#I was sorely tempted to mug her for it | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

the-kr8tor · 1 month

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Hey hey hey, i wanna make a request! (this is literally gonna be my first one ever so forgive me if it sounds stupid lol)

I was thinking of a plot where Hobie has a younger sister and her best friend is Y/N who usually sleeps over cuz they have sm shit goin' on back at home so somewhat ¿close proximity? ─ it's basically a 'Sister's Bestfriend/Bestfriend's Brother' troupe and maybe a li'l bit of 'Enemies to Lovers' (optional😭) but yeah:P idk this sounded tempting to me sooo~ eep><

Thank you for requesting, bestie ❤️❤️❤️ (thank you for the help with their names!)

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader, Sister's best friend! Reader, Hobie has siblings, big brother! Hobie, Jas and Seb AU, big brother AU, FLUFF.

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

You wake up to Jasmine kicking your back, spine aching as she continues to slumber unbothered. The pain throbs on your lower back, you feel you're gonna need an ice pack for it or you're gonna wake up sore. Huffing and slinking away from the twin bed, the mattress squeaks as you leave her side. In the darkness of the pink room, you blindly feel your way out of it.

Bumping into Jas’ study table, the corner hits your hip making you hold your breath from the stinging pain. That's injury number two just from your best friend’s room. Said woman snorts in her sleep, kicking the heavy duvet off her form. You wonder what she's dreaming about amidst your aching pains. Whatever it is, you're already preparing something to tease her with as revenge for kicking you awake.

Hands reaching up, you finally make it to the door without getting injured from a stray slipper or worse, a lego piece from the set you two were building just before bed. Sliding your hands on the wood, you feel the cool metal of the doorknob, quietly twisting it open, you peek through the gap. Finding the dimly lit hallway, you trudge towards the light of the kitchen.

Your socked feet hit the cool tile, and it's too late to turn around. Hobie— your best friend’s brother spots you, his legs criss crossed, hand warmed by a mug of hot tea. He smirks on the countertop, checkered pajama pants on his waist. An ancient band shirt on his torso that has turned into a crop top makes you flick your eyes to his exposed abdomen. Quickly looking away, he hides the knowing smile behind his mug.

“Can't sleep? Jas snorin’ too much?”

You cross your arms on your chest. “She almost kicked me off the bed.” You say hoarsely, sleep clinging on your lashes.

“You wanna sleep in mine then?” His grin gets wider when your eyes widen. Shushing him, he chuckles at your flustered reaction.

“Your siblings are asleep.” You whisper yell, heart pounding in your chest, glaring at his smiling (handsome) face.

Hobie lets his legs dangle off the counter top, arms reaching out for you. “Exactly, they're asleep.” You can hear the amusement in his voice. “C’mon, love, I've been waitin’ for this the whole day.”

“You've been waiting for a hug?” You tease him back, slowly crossing the distance. “You're smitten, Hobie Brown.” Your own smirk begs to be kissed off your pretty lips.

Lightning quick, he grabs you by your elbow, pulling you in his arms, embracing you. You squeak as your head hits his chest. Looking up, heart thumping loudly near his own heart, he has the audacity to pucker up his pierced lips towards you.

You scoff, “we're in the kitchen? Where they could just walk in and see us locking lips, really?”

He frowns deeply, eyes downturned, dramatically showing you his displeasure. Pinching his waist, he drops the act with a deep laugh that makes you weak in the knees.

“Fine, let's pretend you didn't want it.” He shrugs, pulling you closer, embracing your waist. “Where'd she hit you?”

“Lower back. I hit my thigh against the table too.” You say like the table intentionally smacked against you.

“My poor baby,” his hand slides down to your lower back, raising your shirt, warm hands kneading gently. The pain subsides with every massage from his fingers. “Better?”

Humming, cheek pressed on his well worn shirt, “Well I want it too.” You shyly say, hand picking at the loose threads of his shirt. “The kiss, I mean. It's just—what if they see us?”

“You're the one who wanted to keep it a secret, love.” Hobie says softly, poking your side. “‘sides, it's been a year, I'm sure they figured it out by now.”

“What? How would you know?”

“They're my siblings.” He says matter of factly. “Jas is practically my twin, and Seb, well Seb just knows everything, that little weirdo.”

“So mean to your little brother.”

He chuckles into your hair, nosing the top of your head. “They won't even care at this point. According to Seb, we should just get together before he shoves us both in the wardrobe.”

“What if they do though?” You look up again, chin resting on his chest. “What if they react…badly and I ruin my friendship with Jas?”

Hobie cradles your cheek, “it'll hurt her more if we hide it from her. ‘sides, isn't she the one who keeps trying to get us together?”

“Yeah, as a joke! but everytime someone asks us if we're together she goes ‘eww!’” you copy her tone perfectly, to which Hobie chortles at your impression.

“She's a big girl, she can handle it. What'll she do? Keep us apart like Romeo and Juliet?”

“They die at the end, Hobie.”

“Yeah, they do. I don't think Jas would do that. Y’know, true love and shit.” He uncharacteristically turns away from your gaze.

“And shit.” You lovingly say. Hands on his chin, his stubble rough against your fingers, you move his head to face you. “Do you want to tell them?” You ask, balling his shirt in your hands from your nerves. His eyes are tender, the pads of his fingers are slowly dancing along your back. “Because I really want to tell them. I think I'm ready.” Smiling, Hobie nods, heart full.

“Tell us what?” Sebastian appears out of nowhere, making you jump away from Hobie. He reluctantly lets you go as Seb gives you two numerous nods, smirking the entire time.

“What are you doin' up?” Hobie asks his brother who comedically shrugs. If he didn't know before then he definitely knows now.

“I was thirsty, but it looks like I found two people who are thirstier than me.” He Laughs like a bond villain. His minecraft shirt doesn't make him as intimidating as he thought he was.

“Just go get your water, Seb.” Hobie gestures towards the fridge while you debate whether or not to tell him.

“Alright, let me have ‘em then.” Seb exclaims, hands confidently on his hips. “Give me your best negotiation.”

“Have what?” You knit your eyebrows. Hobie pulls you in closer, he looks his brother up and down with a face like he was stabbed in the back.

“Really? Blackmail? Thought I taught you better than that, Sebby.”

“You did, but you also taught me to take the opportunity when presented to me.” Seb leans casually on the kitchen island, a picture of someone who thinks he has won. “I want a puppy.” He says with his whole chest. “Actually, make that a puppy and a cat. A cat that isn't a symbiote this time.”

You and Hobie share a look. With your nod and bashful smile, he hooks his arm around your shoulder, pulling you close, pecking your temple before he confesses. It's now or never.

“Y/N and I have been together for a year.” He says proudly. “We actually just decided to tell Jasmine, so holster your blackmail because it's useless.”

Sebastian looks at you for confirmation.

“I love your brother, I really do.” You smile softly, “and we're gonna tell Jas tomorrow.”

Seb frowns, “you never let me have fun.”

Hobie waves him away. “Go get your water and go back to bed or you'll see something that will be burned into your retinas forever.”

His teenage brother points an accusing finger at you both. “Gross. You're both very gross, and I called it the second you two started flirting with each other.” He takes a bottle of water from the fridge whilst you and Hobie laugh in your own corner. “Happy for you two by the way.” He flips his brother off, “seriously, love that for you two but fuck you, Hobie, for not letting me get a proper pet.”

“The kids are alright.” Hobie mumbles.

“Were you like that when you were younger?” You ask, watching Sebastian walk away, still flipping the bird.

“Worse, where did you think he got it?” Hobie chuckles, rubbing your back. You can hear Seb’s bedroom door close.

“I figured.” You turn to face him, a giddy grin spreads across your face. “We just told him,” you happily say as he holds your face in his hands like he's holding the most precious jewel in the world. “And he didn't get mad. Not at what we told him at least.”

“And we'll tell Jas tomorrow?” Hobie whispers against your waiting lips whilst you nod. “Proud of you. Does this mean I can snog you in my kitchen?”

“Yes, you can snog me in your kitchen.” You say breathlessly as he presses his lips against yours.

“What the fuck?!” Jas yells.

The cat's out of the bag. There goes all the planning you've been preparing since you said yes to Hobie.

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oliviajdjarin · 1 year

Text

Joel Miller: Birthday Boy

Pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader (afab; she/her)

Excerpt: He was so golden, so smooth yet smothered in moles that you’d kissed and purple marks from your teeth. So perfect. So yours. Your lips parted, craving the taste of his skin once again. You recalled his statement from the night before.

“Wake me up with your mouth, baby,” he whispered into your hair. “Drown me with it.”

How could you say no to the birthday boy?

You set both coffee mugs on the side table, rubbing your hands together to keep the leftover heat from the steam alive, and slid your way back to the position you were in before. His breaths remained steady and a big part of you just wanted to let him sleep. He never got enough, with money and providing for Sarah always on his mind, and maybe that would be the best thing for him.

Drown me with it.

Maybe not.

Warnings: SMUTTT, oral sex female receiving, joel has a giving kink @ me, mentions of Sarah (RIP), allusions to the end of the world.

A/N: So much Joel Miller content, I don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t think I’ve ever been happier. I hope you enjoy.

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If you’d like to leave a like, comment, ask, or reblog, it would be much appreciated <3

Pedro Masterlist

(GIF credit to owner, please let me know if it’s yours)

You awoke to the taste of him still on your tongue—it was practically still drooling down your chin—and the warmth of his naked body draped across your frame. Your eyes were puffed and cloudy and your hips felt yellowed and sore, giving you flashbacks of the night previous.

Open your pretty mouth, darlin’.

Fuckin’ shit, this wet already?

Easy now, we got all night.

Ride me till I’m numb, baby.

You closed your eyes in bliss and whispered to yourself in a sing-song tone, “happy birthday.”

His small snores and hot breaths against your earlobe showed he didn’t hear you. He wasn’t meant to. He was meant to stay asleep—deep asleep—until you decided otherwise.

You were tempted to stay there, in his arms, forever. With his woody-cinnamon scent wrapped around you, his permanent scowl softened into an almost-smile, and his body slack against your own. This was Joel Miller—not the one lessened to a struggling carpenter, a single parent, or a lonely man—this was the whole Joel Miller. The true Joel Miller.

This was your Joel Miller.

You smiled at him, letting your eyes serpentine and circle around him for as long as you could, before pressing the softest kiss to his cheekbone. You barely pressed your lips to the hairs that coated it. You hummed to yourself, unable to prevent that sweet sound of pleasure whenever your lips touched his skin, and slowly started scooting your way out from underneath him. Your body screamed at you to stop, stay awhile, never leave, but you persevered.

He was so out he barely twitched.

You laughed to yourself as you found your footing on the cold, grey-carpeted floor. Your fingers twitched to comb through his hair, map out his body, or reach downwards to the sweet spot of your own at what a vision he was, but you somehow managed to continue on.

A midnight-black Henley of his had been discarded at some point in the night, likely thrown across the room by your own hands, and you threw it over your bare body as well as fresh underwear before making your way down to the kitchen. Joel always joked how your stealth was a wasted talent of yours.

I know who I’d ally with in an apocalypse, Tommy would joke.

Idiots.

You made your way to Joel’s most prized possession—his coffee-maker—and threw in his favorite brand of beans. Despite drinking plain black, he did have a taste for higher quality arabica. He would have never bought it for himself.

“Present number one,” you whispered to yourself as the smooth steaming liquid made its way into his rough coffee cup. It was old, chipped, and on the verge of shattering, yet still his favorite. You wondered what that said about him.

You set his aside and made a small cup of your own—adding plenty of cream and sugar thank you very much—and made your way back up the stairs, taking little sips as you walked. Sarah’s room was still locked shut and it was still plenty dark outside.

Good.

Your toes pressed onto the carpet again as you walked back to your side of the bed, and Joel had not moved an inch. His lower half remained swaddled in blankets, while his upper half…

…fuck.

He was so golden, so smooth yet smothered in moles that you’d kissed and purple marks from your teeth. So perfect. So yours. Your lips parted, craving the taste of his skin once again. You recalled his statement from the night before.

“Wake me up with your mouth, baby,” he whispered into your hair. “Drown me with it.”

How could you say no to the birthday boy?

Drown me with it.

Maybe not.

You leaned forward and breathed in the skin on his neck before placing a faint kiss on his pulse. You then moved to his adam’s apple, kissing up to his chin. He stirred a bit, unconsciously pulling you closer to him, and you kissed around his mouth. You pressed one more kiss to his hairline, his hair soft and ruffled from your own fingers, before he whispered incoherently.

“Hm?” you asked, bringing your mouth inches away from his.

“I said—” but he was interrupted by your lips on his.

You parted them quickly and deeper the kiss, tugging him close to you with your hand on the back of his head, and his large hands molded against your hips. You teased him with your tongue just enough for him to tilt your head back for more, but you pulled away.

“Happy birthday.”

He grinned and worked his right hand up to your face, framing it. “Thank you.”

You smiled brightly before sitting up completely and grabbing both coffees. He sat up with you, making himself comfortable leaning his back on the bed frame, and took the mug you handed him eagerly. He immediately sipped it and hummed, closing his eyes.

“You didn’t,” he whispered, his accent in full force.

“I did,” you whispered back, and sipped your own.

“These beans are over ten bucks.”

“I know,” you responded, and took another long sip. “This is present number one.”

“Number one?” he questioned with a laugh. “How many are there?”

You only smiled back at him, enjoying his questioning look.

The two of you proceeded to sip your coffee in silence—enjoying the slowly rising sun, the birds chirping, the wind blowing, and the creaks and groans of the house. Joel took his time, drinking his coffee slowly instead of chugging it as he ran from the house, and he enjoyed every sip.

Finally, he broke the ice. “Darlin’, since when did you have clothes on?”

You laughed enough to make your eyes crease before saying, “Since I went to make you coffee this morning with the risk of Sarah coming downstairs to use the bathroom.”

He chuckled and took one last sip, finishing his cup completely, and you took the cup from him to place it on the nightstand. He mumbled a quick “thank you” before you did, a grateful look in his eye, but once you turned back around, the chocolate in his caramel eyes had completely taken over. The rising sun illuminated their darkness that much more.

“I don’t think you’re understandin’ me,” he whispered, and the look in his eye suddenly made sense. Arousal rolled over you like a wave, and a smirk made its way to your face.

“Am I not?” you questioned, lowing your voice exactly how he liked it. The ink in his eyes was beginning to drip down to his body language—tense, itching to touch and unravel you.

“You’re not,” he said, and leaned closer, close enough for you to feel his hot breath on the skin of your collarbone. “I want them off.”

He kissed your collarbone and neck, reaching his hand underneath his own fabric to meet his calloused hand with your soft skin, and you smiled. “It’s your birthday. Take what you want.”

You didn’t have time to think before his mouth met your own.

He quickly took the mug still in your hands and leaned over you—mouth still claiming yours—to set it on the nightstand. He then took the opportunity pin you fully to the bed. His tongue fully mapped your mouth now and you whined at his taste—black coffee, morning, and the residue of you. He likely tasted the same thing on you.

“Gotta stay quiet,” he whispered, slipping your shirt completely off. “I do have a model of responsibility to set.”

You laughed into his mouth. “How’s that going?”

He laughed with you and kissed you again, feeling you everywhere. You took the chance to feel him up too, dragging your nails up his chest and over his back, through his hair, and across his scruffed face. His facial hair always tickled at the very least and burned at the very most. This morning, your face felt a bit of both.

He was kissing you so good and your head was so lost in all of it that you almost missed when he mumbled, “Let me try somethin’.”

He pulled away completely to look at you. Your eyes were blissed out, your lips were tingling, and your brain was absolutely reeling. He smiled down at you, likely because of how out of it you looked. “What?”

“Let me try somethin’,” he mumbled again, kissing down your face and to your chest. You closed your eyes and breathed erotically at the feeling of him all over you. Everywhere. “I’ve gotta eat somethin’ after my coffee, don’t I?”

Your eyes widened to saucers. You sat up, putting your weight on your elbows, and met his eyes. He was now hovering over your lower stomach. “Joel, you don’t have—”

“It’s my birthday,” he whispered with a kiss to your midsection. “I want this. I’ve wanted this for a while.”

You and Joel had been together for a while, longer than a while, and the sincerity in your feelings for one another had only grown with each passing day. You had started spending nights at his house, he had started spending nights at yours, and you had met his daughter a few months ago. You had even started spending weekends with Joel and Sarah as a way to get to know her better and test the dynamic which, so far, had been smooth sailing. She had obviously enjoyed your company, even asking you to stay at their house throughout the week. You and Joel were becoming serious, very serious.

And yet, he hadn’t done this for you before. He had offered it before, but you had always wanted to suck him off instead. It seemed that today, he knew what he wanted.

Your pants started getting more infrequent with even the thought of him doing this to you. You wanted it badly. His cocky grin showed you that he knew that too.

“Don’t you want me to take care of you today?”

His grin only expanded. “Do you seriously think I won’t come from this?”

And with that, he pulled your underwear down your body, and began his feast with a hunger. With one lick from his tongue, your goal of keeping eye contact with him shattered, and a long groan escaped from your mouth.

“Quiet baby,” he whispered against your mound. “Quiet,” and he continued.

He mapped you like an expert—memorizing exactly where you whined, honing in on those areas just long enough to make you shake, and just before you found your release, he would move on.

“Fuck you,” you whispered after the second time he did this, sweat dripping down your face and breasts. He chuckled into you and pulled one of your hands off his head to wrap it in his own, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Patience baby. It’s my birthday.”

He continued squeezing your hand as he worked, and you continued biting your tongue until you nearly drew blood.

This was heaven. Heaven on earth. Eternity between your legs. The world could end tomorrow and you wouldn’t care, not after this. Not after him.

It was when he nudged your clit with his nose just so that you felt that familiar ball of flame inside of you begin to oxidize, expanding from a lick of flame to a fire.

“I’m so close Joel please.”

“Jesus woman,” he replied, the noises coming from his mouth on you borderline obscene. “Sound so pretty.”

He kept at it, nudging your clit with his nose and licking you where you needed. It was then that you noticed a small rock to your bed and a consistent creak. You used the last of your strength to pull yourself up, only to be met with Joel’s now hazel eyes, and the lower half of his body fucking hard into the bed.

“Told you I’d come from this,” he whispered, and kissed your clit.

Your fire became unstoppable, and you let yourself fully release into his mouth.

He didn’t stop. Not after you gave him one more.

Finally, he parted from you with one final kiss, and you didn’t even realize your eyes had fallen shut until he kissed both of them. They fluttered open to be met with his smiling face.

He looked so damn happy.

You brought his mouth to yours, tasting yourself mixed with his morning coffee, but he pulled away quickly.

“How was I?”

Your face broke out into a smile so big your teeth showed. “Perfect.”

He pecked your nose. “Good.”

He laid down on his back next to you, panting and exhausted, and you immediately cuddled into him. You threw your leg over his own only to be met with something…sticky?

He came. Purely from sucking you off.

“What’s this, the third time I’ve told ya?” he whispered into your hair. “I did this for you, but I wanted it just as badly.”

You couldn’t help the shock in your voice when he hugged you close. “I—I don’t know what to say.”

“I love you Y/N,” he said. “That’s all that matters.”

“I love you Joel,” you whispered back weakly, feeling the exhaustion envelop you once again. “Happy Birthday.”

He hummed in acknowledgement, likely grateful that you had woken him up early enough for him to go back to sleep. You followed him in your failure to sleep, but just before you reached unconsciousness, you felt yourself whisper.

“Don’t think I’m not paying you back for this.”

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@leahkenobi @aninnai @untitledarea @avengersfan25

#joel #Joel Miller #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x f!reader #Pedro Pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal x reader #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #hbo

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jarofstyles · 2 years

Text

Afterglow

Hello my loves. Here is a wolfrry check in 🌦 I hope you enjoy!

Warnings: wolfrry, mention of rut, breeding kink(?) pregnancy, possessiveness, mention of violence etc

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—-

After his rut, Harry felt clingy.

Granted, he always felt clingy when it came to his mate. There was no disputing nor denying that he felt incredibly needy all the time with her, but the hormonal shift had him itching to have her close to him. To be skin to skin, preferably, but even basking in her presence was enough to soothe his inner beast.

His body woke up out of his deep sleep the day after his rut broke, whimpering when he saw the side of the bed empty. No hands on his chest, no warm face tucked into the crook of his neck, and that simply would not do. His hand felt the sheets and found them still warm, a grumble leaving his throat as he knew it had only been a few minutes that she had been gone. This simply wouldn’t do.

Standing up from the sheets on slightly sore legs, he dragging himself to the dresser and tugged on some shorts. It wasn’t like it hid much of their activities- the room still reeked of sex and Harry’s damnedst attempts to impregnate her, and his body? Oh, that was all the evidence one needed. Bite marks, claw marks, his back stung from the scratches that were clawed all over the tanned skin. There was no debating it at all. His little mate was a hellcat in bed.

There was no fixing of his hair or washing of his face. He was too eager to find his love, body sending all the senses out to find her. His quiet footsteps sounded in the hall, grumbly growls like a pup leaving his throat at the displeasure of being away from his mate. It was barely dawn, the stark blue of the early morning sky making him humph under his breath.

What reason could she possibly have to abandon their warm little nest? Where it was safe.

Harry would love another day there. The blankets surrounding them, her fingers in his hair and his hands having uninterrupted access to the planes of soft and hot skin. Swollen mouthed kisses being on tap, her pleased hums and giggles that turned into sweet moans when he would tire of the chaste love and hear built up in his stomach again.

The fuzziness of his thoughts haven’t dissipated yet, the tail end of rut making him feel edgy and cagey without her. The possessiveness wasn’t as intense as pre-rut or during, but he would still be tempted to stab or claw anyone away from touching her. He didn’t want the scent of him off of her. The mix of their scents was so divine, so pure. The man never wanted to smell anything but their combination ever again.

His bare feet hit the cold wood of the stairs, shivering slightly as he made haste to get down them. She was down here. He could hear the clang of a coffee mug echo through the great room, could smell the mix of them. She hadn’t showered, thankfully, it all his scenting efforts would have gone to waste and made him more grumpy.

An eagerness set in his chest to find her again. To people who don’t have mates it could be seen as pathetic, the need to get close to her after just literally being inside of her for days on end, but he was biologically wired this way. Standing in the doorway he could see her standing at the coffee machine, watching it drip. He had to think it was for him, because she preferred the pod machine that Harry hated. He liked tradition and that weird pink machine made irritating noises that bothered his ears.

His growl rang through the kitchen as he saw her in nothing but one of his old shirts. He could tell it was nothing but considering she had reached up to grab something and her bare ass with a prominent bite mark of his was on display to him, making his vision fuzz pink.

“My mate.” He snarled, stalking towards her with a predatory gleam in his eye. “You dare leave my bed? In nothing but my clothing?” He bared his teeth a little bit in a sneer as he caged her in, taking the hot mug of coffee from her hand and pushing it out of the way so no burns would come to her precious skin.

“Alpha.” Y/N knew how to schmooze him. Her hand brushing over his chest, the heat of his skin almost burning her palm. More than the coffee, really, she gave him her softest eyes before leaning against the counter and letting him box her in. In this state it was better to let him be in control. “Hiiiii.” She gave a tiny smile, leaning her head back so he could see her neck. “M’sorry… so sorry, baby. Came to make you coffee.” Her hand trailed up to his neck, tracing over the sacred mark her own teeth made during their mating process. “I didn’t mean to displease you.” Her wide, soft gaze fell into a tiny pout. “Forgive me?”

Oh. Oh. She was good.

He let out a tiny whine as her fingers brushed the mark, shivering at the feeling of his beloved mate claiming her spot. It was ultra sensitive as it was, but feeling her touch it made his whole body erupt into tingles- often like when one’s foot fell asleep. Her precious little gaze and her tender voice called to the inner beast, making his hackles lower. She wasn’t trying to escape or let anyone else see her. She was trying to please him.

“Always.” He dipped his head down, nudging his nose with hers. “Always, little wolf. My strong angel.” The irritation has cooled from a white hot to a mushy, pink goo. Hand sliding under the top to feel her bare skin on her back, he nuzzled against her with a sweet hum. It tickled, a bit, feeling his rough fingertips against the base of her spine but Y/N relished in the feeling of him being so needy. A big, strong, scarred alpha turning into a soft little pup in front of her eyes. “I missed you. I don’t enjoy waking up without my mate. I wasn’t fully done with your body.” A playful nip was giving to her chin, making her squeak.

“How your cock hasn’t fallen off yet, I have no clue.” She grinned, feeling his hands on the back of her thighs and lifting up. A squeal left her mouth as the cool countertop hit her ass, but Harry murmured an apology and rubbed her thighs a bit too eagerly while standing in between them. “You’ve had me so many times the last few days, I would think you’d be sore and raw.”

“I am plenty sore.” He invaded her space, nosing at her hair as he enjoyed the general lack of space between them. “That doesn’t mean I am not also aroused. My body wants nothing more than my child swelling inside of you. Your womb to be full and heavy.” His voice dropped to the telltale Rut tone, making her swallow thickly. Red warning bells went off because honestly, she didn’t know if her cunt could handle another pounding. As delicious as the sex had been- and god, it was fucking good- Harry in his most unhinged state was filthy and dark and rough. Her body bore his marks that he had fretted over during their baths, only to create more. She was swollen and a little sore, but that didn’t stop her body from reacting to the man she belonged to. His did the same for her.

“Mmm… but I am okay for now. I wanted your touch. Said ‘cuddles’ that you have made me so fond of.” With Harry’s history, he had never cuddled another person before. Hell, he had been nicknamed Hades. That didn’t give off the most warm and fuzzy vibes. But with Y/N? He had been given a glimpse, a loving look into a brand new world!

“Oh… the big, bad alpha, mister ‘I will burn down any house that occupies someone who wishes you harm’, loves his cuddles?” His mate chittered, a little giggle following it. He supposed it did sound odd coming from his mouth, but that didn’t make it any less true.

“Yes. Both things are true.” The man pulled from her hair and from scenting her to hold her cheeks, giving her a soft yet stern look. “I have not changed from my past. I still desire the blood of any enemy you have, anyone who puts a frown on this beautiful little face. But I can enjoy a cuddle every now and then. Especially when I’ve been trying to place my child into you.” His eyes glanced at her belly with an even more tender gaze. They wouldn’t know for a few weeks, but he was hoping this was the time.

“Mm. Oddly, that’s kind of hot.” She did have issues growing up though so, adding it in with their natural instincts it all made sense. “As long as me and our babies are the only one who gets cuddles. I’m fine with that.” She placed her own hand on his stubbly cheek, admiring the pure beauty of the man in front of her. Her beautiful mate, the strong, rugged wolf. Scars and all.

“You’re so beautiful, Harry.” The words left her mouth without meaning to but she found she wouldn’t have wanted to stop them. “I love the stubble. You should grow it out.” She pulled him forward, lips feathering over the cheeks of her mate. “It’s rugged and handsome. Makes you even more fearsome, I think.” His long hair fell into his face which she promptly pushed back, smiling with her teeth bit into her swollen bottom lip while she tried not to shy from his intense gaze.

“My beauty talking about someone else’s beauty.” He chuckled under his breath. “So unaware of how insanely otherworldly your own is. Thank you, petal.” The knuckle brushed her chin and pushed it up so he could peck her lips, a pleased purr echoing from his chest. “My beauty. All mine. Forever mine. Baring my mark…. I can forgive you for leaving our bed so long as you return to it with me and stay the remainder of the day.” Harry would much rather let her lay with him than either of them do their duties. “I don’t think I can focus on anything but you for the rest of the day.” The rest of time, maybe.

“Of course I can.” Returning the chaste kisses, her hands looped around his shoulders while her legs went to his waist. “I was just hungry, my love. Wanted to make us a meal before we returned to staring into each other’s eyes and trying to gauge what the other was thinking.” A tease that brought a quiver to his own lip, letting him smile just a tiny bit for her.

“My mate being hungry will not do. I would like to get back to those activities, but we will fill your belly with something other than me for once, and then we are going straight back to bed.” He tweaked her nose lightly. “Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

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foxgloveprincess · 5 months

Text

Pairing: Andy Barber x Female Reader [Second Person Narrator]

Summary: Of course, you had to fall sick. What else could possibly happen when you’re being kept in some bastard’s basement?

Word Count: 2,956

Attic Wives Anonymous Masterlist

Warnings: Dark, Non Con (non-sexual), Kidnapping, Basement Wife Trope, Manipulation, Legal Documents, Illness (mentions of Retching/Nausea, Fever), Swearing/Cursing, Bathing, Pet Names (honey, precious). Minors do not interact (18+).

A/N: Not as grody as the last chapter, I promise. Hope you enjoy it. Let me know if I missed any tags. Happy Second Sunday of Attic Wives Advent! ❄️🎉🍾🙌🏻

I love feedback, so go ahead and reblog if you want. However, I give no permission to copy, translate, rewrite or post my work on any third party website or app. Seeing my work posted anywhere beside my blog, my library blog, or my AO3 account (FoxglovePrincess) means it’s been stolen/plagiarized.

I don’t do tag lists, so follow @foxglovefics to sign up for notifications on my fics.

This is unBeta’d, so all mistakes are my own.

Please DO NOT click ‘Keep Reading’ if you are not 18+ years of age or if you are uncomfortable with the pairing, themes, dynamics, or warnings. You are responsible for your own media consumption. Thank you!

Your body shivers uncontrollably beneath the blanket. If only you had a mountain to burrow under. Something to keep you warm. Yet you’re sweating from every pore.

Hate burns deep in your belly, swirling with the nausea. That sick fuck is gonna leave you down here to die. Let the fever ravage you until you expire. No. You won’t let it. Your teeth grit even as they chatter. Burning rage fuels you, though exhaustion tugs at your eyelids. Sleep too tempting to resist, you plummet into it. Rest is good—it’ll help your body fight.

You awaken to a weight shifting beside you a few hours—who could say how many—later. Your eyes snap open, arms flailing to swat at the man sitting beside you. A weak growl rolls roughly in your throat.

“Hey, shhhh,” he soothes as he grabs your wrists.

You blink and squint into the dim lighting. It’s not Andy—the man imprisoning you in his basement. The older man beside you looks down at your shivering frame with something like pity shining in his eyes. He’s handsome, but you’ve learned to be wary of that. Too many fucked up experiences under your belt.

“What has Andy put you through?” he asks, muttering more to himself than to you.

You scowl and turn your head away from his hand lifted to check your temperature.

“Fuck off,” you grit from a sore throat.

“I’m here to help you,” the man says with a quick glance over his shoulder. “You can’t live like this.”

You blink up at him, suspicions dulled by a foggy head but still pricking at his smooth-talking. Like he expects you to believe him. He knows Andy. He’s probably in cahoots with him—friends, thick as thieves. Who knows what this wolf is hiding under his sheep’s clothing.

The door to the basement unlocks and opens. Andy enters with a tray filled with a plate, pill bottles, a single flower in a vase, a cup, and mug.

The man leans closer in quiet desperation. “Just trust me.” Even his insistence doesn’t persuade you, though something about his tone piques your curiosity. He stands and backs into a corner as your captor closes the door.

“There’s my girl,” Andy croons, approaching the bed and setting the tray next to it. “The doctor recommended plenty of fluids and to check your temperature about now.”

He presses the button and the device beeps before he slides it across your forehead. You scowl, but it doesn’t affect the path of the device as it reads your temperature.

“Oh, dear,” he mutters under his breath.

Andy places the thermometer aside and cradles your face in his hands. You bare your teeth, but you have so little energy to fight.

“Her temperature’s higher,” he says to the man in the corner. “What do I do?” His eyes plead, his fingers stroking over your cheek.

The man pushes himself away from the wall. He approaches and gently sits beside Andy. He removes your captor’s hands from your face. You slump, releasing the tension in your body. In your fuzzy brain, you can’t decipher the look the older man sends your way.

“You know what needs to happen,” he says with a pointed look toward your feet.

You unconsciously shift, the chains rattling under your blanket.

Andy sighs, his chin dropping toward his chest. “Yeah,” he admits in defeat.

Your ears prick beneath the heat of your fever. What is he doing?

He reaches for the button of his collared shirt. It pops open under his fingers and he reaches inside, drawing out a thin chain necklace and a dangling key. He hesitates with the key in his hand, but bends slowly toward your feet. He draws away the blanket and lifts your ankle to his lap. The click of the lock unlatching sounds like a hallelujah chorus. The chain and ankle cuff fall away with a clatter to the floor. Tears fill your eyes. It’s not much, but already you feel hope igniting in your heart. An opportunity, even if you can’t take it right now.

Without looking away from your foot, Andy asks, “do you really think this is—”

“Yes,” the older man interrupts.

A moment passes as the two men lock eyes. Andy sighs and leans down again to kiss your legs—higher up your thigh, exposing more of your skin to the cold air. If you could move, you’d kick his teeth in. But he keeps a gentle hand on your ankle in his lap, petting over and soothing the red skin. Even his softest touch stronger than what little you possess in your weakened body. His thumb strokes your ankle bone. You growl, but the sound cuts off into a coughing fit.

Andy rubs your back as he lifts you in your shivering cocoon of fever. Hiking you up into his arms and holding you close to his chest. He grunts. You protest with soft sounds of fury and surprise. Curses and spite sit on your tongue, unvoiced.

As he climbs the stairs up out of the dingy, disgusting basement you can’t even appreciate it, eyes closed to stave off the bubbling nausea in your gut. Sunlight blooms across your face. You open your eyes to be blinded. Such a normal home around you. Big windows leading to a lush green backyard.

Your lips open to scream, sure that this is your chance. All you manage is a weak croak.

“Shhh,” Andy shushes with his head tilting to rest his chin to your forehead. “Don’t exert yourself, honey. Everything’s okay.”

You turn your head and open your lips, biting into his shoulder. Your teeth ache with the pressure. He groans softly and tilts his head to press his lips to your forehead. You stop, stomach lurching.

“Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He keeps climbing up another set of stairs and another like a ladder. The room he enters barely catches your notice, save for the lightness of its walls and its cleanliness.

The door just to the side of the entrance reveals an adjoining bathroom. He takes you in and sits you on the closed toilet in your blanket. Your eyes scan your surroundings. White tile gleams, pristine. A large sink sits in a quartz countertop which dips into a vanity. A shower head points into a large tub—big enough for at least two. You shudder and close your eyes for a moment to shield yourself from that gut-wrenching thought.

Water rushes from the faucet of the bathtub and he lets it fill. The sound of it grates in your head. Too loud, too much. Your feet itch. An attempt to stand and run leads to disappointment—dizziness and fatigue too much a hinderance. You groan. Though it catches his notice, Andy says nothing and continues to prepare towels and soaps for your bath.

You can admit that relief sparks at the prospect of finally getting clean. How long you’ve spent in that filthy, disgusting basement you couldn’t say. Don’t even want to guess. Nose-blind now to your own body odor, you can’t imagine how you smell, and you can’t bring yourself to look in the vanity’s mirror to see the state of your skin.

“Come here, honey,” Andy beckons while he approaches and tries to strip the blanket from your shoulders.

“No,” you grit between your teeth, clutching at the fabric.

With your impaired strength against his, it’s no wonder you lose. He balls the blanket and throws it out the door. A smug smile on his lips. You sneer.

Delighted at your inability to defend yourself, he hikes you back up into his arms and dips you into the water. One smooth motion with no time for you to snap at him as your bottom finds the porcelain of the tub. Violent shivers wrack your body. The water, it’s too cold. Your hands grip the edge, searching for leverage to hoist yourself out of the glacial water.

Andy’s hold you down. “Hey, let your body get used to it. The doctor said lukewarm water would help lower your temperature.” His eyes shine down at you, a farce of kindness and sympathy. Too consumed by drinking in your bare figure beneath the water.

Your lips tremble too much to do more than sputter hateful sounds. But your captor doesn’t seem to mind as he begins to douse your shoulders and hair with water and foam up a loofah with body wash.

“Don’t. You. Dare,” you manage to bite as his hand approaches.

“Do you think you can wash yourself, honey?” he asks, all concern and encouragement—evil bastard. “Here.” He offers the loofah to your hands. “You can go ahead.”

The frustration builds. Your hands fumble the soapy loofah before it falls into the bath water. You try again, but each effort to wash your limbs ends in struggle and defeat.

“It’s alright, precious girl,” Andy coos with a pleased glint in his eye, “let me help you.”

You’ve no choice. Not when he takes the loofah and softly scrubs it over your shoulders. With the warmth of the water and your waning energy, it’s no contest. You sink down into the water while he manipulates your limbs.

“You know,” he mentions as he tilts your head back and grabs a soft washcloth for your face. “I’m not a bad guy, honey.” He smooths the soapy cloth over your face and clears it from the dust and debris of the basement. “I just wanted us to have our best chance.”

“Holy hell,” you mutter under your breath, leaning into the distortion of your syllables through your slightly stuffed nose.

A knock sounds from the door. Your head lifts from its position. Sputtering through the water that splashes in your eyes, you huff a frustrated breath.

“I have everything ready out here,” the other man says through the wood.

“Thanks,” Andy calls over his shoulder, turning back to you with a smile. “It’s all gonna be better, you’ll see.”

Curses run through your head, scenarios forming. Each one worse than the next. What hell are they going to put you through now? Andy tips your head back further and soaks your hair with water.

“I know this might take a moment, but I’ve researched what’s best for your hair.” Pride exudes from his words, like he’s expecting praise from you. As fucking if.

He squeezes shampoo into his hand and begins. Each step he does with the utmost care. Like you’re some precious, fragile doll fit for breaking. You wonder how deeply he researched—what effort were you worth? He pours more water over your head and shields your eyes.

God fucking dammit. You’re enjoying it. The pampering. The care. The gentle touch. You retch over the side of the tub, a dry convulsion of your stomach. His hand rubs over your back to soothe you. You want to scream. But you fall back into the lukewarm water, shivers running up your spine, and let him finish. The sooner he does, the sooner you stop that traitorous train of thought in its tracks.

Once he completes the last step of his routine, he pulls the plug on the drain and leaves you in the murky, receding water. You let your fingers drift until it’s all gone, disgusted by the grime sloughed from your skin.

“Oh,” he says, coming back to your side with a fluffy towel. He stares at the last dregs of water like you. “Maybe one last rinse, precious.”

By the time you’re truly done with your bath, you can’t even complain when he helps you stand and wraps you in the fluffy towel. Relief flowing too heavy to fight him off. He cradles you close to his chest and runs his hands along your waist, reveling in your semi-compliant state.

“There we go,” he sighs in delight. “Nice and clean.”

You grumble but can admit you feel much better. Your head clears as you stand there in his arms, despite the sickness still swirling around in your body and leaving a cloudy haze behind.

Andy escorts you out to the larger room. You glance around. But you halt your perusal, confused by the stranger from before seated at a small table. Before him spreads several papers. You’re sat beside him, Andy’s hands a firm weight on your shoulders.

“Andy,” he addresses your captor, “why don’t we let her have a moment to herself?”

Andy pipes up a noise of protest. “She needs to—”

“Andrew,” he admonishes, “give her a break.”

Andy sighs and squeezes your shoulders. You glance up at him. Irritation narrows his gaze. But they both leave.

You gawk after them. Flabbergasted by the sway the older man has over Andy. The way Andy defers to him. Could this man really help you get out of here? You keep to your observations of them until the door shuts behind them, disbelief and suspicion waning.

The room falls silent around you. With a chance for a better look around, you notice the light grey walls, the white crown moulding, the tufted headboard on the bed and matching furniture. It looks like someone threw up a Pottery Barn catalogue and a Live Laugh Love Pinterest board, and it congealed into this room. Not your style at all. You grimace.

Another door stands in the corner—you pray for a closet. You walk over and open it, finding not much. A few frilly dresses, and that’s all. Your brow furrows in disappointment. Better than being naked, you grab one off the hanger and throw it over your head. At least there’s no zipper to grapple with.

You tug and smooth the fabric over your stomach and legs. The dress not to your preference, it clings uncomfortably to your frame. Your feet find their way back to the table, you glance at the array of documents. Fingers flip through a few of them before your vision swims and the door opens again, just a crack.

“Are you decent?” the stranger whispers through the small space.

“As good as I’m gonna get,” you respond with a sigh and a hand massaging your forehead.

With your reply, he sneaks into the room and closes the door behind him. He glances to the fingers still pressed to the papers and those kneading at your temple.

“Did you get a chance to read through them?” he asks with a nod of his head toward the table.

You shake yours. “But it looks like some kind of contract.”

“You’re right.” His hand raises to comb his hair back. It flops over and brushes his cheeks. “Mostly, it’s a non-disclosure agreement. A few other bits and pieces.”

“For what?”

“Andy’s a lawyer,” he explains while taking a seat at the table. “He understands legal documents. I suggested this as a way to help you.” His hands sweep in a gesture above the papers.

“Why?” you ask, the words tinged with suspicion as you sink into the seat across from him.

“Why what?” he asks with a tilt of his head.

“Why do you want to help me?”

The man lets out a heavy breath and stretches his hands across the table. “Andy’s my friend, but he needs help. I know that.” He presses a finger to the sheet closest to him. “This is what I can do. Get you someplace better. Make sure my friend gets what he needs. Make sure he never does this again.”

Looking in his eyes, keeping your gazes locked, he doesn’t flinch or look away. He’s telling the truth. He wants to get you out, just like he said. You blink in shock.

“So if I sign these papers, it’s over?” you ask, hands finding their way to clutch together in your lap.

“It’s the only way I can see this getting better,” he replies with the same sincerity. He gathers everything up in a pile and hands it over.

A pen sits by your hand and you lift it. You scan the first document, but with the headache and sinus pressure, it’s all legal jargon you can’t decipher before it becomes blackish grey mush in your eyes. Your head starts to spin. Before you can think better, your signature and initials sit on their respective dotted lines.

The man breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank you,” he says, clipping everything together. Gratitude saturates each word, too saccharine. “It’ll be so much better now. I promise, you’ll enjoy the attic much more than the basement.”

He keeps talking, but static fills your brain. The attic? Wasn’t he going to get you out? He said—he said…you can’t quite remember anymore. Your brain pounds behind your eyes. You clutch at your head.

The door swings open and Andy charges in, beelining for his friend and flipping through the packet of papers. A smile growing wider and wider on his lips.

“She signed everything?” he asks, voice excited in a way you don’t like.

“She did.” The older man pats your captor on the back. “Congratulations, you two. I’ll leave you to your honeymoon.”

“What?” you mumble. A nauseous weight sits heavy on your chest. You can’t breathe. All air sucked out of the room.

The older man comes over to you, crouching and catching your eye. “It’ll be better,” he repeats, patting your hand. “Just you wait. That marriage certificate was exactly what he needed. He’ll take much better care of his wife.” He stands and presses a kiss to your forehead. You wipe your face in shock while he shakes Andy’s hand. He walks away and turns back for one last wave before closing the door to your new hell.

#andy barber x reader #andy barber fanfic #andy barber fanfiction #dark #dark fic #kidnapping #tw kidnapping #yandere vibes #basement wife trope #attic wife trope #attic wives anonymous #18+#minors dni

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butters-flower-mom · 4 months

Text

Gather 'round, children. It's once again story time with Butters and Pepper.

Butters set his snow shovel aside and dug his hand into his pocket. Pulling out a soggy clump of Kleenex, he blew his raw, red nose into them forcefully. With a weak sigh he returned the tissues to his pocket, picking up his shovel and resuming clearing the snow from the driveway to his house.

"Hi, Butters!"

The blond boy looked up as he heard a familiar soft voice call out his name. Pepper approached him, Baxter the stuffed t-rex in her arms as always. Her cheerful smile faded as she neared him and noticed his disheveled appearance.

"Oh, hey, Pepper," Butters replied with a sniffle. "Sorry, I can't play right now. I gotta get this driveway shoveled before my folks get home or I'll be grounded."

Pepper watched as her friend feebly scooped snow and tossed it aside. A phlegmy cough and a harsh sneeze interrupted his work.

"You sound terrible," she remarked, reaching into her pocket and handing him a clean tissue as he fumbled with the mess of used ones he'd fished from his own pocket.

"Yeah." Butters accepted the tissue and winced as he wiped his running nose with it. "I think I'm comin' down with a real bad cold or somethin'."

"Why are you out shoveling snow if you're sick?"

"'Cause bein' sick's no excuse for not gettin' my chores done, Pepper! I need to learn some responsibility around here!" Butters chided himself in an angry tone mimicking his father's. One could only assume he was parroting an earlier scolding he'd gotten. He continued with his snow removal but a coughing fit doubled him over. Pepper placed a sympathetic hand on his back, rubbing it gently until he recovered. A soft whimper of pain escaped him as he held a hand to his throat.

"Why don't you take a break?" Pepper sweetly suggested, keeping her hand on his back to comfort him. "I could make you some hot tea."

Butters' eyes trailed along the snow covered driveway, dreading the punishment he'd receive if he failed to complete his chore. He brought his gaze up to Pepper, her face full of kindness and concern, her eyes pleading with him to take up her offer. "Well... Maybe just a short break. I really need to get this done."

Pepper lead Butters into his house and over to the couch. She gave the cushion a pat to instruct him to take a seat. As he did so, Pepper grabbed a nearby blanket that was draped over the arm and handed it to him. "Now, you lie down and cover up, okay?" Butters did as he was told, the cozy allure of the blanket and the couch's throw pillows being far too tempting for him to resist in his sickly state. "I'm gonna go make your tea. Here, Baxter will keep you company." She tucked the plush dinosaur under the blanket beside him.

Butters watched as Pepper disappeared into the kitchen. "There's tea bags in the pantry, but make sure you put everything back where you got it, alright? I don't wanna get hollered at for things bein' outta order."

"I will!" Pepper called back from the kitchen. Butters heard the microwave timer ding, and shortly afterwards Pepper returned with a steaming hot mug of tea to hand her sick friend. "Here you go. I saw some honey in the pantry so I put a bunch in. I read it's good for sore throats."

"Thanks, Pepper." Butters sat up and accepted the mug with a sniffle. He took a sip and a look of content washed over him as the heat instantly got to work soothing his throat. "I think it's helpin!"

Pepper smiled as she watched Butters sip his drink. "Is there anything else I can get for you?"

"Gosh, you've already done enough for me. I should really get back to finishin' up the driveway now." Butters attempted to slide off the couch but Pepper stopped him.

"I can do that. I mean, you're already all warm and comfy and relaxed."

Butters was touched by her kind offer. "Aw, Peppy, that's awful sweet of you but you don't have to do that."

"I know I don't have to but I want to. I like doing stuff for you." Pepper shyly fidgeted with a few strands of her long brown hair.

Butters eased himself back onto the couch. "I suppose if you really wanna… but I promise I'll make it up to ya once I'm feelin' better."

"You don't have to," Pepper replied, taking Butters' mug and placing it on the coffee table before helping him get tucked back in under his blanket.

Butters nestled his head into his pillow and held Baxter close. "Yeah, I know, but I wanna. I like doin' stuff for you too, y'know." He smiled to himself as he watched Pepper bashfully turn away, her hair falling into her face, as she headed out to finish his chore for him. Surrounded by warmth and comfort and feeling very loved, it wasn't long before he drifted off for a much needed nap.

#for some reason this one was the hardest for me to write #even though it's something i wanted to write for a long time #the world needs more platonic sickfics #and i continue to be the change i want to see #south park #my chaotic sonshine #pepper posts #lotus talks to herself

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exhuastedpigeon · 11 months

Text

let me see them tan lines

Eddie Diaz/Evan Buckley 2,836 words Teen Four times the 118 notices Eddie Diaz's ring tan line and one time he was wearing a ring.

One - Hen

“So Diaz,” Hen says as they’re all sitting around after a call. Eddie has been with the 118 for only a few days, but he already fits in seamlessly, like he’d been the missing piece their fire house had been needing. “You were in the army.”

“I was,” Eddie sits down next to Hen, a mug of coffee in his hands. “Got out a few years back and moved to L.A. not long after.”

“Why L.A.?”

“I’ve got family here,” Eddie gave a small, private smile. “People I trust who can help out with Christopher, my son.”

“How old is he?”

“Seven,” Eddie’s smile was much less small now as he pulled out his phone and showed Hen a picture of Christopher. He was a very cute kid.

“We should set him up on a playdate with my son,” Hen smiled now too, showing Eddie a picture of Denny. “He’s a little younger, but he loves hanging out with ‘big kids’.”

“Yeah, we should,” Eddie put his phone away and Hen noticed a tan line on Eddie’s ring finger, like he had been wearing a wedding ring until recently. She also noticed that he hadn’t mentioned Christopher’s mother or a partner.

Before she could ask any prying questions, a thing she usually didn't do but was sorely tempted to in this situation, Buck came tumbling up the stairs like a baby gazelle. It was a good distraction, Eddie didn’t owe her any details about his personal life.

“Bobby said there were cookies up here?”

“Counter,” Eddie pointed at the plate with a fond little shake of his head. Eddie really did fit in seamlessly at the 118.

Read on AO3

#Buddie #evan buckley #eddie diaz #eddie diaz x evan buckley #evan buckley x eddie diaz #911 #9-1-1 #9 1 1 buddie #buddie fanfic

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bruggle · 3 months

Text

A couple bigger drabbles, but drabbles nonetheless

Something was wrong.

Brook had awoken with a start, instantly feeling ill at ease. Was something in her house? She slowly, subtlety, turned her head to try and see if she could notice anything off. And ope. Yep. There was definitely something. A pair of red eyes glowing in the dark, glaring down on her. Great.

A part of her knew it was stupid to continue to feign sleep. This was obviously a reploid. And a Maverick to top it off. She wasn't going to fool it any time soon. But hell if she wasn't going to try and catch it off guard anyways. Slowly, Brook slid her right hand underneath her pillow (X hated that she kept it there, but hey. Like hell she was going to get caught without it.) Gripping the buster pistol, she slowed her breathing. Not to try and fool the idiot who decided to break into her house, but so she could focus on the sudden movements she was about to make.

The Maverick hadn't made a move yet.

She really didn't like that.

Brook pulled the buster out from beneath her pillow and aimed it at the Maverick, but immediately froze upon feeling the heat of a blade right next to her neck. Well shit. All she could hear was her heartbeat in her ears. Yet, the Maverick didn't make another move, seemingly content to simply hold her at sword point. This was... definitely odd. Every instinct told her to get far the heck away from this situation, but she was not about to push her luck so soon. Instead, Brook relaxed her grip on the pistol. It wasn't much use in this impasse.

The Maverick regarded her curiously; she still couldn't see much, even with it much closer now. The light from its eyes and sword were not enough to make out many details, just enough to tell that it was a humanoid reploid. The only sound being made was her own heavy breathing, adding to the unsettling situation. Mavericks usually dont play with their victims like this.

Eventually, Brook felt the sword slowly being pulled back. She didn't know if it was to make a proper stab, or what, but she was not going to find out. As soon as there was enough room to not immediately impale herself, she kicked out her legs as hard as she could. Kicking metal was never her favorite pass time, but few reploids were ever prepared for it. This Maverick was no exception. It wasn't pain that caused it to move back, but surprise. Ignoring the soreness in her legs, she immediately dove off the bed; running out the door.

She didn't make it far.

Pain exploded in her back as the Maverick caught up to her, pinning her down to the floor. It then grabbed the hand that still held her pistol, crushing it until she let go with a scream. That was pinned down as well. Useless as it was, Brook still made every effort to try and throw the Maverick off. If she was going down, she was going to make sure it wasn't without a fight. Eventually, she heard a huff of annoyance from above. "Enough," she heard (now identifiable) him growl. "I'm not here to harm you."

"Oh, is that what the sword is for?" Brook snarled. "What the fuck are you doing in my house, Omega?!"

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Brook deadpanned.

Omega turned to see her standing in the middle of her kitchen, a mug in hand. He was slightly surprised to see her still up, but regardless, he smirked and took a step towards her. "Uh, no," she held up a hand. "Stay right fucking there. You are soaked."

"Well yes, that tends to happen when it rains," he said. Brook rolled her eyes. "Thanks Captain Obvious," she snarked. "But I just mopped this morning; so again, stay right fucking there." Omega let out a snort of amusement. "And if I don't?" he challenged. "If you don't, I swear I'm going to shoot you," she slammed her mug on the counter and turned to go further into a hallway. Muttering all the while about "feral fucking robots."

Omega was half tempted to follow her, just to see how she'd react, but ultimately decided against it. He didn't feel like having to explain to Weil why there would be buster shots in his armor when he was supposedly just wandering around. In any case, he was curious about what her solution to the water dripping off of him was.

The sound of the storm outside grabbed his attention, and he found himself watching the rain fall down the window. Distracted as he was, Omega didn't hear Brook come back until she was at the doorway. Turning his head towards her, he was caught off guard by a towel being thrown right at his face. "Dry yourself off, jackass," Brook smirked. He snarled and ripped the towel off, but she remained unfazed; simply lifting an eyebrow at his dramatics. Miffed, Omega turned away from her and instead began drying himself off. Not because she had told him to, of course, he just has had enough of the water dripping off him.

He caught her rolling her eyes out of the corner of his own, as she made her way towards him with another towel. Omega stopped what he was doing to regard her. "What are you doing?" he asked. "Dude, one towel is not going to handle all that hair," she insisted. He narrowed his eyes. "Give it here then," Omega said. "Really?" Brook deadpanned. "Just come here."

She ignored any and all of his protests, beginning to gently squeeze all the water out of his hair with the towel.

#be quiet bruggle #mmx oc #writing #elf wars au #omega is breaking and entering multiple times #and nobody can stop him

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thenyxsky · 2 hours

Text

GENE x GN!READER - not my best work but ive sunken back into the aphmau fandom and i wanted to get something out, so here u go!

warnings: infidelity, zenix slander (i love him i promise), maybe ooc gene??

You tilt your face away, laughing. "You're fucking joking."

Your boyfriend — your ex boyfriend now — frowns at you from across the table. "Look, I'm sorry but — I met her four months ago and — I don't know, she just gets me —"

"Oh, shut the fuck up," you snap, then leap up and grab your things. "Save it for someone who gives a shit."

He has the gall to look offended. Him, offended! You roll your eyes as he splutters out an "Excuse me?"

"So fucking long, asshat," is the last thing you say before you're out the diner door.

You hear his shouts from behind you, so loud that even when you're across the parking lot and by your car, the echoes still chase you down the pavement. Fucking lunatic, you think bitterly, unlocking your car and throwing your things onto the passenger seat. After you clamber in, you're tempted to slam the door closed.

It's only when you've settled into the leather, hands braced against the steering wheel that it hits you.

My boyfriend cheated on me. He cheated.

Holy fuck. What the fuck. He cheated.

You wish you'd screamed at him a little more. You wish you'd ordered a little more, wish you'd left him more than twenty-seven dollars poorer at that ugly red booth. You wish you'd maybe thrown your water at him and had his ugly-ass face sopping wet, frozen in shock.

(But then you start wishing that you'd tried a little harder.)

Last week, when you'd both gone to the mall. You should've suggested the movies, instead of just dragging him around the shops and talking his ear off. Or the other day, during lunch. You should've taken his hand in yours on the walk back home and leaned on his shoulder. It could've been fine — perfectly fine — if you'd only tried a little harder. You could've kept him. If you hadn't gotten so distant all those months ago, maybe he wouldn't have been tempted to run into another girl's arms. Maybe he wouldn't have continued returning to her. Maybe he wouldn't have kissed her, loved her — preferred her over you.

Maybe he would've stayed.

You take a deep breath, gripping the wheel harder. No, you tell yourself, not now. You need to — to — (a glimpse of him, rushing out the dinner and catching sight of you in your car — his shadow against the golden lighting from inside) — you need to get out of here.

Another deep breath. The keys into the ignition — enter, twist — and the car starts. Your mind whirls. But where, it asks, where do we —

There's a name that jerks to the forefront. Jagged, sharp, tapering off at the ends like cigarette smoke — but still so comforting.

Gene, it spells, and you step on the gas.

"I'm telling you, Sasha, it's not like that," Gene groans, spinning one of his dozen silver rings round the stained coffee table.

"Whateeeever you say." Sasha's drawl crackles from his phone speaker, propped up on a spare coffee mug. Her sharp, violet eyes manage to dig into his soul even through the barriers of Facetime and a cracked screen protector. "You're obvious as fuck, though."

He rolls his eyes, flipping the ring into the air. "There's nothing to be 'obvious as fuck' about."

"Even Zenix has noticed."

Gene pauses, and reaches out for the falling jewelry a moment too late — he's fumbling for it as it clatters to the floor.

He doesn't need to look back up at his phone to know the look on her face; the silence speaks volumes.

"I got distracted," he says defensively, leaning down to pick it up. "There was a mosquito."

"Sure," she says — and snorts when he bangs his head on the table trying to sit up again.

Gene grimaces, but leans back and rubs the sore area. "Fuck off, Sasha."

"Don't think I will."

"Fuck you —" He jumps when a series of knocks rain down on his front door. "Shit!"

Sasha frowns, leaning closer to the camera. "You good over there?"

"Someone's at the door," he sighs, slipping his ring on.

He watches her lips lift into a grin. "Maybe it's —"

"No, it's not her. She's on a dinner date today." Gene shuts her down — although he wishes he didn't have to. He's never told anyone (and he never will), but he likes when you show up to his apartment unannounced. He likes when you rap your knuckles on his door and shove takeout in his face, declaring that night as a movie night.

It won't be you, though. Gene's sure of it. Ever since you started dating that guy, your impromptu visits have happened less and less often.

He still stands up, though. "I'll call you back later," he tells Sasha. She throws him a pixelated thumbs-up before ending the call.

Gene sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "Who is it now, then," he mutters to himself, making his way down the hall. He drags a hand down his face one last time and moves to look through the peephole — and damn near chokes on his own spit.

Why the fuck were you here?

You don't look good, either. Your eyes are swollen and red, and your bottom lip trembles ever so slightly. You lift a hand to wipe roughly at the tear that slips down your cheek.

Something protective and furious flaring in him, and he practically throws the door open to find you why the fuck you're so upset.

You flinch, take him in, then relax. "Gene," you croak — and immediately start crying.

He blinks. "Woah, hey, no." Gene rushes forward and wraps an arm around your shoulder to bring you close, leading you into his apartment. He closes the door with his foot. "What happened, sweetheart? I thought you were out with…" he trails off, then shakes his head. "Why are you crying?"

"He—" you blubber, "—I left him— "

"Relax, let's relax. Deep breaths," he says, arms curling around your back to bring you closer. "It's okay," Gene murmurs, letting you lean into him as he walks you over to his couch. "You're okay. In and out, sweetheart, in and out."

Gene's thumb rubs circles into your shoulder as he sits down with you; he's breathing loudly, slowly, to coax you into mimicking. It's only when you take a last, shaky breath that he gets up.

"Where are you going?" you blurt when you see him move away.

"Getting you some tissues," he says, and disappears down the hall. When he returns, you’re perched on his couch, sniffling and rubbing at your nose.

"Now,” Gene says, handing you a wad of tissue, “mind telling me why you were bawling your eyes out on my doorstep?"

You wipe your nose again. "It's" — you hiccup — "it's not…" The shame curls deeper into your gut. "Um."

"Yeah? Take your time."

You swallow. "He… he cheated."

Gene stills. "He what?" he says, voice dangerously calm.

"He invited me out for dinner today," you continue. "I told you, right?" Gene nods. "He was really quiet. Really awkward. And whenever I tried to start a conversation, he just wouldn't, like, entertain me, you know? It'd just be so quick. And, um, he was really short with me." You pause, take a deep breath. "I should've expected it. I don't know why I didn't. I don't know why I was still so — so shocked, so… surprised — when he told me. I mean, he's been so distant, and I don't…" Your throat closes up. "I guess I thought…"

"Just to be clear, you shouldn't have had to expect it," Gene tells you, his fury creeping into his tone. He catches sight of your face, though — embarrassed, guilty, heartbroken — and reels in his irritation. "No one should have to expect cheating," he says. "Fucking dick. Should've given him a black eye, too."

You give a small, hoarse laugh and wipe your eyes. "I did leave him to pay the bill on his own."

"Good." Gene smiles at you, cups a warm hand 'round your elbow. "Fucker deserved it. And, uh… you know, if you want, I can sic Zenix on him too."

You snort. "What, like he's a dog or something?"

He gives you a look. You laugh again, this time with your shoulders. "You're so mean," you tell him.

"He barks like one."

"Gene!"

"What? I love him, you know I do, but sometimes —"

"Stop!" you huff, kicking at his thigh. He raises his hands in surrender.

"Okay, okay!" He sighs and settles back into the couch. You're picking at the lint on your socks, sitting comfortably in silence, when he mutters, "Offer still stands, though."

You roll your eyes. "Thank you. I'll let you know if I'm ever in need of your services."

He hums. "Good."

Silence again. In it, you realize just how much comfort his touch brings you. You adjust your position on the couch wordlessly, inching closer to him. Gene's kind enough not to comment on it.

He opens his mouth to say something. It closes quickly, but doesn't take so long to open again. You watch him carefully.

"What?" you say.

Gene clears his throat. "What do you think about a movie night? It's been a while. We can order takeout."

You blink, quiet for a moment (during which he hears his heart pounding loudly in his ears) and then a small smile pulls at your lips. "As long as I get to pick the movie."

#mystreet x reader #gene x reader #mystreet gene x reader #aphmau mystreet #mystreet gene #aphmau gene

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readyplayerziggy · 11 months

Note

“Damn bitch. You work like this?”

Cue Altria leaning over Jalter’s shoulder, watching them play league instead of completing the budget for the upcoming fiscal quarter.

Filling out the remaining space (not that there was much to begin given it with cluttered with Jalter’s anime collection) in the cubicle with her hips and aggressively sipping from the mug in their hands directly in Jalter’s ear.

“I’m almost tempted to keep these doughnuts I got in celebration since you were working so dutifully these past few weeks… Look like I was sorely mistaken.”

"Shut the fuck up and beat it lard tits! I'm almost in the victory lane!" She hissed out in a near stage whisper that was barely drowned out by the normal din of ringing phones or burps from another cubicle. 'Thank god that luco luchador had the extra spicy wings today.'

She had the swears of her teammates in one earbud and the other free of that to let herself hear anyone coming close, a task she had failed in given how the asstastic Altria was able to sneak up on her despite clapping more than a college graduation audience.

She had been doing decently in spite of her view being skewed due to her stomach propping up her desk, having a 12/19/20 KDA with the match nearly over.

"Almost there, almost there. Will you shut up and leave already ya cow?! You're throwing me off my game here!"

*SLICE*

With her momentary lapse in concentration, she had gotten ganked and just like that, her two-kill streak was gone and with the rest of the team on respawn, so were their chances at winning. With a loud groan into her hands, she plucked her earbud out so she wouldn't have to listen to the group she'd been stuck with calling her all sorts of shit.

"Thanks for nothing. Now what the hell was this I heard about doughnuts?"

#muse: jalter #pudgy-planets #I know nothing about league so I am not gonna describe it #office jalter

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spartanguard · 2 years

Text

most wanted (9/11) [CSSNS 2021]

Summary: Killian Jones has been tracking Emma Swan, notorious cat burglar, across the realm as she’s wanted for murder. The sooner he finds her, the faster he gets back to his daughter. But meeting an enchanting lass in a small village—along with Miss Swan’s feline familiar (perhaps too familiar)—definitely affects his plans; this case might not be as open-and-shut as he’d like.

A/N: Well I had planned to get this up a week or so ago but *life*. Hopefully these last few chapters will go up a bit quicker! Thank you for sticking around! As always, thanks to the best beta ever @optomisticgirl and to @cssns for putting on the event each year, even if I am woefully late with this one.

As much as Killian had romanticized the mattresses at Granny’s, he was pleased to find his own was far more comfortable than he recalled (especially compared to his bedroll and the hard-packed dirt they’d camped on the previous nights).

He slept in a bit later than he normally would have, even though he went to bed roughly the same time he always did, shortly after he’d tucked Alice back in. Belle had retired nearly as soon as he’d rejoined them, most likely so she could have some more time to read on her own, but she’d given him an arched eyebrow as she headed to her room that he couldn’t quite interpret, though suggested she was leaving him alone with Emma intentionally.

There hadn’t been much for them to say, however, other than show her the way to the little-used spare bedroom and wish her a good night. He did apologize for the relatively spartan state of the room—it was truly just a bed and a nightstand, with threadbare curtains barely covering its windows, but Emma waved him off. “Compared to some places I’ve slept, this is luxury,” she assured him. “Probably the nicest I’ll have for a while.”

That was a sufficiently awkward enough note to end the conversation on. He could only hope sleep had found her as swiftly as it had him.

Now, though, as he lazed under the covers, glancing around the familiar trappings of his room and smelling the first whiff of sausage from where Belle was already working in the kitchen, he found that sleep had rested his body and brain, but not his conflicting thoughts and feelings.

But they only needed to lay low for a couple of days—just enough time to let Neal lose their trail and for them to come up with some semblance of a plan for exoneration. He could handle that.

He hoped.

And while he was sorely tempted to whittle down that time by hiding away in his room further, his stomach grumbled its own desires, so he slowly got up, dug some fresh clothes out of his musty wardrobe, quickly cleaned up at his well-loved wash stand, and headed out to the main room.

He was glad that Belle was the only one up—and that she already had a fresh mug of coffee waiting.

They shared quiet good mornings as he grabbed the cup, took a long pull from it, then went about setting the table per usual while exchanging simple pleasantries, like asking how he slept, and how she was liking the new book. Comfortable silence eventually settled on them as they continued their morning routine, but once he took a seat—while Belle was plating pancakes—she addressed him a bit more seriously.

“Killian…I know you know what you’re doing, and I trust your judgment, but…please be careful.”

“I always am,” he assured her. It had only taken one close call with a wanted pirate he was bringing in for him to exercise more caution while working, lest anything potentially take him away from Alice. (Though it wasn’t as obvious an injury as that to his left arm, the scar leftover from the bullet graze he took in that encounter carried almost as much weight.)

“You know what I mean,” she admonished, giving him a stern look. “I’m not talking physically; I’m talking emotionally.” He opened his mouth to protest, but she wouldn’t let him. “Don’t try to deny anything; I know you well, Killian Jones, and I read your letters.”

He’d long since learned when to argue with Belle and when it was a losing battle; the current discussion was the latter. Instead, he took another drag of his coffee to gird himself for whatever she was building to.

She busied herself at the stove for a bit, letting tension build in the quiet (though he could hear the creak of a bed frame somewhere in the house). But after she’d set the platters of food on the table, she put her hand over his brace—more specifically, over his blunted wrist. “We’ve both been there, Killian,” she cautioned, concern in her blue eyes. “I don’t want you—either of us—to get hurt again.”

“I know,” he sighed, reaching over to pat her hand where it rested on his arm. She’d always had an uncanny way of reading his worries better than he did. “I know.”

She gave him a sad half-smile and then a peck on the cheek—but then both jumped at the sound of the squeaky floorboard in the living room being stepped on.

“Oh—sorry,” Emma apologized, averting her eyes. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Nothing to interrupt,” Belle waved off and moved back toward the stove. “Coffee?”

“Please,” she practically moaned, drawing a chuckle from the others. Almost instinctively, Killian stood and pulled out a seat for her, which she accepted, albeit cautiously—as though she was afraid she might break something or commit a faux pas.

Until the mug was in front of her and she pounced on it, draining it in one gulp.

“Did you sleep alright, love?” he had to ask.

“Oh, best I’ve slept in a while,” she answered. “Almost too well. Is that mattress magic? Because I could very easily fall back into it right now.”

Belle laughed and refilled Emma’s mug. “No; it’s exceedingly normal. But probably better than sleeping in the woods.”

“By far.”

The three of them started in on breakfast—Alice wouldn’t be up for a bit—and made light conversation, but he could tell something was bothering Emma.

So could Belle. “It looks like a question is caught in your throat,” Belle said to her. “You can ask.”

(He wasn’t sure what it meant that, despite her reservations, Belle seemed just as comfortable around Emma as he was.)

Emma briefly worried her bottom lip while glancing between the two of them. “I didn’t mean to overhear, and if I’m prying, you don’t have to answer, but…what you were talking about when I came in. Where exactly is it you’ve been before?”

Killian looked over at Belle, who had also sought out his attention. Even though his own history had been nagging at him the past few days, he’d hesitated to share it with Emma, for what were hopefully obvious reasons. But Belle’s tale wasn’t his to share—even if, he now realized, they had discussed it in part. Still—it was a fairly loaded question and he’d need a boost of confidence from Belle to be willing to divulge it.

The far-too-casual shrug she gave was enough.

“I haven’t told you about Alice’s mother, have I?” he started, facing Emma again.

“No,” she confirmed. “But I got the impression she was out of the picture.”

“Aye, and with good reason.” Belle was already topping off his mug, knowing he’d need the extra fuel; he swallowed it down and began the story:

After Milah died, after he’d lost his hand, and early in his bounty hunting career, he was still an angry young man but no longer quite so rebellious. That said, he still enjoyed his fair share of vices—most notably, booze and women (and the combination thereof).

He was no stranger to dive bars as both a place for recreation and information, and found himself in one such locale on a quest for news of the Dark One—one of the most sadistic criminals the kingdom had yet known. He wasn’t just after riches; he was after power—of the magic variety. It wasn’t uncommon to find a wake of bodies with their hearts ripped from their chests in his trail as he sought the magical objects that would grant him what he sought.

One of those bodies was Milah’s, though that one was obviously a bit more personal.

When Killian’s less-than-legal pursuits of the demon proved fruitless, Nemo had offered him the chance to do it the right way—and he’d jumped on it. Granted, there were some bits of procedure and bureaucracy back then that he found pointless (and, if he was being honest, still did), but he was certainly making more progress than his previous attempts.

That night in particular had ended up being a bust; whatever tip Graham had passed along to him was a dead end, so he decided it best to salvage the evening any way he could. He started by ordering a bottle of cheap rum from the bartender and quickly downing a few shots, which apparently drew the attention of another patron.

Her name was Eloise, and though he couldn’t recall her opening line, he remembered being charmed by it—as well as her strawberry-blonde curls and the bit of wildness in her smile. They began to exchange words and shots, until they had a hearty buzz going on. He made up a story about still being a sailor; she told him she worked as a maid for a local aristocrat. In hindsight, he should have known she wasn’t being forthright when he wasn’t either, but he didn’t rightly care in the moment.

She invited him to her room above the bar. He accepted. And they spent one very pleasurable night together, before bidding an amicable adieu in the morning.

Though he wouldn’t have minded seeing her again, he wasn’t naive enough to expect he ever would—especially as the chase for the Dark One picked up. He’d honestly forgotten entirely about her as he worked towards, and eventually succeeded in, taking down the demon in the next few months.

It wasn’t until several months later, when he was tasked with bringing in a con artist named Eloise, that the memories of her and that night began to trickle in—but it was a fairly common name, and he had no reason to assume the two were the same. She hadn’t struck him as the type to prey on others under the guise of an expectant mother in need of help, only to rob them blind and disappear.

Not until he actually tracked down the mark to where she was operating, in a town not far from where they’d met, and the woman on the other side of the door at the address given to him by her latest victim proved to be none other than his past paramour.

They were both briefly stunned, but he recovered sooner than she did. “Well, hello again, love. Should I be flattered that you didn’t steal from me, too?” he asked as he quickly handcuffed her.

“It wasn’t me,” she protested, albeit weakly; even she knew the jig was up. “I’m just an innocent young mother—”

“Sure you are,” he sneered, glancing her up and down as he slipped the magic-blocking cuff on her wrist and took in the noticeable lack of belly; he had to assume it had been an illusion and he wasn’t about to let her use any power she might have to escape. “You’re not even actually pregnant.”

“Not anymore,” she scoffed.

“What?” That made him pause, but the subsequent wails of an infant from farther back in the room drew his attention.

“Yes, I really had a baby,” she continued, sounding more annoyed than happy over the event. “No thanks to you.”

“What?” he repeated, further in disbelief.

“She’s yours. Go on, look.”

A pit had formed in his stomach, and his instincts warned that she could be lying. Although—he thought back to the date of their tryst, and the math did add up.

Cautiously, he stepped toward the bassinet in the middle of the bare-bones room. The babe’s cries picked up in intensity, and he was overcome with the need to comfort her. But he remained wary.

However, he knew it was true the moment he stood over her. Her features were unmistakably similar to those of his mother, most notably the slightly pointed ears he had also inherited—a trademark passed down from their elfin ancestry several generations back.

“Can you take her?” Eloise asked. “Honestly, I was about ready to give her up.”

Fire quickly replaced shock. “And you weren’t going to tell me?” The idea of any child being abandoned like he was, let alone his own flesh and blood, was horrifying.

“How would I have?” she spat back.

She had a point; they’d only ever exchanged first names. But she couldn’t truly expect him to be thinking rationally at the moment, not with the weight of the information—and responsibility—she’d just dropped on him.

He swallowed, and then turned his attention back to the babe, and carefully picked her up, careful to keep the sharp end of his hook away from her. She quieted nearly as soon as he pulled her against his chest, and looked up at him with her big blue eyes—and that was that.

Thankfully, he’d been working the job with Graham, who soon arrived to see what was taking so long. Graham took over from there, after Eloise assured him that she wanted nothing to do with the child. “She’s all yours. Good luck—she’s a screamer.”

“And then I took her home, and, nine years later, here we are,” he concluded. “It’s not something I’m the most proud of, but I wouldn’t trade Alice for the world.”

“Wow,” Emma sighed, but the way she was staring at the table and seemed to be hunched in on herself told him she was feeling a bit of shame. He hadn’t told her the story to make her feel bad, though there were some obvious parallels in choice of careers. “What happened to Eloise?” she asked timidly.

“She went away for a while,” he answered simply. “Unfortunately, I heard that she passed a few years ago. Though, if I’m being honest, it was something of a relief—I didn’t have to worry about her changing her mind about Alice anymore.”

“It’s her loss,” Emma told him. “Alice is amazing, and you’ve done a wonderful job with her.”

“Thank you,” he replied, blushing per usual. “But Belle gets a lot of the credit, too. Although the look of shock on your face when I arrived home with her is still seared in my memory,” he chuckled, glancing over at Belle.

“How else was I supposed to react? You didn’t even send a letter to warn me!” she chided, but she was laughing, too. If they hadn't been able to find any humor in the things life had thrown at them, gods only knew how insane they’d be driven by now.

“I guess that partly answers how long you’ve been living together,” Emma continued. “You said you were siblings, or sort of?”

He and Belle exchanged another look that probably only served to confirm their type of relationship to Emma, even though it was a fair bit more complicated than that. “Well,” he started, but wasn’t sure how to continue without getting into Belle’s story, and he didn’t want to be the one to share it.

Thankfully, she took over. “Actually, that’s where my own tale comes in,” Belle started. “I’ve been with him since the take-down of the Dark One…because I was with the Dark One.”

“He had you captive?” Emma gasped.

“No, I was…I loved him.”

The fact that she used past tense didn’t escape Killian’s notice; it had taken Belle some time to come to terms with her feelings towards the man, even if she’d been glad their relationship was over and he’d been imprisoned.

Emma’s eyes widened. “Oh, you’re that Belle?”

Belle tilted her head in confusion. “Beg your pardon?”

Now Emma looked nervous—although Killian was quickly connecting the dots in his head. “I guess I forgot to mention last night that my ex was Neal—the Dark One’s son,” she explained.

“Oh, bloody hell,” Belle cursed. “So I was nearly your mother-in-law?”

“Apparently,” Emma replied, laughing slightly in disbelief. “It always bugged Neal that his dad was dating someone not a ton older than he was.”

“I can’t say I was unaware of the situation, but Neal came around so little, it wasn’t a significant concern on my end.” Belle sighed and shook her head. “I’m sorry to hear his life went in that direction, though; I know he didn’t like the idea of following in his father’s footsteps, but it sounds like he didn’t stray as far from it as I might have thought.”

“He hates magic, but otherwise, he’s not afraid to go to any end to get what he wants.”

“That definitely sounds familiar,” Belle commiserated. “Well, I suppose that all was more of an answer than you expected to your initial question.”

“A bit,” she concurred, “but I guess I’m not all that shocked that the world is slightly smaller than I thought it was.” The warm look she gave Killian then suggested she didn't mind that fact.

It was strange for Killian to think that, in another life, they all might still have found their way to each other; it was an idea he was about to voice when Alice practically ran out of her room, shouting her good mornings to everyone.

As she usually did, Alice became the focus of everyone’s attention, and hers was unsurprisingly fixated on Emma, who thankfully had already had her meal or she wouldn’t have been able to eat between Alice’s endless questions.

But as the day wore on, his mind wandered back to his previous thought—had fate actually brought them all together? The overlaps in their lives were too numerous to be coincidental.

Or was he merely grasping at straws in an attempt to justify the feelings that wouldn’t budge? Because if there was one thing he realized while reflecting on his past liaisons—particularly with Eloise, and the memories of Milah that always came up when mentioning the Dark One—it was that, despite knowing he shouldn’t, he most certainly still had them for Emma as well, far deeper than he thought he did.

Belle had been correct in her warning; she usually was. But only he could mitigate the impending heartbreak.

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

Killian tried to keep his distance from Emma over the next couple of days, but the house was only so big, and there was still the matter of determining a plan before they headed for Longbourn that necessitated they spend time together.

To make matters worse—or better; he wasn’t sure—Emma seemed to fit into their little life all too well. She was patient with Alice; she got on well with Belle; and seemed comfortable exploring the woods nearby and lounging on the seashore the house overlooked. She insisted on helping with chores when Alice wasn’t dragging her away to show her something, even though he and Belle both assured her she was fine—but he knew it was old instincts (orphan instincts) trying to make sure she was useful so they’d keep her around, even if her stay had a definitive end date.

Those couple evenings were spent far too casually and comfortably in the great room, everyone chatting, reading, or just with Emma in her cat form curled up and purring in Alice’s lap. Ever inquisitive, that was one of the first questions Alice had begged of Emma after she interrupted their breakfast conversation. (Though they feigned disinterest, the other adults were curious about that, too.)

Emma had shown Alice her tattoo, explaining how it was imbued with transformation magic. “All I have to do is think about it, and then it just…happens.”

Alice traced it with her index finger. “Does it always hum like that?”

“Hum?” The question seemed to take Emma aback.

“Aye—you don’t feel it? It’s like—warm and vibrate-y.”

Emma looked over at Killian with a confused furrow in her brow, but Killian could only raise his and shrug in response. Considering he and Belle were only ever on the periphery of magic use, they had long since learned to roll with whatever Alice said about her own innate sense of it.

“Can you show me?” Alice continued, oblivious to the adults’ bewilderment.

“Of course,” Emma answered, sounding glad for the redirect. She shifted forms right on the chair, and then shifted back, all while Alice stared with stars in her eyes.

“Papa, can I get a tattoo like that?” she nearly begged.

He couldn’t help but chuckle, but had to tell her, “Maybe when you’re older.”

Alice briefly pouted, but then grabbed Emma’s hand and pulled her away on a tour of the house and yard, and that had been roughly the situation for the duration of those couple days.

At night, after Alice was asleep, they discussed the best way to deal with Emma’s predicament and to hopefully deal with Neal at the same time. They’d come to something resembling a plan, and Killian had Belle send a letter to Nemo when she made a trip into the closest village the day before they set to depart—a moment he was both eager for and dreading.

Obviously, he hated to leave Alice again so soon, even if he’d only be gone a few days and not the almost interminable weeks he’d spent chasing Emma. But despite his best efforts, it was far too easy to fall into playing family with Emma there, and more than once, he had to catch himself—from admiring the way the sun hit her braided-back hair while she worked in the yard, hinting at its natural golden color; from grinning at the way she and Alice were giggling and holding hands upon returning from a hike; from realizing just how close their bodies—especially, her lips to his—were while hunched over a map of the kingdom. (She may also have jumped away upon noticing the last one, much to his simultaneous relief and dismay.)

(The number of times one of them caught the other’s eye while trying not to stare was countless.)

At least he had a bit of a respite during nightly story time with Alice, even if the book was intrinsically linked with Emma. Seeing it through Alice’s eyes gave it a different life, though, and he was enjoying picking up on details he had missed in his first furious read-through while also seeing Alice’s reactions. And gods, he prayed she never grew too big to share this tradition with him; even if she was well on her way to adolescence, having her tucked into his side as they read made it feel like she’d always be his little girl—and like he wasn’t missing out on watching her grow when his work took him away for far-too-long stretches of time.

(And he was actively avoiding thoughts of the bounty he’d likely collect when this adventure was all over, considering the cost it was going to come at.)

On that last night of their detour, he had kept reading until Alice was asleep—which didn’t take long, as she’d spent the better part of the afternoon running around in the ocean’s shallows with Emma. When he reached the end of that chapter, he made sure to put the bookmark at the end of the previous one so she wouldn’t miss anything when they picked it back up.

He set it on her bedside table and slowly stood from the mattress, being careful to not disturb Alice too much. She noticed, though, and was blearily blinking her eyes even before he’d pressed a kiss to her forehead and wished her a good sleep.

“Papa, I like Emma,” she muttered sleepily.

His heart skipped the same beat it’d been hopping over for the past few days. But he responded as casually as he could. “I’m glad to hear that, starfish.”

“Do you like her?” she asked innocently.

“Aye, I do. That’s why I’m helping her.”

“But do you like-like her? Like how Westley likes Buttercup?”

He sighed. It was far too late into the evening to even try to give that a proper answer. “I…I don’t know, love,” would have to suffice for now.

“Well, you should,” she told him, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

He had to chuckle at her bluntness, even if the statement reminded him why he didn’t want Alice getting attached to Emma in the first place. Ah, well—he could deal with the fallout from that later, whatever it ended up being. “Good night, Alice,” he farewelled, tucked her in with a kiss, and turned down her lamp. “I love you.”

“Love you too, Papa,” she replied—at least, it sounded vaguely like that, as she was well on her way back to sleep.

Emma had already turned in when he went back out to the main room, and he probably should have, too, but Belle was staring into the fire with a pensive look on her face that usually meant she wanted to talk.

“Well,” he started as he eased down into his chair opposite her. “What lecture do you have for me now?”

She rolled her eyes at his bluntness, but then her expression turned soft. “Are you gonna be okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he deflected, though it was more for his own benefit than to get her off his case.

“Killian David Jones,” she chided. “You know what I mean. You always do.”

“Isabelle Colette French,” he threw back, but didn’t have much more of a retort. “Aye, I’ll be fine…eventually,” he conceded. “I’ll have to be. Though I may brood for a bit.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything else.” She stood and stretched, yawning audibly, then rested her hand on his shoulder. “And it’s a bloody shame; I really like her. You’d be so good together.”

His jaw dropped in shock; that was quite the opposite of her position just the other morning. He looked up at her to see whether or not she was being serious, but she was already walking away to her room. She wasn’t one to tease in matters of the heart, though (well, other than mocking over the occasional pass made at him by the Widow Feinberg in the village, but the older woman did that to any man under the age of 40).

As good as the validation of his feelings felt, there wasn’t much to be done about it. He still had to get Emma to Longbourn—she was still a wanted criminal. He sighed heavily and scrubbed a hand down his face in something resembling exasperation, though more with the situation than anyone in particular.

He stared at the dying embers in the fire for another long moment, before deciding it best to head to bed himself; they were planning on setting off by midday, and there was still packing and other chores to be done before they could leave, so he’d need his rest tonight.

Of course, it wouldn’t come. Anxiety and anticipation for whatever was to come the next couple of days wouldn’t let him rest, along with the ongoing uncertainty towards how he should approach his feelings for Emma.

Should he just give in, and enjoy whatever they might have for this brief time? Or start pulling back and brace for the inevitable withdrawal? (He’d experienced that a couple times in this life, purging alcohol from his system, and it hadn’t been pleasant; while this might hurt less physically, the emotional toll would probably come close.)

He tried all the tricks he normally used when sleep evaded him—listing off constellations, making lists of what needed to be done, even simply counting his breaths—but any time he managed to drift off, it wasn’t for long; he was far too consumed by nervous energy.

Finally, some time near sunrise, he gave up altogether and threw the covers off in a fit of exasperation. He got up and grabbed his dressing robe, stepped into his slippers, then tiptoed outside as quietly as he could manage, lest he disturb his sleeping housemates.

He wandered out to the beach, hoping the gentle waves and rising sun would give him a chance to calm his erratic nerves, only to find he wasn’t the only one with that idea. Emma stood near the edge of the shore, arms wrapped around her as she stared out at the horizon. A slight breeze blew her skirt around her legs and her hair into her face, and she shivered; apparently, he was the more prepared of the two of them.

“You should be asleep,” he said softly as he wrapped his robe around her. “Or at least dressed more warmly.”

She had jumped when he spoke, evidently not hearing his approach, but relaxed when she saw it was him and didn’t hesitate to pull the robe tighter around her. “So should you. And I guess I forgot how cold it can get by the ocean; I don’t remember it being this chilly in Storybrooke.”

“We’re a bit farther north, and Storybrooke has some natural insulation from the wind with the way its harbor is shaped. Your skirt certainly doesn’t help,” he added lightly.

She had borrowed a dress from Belle to wear while her cream gown was being washed; it fit, but she had a good few inches on Belle and it left her lower legs uncovered. There wasn’t much light but by the way she was standing, he had to assume her skin was covered in gooseflesh. (His certainly was, but he was also more accustomed to the temperature. Still—he was grabbing a sweater when they went back inside.)

“I’ll survive,” she brushed off, but the way she seemed to nestle even further into the robe showed her appreciation. As did the genuine “thank you” that followed.

“I’d be a piss-poor host to drag you all this way and then let you die of a chill in what's supposed to be a haven. But you’re most welcome.”

They fell silent, watching the sky and sea as the waves lapping at the shore tried to drown out the unsaid words between them. The horizon was just beginning to lighten, slowly hiding the stars that hung low in the sky.

“So, why couldn’t you sleep?” Emma asked quietly, her eyes staying forward.

He hummed in thought—not because he didn’t know the reason, but because he wasn’t sure he wanted to confess how much of it was her. “Just…a little bit of everything,” he settled on, hoping that was equal parts vague and descriptive enough to define his mental state.

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” she replied, sighing a bit. At least he wasn’t alone in that.

She seemed very intent on rolling a stone around under her boot, so he didn’t say anything to interrupt her, but he did notice that she seemed a bit restless. It wasn’t surprising, really, when he thought about it; not only was she on the cusp of going to prison, most likely, she also hadn’t taken a chance to really pause in the last couple months. He had chalked it up to life on the lam, but it was just as likely she enjoyed being constantly on the move. Before Alice, he’d much preferred constant motion, lest his ghosts catch up with him, and goodness knew Emma had a few of her own.

But…she was still here. So he had to ask, “Why haven’t you run away?”

She stiffened a bit at the question, but wasn’t outright offended—which told him he’d hit close to home. “I thought about it,” she said, sounding almost disappointed. “Even this morning, I debated just transforming and making a break for it. But I couldn’t.”

“Why not?” His voice was far more unsteady than he intended.

“It’s kind of like you said,” she shrugged, eyes still on the pebbled ground. “It’d be incredibly rude of me to take advantage of your kindness only to make my own escape, and probably end up getting you into trouble in the process. There’s been enough collateral damage around me lately; I couldn’t live with myself if I did that to you, too.”

The familiar stutter of his heart allowed the breath he was holding to escape. He hadn’t doubted that she cared for him, but hearing that was somewhat bittersweet: she cared enough about him to not hurt him, even though it was coming at the cost of her own freedom. And he didn’t know how to respond to that.

“I…I appreciate that, greatly,” he eventually told her. He also finally dared to look over at her, only to find her giving him a small, slightly sad smile that he both understood and returned.

Another shiver took over her then, so he stepped closer and wrapped his arm around her. Only then did he realize that he hadn’t put his brace on, but if she noticed his blunted left wrist resting on her shoulder, she didn’t acknowledge it; all she did was rest her head on his shoulder, bringing them ever closer.

They stayed like that until the sun fully rose, bathing everything in its orange light. It wasn’t hard to imagine starting the day like this more often than not, but such daydreams were moot at this point.

A shudder wracked his body; it was his turn to feel the effects of the cool temperatures, even if the sun was warm on his face. Emma only chuckled, though, and stepped back, but reached for his hand. “C’mon; let’s head back in. Do you have any cocoa?”

“Maybe?”

“I hope so. Let me make you some.”

Thankfully, they did, and she made it with care. He was mildly amused when she dug out some cinnamon from the pantry to put on hers, but when he tried it for himself, he immediately understood the appeal: sweet with just a hint of spice—much like the woman sitting across from him at the dining table. (Belle and Alice seemed to enjoy it, too, when they eventually rose.)

While he would have much preferred that morning be the first spent in a similar manner, if it had to be the last, he would take it.

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

thanks for reading! tagging some (let me know if you do/don’t want a tag!) @kat2609 @xpumpkindumplingx @shipsxahoy @shireness-says @ohmightydevviepuu @profdanglaisstuff @thisonesatellite @winterbythesea @mryddinwilt @cocohook38 @annytecture @wingedlioness @word-bug @distant-rose @wellhellotragic @welllpthisishappening @let-it-raines @pirateherokillian @its-imperator-furiosa @fergus80 @killianmesmalls @thejollyroger-writer @ineffablecolors @laschatzi @ive-always-been-a-pirate @nfbagelperson @stubblesandwich @phiralovesloki @athenascarlet @kmomof4 @ilovemesomekillianjones @whimsicallyenchantedrose @snowbellewells @idristardis @scientificapricot @searchingwardrobes @donteattheappleshook @jrob64 @the-darkdragonfly @itsfabianadocarmo @stahlop @klynn-stormz @resident-of-storybrooke @deckerstarblanche

#cs ff #cssns 2021 #cssns21 #wish kj ff #most wanted #my ff

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whattheheckmidoriya · 2 years

Text

Stuck With Me

Requested by: @cloud-joie

Request: Hello 🌸. Hope you are having a great day. Can I make a request with the prompt: “Ew. Get away from me. No– not you. You stay.” when the reader has the same attitude as Aizawa, where they don't like to be around people and the only person they tolerate is Aizawa. And whey they are together they are super sweet. The opposite of what they reflect.

Pairing: Aizawa Shota x Reader

Word Count: 1,434

Warnings: One slightly suggestive comment by Kayama, but nothing explicit!

Join the taglist here!

Author's note: Ah, I felt so nice to write again! Thank you SO MUCH for your patience, love! This took much longer than I would've wanted, but I hope you enjoy it all the same!♡

•

“It would be unfortunate if you lost a hand, Hizashi.” You grumbled, a threat clear in your words as you continued working on grading papers.

The blonde froze behind you, face void of color at being caught in his crime. “Oh, c’mon! Just one sip!” You didn’t have to look at him to know he was flashing his best puppy eyes under his glasses.

Ink scratched at your papers as you continued working. “No.”

“But—”

“I asked you if you wanted some and you said no,” Swiftly, you pushed your coffee mug away from him, watching from the corner of your eye as he frowned at the action. “You’re not having mine. Suck it up.”

“You didn’t ask me if I wanted some of your delicious coffee!” Nemuri piped up, sprawling her figure over the couch. She flashed a cheeky grin. “Shouldn’t I also be graced by your humble offerings?”

“No,” Before she could argue, you continued, “You broke my other coffee machine and didn’t pay for it.” You clicked your tongue. “You lost coffee privileges.”

“Oh, don’t be so petty!” She pouted, earning a roll of your eyes.

Silence hung over you three, heavy and stiff, and though they knew better than to continue disturbing you, the act just seemed far too tempting to pass upon. The two heroes shared teasing glances, a wicked little thing twinkling in their eyes as they settled their gazes on you.

“So,” Hizashi started, feigned innocence tight in his voice. “How about we—”

“How about you keep quiet before I put your grown asses in time out?” The firm look of disapproval that painted your face was set like stone, one brow quirked in a silent challenge, daring them to continue. When you were only met with silence, you shook your head, taking a sip of your coffee before returning to your work.

Despite the initial bouts of silence, the two friends were relentless and wouldn’t take no for an answer. They would continue bugging you with trivial questions and fleeting conversations, their thoughts never remaining still for more than a few minutes at a time. It had taken more than just your patience to not snap at them, your head pounding with a headache as your hand clutched your pen in a white-knuckled grip. All you wanted was to finish your work and take the remainder of your day for some much-needed rest. That, however, seemed more like a feeble dream as your two friends continued to talk your ear off with their nonsense.

Taking your mug in your hands, you brought it up to your lips, grimacing as the drink seeped into your mouth. Great. Coffee’s gone cold.

Too wrapped up in your current predicament with the two energetic heroes who weren’t merciful enough to allow you a moment of silence, you hadn’t seen your lover walk in. Sore eyes fleeted over the unraveling scene before him, frowning at the look of exhaustion that lingered under your eyes. His feet pulled him further into the room, settling his things on a nearby table before directing himself to you.

“Hizashi I swear—” you began, patience slipping from your grasp as annoyance pulled your brows together.

“It’ll be fun! I promise!” Hizashi grinned, Nemuri nodding encouragingly by his side before slinging one arm over your shoulders.

A smirk played on her lips. “Don’t be such a sourpuss, hon! You’re still young, and I know that you’re also wild!” A mischievous glimmer twinkled in her eyes. “Join us tonight— enjoy some of the entertainment!”

You grimaced at the implication of her words, shaking her arm off of you. A glare hardened your gaze, one Shota recognized to be a mirrored copy of his own tired eyes. “Ew. Get away from me.”

At your tone, bitter, tired, and defeated, all three heroes froze in their places, watching as your shoulders drooped tiredly. Pinching the bridge of your nose, you sighed heavily, deflating your chest in one weighed breath.

With no more words from you, everyone understood you had reached your limits. Some alone time was needed. Hizashi and Kayama whispered their apologies before filing out of the room, leaving Shota to grab his belongings. Before he could take hold of his things, though, your voice reached him in a mere breath of exhaustion. “No— not you. You stay.”

Shota looked over his shoulder, back at where you sat, his gaze softening at the silent plead that glossed over your eyes. He sighed. Quietly coming over, he knelt down by your side, gently locking his fingers around your own, smiling as you responded with a gentle squeeze of your hands.

“How are you?” Care and concern balmed over his words, his voice a soft rumbling in his chest that flooded you with comfort.

Deep breath in. Your forehead touched his gently, your heavy eyes fluttering at the warmth of his skin. Deep breath out. Gently, he rubbed circles over the back of your wrists, huffing a breath of amusement as you leaned further into his touch.

“Tired.” Shota hummed in understanding. The tale-tell signs were written all over you. The subtle shaking of your hands within his own. The darkening shadows under your eyes. The low drop of your shoulders. The heavy, repeating sighs that tried to expel the exhaustion from your body.

Tenderly, he kissed your knuckles, brushing your skin with gentle, loving pressings of his lips. A small, endearing act of love full of devotion and adoration. With one final lingering kiss to your hands, he peered up at you, letting his scarred fingers slowly travel up to the sides of your face, cupping your cheeks and pulling you closer to him. “Take a break, angel. Does a nap sound good?”

Tears welled in your eyes, fuzzing out the heavenly image of your lover. Turning to the side, you buried your face in his hands, effectively shielding him from the sight of your quivering lips. With a deep breath, you sank further into his touch, sliding out of your seat and onto the floor, where Shota carefully pulled your body close to his with a gentle tug.

You nodded.

One hand holding your head to his chest, while the other rubbed circles over your back— his heart shattered as your figure trembled with silent cries. He kissed the top of your head, whispering sweet nothings until your breath evened out, your heart timidly following the rhythm of his own. Shota was in no hurry to let go, his heart aching to somehow alleviate the troubles that plagued you.

It didn’t take much for Shota to realize you were much like him, reserved with a schooled face— a masochist of a workaholic that hangs by a thread when rest becomes a rare occurrence. He’s seen you wear yourself out a handful of times, but never like this. It would be of no surprise to him to learn it was his friends who had you tumbling over the edge.

He clicked his tongue. Surely, he’d have a word with them soon enough, but right now, in this very moment, his only concern was to care for the treasure he calls lover.

Looking down at you, he snickered, his lips threatening to curl into an endearing smile. Careful not to disturb you, he wiped the drying tear tracks that stained your skin, huffing a breath as you pressed your cheek closer to his chest.

Shota quietly maneuvered you both off of the floor, carrying you across the room before setting your slumbering figure over the couch cushions. Worn fingers lovingly traced over your face, memorizing the shape of your lips, the angle of your brows, the contour of your jaw. Butterflies fluttered deep within his stomach, heat rising to his cheeks as he shook his head.

Looking over his shoulder, he caught sight of the plush blanket you always carry in your bag. He smiled. He had his sleeping bag, you had your blanket. Before he could turn to grab your blanket, a hand loosely held onto his wrist, tugging at his sleeve.

Dark eyes fleeted back to your restful face, a small pout on your lips. “Don’t leave me.”

His response came in the form of a reassuring squeeze of your hand, a preface to the gentle whisper that carried out the low rumbling of his voice. “I’m just grabbing your blanket, angel.” He lowered himself until his lips could reach your knuckles once again. “You’re stuck with me, okay?”

You hummed sleepily, “Awesome.”

Shota snickered, placing a kiss onto your forehead before stepping away.

Awesome, indeed.

•

Aizawa Shota taglist:

@runaowo @beecca9 @bandaidfaerie @zawasleepingbag @retaaschilling @rvgrsbrns @samx-jpeg @girl_lost_not_found @sir-knight-slytherdor @justheretoaskandread @andrastesmoth @yaskna @izukus-gf @imloudafsocoveryourears @ikisstoga @onebigfangirl @redspade227 @ghostly-haunted

#aizawa shota x reader #aizawa x reader #shota aizawa x reader #bnha aizawa #eraserhead x reader #my hero academia aizawa #mha x reader #bnha x reader #mha fic #mha comfort #shouta aizawa x reader #shouta aizawa #aizawa shouta x reader

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houseofhurricane · 2 years

Text

hearts bring back the light

Summary: The war is finally over, and Nesta Archeron spends solstice figuring out what comes next.

Pairings: Nessian with sides of Elucien, Feysand, Gwynriel, and Emorie

Word Count: 5,523

Notes: This is an @acotargiftexchange fic for @writtenonreceipts, who wanted Feysand, Nessian, and/or Elucien, and something at least moderately fluffy. I hope you enjoy!

If you'd prefer, you can read this fic on Archive of Our Own.

Nesta tries to pull her coat shut and fails, the thick wool refusing to stretch over her belly. Solstice is still a week away but Velaris is in the midst of an early cold snap, snow falling on a freezing wind. She scowls down the burgeoning abdomen that’s growing steadily more chilled, glad the child fluttering inside her can’t yet see her face, that they’re still shielded by her skin and blood.

She already regrets telling Gwyn and Emerie that she wanted to do her solstice shopping alone. In her mind, she’d stroll through the snow, peruse the windows lit by twinkling faelights, and instantly find the perfect, thoughtful gifts her friends and family deserve. Instead, she’s already freezing and her stomach churns ominously, and ten thousand stairs lie between her and her bed.

A shadow falls over her, a flash of crimson light, and Cassian stands next to her, his landing silent in the snow.

“I thought you had a meeting in Illyria,” she says by way of hello, though she can’t keep the smile off her face as she steps closer toward him, beckoned by his warmth.

His large hand fits itself over her belly, as it has for the past six months, ever since her scent changed.

“Emerie sent me on an errand.”

He holds out his other arm and there’s a large, flat box topped with a bow the color of Cassian’s siphons, dusted with fat flakes of snow.

“Who are we bringing this to?” she sighs, and he bumps the box against her arm.

“Emerie and Mor thought you might want to open their solstice present early.”

She bites back a smile and slides the box open, revealing a navy woolen coat and a fluffy red scarf shot through with silver threads. Cassian quickly removes her too-small coat and replaces it with the new one, and there’s plenty of space for the baby to grow. As he ties the scarf around her neck, Nesta realizes that she’s already warm.

She stands on her tiptoes to kiss him, a silent thank you and an invitation.

“They thought I looked too big for my coat?” she asks after she pulls away, continuing in the direction of the shops.

“Everyone thinks you look perfect. Especially me. Where are we going?”

“I’m trying to find gifts for everyone tonight.”

“The House will do that for you if you ask nicely.” He flashes a grin at her and rests his hand on her back, his fingers over the exact place where it aches, and Nesta is sorely tempted to let him fly her home and remove her warm new coat.

Instead, she flashes him the look he’s dubbed the “I will slay my enemies” glare and points out, “It’s not the same if it’s the House and you know it.”

“Gwyn won’t mind as long as you give her a pegasus.”

“Azriel will make us keep it,” she retorts, pushing her boots through the snow.

He wraps his arm around her, pulls her close against him without missing a single stride.

“Then I’ll help you find a gift my brother won’t complain about.”

Hours later, Cassian is loaded down with bags and boxes he refuses to let Nesta carry, and they have bickered and laughed and drunk several mugs of molten chocolate and spiced cider, than gone frantically searching for a bathing room for Nesta, but there’s a gift for everyone except Cassian.

“I have everything I need,” he says when, walking through the streets that sparkle with faelights and fresh snow, she asks what he’d like for solstice.

Instead of answering, he pulls her toward him and wraps his arms around her, his hands over her belly. The child inside her spins and flutters under his touch.

“I’m sorry you think so,” she’d told him after she’d kissed him thoroughly. “Because I’m about to change your mind.”

Cassian only laughs and sweeps her into his arms, flying them towards home.

Below them, Velaris sparkles like a treasure, and Nesta finds herself wishing that the child could behold this sight, their home at its most brilliant.

Though the war finally ended a year ago, Nesta sometimes still wakes with nightmares, which have grown especially vivid with her pregnancy. She can feel Koschei’s magic crawling on her skin, hear Elain’s screams as she plunged into battle, heedless of the cost, smell the iron scent of Cassian’s blood outside his body. That they all survived, that they’ve entered at last into their hard-won peace, does not register in her sleeping mind. The old nightmares return, too: sometimes the Cauldron still laps at her, sometimes she still watches her father die, hears Cassian prepare her for their next life.

She wakes up, throat raw and cheeks sticky with half-dried tears, to Cassian’s embrace, her back held against him so that she does not feel suffocated. He knows, now, how to hold her, how to soothe her, how to bring her back to their life in peacetime.

“What if this is the dream?” she asks him, still half-asleep as she wakes in the night a few days before the winter solstice, when Velaris is covered in a blanket of snow that makes the darkness a luminous blue.

“Then we enjoy it until we wake,” he says, his voice low in her ear. He brushes the hair away from her face and runs his hand over her belly. The baby aims a kick at her lungs, the strongest she’s felt yet, and she exhales with a little gasp, controlled by the little being inside her.

Instantly, Cassian is looking her over for any sign of danger, placing himself over her body. As if he too is worried that this peace is an illusion, that malevolent forces still loom.

“It was the baby,” she says, her voice lowering, falling out of her panic, the dreams pushed further away as she settles her mates fingers over the place where their child lashes out with their tiny feet once again.

In the moonlight, she sees the joy and fascination on his face. Her Cassian, who has triumphed against enemies older and more powerful than Nesta can imagine, who goes to battle despite impossible odds, who will be the hero in countless legends, actually wells up with tears at the feeling of their child’s first fierce kicks.

“She’ll be just like her mother,” he says, kissing her even as she rolls her eyes. “Good for everyone that I’m fond of my Valkyries.”

Instead of answering, she pulls him toward her, easing his soft sleeping trousers off his hips, wanting the reassurance of him fitted tight inside her, and Cassian, her beloved, the best male in this whole beautiful sorry world, pulls off her nightgown and kisses her heavy breasts, her laden belly, the throbbing place between her legs before fitting himself inside her.

“You’re not dreaming, Nes,” he says when they’re breathless and sated, into the ringing silence. “We really saved this world.”

She cups the back of his head with her palms, his hair silken between her fingers.

“Then why does it feel like it could all be gone in an instant?”

“Because the world is always in need of saving in one way or another.”

He lifts her against him, so easily, and she rests against his chest, lulled by his heartbeat, the fortress of his muscled arms.

They had conceived the child in the Summer Court. The moment the final treaty was signed, Rhys had all insisted they relax, enjoy the peace, and Nesta and Cassian had thought up all the places they wanted to travel, in Prythian and on the continent. Without a battle or a mission or a war to prepare for, there was no hurry, and Cassian flew them everywhere, to a cabin in the sparkling mountains of the Winter Court, through the perfect sunrises of the Dawn Court, over the tulip fields of the continent, which made her think of Elain, already settling in at the Day Court. They visited a hundred markets and tried foods with spices even Nesta, the daughter of a merchant, had never tasted.

Nesta savored the sun on her skin and the wide open spaces of this world, the mountains and forests and oceans beyond anything she’d imagined when she lived in the cabin, or when she fought battles at the balls of human aristos. She’d wept in his arms over the fallen Valkyries, the losses in the unit of female Illyrians that Emerie had led, and felt his own tears on her skin as he mourned the losses of his men. She watched as the lines around Cassian’s mouth faded, as his grief wracked him less and less, felt the echo in her own body.

When they’d reached the Summer Court, sun-drunk and giddy over Tarquin’s forgiveness at Cassian’s past antics, they’d spent entire days on the beach, fucking in the water or sometimes in the sky above, Cassian alternately swimming and sunning his wings, and Nesta splayed on the sand while she plowed her way through dozens of romance novels. When the long days darkened into evening, they’d watch the stars appear over the dark expanse of sea, the waters sighing until they were both lulled to sleep.

It took weeks of that sultry peace before Nesta asked, “What do we do, now that the war is over?”

She’d been more and more aware of the fact that her gifts were meant for battle. For all of Gwyn’s research, the histories never recounted what the ancient Valkyries did during peacetime.

Cassian had kissed her and said, “We enjoy it, Nes. We build our new world as we think it should be.”

Later, she will be grateful that he didn’t press his own vision onto her, that he simply allowed her to think and dream for weeks. Her daydreams filled with a thousand futures, strengthening the women of the Night Court’s vast territory in every way she knows, lobbying Rhys until the laws reflect the equality they all feel in their bones, and fluttering around the edges of those visions are two small girls with Cassian’s dark hair and Nesta’s steel blue eyes, laughing just like her mate does. And Nesta realized that she was hungry for all of it, to fight until the peace is worthy of its name for everybody, to build her home with Cassian, with the children the Mother granted her. Still, she waited to tell him, wanting to make sure that she was certain. Because she knew that once she told him, she would not stop until this was her future.

So Nesta savored their lazy sunkissed routine, until one night, dining on fish and sea vegetables and the sweet indulgent fruits that only flourish in Tarquin’s court, she’d been unable to keep the words inside herself any longer.

She’d told him, among other things, “I want to have a child.”

Nesta had never seen such a smile on Cassian’s face as he swept her into her arms.

That night, she stopped taking the contraceptive potion, and, two months later, newly arrived in the Day Court at the invitations of Helion and Lucien and Elain, Nesta had vomited spectacularly at Helion’s feet. His new consort, Lucien’s mother, had tended to her with a calm manner and a knowing look, offering ginger tea and cool wet towels and fresh air, but it hadn’t been until the next morning, when her scent changed, that Nesta and Cassian fully realized what was happening. Despite the delays and complications the High Fae faced, Nesta had become pregnant almost as soon as they’d started trying.

The Mother, apparently, had wanted them to have a child as much as they did.

Despite her persistent nausea and exhaustion, Nesta found herself eager to begin her new life, and Cassian began snarling at every male who so much as glanced at his mate too long, so as soon as they toured the Day Court and she assured herself that Elain was well and truly happy there, with her mate and her sunlit gardens, she and Cassian flew to the Night Court.

Nesta breathed the air high above Velaris, cold and bracing even in the height of summer, and knew that she was home.

Now she wakes to sunlight on snow and a note from Cassian that her meeting with Rhys and Feyre has been moved to noon, a lunch at the river estate. She suspects that Cassian had suggested this, had known she would want to sleep late after her nightmare.

There’s a stack of books on her nightstand, the House’s latest smutty favorites, a cup of molten chocolate laced with peppermint, and a cheese pastry redolent with butter. As she heaves herself to sitting, she hears the faint strains of what she’s come to recognize as solstice carols.

“If I didn’t know better,” she says, “I’d think you wanted to celebrate the solstice with just the two of us.”

The blankets shift around her, perfectly covering her shoulders, and the smell of cinnamon wafts through the air, which Nesta takes as the House’s agreement.

She reads for hours, the child fluttering inside her, as if they too are following this tale of unlikely lovers bound by promises and protocol in the Dawn Court of centuries ago, though Nesta hopes they do not follow the sections on wing play, even as she decides she’ll try it with Cassian soon. She sips her chocolate, which never grows cold, and when she finishes her pastry, the House brings her fruit to nibble on.

Later, when she rises to prepare for her meeting, she finds that her wardrobe is stocked with new clothing, all soft and in her favorite colors, cut to accommodate her new and shifting body. There is a crimson dress which she supposes is intended for the annual solstice party, and the coat from Emerie and Mor is neatly hung with its matching scarf.

“Can you help me think of what to buy for Cassian?” she asks the House, but its only answer is to pull out a thick gray sweater for her meeting, which Nesta supposes is one way of saying she’s asked for a bit too much, this time.

When she arrives at the river estate, Nyx and Seren run to her, Nyx taking flight straight into Nesta’s arms, and Seren toddling across the marble floors, her violet eyes shining as she screams something at Nesta that she barely understands. She scoops them each into hugs and leaves smacking kisses on her cheeks, surprised as always by how easy it is to share this tenderness.

“I see I’ve been replaced,” Cassian drawls just as Feyre and Rhys appear.

“You’ll get used to it, brother,” Rhys retorts with a smile.

Meanwhile, Nyx is telling Nesta about a recent lesson in Fae history, an ancient king who went into battle with a shining sword, and how Papa and Mama have promised that he can have a sword for his next birthday.

“I’ll teach you how to use it,” Nesta promises as he wraps his arms around her neck, his wings tucked in against his shoulderblades, small and perfect.

“You aren’t very fast, Aunt Nesta.” His voice is sweetly matter-of-fact.

“Just you wait,” she says, trying to bend to pick up Seren with her other arm and failing. Cassian swoops her up in his arms instead and she lets out a perfect shrieking laugh, which makes Nyx jump out of Nesta’s arms and fly towards him.

Feyre quickly moves to hug her, then leads her to the meeting room where Nesta’s recommendations on changes to Night Court policy are waiting in a thick stack on the table. On top, the topic for today’s discussion, is a law to let all interested females out of the Hewn City before their freedoms are stripped away.

As they often have in the months since Nesta returned to Velaris, Rhys and Feyre agree with her in theory, but raise the practical implications, the matters of execution. Nesta is getting better at not rolling her eyes and letting out aggrieved sighs, and two hours later, after only a few heated arguments, three pointed glares at Rhys, and only one suffocated scream from Nesta, they’ve finished a platter of sandwiches and come up with a plan to offer more freedom to those who feel trapped in the Hewn City, the way Mor did.

The plan will still open to debate and amendment by Amren and Mor and likely there will be a mostly ceremonial discussion with Kier, but to Nesta it feels like real progress, reminds her of the inexorable tide of battles that win a war, and she lets herself sink into her chair with a contented sigh when Rhys rises, kisses Feyre, and leaves for another meeting.

“You’re coming to the solstice party?” her sister asks.

“I didn’t know I had a choice,” she says, softening the words with a smile, then adding, so that Feyre will know she’s not the villain in Nesta’s story, even for an evening, “Emerie and Gwyn will drag me if I’m late.”

Feyre grins back, then gestures at Nesta’s belly. “You’re feeling all right?”

“Happier than I thought I’d be.”

Madja had explained that pregnancy would make her crave strange food and scramble her emotions, but at these words, which aren’t quite an answer to Feyre’s question, her eyes fill with tears.

Because Nesta Archeron was born and trained for battle and misery and grit, even when her world was only as wide as the night’s ballroom. But here, in the peace she’s helped to win, she’s finding that she is not out of place, and it’s a marvel.

Her little sister rises from her seat and wraps her arms around Nesta, leans her head on her sweatered shoulder.

“You might get used to it.” Feyre’s voice is so sweet and sure that Nesta knows her sister, no matter what she accomplishes in the Night Court, will forever be written in Prythian history as beloved.

“Have you?”

“Maybe in a thousand more years.”

When she arrives at home with Cassian, the table is filled with delicacies and new faelights and candles twinkle all over the House.

“I think the House is spoiling you,” Cassian says, his eyes widening as he considers the table, the roast pork that makes Nesta’s mouth water, the fruits of every color, each one perfectly ripe.

“The House is always nice to me.”

As if to prove its point, a solstice carol begins somewhere in the background. Cassian sighs.

There are times when it’s easy to forget that Cassian needs anything from her, that there’s anything she can give him.

“How was your day?”

He rubs his temples, turning toward her, away from the food..

“Sometimes I wish I could unleash you on the Illyrian commanders,” he says.

“I’m not sure if I should be proud or wounded.”

“Proud.”

He presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth, but Nesta doesn’t let herself become distracted by the touch or the compliment.

“You’re trying to change their world,” she says, thinking of her months of arguments and deliberation with Rhys and Feyre, how the progress so far has been small compared to what’s in her mind.

“You should see Emerie,” he says, his tone contemplative. “She always knows what to say at these things. I should put her in charge of Illyrian reforms.”

“You should.”

He smiles at her, rueful but accepting her words, and when he reaches for her, Nesta fits herself against him, his lips against the mass of her braids, her everyday crown.

“Part of me is worried I’ll get left behind. That I’ll become some wartime relic.”

“You’re more than the Lord of Bloodshed, Cassian.”

“Well said, Lady Death.”

She rolls her eyes at the nickname and then asks, “What did you do the last time there was a lasting peace?”

“I never trusted it. And I was still young, then, proving myself in Illyria and the Hewn City. Nobody believed a bastard-born Illyrian could lead the armies of the Night Court.”

Nesta thinks of him, younger and more uncertain, standing before war-tried males who dared to look down on her mate, and her heart clenches in her chest. She wishes they had been born in the same moment, in the same place, so that she could have shielded him from everything he’s had to endure.

“Then what do you wish you could do?”

“I wish I could remake the world in the image of Velaris. Make sure everyone is safe and content and able to do as they will. That there were a way to let Illyria and the Hewn City have their customs without all the evil and brutality. That we could rule over all these principalities as one united court.”

She has never heard such a speech from Cassian, the words spilling out of him, sure and decisive, as if they’ve been curled up inside him for a long while.

She stands on her tiptoes so that her eyes meet his hazel gaze, the warmth and vulnerability in it.

“You could do all of it, you know,” she says.

He looks away, training his eyes on the sparkling city laid out before them, preparing for the darkest night, the ending of the first year of peacetime.

“I’m no courtier.”

“You’re something better.” At the certainty in his voice, he turns toward her again, the ghost of a smile on his lips. Like he wants to believe her. “Everyone already likes you.”

He laughs at those words, deep and musical, but she can tell he’s not dismissing the idea. Instead, they spend the next three hours making their way through the House’s feast and, bit by bit, as night deepens around them, Cassian tells her all of his ideas.

“Have you gotten a solstice gift for Azriel yet?” Nesta asks, raising a mug of spiced cider to her lips. Around them, the lights twinkle and the air is filled with the scent of pine and spruce, another gift from the House.

Gwyn’s smile is only subtly judgemental as she says, “Weeks ago.”

“Of course you did,” Emerie says, raising her goblet of mulled wine to her lips, the gesture just like Mor’s. “Don’t tell me you’re spawning too.”

Gwyn swats at her, laughing. “I had to fit it around a mission.”

After the Blood Rite, Gwyn had discovered a talent for spycraft. Nesta had sometimes gone months without knowing her exact location, only to have her return to Velaris or the war camps with shadows under her eyes and relief in her smile, her hand nearly always clasped in Azriel’s. Days later, there would be sudden changes in their strategy, or key figures on the continent would go missing.

Gwyn still works as a spy, and sometimes Nesta wonders at the former priestess she’d met in the library, at the secrets she keeps and the ways she’s transformed. Even if, when she’s in Velaris, she’s in and out of the library more than Nesta.

Now, though, she just rolls her eyes at her friend and says, “Just promise me it’s not a pegasus.”

“Or you’ll need one as well?” Emerie cuts in.

“I don’t want to hear Az complaining about it. Anyway, I have you and Cassian to fly me around.”

Emerie’s wings have been healed for years now, and sometimes Nesta finds herself taking it for granted that her friend can fly between Illyria and Velaris and Mor’s estate in the span of hours. There’s nobody, not even Cassian or Rhys or Azriel, who loves flying as much as Emerie does.

“Only if you get me a very nice solstice gift.”

Nesta’s groan as she rises is only a little faked, but she’s smiling by the time she returns with her friends’ gifts, which she’d ordered weeks ago.

Soon the jeweled bracelets, in the colors of the woven bracelets they’d made for each other years before, are fastened to their wrists, and Emerie declares that she will indeed fly Nesta wherever she likes.

Dawn still grays the horizon when Nesta startles awake with an idea and rises from her bed, then settles at her desk. Hours later, Cassian hovers in the doorway but she waves him away. In the dead of night, his solstice gift had come to her.

When she sees him at the training session above the House of Wind, now run primarily by Ros and Deirdre, the priestesses who survived the war, he raises an eyebrow.

“I’ve never seen you write like that,” he says as he racks the wooden swords, an old habit that Nesta knows the priestesses nevertheless appreciate.

She kicks at a drift of snow, wondering if she should have worn another pair of socks.

“I had an idea,” is all she has to say before Azriel and Gwyn fly in, followed by Emerie and Mor. It’s rare, now, that their old training group is fully reunited, and as grateful as she is for the interruption, she’s brought almost to tears by the sight of them. The fact that they all survived.

“I never thought I’d see the day when Nesta cried,” Emerie says with a smirk.

“You’ve clearly never seen her in--” Cassian begins, before Nesta covers his mouth with her hand. He licks her fingers.

“We survived,” is all she says, her voice cracking on the last word.

“Now we show everyone else how to do it,” Gwyn says, her own eyes bright as she wraps an arm around Nesta’s shoulders. Gwyn, who has never feared her. “But first, can any of you explain why no one has ever bothered to heat this damn ring?”

“I would’ve thought a Carynthian wouldn’t be so soft,” Azriel retorts, his smile taking the insult out of the remark.

“As if you haven’t tried to fit in Gwyn’s flannel-lined leathers,” Emerie points out. “We talk to each other, you know.”

“We’re extremely aware,” Cassian says, and Mor laughs, and although nobody will let her spar, and she swears, while running sprints and holding her lunge, that her child has doubled in size over the past week, and she’s half-distracted by what remains to be done for Cassian’s gift, all in all, Nesta spends a very pleasant morning in training.

Nesta will bring her daughter into the world on a spring morning when the air is filled with the scent of flowers, though she won’t smell their fragrance in those hours when she’s wracked by each contraction, when her body is tight as a bowstring, when Gwyn whispers prayers to the Mother and Emerie stands over her with cool towels for her forehead and Cassian holds tight to her hands, her shoulders as he tells her how strong she is, how powerful, how lucky their child will be to grow up with such a mother. Every word that arrives through the haze of pain seems to sweep aside all her fears.

At some point, Nesta will realize that the pain and the adrenaline and even the fear are more like battle than anything.

Except that when her daughter, slimy and squirming and already wailing, is laid on Nesta’s chest, she realizes that this victory is nothing like the battlefield, when winning feels so similar to loss.

Nesta will trace her daughter’s face with her fingertips, kiss her rosy cheeks and the top of her head, already covered with a fuzz, Cassian leaning over her shoulder to study their baby, and she will know that this moment will be held forever in her mind, perfect.

They will name her Fenna, which Gwyn has said means peace in the old dialects, and, right from that first moment, Nesta will promise her daughter a better world.

But now, the night of the winter solstice, Nesta rests her hand on her belly, nervous as she watches Cassian and Lucien discussing sports. For all the time she’s spent on Cassian’s gift, she’s still not sure if he will like it.

Elain appears at her elbow.

“I have no idea how they find so much to say about a ball hit back and forth,” she says, twisting her hands. The gesture is so unlike Elain’s usual cheerful elegance that Nesta reaches for her sister’s hands. Even now that they’re grown and Elain has come into her power, she still wants to soothe her sister.

“What’s wrong?” Nesta asks, instead of the clever retort she’d thought up, comparing sporting events to the ballroom.

Elain sighs and says, “I’m pregnant.”

There has been a rash of babies since the signing of the peace treaty, but Nesta has not felt such a clamor inside her as she feels now, when Elain gives her the news. Her sister always envisioned herself as mother to a large family, and Nesta has wondered why, in the years since her mating ceremony to Lucien, there have been no children. She wondered if the question was too painful, though, and so she didn’t ask it.

“Why do you sound afraid?” she asks, now, her fingers still tight around Elain’s. She’s aware of the expanse of her belly between them, the child that kicks below her ribs.

“This isn’t the first time. There have been-- I’ve lost them, early. And I’ve had visions of my children but I wonder if they’re false. If I’ll lose this one too.”

There is no real comfort she can provide to the anguish in her sister’s voice, no assurance she can give. A child lives or it does not, and Nesta has lost her powers to say otherwise. Only now does she think of that fact with regret.

“Have you seen a healer?”

Elain twists her lips into an expression between a grimace and a smile. “I’ve seen seven. Lucien and I -- we wanted to be sure, this time. Whether there was anything we should do. If we could get our hopes up. All of them have said the child is healthy and growing as they should. That I’m all right.”

“And how long has it been?”

“Nearly four months.”

Nesta looks at Elain’s gown, more closely than she has all evening, at the way it flows loose around her waist, disguising the slight but unmistakable curve of her belly, the way the neckline draws the eye to her sister’s breasts, full for the first time in Elain’s life. The way the deep green fabric could fool someone into thinking that the moonglow of her sister’s skin is due to the flattering color alone.

“I wanted to tell you--” Elain says, misinterpreting the look on her face.

“Shut up and let me hug you,” is all she says, and pulls Elain into her arms.

Over the course of the evening, the news circulates among them all, to laughter and hugs and wry statements that of course Nesta and Elain’s children would practically be twins, and it’s in this haze of merriment that she settles on the couch next to Cassian, sinking deep into the soft cushion.

“I’m not sure I’ll be able to get up,” she grumbles even as she leans against him and his wing circles around her.

“Good thing your mate is a big strong Illyrian warrior.”

“You can say that if you win the snowball fight tomorrow,” she says, and then, because nobody is paying attention to them, she lays her gift in his lap.

It is a slim package, hastily wrapped, but Cassian smiles as he opens it to reveal the notebook inside. Half of the pages are covered with Nesta’s handwriting, which to her eye looks sloppy as he thumbs through the pages.

“I didn’t know what to get you. But this is our story,” she says, looking across the room, to where Seren is braiding Emerie’s hair while she had Mor gossip with Feyre. She doesn’t want to see a hint of disappointment on Cassian’s face.

“Did you run out of time to finish it?” he asks, though she can hear the smile in his voice.

“I wanted to leave room for the rest of it. For everything we’re going to do next.”

He does not speak and finally, Nesta’s curiosity overwhelms her. She turns toward him.

Cassian’s eyes are bright with tears as he reads the first page, where she’d written about his appearance in her home, the instant spark between them, the love and attraction she’d tried to deny.

“This is perfect,” he says, marking the page with a careful finger as he takes her in his arms. “This is fucking perfect, Nes.”

“I love you,” she says, an explanation and a declaration and a promise.

When he kisses her, she forgets that they’re in the middle of a party with their family and friends, about all her obligations and fears and dreams. There’s only Cassian in her arms, their child curled up inside her, and cinnamon and spruce in the air. Nesta thinks, pulling Cassian closer and relaxing into this moment, the peace she fought for and won, that maybe this truly is what peace and joy and home feel like. That it’s actually fucking perfect.

More Notes: I know this is kind of bittersweet fluff, but I hope you enjoy it? I had the Stars song "In Our Bedroom After The War" in my head when I was drafting it, which includes the line the war is over and we are beginning, and that really informed the vibe of this.

Also, I've never written Nessian as a focal couple before and I really enjoyed it! Writing Nesta's snark and their banter together is delightful.

@writtenonreceipts, if you hate it, please let me know, and I'll write you something better 🧡

Thank you for reading, and I hope you have a happy holiday season! 🎄

#acotar gift exchange 2021 #nessian #nessian fanfiction #domestic nessian #nessian pregnancy #elucien #feysand #gwynriel #emorie #acotar solstice fic #acotar fanfiction #nesta supremacy #nesta archeron #fluff and angst

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stonedregulus · 2 years

Text

Unexpected Visitors (Part 1)

tw: some possible gender dysphoric language

Regulus stared out the window over the sink watching the snow fall as he downed his fourth cup of coffee. There were seven days until Christmas. There was so much to do. The kids were on break from school and constantly making messes in the house. He hadn’t finished decorating although he was sorely tempted to say fuck it because at this point it would only be up for a week before he was ripping it down again. He still didn’t have any presents purchased, there were no cookies baked for the cookie exchange his extremely sweet mother-in-law had invited him to attend the next day. The only reason the outdoor lights were hung was because his husband had been way too excited and left the Thanksgiving dinner table before pie to climb onto the roof.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like Christmas, it was just that it was so fucking exhausting.

“I’m bored,” Harry complained as he opened the refrigerator.

“We just had breakfast, Harry.”

“Yeah? I’m still hungry.”

Regulus sighed, joining his son to look into the fridge that was very nearly bare.

“We have no foooooood,” Harry said dramatically, slamming the door closed.

“Well, you could help me make a list of everything we need to buy and then go shopping with me.”

“What? Why?”

“You just said you were bored,” Regulus raised an eyebrow at Harry skeptically.

“Not that bored, Papa.”

“Too bad, you’ve been drafted to help me. Grab the cookbook please.”

“This is homophobic,” Harry grumbled under his breath, pulling the massive, overflowing three-ring binder out of the cabinet above the microwave.

“Yes, I am,” Regulus said sarcastically, grabbing a stack of post-it notes and a pen out of the junk drawer that he desperately needed to organize. “Okay so we have four dinners to attend and we have to bring a side dish for each of them. You pick what you want us to bring while I make our normal grocery list. Then we’ll add the ingredients you need to my list, sound good?”

“You’re letting me pick?” Harry asked, looking at Regulus with wide silver eyes.

“Of course! You’re going to help me cook it, you can choose what we make.”

“What if… What if I don’t pick good things?”

“Harry, you are seventeen and about to graduate from high school. I think you can pick the side dishes you think are the best,” Regulus chuckled, jotting down eggs and milk onto his list.

“Good morning, what are you two up to?” James asked, padding barefoot into the kitchen. He pressed a slow, deep kiss to Regulus’ lips before grabbing a coffee mug off the rack and setting it under the Nespresso machine.

“Our son is picking out what side dishes to bring over the week.”

“There are too many choices. This book is overwhelming.”

“Just think about what your four favorite side dishes are to eat and then find the recipes for them,” James said, smiling across the island at him reassuringly.

“Oh. That’s a good idea. Thanks, dad.”

“Where are our other children?” James asked, running his hand through Regulus’ curls. He leaned into James’ palm humming slightly.

“They’re all asleep still, Harry is the only one who wanted breakfast apparently.”

“I’m still hungry,” the teenager grumbled, pulling a recipe out of the organized binder carefully. The doorbell chimed and Regulus looked at James in confusion.

“Who is at our door at seven-thirty in the morning?”

“Maybe it’s Mrs. Figg. I had to go over and help her with a blown fuse yesterday,” James said quietly, attempting to slide around Regulus.

“I got it, you enjoy your coffee,” Regulus smiled, poking James in the cheek before heading out of the kitchen into the hallway. He was still in his pajamas and he wasn’t wearing his binder but the shirt was loose enough he wasn’t too worried about Mrs. Figg, she’d seen him in swim trunks and trans tape so it wasn’t like she didn’t know. He unlocked the door quickly, pulling it open as he smiled before jumping back in shock wrapping his arms around himself self consciously.

“Maman? What… What are you doing here?”

“Well that’s not how you should greet your mother, is it Regulus?” Walburga asked, pushing her sunglasses up onto the top of her head as she stepped into the house followed by Orion who pressed his lips into a line as he pulled two large suitcases into the entryway.

“I don’t… I don’t understand,” Regulus said, jogging in his bare feet to keep up with his mother as she walked into the kitchen. James’ eyes grew to the size of dinner plates when he saw her before spluttering his coffee back into his mug.

“Mémé!” Harry yelled loudly, dropping the recipes he was holding to run over to her.

“Oh, my beautiful, Harry! Look at you!” She squeezed him tightly.

“I didn’t know you were coming! Hold on, I'll go get the others!” He took off running up the stairs.

“I… Uh, hello Walburga. Orion. I didn’t know we were expecting you,” James said, a mixture of confusion and anger playing across his face.

“Well, it is Christmas,” Walburga said, waving her hand around as if that explained her presence.

“We weren’t going to see you this Christmas, Maman. Remember? We saw you last Christmas.”

“Yes well I just think this every other Christmas thing has gotten a bit silly so since you couldn’t be bothered to fly-“

“Couldn’t be bothered? Maman! We’ve had this arrangement since James and I got married!”

“-up to Canada this year, I decided we would come to you,” she finished her sentence loudly as if he hadn’t spoken at all.

“We… We have plans all week Maman.”

“You have a guest bedroom! We will stay here, we can attend your events with you.”

“N-no,” Regulus shook his head as James moved behind him, placing a hand on either shoulder. “They’re all friend parties and things for the kids, I can’t just bring my parents along with no warning.”

“Of course you can! It’s Christmas! The more the merrier, as they say!”

“Maman-”

“Regulus, what is going on with your house?” Walburga asked, turning away from him as she scanned the first floor.

“What do you mean?” He asked, although he had a sinking suspicion what she was about to say to him.

“It’s dreadful in here! Where is your Christmas spirit?”

“We have a tree!” Regulus said indignantly.

“That tiny boring thing over there?” She asked, pointing at the tree like it had offended her just by being in her presence.

“Maybe I should take the bags to the guest room,” Orion excused himself. He was good at that - fleeing before Walburga and one of her children began shouting at each other.

“James, why don’t you go help Harry get the others up,” Regulus muttered under his breath.

“I can stay-”

“I need to speak to my mother alone.” James squeezed his shoulders tightly and kissed the crown of his head before disappearing up the stairs after Orion.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Language, Regulus!”

“You just show up! With no warning? Who does that?”

“Your home should always be open to family, Regulus. You were raised to be more hospitable than this.”

Regulus rolled his eyes, tightening his grip on his arms, “Fine. Whatever.”

“Why haven’t you decorated for Christmas?”

“I have. We don’t need to go crazy the kids-”

“You’re just dicking around.”

Regulus’ mouth dropped open, staring at her in disbelief, “I- What?”

“You’re dicking around,” Walburga said again, gesturing at the house.

“I am not dicking around! I’ve been really busy with work.”

“Dicking around.”

“I’m not dicking around, Maman! The kids are old enough that we don’t need to-”

“Regulus! You are a parent! No matter how old your children get, you are still a parent and one of your jobs is to make Christmas magical!”

“I just wanted to enjoy Christmas this year and not worry about all the,” he flapped his arms around wildly, “stuff!”

“Parents don’t enjoy, they give joy, Regulus! That’s what being a parent is all about!”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Regulus muttered under his breath.

“Really, son, it is almost eight! Why are you still in your pajamas? We have a lot to do!”

“What?”

“Go get dressed!” She snapped at him, pushing him toward the stairs as his children crashed down it with a chorus of “Mémé!” He watched as the four of them enveloped her in a group hug, all black curls and tan skin before he stomped up the stairs.

Merry fucking Christmas.

#mel’s 25 days of ficmas #ficmas #trans!regulus #good!walburga #sort of #yes this is definitely based on the movie ‘bad moms christmas’#jegulus dads #regulus black #james potter #jegulus #starchaser #harry potter #marauders era #mwpp era #walburga black #orion black

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 years

Text

let me be your ruler.5

Warnings: guns, dubcon, noncon, fingering, treats.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Pairing: (dark!mob!) Peter Parker x Reader

Summary: You find more to worry about than just Peter.

Note: We get the long awaited update for mob Peter and I hope you like this twisted little chapter! Tomorrow Zemo and Wednesday the finale of Birch!Loki. I’ll try to keep up with Zemo and go back to an old series and try to pick away more at finish WIPs.

Hope you enjoy it. Thank you. Love you guys!

Please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

Masterlist

Peter’s intensity did not let up. If anything, he grew more insistent and more suffocating. After the pool, there was the bed, then the shower, then another romp that kept you from logging into your work email. You were sore and drained by the time you laid down, too exhausted to try to wriggle away from him as he joined you and kept his arm over you as you drifted off.

You woke to him drinking coffee and looking out at the lush property. He wore only a pair of short boxers, his muscles lined perfectly along his bent arm and firm stomach. You let out a soft breath and rolled onto your back.

Your thighs brushed together and made you squirm. You thought once he had his fun, he might let up. You could not predict this man in anything.

“You want a coffee?” he asked as he turned away from the windows, “I’ll send for one. Latte? Mocha?”

“Mmmph,” you grumbled and sat up carefully.

Those cocktails went down too easy and added to the weight in your head and limbs. The alcohol made him bearable, made your new reality palatable. You were naked still. You held the sheet to your chest and he went to the dresser and pulled out the drawer with his free hand. He dangled the long camisole gown before you as he neared.

“I hate to cover such a pretty woman up but I think we’ve exposed my staff to enough of our fun,” he held the thin straps over a single finger.

You reached for it and he drew it just away from your grasp. He bent and his dark eyes clung to yours, “not a good morning kiss?” he taunted.

You leaned forward and pecked his lips. He purred and stood, draping the silk over your lap.

“So, coffee?” he asked again.

“With just a little milk,” you answered as you pulled on the nightgown and turned your legs over the edge of the bed. Every part of you was stiff, “thank you.”

“You’re learning, princess,” he praised, “such sweet manners.”

You stood and crossed your arms. He chuckled and nudged your chin with his knuckle playfully. He pulled on a robe and knotted it loosely around his body. He went to the door and hit the button right beside the frame. A knock came shortly and he handed over his empty mug and requested one for you.

“I was thinking, we’d extend our stay a while,” he said as he turned back to the room, “I need a break from the city… but if you’re good, I’ll let you invite your friends. They’re nice girls.”

“Is that a suggestion or an order?” you asked dully.

“Both,” he smirked at you as he came closer and wrapped his arms around you, “you’re starting to get it, princess.”

You searched his face and held back a sigh. His brown eyes were smokey as his hands slipped down to your ass.

“I’ll need them around to distract my guests,” he purred.

“Guests?” you turned your arms and planted them firmly against his chest as he bent to kiss your neck. He ignored you easily as he swayed you with him.

“I was woken up early by a call,” he spoke against your skin, his lips sending shivers through you, “we got today and tomorrow, then those two goons will be joining us. I can get away but…” he raised his head and ran his hands up your sides and along your arms, pulled them over his shoulders, “business is business… we can still fit in a little play.”

You stiffened and swallowed. Your brows furrowed and you slanted your lips as you looked past him.

“You mean Bucky?”

“And Steve,” he filled in, “you don’t get one without the other.”

“I thought you guys were all… sorted out,” you said quietly.

“Ah, princess, you don’t know the half of it,” he cooed, “let’s keep it that way. Better for everyone.”

You nodded. He was right, you knew whatever he did was unsavoury and you didn’t need the details. You knew what he was capable of. A flash of fear went through you as you recalled the barrel of his gun pointed at you.

“I don’t wanna do that again, princess,” he uttered as if he could read your mind, “so… let’s not. Give the girls a call.”

A tap came at the door and he parted. He opened it and took the mug from the servant and brought it to you. You took it as the scent promised to fend off the ache behind your eye. You sat in one of the upholstered chairs and took a cautious sip. He watched you with a grin and bit his lip.

“Better finish that fast,” he warned, “coffee stains don’t come easy.”

You eyed him as he pushed open his robe and you saw the bulge twitch in his boxers. You kept your face placid, not wanting to provoke him. What exactly were you holding onto? He already had your whole life in the palm of his hand.

✨

Halle was more than overjoyed to accept your invitation but Molly passed as she wanted to hang out with Charlie. Desiree said it would be good for her as her co-worker turned out to be a total waste of time.

You hated that you were doing this to your own friends; using them as bait. Peter made it clear that they were welcome only on the condition that they could be an ends to his means. ‘Tell them to bring bikinis’, he insisted before you made the call.

Your second morning at the beach house was just as heavy as the first. The day before was filled with Peter’s incessant touching and another dip in the pool that ended in his delight. The staff was set to cleaning the pool once more in preparation of the guests. You were embarrassed as the servers, cleaners, and chef were all too aware of your activities.

Peter left you after a quick shower and you were thankful for the chance to wash on your own. He pecked your lips as he held his phone to his ear and squeezed your ass before he went.

You stood beneath the steamy stream of the faucet and melted beneath it. You came out slightly refreshed and wrapped yourself in a plush towel.

You went into the bedroom and sorted through the second drawer as you searched for something more comfortable than showy. There wasn’t much you could categorize as practical. You heard the door creak and didn’t look up as droplets cooled on your arms and you pulled a yellow sun dress out of the closet instead.

“That’s a good colour for you,” the voice made you freeze and you glanced over at the open door.

You assumed it was Peter or the wind, but the man who filled the doorframe with his thick shoulders, made your chest tight. Bucky stood with his arm against the wood as he leaned nonchalantly and leered at you.

“Wh-when did you get here?” you stuttered as you held your towel tight and shielded yourself with the dress.

“Just a couple minutes ago,” he smiled, “I was just looking for the bathroom but…” he tilted his head as his voice trailed off and his eyes ventured down your body, “...think I found something better.”

“Get out,” you hissed, “or I’ll shout.”

“Why? I’m not doing anything… just watching,” his lips curled lasciviously, “and you are fun to watch.”

“What-- I said, get out, Bucky,” you snarled as you stomped over to him.

You pushed on his thick arm, the muscle firm as it peeked out from beneath his short-sleeve button-up. He didn’t budge as he loomed over you.

“Your man likes to treat me like some errand boy. Sent me off to keep an eye on you. Boring, at first, all those months following you around to cafes and grocery stores,” he reached out and cradled your chin. You tried to pull away but he gripped your jaw firmly and held you in place, “but those things you do when you think you’re all alone… I was tempted to lend a hand but… business.”

“Don’t fucking touch me,” you grabbed his wrist and wrenched it away, “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about--”

“That little pink dildo, well, not very little is it?” he licked his bottom lip, “I thought he would’ve told you. He’s a careful man. He plans ahead. I respect that, at least.”

“Go!” you shoved him in mortification, “or I’ll scream right now and you know Peter won’t be happy--”

“Calm down, little girl,” he scoffed, “don’t get so worked up. I’m not that stupid…” he squared his jaw and raised a brow wryly, “but he will get careless and I’ll still be watching.”

He winked and turned away slowly. You quickly closed the door as he retreated down the hallway and you locked it with a shaky hand. You staggered back blindly and sat heavily on the cushioned bench at the foot of the bed.

How long had Bucky been hounding you? How long had Peter had his eye on you? Your heart raced at the realisation of how deep in you truly were. You could deal with one, but two? You were well and truly fucked.

✨

You tried to hide in the bedroom until your friend arrived but Peter dragged you out to welcome his guests over breakfast by the pool. You sat quietly and picked at the fruit plate until they excused themselves for more business. You were grateful as you didn’t miss Bucky’s fleeting looks.

Halle and Desiree arrived just after noon. The men were locked away in the parlor so you greeted them as they approached the walk, beach bags on their arms and rolling suitcases bouncing up the stones.

“Oh my god, girl,” Halle chirped, “he sent a car and everything.”

“Thank god, my old piece of shit wouldn’t have made it this far,” Desiree added, “oh, you look so good. I love that dress.”

“Thanks,” you sniffed, “um, I hope you guys don’t mind staying on the second floor. Peter’s staff just got the rooms ready--”

“Staff?” Halle swooned, “you hooked in a real sugar daddy.”

“No, I-- Halle,” you sneered, “it’s not--”

“I’m teasing,” she giggled, “but come on, look at this place.”

“Mm, well there is another hitch,” you said as you led them inside.

Two staff members approached and offered to take their bags. They gave you silent looks of amazement as they handed over their luggage and you rolled your eyes.

“So, what’s the hitch? Don’t tell me the pools out of order,” Desiree whined.

“No, pool’s just been cleaned, but… we have company,” you said tritely, “couple of Peter’s… friends. I’m sure they won’t bother you but--”

“Are they hot?” Halle asked.

“Are you serious?” you blinked.

“I’m so serious. I need to get laid. Bad.”

“And a stranger is the best choice for that?” you scoffed.

“If he’s cute,” she shrugged.

“It’s an important question,” Desiree seconded, “I can’t keep dating boys. You won’t believe what this asshole did.”

“I dunno,” you waved off the question, “how about I show you around first and then we can get to all that later.”

“Ooo, yes,” Halle clapped, “this place is huge.”

“Alright, well, we can’t go in the parlour right now but you won’t really be in there anyway,” you ushered them forward, “the pool’s just through here…”

✨

When at last the girls were settled in, you waited by the pool as they went to change into their suits. You requested some drinks from the staff and thanked them profusely as you felt entirely out of place asking anything of them. The fruity margaritas were left on the round table as you sat in the middle of a lounger.

“Uh, this place is gorgeous,” Halle declared as she came through the sliding doors, “oh my god, are those for us?”

You nodded as she swiped up a drink and sipped noisily from the straw. Desiree took her own but side-eyed Halle, “It’s barely one o’clock, slow down,” she chirped.

“It’s a vacation! Sort of. I had to use sick time for this so no Insta please,” Halle sang, “I can’t wait to get in.”

She set down her glass and strode over to the pool. She slid out of her sandals and dipped her toes in. She surprised you as suddenly she dove in and sent up a splash of water. Desiree giggled as she swallowed her mouthful and placed her drink beside Halle’s and raced over to join her.

You dragged yourself to your feet and sat at the side of the pool with only your legs in the water.

“Come on, don’t be such a party pooper,” Desiree splashed you.

“I’m not, I’m just… all pooled out right now,” you shrugged, “you guys have fun, I’m just happy to have you here.”

It wasn’t a lie. In those last two days when it was just you and Peter, you felt so completely isolated. Even if they were there to act as diversions, you were reassured to have a glimpse of your former life.

“You ladies look like you’re having fun,” Peter’s voice startled you and you looked over your shoulder as he emerged from the house, “drinking already?” He was dressed in his trunks already, “I hope you don’t mind, the guys were hoping to hop in too.”

“The guys,” Halle giggled.

“I told them we had company,” you assured Peter, “and uh, you know Halle, but this is Desiree.”

“A pleasure,” he said as he neared and sat beside you, “why aren’t you in there with them?”

“I will get in, I’m just… enjoying the sun.”

He hummed and put his hand over yours on the rim of the pool, “you okay?” he lowered his voice.

You squinted at him and nodded. He didn’t really care if you weren’t okay. He was only telling you to start acting like it.

You heard the others before they appeared. Peter introduced them as they came out and the girls were all too happy to have them sink into the pool with them. Peter nudged you and you slipped over the edge and he quickly followed. He caught you as you broke the surface and held you to him.

“They’re getting along,” he intoned.

“I still don’t get it,” you pressed against his chest as he waded you over to the other side of the pool, “why do you need them?”

“Part of the deal,” he said, “they want some fun too.”

“What? You mean--”

“The girls seem willing. They’re pretty enough and I wouldn’t say Bucky or Steve are hideous,” Peter chuckled, “it works for everyone.”

“You’re whoring out my friends for a deal?” you spat.

“Now, princess, watch it,” he curled his lip, “I’ve been patient, haven’t I?” he leaned into you and squished you between him and the wall of the pool, “if I was a worse man, I’d just let them have a taste of you… but you’re mine,” he kissed you roughly and drew back, “and so long as you are, you will only be mine. Understood?”

You swallowed and nodded. He relaxed and kept his arm around you as he came parallel to the pool wall and floated beside you. Steve and Desiree were chattering as she came back to the pool with her drink and Halle gabbed on at Bucky but his eyes weren’t on her. He smirked as he watched you and slowly dropped his gaze to your roommate.

“Maybe Bucky will chill out a little,” Peter grumbled as he pushed himself away from the side of the pool.

“Mm, maybe,” you let him pull you with him as he waded around the middle of the pool.

“Don’t worry so much,” he chided.

“How can I not? I hardly know these men and these are my friends, Peter,” you hissed, “I should’ve known.”

“And if you had, you still would have done what I said, princess,” he snipped, “why are you doing this? Everyone’s having fun so join the party.”

You thinned your lips and forced a smile. His eyes narrowed and he latched onto your arm. He pulled you with him to the large round steps along the far corner and you tried not to slip as you climbed out of the water. The others were too distracted to notice and as you glanced back, you found Desiree with her tongue down Steve’s throat.

“You don’t wanna have fun with them,” Peter dragged you into the house, “then we can have some of our own.”

“Not right now, Peter, please--”

“Listen, princess,” he spun and pulled you to him, “you’re not getting this. I’ve been nice. I bring you to my nice house, I send a car for your friends, I get you off… you need to start using that head instead of your mouth…” he eyed your lips, “well, the mouth is good for some things.”

You quivered in disgust and he turned as he forced you further down the hallway. He flung you through the bedroom door and you barely caught yourself on a chair. The door slammed as your damp feet slipped on the floor and you stood to face him.

“I’ve done you all these favours so you can do me one,” he hooked his thumbs in his shorts and pulled them down over the protrusion of his arousal.

You glanced away and he closed the distance between you. He grabbed your chin and made you look at him. He kissed you roughly and shoved you away. He stormed over to the bed and flopped down, his cock bobbing as he moved to recline against the pillows and exhaled loudly.

“Well…” he said.

You stared at him and the bitterness laced your muscles. You huffed and walked to the bed slowly. He stroked himself tauntingly as he smirked at you. You put a knee on the bed and braced yourself. There was a moment you were ready to run and not look back, but your friends were in his pool and the vision of his pistol pulsed in your head.

You climbed up and crawled to him. You sat back on your heels, just between his legs and he tutted, “now, princess, don’t give me that look.”

You wiped the anger from your face and closed your eyes. You grasped his dick and his hand fell away. You moved your hand up then down and tamped down your reservations. You bent over him and your lashes fluttered as your lips pressed to his tip. He gasped at the soft sensation and you stretched your lips around him.

He groaned and put his hand on your shoulder as he urged you down. He met the back of your throat and you eased back, wetting his length to ease the tension in your jaw. He gripped the back of your head impatiently and you strained to let him further as he invaded your throat. You gagged and he let you back only for a moment before he forced you back down.

You followed his motion, fast and deep, until the spit dripped down him and across your face. You clung to his thigh as you breathed with each retreat only to be smothered again. Your throat burned as your jaw ached as you kept your tongue firm to his length. The sloppy sucking mingled with his lusty moans and he held your head between both hands as he thrust from below.

He stopped you suddenly. Your head spun as he lifted you off of him and sat up to kiss you messily. He pushed you over as he got to his knees. You fell back and bounced on the bed as he parted your legs, bending on over his as he moved to straddle the other. You laid at an angle as his hand slid up your stomach to your neck.

He squeezed lightly as he pulled aside the crotch of your suit and angled his dick against your cunt. You moaned as he filled you and pressed his thumb to your clit. He kept his hand at your throat as he held you down and jerked his hips sharply. He jolted your body with each decisive thrust as he watched your face.

“You like sucking my dick, princess? Makes you so wet, huh?” he growled.

You grabbed his hand but he only gripped your throat more firmly. He bit down as he sped up, the mattress shaking beneath you with each tilt of his hips. He rammed into you hard and harder, your leg stretched up his torso as he kept astride your other.

He teased and toyed with your clit as he fucked you. You choked out raspy moans as the coil wound tight inside of you and your muscles knotted around him. Your eyes rolled back as you slapped at his bicep and clawed deep into his flesh as you came. You squirmed in your orgasm and he sped up.

He pulled his hand from your throat to hold your leg to his body. He kept playing with your bud as you groped your chest senselessly and your voice rose unrestrained around you. His deep grunt punctuated each airy cry from your lips and the entire bed rocked beneath your bodies.

“That’s it, that’s it,” he snarled, “oh, princess, that’s it.”

He sank deep and pulled his hips back in a series of cruel thrusts that made your hips throb painfully. Your walls squeezed him as you came again and you milked him as he spent himself inside of you. He slowed and stopped as he hung his head and the muscles in his chest and arms tautened.

“Shit,” he breathed and slipped out of you, flinching as his tip brushed against you.

You stayed as you were as he let your leg fall to the bed and he sat between your legs and pushed his hair away from his face. He sighed and shook out his arms as if to free himself of the tension.

“You’re so good, princess,” he felt along your cunt and played with his cum as it seeped from you, “aren’t you?”

✨

Shamefully, you left the room in a new swimsuit. The former was stained from Peter’s punishment and after cleaning up, he forced you out with a fake smile. You emptied your margarita and ordered another with less reticence than before. Steve and Desiree had disappeared as Bucky humoured Halle’s flirting on one of the loungers.

Dinner was awkward enough as you weren’t foolish enough to think that no one noticed or heard your absence. You emptied three more glasses and Peter excused the two of you as he kept you from a fourth. You wobbled back to the room ahead of him and fell onto the bed without changing out of your shorts and shirt.

“You’re mad again?” you bubbled drunkenly.

“You’re drunk,” he said as removed his watch and unbuttoned his shirt, “I don’t like that.”

“You don’t, ha?” you rolled onto your back, “that first night you had no problem feeling me up while I was--”

“Princess,” he snapped, “you can only blame the drink for so much.”

“You’re an ass,” you slurred and turned your back to him.

He huffed and the light went out. You felt the mattress dip behind you as he lowered himself next to you. He was stiff and didn’t try to touch you.

“I should spank you for that,” he muttered, “but you’re so fucking lit you wouldn’t remember it.”

“I feel good,” you murmured, “for once.”

He pinched you and the bed jostled as he rolled onto his side.

“Go to sleep,” he ordered.

He didn’t need to tell you twice as the alcohol weighted your eyelids and you were soon snoring carelessly into the pillow.

✨

You woke with a start as your stomach churned. It was still late as you clamoured out of the bed and ran for the bathroom. You hugged the bowl as you retched into it. Your body revolted and the alcohol came up with your dinner.

You shuddered as you caught your breath and flushed. You rinsed your mouth and steady yourself as you veins were thick from excess.

You stumbled back into the bedroom. Peter was asleep. His even breath rasped up into the dark. It was a rare moment of peace unsettled only by the memory of the day. You recalled his reproach before you fell asleep, you knew that wouldn’t be the end of it.

You groaned and crept to the door and let yourself out quietly into the hall. You went to the kitchen, tiptoeing through the dark, and filled a glass with water. You sipped but a noise pricked your ears. You listened as you kept your lips on the rim and drank to ease the fire in your stomach.

You followed the sound until it was too late to retreat. The whimpers and groans mixed and sent a tingle through you as you realised what was happening. You stopped in shock, frozen as you found Bucky and Halle in the immense front room. He had her bent over a round ottoman, her fingers curled at the seam as he rutted into her from behind.

She squealed each thrust as her head hung over the other side of the cushion. “Slow down,” she wisped, “please, I told you-- ugh, I never done it like this be--”

She cried out and bit into the cushion as he slapped her ass and fucked her harder, his other hand stretched between her shoulder blades. You took a step back and the movement caught his eye. He looked up and held your gaze as his face contorted into a sinister grin.

He sped up as he reached to smother her wails and held your gaze. You gripped the glass tightly and trembled as you backed away from the doorway. You spun and raced back to your room and tripped through the door.

You crashed to the floor and the glass shattered as water splashed around you. Peter sat up with a snort and reached to flip on the lamp at the bedside.

“What’s going on?” he asked sleepily.

“Just getting water,” you croaked as you sat back on your heels in the midst of the broken glass.

“Shit, did you cut yourself?” he asked as he saw you.

“No, no, I’m okay but-- stay there, you’ll get hurt. I’m close enough, I can… I’ll clean it up… I’m sorry.”

He stared at you and slowly nodded. The anger crinkled in his forehead and you stood carefully.

“So, now we know not to drink like that, huh?” he girded.

“I said, I’m sorry.”

“Mmhmm,” he leaned back against the headboard, “go on, princess, clean up your mess.”

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