, it wouldn't be fair to the fans and creators of those stories.

Second, while I have no doubt the existence of gargoyles would be shocking to the people of the Marvel Universe, it wouldn't have the same impact it should. Not in a world where mutants, super-beings, Atlanteans, Inhumans, Eternals, Norse gods, and Fin Fang Foom are already known to exist with Galactus stopping by every other Tuesday.

Third, okay, Marvel's Odin is now a Child of Oberon, as are the Asgardians. Okay... how well do you think that's going to go over with the fans of Jack Kirby's Thor who have been reading it for nearly fifty years now? Hell, there are still some people who are uneasy about Odin being subject to Oberon in "Gargoyles." I'm not one of those people, but I understand where they're coming from.

Finally, and perhaps most important, the Marvel Universe is not really going anywhere. It is very cyclical. Things come, things go, status quos change and are restored. Spider-Man is married for twenty years, then he is single again. Magneto reforms, then is a villain again, then reforms, etc, etc.

For example, I respect a lot of what Joe Quesada has done for Marvel. However, the notion of him and his successors (I know he's gone now) having any kind of creative influence over "Gargoyles" scares me. "Goliath and Elisa were more interesting before they finally declared their love and got together. The core of it was always impossible love, so now we have to split them up." You know it would happen.

"The Gargoyles Universe" is going somewhere, as we're still seeing in the Dynamite comic, it was always evolving. Never going backwards, but moving forwards. It was an evolving tapestry, and change was constant. Marvel, on the other hand, lives and breathes on the illusion of change, while actual change is non-existent. Death is meaningless. Characters don't age, and the status quo may shake up on occasion, but it is always eventually restored.

The Marvel Universe was built by Stan Lee, Jack Kirby, and Steve Ditko, and maintained by many very talented and creative people acting as custodians of that work. But, for better or worse, it is a soup with hundreds of cooks. Many great chefs, and more than a few fast food fry cooks.

"Gargoyles" was co-created by Greg Weisman, and while he had a lot of help, he was the only co-creator, and the one who never stopped working on it. He was the first author of "Gargoyles" and more than likely he will be the last author of "Gargoyles." For the better. We saw "Gargoyles" without Greg Weisman, and it was nothing good.

Both universes have their place, but you couldn't merge them without one of them being significantly altered in the process. Now, I will admit my bias again and say that I wish the "Marvel Universe" was more like the "Gargoyles Universe" but, there's no real point. It's been around for nearly six decades (over eight if you want to talk about Timely Comics), and it's not going to change. As I've made clear, I think that's kind of the problem, but an understandable one given the nature of Marvel Comics. DC too, for that matter.

Now, I realize a lot of the above makes it look like I'm saying "Gargoyles" is great and Marvel is awful, but I don't feel that way at all. I just don't think such a thing would work without one of the universes suffering for it.

#Gargoyles