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moondirti · 9 months

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DOUBLE RAPTURE

MIGUEL O'HARA x F!READER x ALT! MIGUEL

「 Toasted, every atom in you blistering hot, knocking into each other repeatedly. It’s the buzz at the end of a cigar, embers burning, flickering down to concrete in coughs of ash. You’re both the fire and its aftermath, moaning breathlessly for all that you’re supposed to be in charge.

And tonight – stuck between two men who don’t look, but are, each other – nothing can tamp your flame. 」

summary: after apprehending an anomaly who turns out to be an alternate version of your husband, you indulge in your filthiest fantasy.

explicit (18+) | 6.3k words | part two warnings: pure smut, pwp, THREESOME, cunnilingus, squirting, throat-fucking, blowjobs, unprotected p-in-v, anal, double penetration, tummy/throat bulge, younger miguel is submissive, spitting, cum swallowing, hair pulling, mild degradation, possessiveness, tooth-rotting fluff, every kink under the moon tbh

In truth, it comes naturally.

Your Miguel – older, blunt around once serrated edges, wisps of grey streaking dark tresses – sits to the side. He fosters a tumbler in one grip, half-full with amber liquid. Scotch whiskey, neat; you’d poured the drink to give yourself something to do while waiting. It’ll help, you insisted. An outlet to sip on, or a loud-enough warning when set on the adjacent tea table.

Now, you see that it was more for your sake than his.

He’s entirely collected for someone watching another man’s hands run along his wife’s body. They pushed your shirt off a while ago, hurried to behold your covered form. You’re laying in your bra, breasts heaving while kisses trail down your stomach, nipping the sensitive skin there – and still, all you can focus on is him. Your Miguel, scrutinising the rush the man is in with disapproval glimmering on carmine eyes. If this whole thing hadn’t been his suggestion, you would’ve sworn the look was meant to kill.

Because he likes to take his time with you. It hasn’t always been that way. Ages ago, following your premiere date, you fucked for the first time in a motel he rented, both your apartments’ farther than he would’ve liked to drive. But, again, he’s older now. Seasoned. There’s a heavy ring decorating your finger that winks reassuringly at him, three carats for the three year anniversary he proposed on. It amplifies the truth each hour you wear it – he is yours, you are his, and you’ve all the time in the world to do with each other as you please.

Your third for the night is unfamiliar with the dynamic.

(Though of course, it makes sense for him to be.)

You have to remind yourself of the fluid lines that mark each component of this little fantasy. They waver and wobble, bleeding into one another sometimes like wet ink on parchment. It’s hard to decipher the words they spell out when trapped in thick, indulgent lust – your legs spread to allow the man room as he moves down your body. But it’s even harder to ignore the way your skin burns with the intensity of your husband’s careful contemplation. It singes, redefining those exact perimeters for you:

One, and the most important given your suggestion, is that this will never leave your room. It’s not distrust that keeps it rigid – rather, a shared concern for the integrity of the multiverse. Your Miguel is all too aware of the dire consequences it could face should the rule be broken. You are too. It only narrows down to the partner occupying your bed and his naivete to it all.

Two; to use the safewords established beforehand. You’re infamous for losing yourself to pleasure, the habit bordering on a dangerous degree. It’s why Miguel is watching, to ensure things start correctly. He’s piqued and ready to stop it should the man not understand your limits.

(However unlikely. Currently, you’re the one establishing them.)

The third – the one you have a particularly complicated time grasping – is that ‘the man’ in question is no stranger at all. In fact, it’s instinct to touch him in the same way you’re used to, your mind adequately fooled everytime you look at him. A full head of brown hair – albeit, cropped shorter than your voyeur’s, a fade in at his ears. Young skin, which you strain to notice is devoid of the crows’ feet you adore. Yes, he’s smoother, like time had taken sandpaper to your model and buffed out all his worn edges, but he’s still…

Miguel.

(Though he urged you to call him Mig, entirely oblivious to the subtle cringe that’d crossed your husbands expression. That nickname is one you hardly resort to. He’s revealed a hatred for it.

Another cue, then, that they are not one in the same).

So, it comes naturally because you’ve spent so long in this exact space. Dusk flooding your home in plum hues, the colour of a berry ripe with rot. Overhead lights off, golden lamps projecting sensual shadows on white sheets. Your face warm with alcohol and your panties pushed to the side by a hero named O’Hara, whose palms are large and dry but a burning furnace on gooseflesh.

The younger one, Mig, is not yet a hardened vigilante. He’s new to the game – DNA spliced with spider essence only seven months ago. In that time, he worked out his own method of inter-dimensional travel, tortured genius that he is. Hopped between worlds until, eventually, he blipped on your radar. You’d been sent to process the anomaly whose personhood you were unaware of, only to come face to face with a twenty-something version of your beloved.

There’s no room for bias in the delicate scale of the universe. He’d found himself locked with other transgressors of his pedigree. Miguel – yours – was vehemently opposed to the notion of him joining spider society, uncomfortably affluent in his past recklessness. He knows, better than everyone else; it’s a security risk, letting in a spider-man so inexperienced.

You think that it’s projection. That, and a recognition of the way his mirror couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off you.

(A flattering notion for all you refused to believe it. You’re about ten years his senior – surely, he’d have better prospects on his Earth. But you asked, perhaps to hearten any overprotectiveness that could manifest itself as risk.

Something wrong, Mig?

He only looked at you behind the red laser field entrapping him, a small smile on his face. No. Nothing. You’re just different back home.)

That was before. Before he embodied the exact enthusiasm Miguel had been afraid of, spearing your cunt with his tongue, his scalp no doubt aching under your relentless hold. He hums his encouragement despite it, begging you to direct him the way you please. At least he acknowledges his cluelessness – you can almost hear from the other side of the bedroom, acumen pulsing amidst heady air. Most men wouldn’t, their egos great fragile beasts. To have gotten around before might embellish their history with competent, but no one’s ever truly an expert on someone new.

Mig doesn’t pretend otherwise. He’s keen to learn.

That is the difference that encouraged this whole tryst.

“Unfurl your tongue, Mig. You’re focusing too much on– Oh.” Your hips buck, shoving closer to the mouth that does just as you say. He laps your heated core with spittle-drenched dexterity, combing between puffy lips. “That’s it. F-fuck… Just. Just don’t stop.”

The praise does well for him. He looks up at you, reverent – pupils not red, but black with the shadows his long lashes cast. You brush back locks that fall upon his forehead, affording him a better view of the effects he’s wrought. A thin layer of sweat clings to your flesh, gleaming with the fading sun outside. In your peripheral – framed gorgeously by the wall-wide window – it dips below the horizon, nebulous. Blurry on orange clouds.

Pinned under observation and a feverish assault, you feel much the same. Toasted, every atom in you blistering hot, knocking into each other with novel speed. It’s the buzz at the end of a cigar, embers burning, flickering down to concrete in coughs of ash. You’re both the fire and its aftermath, moaning breathlessly for all that you’re supposed to be in charge.

And tonight – bouncing between two men who don’t look like, but are, each other – the feeding of the flame goes untamed.

You find that’s the cause for it. There’s nothing to cling onto for purchase, the one anchor in this equation seated on his leather armchair, ankle on knee, content in watching you soar to uncharted skies on the chin of another. Your head flops uselessly to the side, scanning him once more.

There’s a tricky look to him, suspended on two lines of equal measure. You can tell he wants to join, to take control of the exploit and direct it how he sees fit. Perhaps it’s regret. Yet the pronounced mass in his trousers speaks to the contrary. Miguel palms it, testing his endurance by keeping his touch above cloth, rounding back once his heel presses its end. The sight catalyses your delirium; the knowledge that he, your dedicated husband, is tender with rushed blood and idle about it. Waiting for an opportune moment.

When you reach out an arm in his direction, you hope he takes it as one. Mig sucks your weeping cunt in a symphony of lewd noises, as though he’s trying to push the grace he’s been granting. Slurp. Tracing the perimeter of your slit, revelling in the way it clicks at his ministrations. Squelch. Nose driving into your clit, so hard you suspect he’s trying to bury himself there.

It only calls to your lips, how dry they feel. You’re parched of the one thing he chose to forgo, marking it as off-limits based on some arbitrary ideal. You don’t assume you understand it, instead wiggling your fingers – come here – at your husband. He skips over the grabby hands, devouring your bitten pout and droopy lashes, weighing them in his head.

“Mi vida.” You plea, voice pitched high and winded. The glass’s bottom glints with the last swill of his drink. He knocks it back before rising – sweeping towards you, tantalisingly slow.

Mig shoves your knees higher, practically folding you in half. Your hamstrings stretch with the motions, sending molten spasms to your core – that which he continues to eat out. He’s now doubtlessly coated with your juices, but he doesn’t relent, tracing messy patterns on the sweet spot he managed to pinpoint without your help. You’re reduced to a sore bruise, egged on with every poke and prod. Pleasure swells with blood, clogging burst capillaries. Delicate. Inflamed; deliciously so. You give him a validating pat on the head while a free hand wraps around your Miguel, ironing his waist as he ducks down to your lips.

All three of you are on the bed now. You can’t begin to process the depravity of it all, the way things suddenly become hot and bursting and real. No – you’re much too enthralled by the rough kiss you’re pulled into. It’s dominating and tastes like smoked oak. Honey and faint vanilla where his tongue traces your fauces. The flavours batters you into something vapid, stupid, until the older man has to cup the back of your neck to keep you from sinking.

Intoxicated – you thought you’d be familiar with it by now, how wholly he consumes you, but there’s a power imbued in his approach that has you struggling to keep up. It’s all you can do to keep moving your mouth against his, gathering the material of his shirt to pinion yourself.

He’s got a stubble that colours his jaw in grey, the stalks of it grazing your nose and flaying you raw. It leaves you feeling sunburnt, dazed yet still pushing forward, like the balm for relief can be found at the back of his throat. That’s something else, you note, flicking your observation over to the face between your thighs. Mig keeps himself clean shaven, a youthful shine to his complexion, no peppered hair to obstruct it. Without it, you can clearly see the way his high cheekbones curve inward, hollowing out as they lead down to a pronounced chin. Charming, especially as it shoves between the globes of your ass to make room for his continued efforts.

You’re close, so close. A dam about to burst with centuries worth of water and–

“Need help, corazón?” Miguel whispers, nudging your nose so you can look back at him. Your response comes in the form of a stuffy whimper, nodding minutely. What exactly he means by help, you’re not sure, but his double seems to understand, breaking the smallest bit away to whine a protest.

“That’s offens–”

“Get back to licking her cunt before I change my mind about you being here.” Your husband orders, glowering when the reprimand seems to create the opposite of its intended effect. Mig grins wickedly, a cocky aura about him as he obeys. Just as he’s about to make contact again, his gaze catches yours. The subsequent wink he gives is a warning – loud and bleary and smug – preparing you for when he dives back in with a vengeance, plunging into your hole with that cursed muscle that runs like velvet.

The air pinches from your lungs, squealing on its way out. Your toes curl and your muscles tense and then Miguel directs your face back down with thick fingers, steering you by your cheeks. Your lips pucker, mouth unhinging at the silent command the action echoes. Tongue flattening, you prepare yourself for the little dance you’ve trekked a hundred times before – thankful, in some part, that he’s doing it to ground you.

When he spits – hawking, a dense glob concentrated with scotch – onto an expectant palette, you suppress the devilish narrowing of your eyes. It’s almost habit to reflect his countenance, looking down with fondness and pride at the control you exhibit. Because you don’t swallow, not immediately. You wait for him to kiss you again, to gather the slaver and push it behind your molars with reinforced passion. And he does. Of course he does – that and so much more as he places claim to the hole that is solely his for tonight. You hardly notice when his clutch leaves you, skimming down to unclasp your bra.

Not when your breasts jerk free, nipples pocking at the shift in temperature.

Not as he squeezes each, tugging at their peaks until they’re fully erect.

Or even while he tickles the line of your abdomen, following the same path his counterpart did, smoothing over aggressive bite marks.

It’s only when you break away for great, gluttonous breaths of air – your vision blurring with hypoxia – and Miguel reaches two digits to your fattened clit, do you finally run up to speed. It’s a little too late, though, because he presses down and escalates your delight to unprecedented heights. Enough to see stars – enough to scream the loudest you have in a long while, so that all your appeals are fully unintelligible but available for the world to hear.

“FUCK! Oh my– Fuck, s-shit, shit…” You cry, tears finally breaking the tension at your waterline and running in an unending sequence. “B-both of y-yo– Ah! So good. I’m–”

Mig moans, sending vibrations right to the tightening ball of pressure in your gut. He’s snowballed his efforts, drinking you in with a sincerity. Specifically targeted is the spongy wall of tissue on the upside of your mound, suffering his battery and singing for it. String-plucked and pedal-pressed symphonies, composing a viscosity within you that sloshes behind your orgasm. Yes, he adds to it, but the fingertips rubbing you with bullish ferocity are going to break what’s holding it all back. You feel– know it.

Using your hair to hold your head in place, Miguel utters a string of debauched nothings onto your lower lip, face pressed close to yours. They’re quiet enough that even you have trouble catching them, your ears ringing with rising alarm. But you sense the way his breath blows, what shapes it creates, how it twines – and that fills in every gap for you. The intimacy manages to speak to the truth, despite all the degrading dirty talk.

“You like that, you filthy fucking thing?” Groaning, your husband increases his speed, goading you faster. There are crushing hands on your hips, and another wound into your scalp, pulling it taut. “So insatiable that you need two men to help make you cum, huh? Do you think you can?”

“Yes, yes, yes please. Please,” The very implication that he might stop before you do inspires unruly desperation. Your hips, arms, head – they all thrash in unison. “I wanna– I want to cum, Miguel, for the love of everything! Please!”

He slaps your clit in warning. The blow sends you reeling into a hush, so much so that you stop moving immediately, secretly wishing he’d do it again. To divert your energy, you stare right into his pupils, which shine with burgeoning playfulness. “You will, dirty girl. You’ll wish you didn’t though.”

“W–”

“Oye, wide eyes.” He turns to Mig, who's been curiously watching the display, jaw still moving against you. He unhooks under the attention, blinking rapidly. “Mouth wide open. You’ll want to catch every drop.”

He returns to strokes you in circles – furious, fervent. It’s a screw to the cork, twisting forcefully to combat the tension it’s working to release. You squeal, screech, do just about anything except contract your body like you’re compelled to do. You leave yourself loose, watching as Mig registers what’s about to happen, following orders and transforming into a receptacle for it. His fangs peak from behind swollen lips.

All you’re able to think about, plastered to this pane of double rapture, is how they don’t seem to retract. Permanent, unlike your Miguel – a fixture in his gums.

And then the dam shatters. Implodes, actually – collapsing into itself until it’s a small particle floating out with the deluge. You can hear it, the rush of fluid squirting from you. Consistently, pouring into the puddle the younger man happily gathers. He beams with satisfaction and looks so much like your husband, who does the same, brushing tears off your wrecked face.

With a core still convulsing, caught in the reverberant throes of pleasure, you’re mentally spent. Drained for every dime you’re worth and still wholly aware of the promise he made, flipping it over in your head. Again, and again, until it loses impact and dissolves from the impending future. For all you try, though, he holds power over you – even in memory.

You’ll wish you didn’t.

Mig sits up, crouched on his haunches. Chest bare of everything – including the curls that span your husbands’ – and in just his boxers, you can’t help but focus on either one of two things. His maw, pulled in a downward smile and soaked with clear slick, a concoction of saliva and your fluid dripping from where his canines poke out. But you find that it fills you with unwieldy humiliation to behold, so you fall onto the next.

Which just so happens to be his erection, trapped and throbbing from behind navy cotton confines. The head of it peaks above his waistband, purple and dribbling with pre-spend. It’s created a wet spot that grows larger by the second, and your humility is replaced by guilt for the poor thing.

Miguel, cooing in faux sympathy, swoops to caress the shell of your ear with his sinful proposal.

“What do you say, cariño? Want us to fuck you silly?”

Your hole squeezes around nothing, empty, speaking with a will of its own. He hears it, because of course he does – he’s in tune with everything about you – and manoeuvres you onto your stomach. By mere muscle memory alone, you get on wobbly knees, presenting your rear to the ecstatic man behind you.

And, your husband… Well–

He squeezes between your face and the headboard, tree-trunk thighs stretching out on either side of you. There’s a huge wedge in his pants, not at full size yet but stiff regardless, suffocated by time and space. Your mouth waters, appetite returning far too rapidly for how distant it seemed mere seconds ago.

“Beautiful, hermosa.” Mig groans, spreading your ass to get a proper view of the way your pussy drips for him. A quick glance back provides you with a lovely picture. Him, positively captivated with your holes – both of them, it appears, based on the way his thumb grazes over your tighter clench. “Can’t wait to feel you on me.”

His cock is out, too, briefs shoved under the sack at the end of his length. You take it all in like it’s the first time – despite the many traits he shares with Miguel. Fat, darker than the rest of him that gleams bronze even at night. Though rooted on a crop of tangled hair, whereas his alternate self prefers it trimmed short. When he strokes himself, anticipative, you note the mushroomed head. Circumcised.

An impish idea suddenly crosses your mind. Succumbing to it, you arch your back, knocking your behind on him. The action traps the appendage between you and his pelvis, and to add insult to injury, you wiggle around until it slots between your cheeks. Mig’s face screws up, close-knit, his hands scrambling for purchase on your rolling hips.

Something slaps your cheek. Grinning, you turn back to Miguel, his dick now extricated from its prison. The heft of it sways, tapping your nose and fluttering eyelids, so damn heavy that you cringe when it approaches. Two veins pop up from the smooth skin stretched along him, branching down to his frenulum, the spot you choose to start.

Your tongue runs along it, lathering the plump seams on your journey to the top. His nerve endings are mainly reduced to his head – unlike Mig, who’s still moaning as you grind across his length – so you stay there, particularly concentrated on the edge and the valley it creates. Your temples warm with the gentle cradle of two large hands, piloting you on your trip around his cock.

He smells like home – an ambrosial mix of leather and sweat, the backseat of his car where he fucked you on valentines. It’d been raining, windows made misty by passing fog, city colours painted on the grey wash. You’d teased him all day with a lack of panties and suffered for it, practically choked on pleasure, nothing on but a new pendant necklace.

Right now, you’re stuck in a parallel state. You can’t breath under the leaden attention of both him and his mirror, doing your best to keep sucking and grinding regardless of your dwindling strength. It’s difficult, difficult to divide yourself and satisfy them both, but fuck do you want to. More than anything, you’d kill to see them come undone in your holes – simultaneously, in some unlikely reverie. Pumped full of cum and praise by double the man you love most. Your tummy lurches with nauseous desire, teeth separating as you take Miguel into your mouth.

Peering up at him, if only to experience the way he loses control. But creases fold between his brow, reading your expression just as well. Without rush or need for brawn, he pulls the responsibility from under you, assigning it to himself by propelling into your trap, all in one go. He grates along the texture of your palette, cleaving your tonsils, and finally settling deep in your throat, triggering a series of ugly gags. To quiet down, you grip your thumb in a fist, focusing not on your lack of air but on contracting your throat around his tip.

“Are you going to fuck her or continue to rut like a dog in heat?” Your husband bites at Mig, ever self-critical. The latter man sucks in a challenging huff, patting your waist as he withdraws to centre his cock between your folds. He wags it until it catches on the divet of your cunt, hot and surging with natural slick.

Then, just when you think you can’t bear it any longer, he pushes in.

“Ghmmngf!” You cry, forced forward onto Miguel’s breadth, coughing out the saliva and pre-spend that threaten to smother you. Nose smooshing to his groyne as the other bottoms out, sheathed fully within you. You swear you can feel him in your guts, silently praising whatever taught him how to make most of your narrow space.

Like they’ve practised telepathy their whole life, both men dip to feel themselves through your body. Mig presses a sturdy hand to your stomach, positioned right at your mound where he protrudes outwards, admiring the visible bulge he creates in you. Similarly, his older counterpart cradles your neck, pinching the sides that expand and retract with the pistoning of his hips. He fucks your gullet slow, fast, and back to slow again – amused with the pace he can discern in more ways than one.

If your eyes hadn’t been rolled to the back of your head, you’d be blinded instead by a pool of blissful tears. They bubble up uncontrollably, wetting the cheeks already glazed with almost every other bodily fluid. You’re ravished, cock dumb times two. Your cunt is stretched to its limits, sucking your paramour in with vacuum-like violence, the gravity of it equatable to the sun.

Or, no–

Not the sun.

Something a hundred times larger, nearing the end of its life. With every rock of your body, it runs out of hydrogen, draining the last dregs of fuel before eventually caving in on itself, transforming into an infinitely dense mass. It happens in your core, Mig’s bruising pace only exacerbating the strain, contracting smaller and smaller. Boundlessly so, enough to brush off as you snake a hand down to your clit, tapping the sensitive bud, testing its reactivity.

When you flick it, though, you’re drawn back into the dip of spacetime. It’s inescapable, the one fixed point in all this mess, imminent for all your ragdoll self tries to delay it. The room pounds with sex, the scent of it accompanying every particle, reducing air to balmy filth that acts as a catalyst in your undoing.

Impossible. You know it’s impossible to acquaint yourself with the sensation of being filled on both ends. Despite it, you try. You claw onto what little authority you have, pushing past your clit to graze your nails on a pair of swinging balls. They’re full and drooping, slapping your thighs as their owner humps your cunt.

“Keep doing that. Fuck, fuc– mierda, feels so good. Yersotight. Soft. Soft and… ah, small.” Mig babbles, bowing over your form to kiss the dip between your shoulder blades. Your teeth graze the cock ramming your craw, an unconscious tick that has your husband tugging your hair in admonishment. “Hermosa– s’okay if I? Gonna… gonna cum.”

“Mmnmgh–”

“Not so fast.” Miguel says, tugging you off him at once. It causes the both of you teetering over the edge, to groan, something overtaking all executive functions and compelling you to listen. The lull finds Mig slipping out, unable to hold himself back should he spend another moment filling your pussy.

You’re carried upward, manhandled off elbows and knees, to straddle your husband’s lap, facing a wide chest with pecs as comforting as pillows. When did he take off his shirt? Your vision swims, crossing, oscillating with the unexpected motion – until, well, it doesn’t, stopping as your forehead finds solace on the dip beneath Miguel’s clavicle. It’s a reassuring change, your brain rewiring into safety mode given the fact that, when you cum again – however overstimulating – you’ll be within the arms that have always expertly navigated it before.

And he’s warm, an ever-raging bonfire that licks your breasts and pebbled nipples, heat penetrating your bones to seep into your heart. Your marrow follows soon after, melting into a potion of desire and relief, especially when his far more familiar cock replaces the void left by Mig.

“Wide eyes.” The older one calls.

“Did–” Said man stutters, shuffling closer. “Hope I didn’t hurt you, pretty.”

“Hngh… ‘Course n-not, Miggy. We’ve safeee– words, rmmbr?” You grunt, reaching a hand behind you to hold onto his bigger one, squeezing it for added reassurance. “My ass, tho-eahh. Please.”

“You’re– You’re being for real. Seriously?” He asks, rising hope evident in his tone. “Have you ever done it before?”

“Of course she has.” Miguel interrupts, rolling his hips instead of bouncing your tired body on him. “First drawer on your right.”

You laugh when the mattress wobbles, sheets tangling beneath his hurried scramble. The bottle of lube is almost empty, bought spontaneously during your honeymoon to Cabo. Your then newly-wed wanted to indulge your fantasy of anal on the beach, tucked away on a private cove he’d found just for the occasion. It’s been a vice ever since, just like all things with him. You’re addicted to the man, flat-out, scratching to get your fix whenever possible. However possible.

And, of course – due to a devastating soft spot that makes it hard for him to begrudge you anything – you now have two.

Mig spurts a substantial amount onto his hand, rubbing it on his dick and the ring of muscle it faces. Two digits thrust into you, exploring your elasticity, scissoring to make room for a much larger insertion. The man seated balls deep in your cunt kneads your flesh; obsessed with the chub around your waist, thighs, your cheeks especially, pulling them apart to make this whole ordeal easier.

Not that you necessarily need it, being used to it by now – though you preen under the attentiveness regardless. Your ego is a drowsy cat, tucked under a patch of sunlight, purring as its heavily pet all over. Muscles lax, borderline liquid as you moan with the training your rear clench receives. More lube is added when the previous pour dries up, shoved into the spasming sphincter, accompanying every lewd ministration used to loosen it.

You gasp, loosening and wet. When fingers exchange for a dick that’s packed, solid as steel, Miguel captures you into another teeming kiss. It’s to occupy you through the temporary pain, you know, suckling your tongue into his mouth with a gentleness unbecoming of your current lechery. The pressure soon subsides, ebbing and waning to an easier to manage fullness.

Fuck. You’re plugged on both ends, twin lengths driving into you, stroking each other through the thin wall separating your rectum from your vagina. Initially, they keep the same pace, working in tandem to strike and pull out at similar times – but the task is demanding. It prevents them from fully forfeiting to euphoria. Their nature soon takes over, a novel motley of priorities wrenching you apart.

Miguel goes unrushed, sybaritic, fucking you in waves of doughy passion. He knocks against your g-spot, groaning at the way you flounder. The system unspools a little emotional well, tugging heartstrings until you bite his collar to quell your wails. He’s dedicated, a professional in the trade of you; his cielita – the term of endearment mumbled on your temple, lips pressed there in a perpetual kiss.

And Mig–

Bless him.

He’s unhinged, ravished by the feeling of your gummy walls flexing around him. Consistently refreshing the lube that makes it possible, petrified at the notion that this could perhaps stop, doing all he can to counter it. His method is rough, fast, pelvis smacking your plush behind – of which Miguel has long since let go of. There’s emotion in the way he behaves too; a wild, unspoken, behemoth thing, like he’s been waiting his whole life for this. Not the anal, but you, specifically, panting in his embrace.

(‘You’re just different back home.’)

Your husband might’ve been too quick to judge. If what you suspect is true – which it likely is, an assumption based on an inextricable fondness you’d felt when you first saw the younger man, like you were made to love every version him, in every timeline – then his haste is not innocent clumsiness, but a more dangerous prospect. Desperation. Crestfallen, degenerate desperation. He hadn't the chance to feel any of you before tonight, for one melancholic reason or another.

“M’not… w-won’t last long, beautiful.” He whispers between pecks, peppering them across your nape.

“N-No, me neither.” Whimpering, you twist to scrutinise his tousled appearance. “Want you to cum in me. Fill me so I sp-spend days scooping you out. D-Don’t wanna fo… Need to remember this.”

“Fuck… you can’t talk like that and– and expect me not to embarrass m-myself.”

“Isn’t she something,” Miguel joins, smoothing the stray baby hairs away from your sticky forehead, callused fingers grazing deliciously across sweaty skin. It’s now that you choose to regard their voices, the subtle variations between the two. One deeper than the other – smoked with a prominent accent that jumps at the end of every syllable. “Filthy, dirty little girl. We could stay like this ‘till tomorrow and she’d have no problem. Would bounce on our cocks until she milks us dry.”

“Y’probably need it to keep you in shape– Hmnff!” Is how Mig strangles, cut off as you convulse around his thrusting length. The mass returns, settled in your cunt – a star verging on supernovae level catastrophe, about to implode while they participate in a literal dick measuring contest.

“Watch it, wide eyes.”

“Shuuu… shutup, shtp!” You keen, falling back on the chest of your paramour while Miguel fondles – slaps – your tits, mesmerised by the way they jiggle, your entire body jostled as their fat cocks jam you full.

“Is my girl going to cum?” One says. You can’t tell which, eyes squeezed shut, though you don’t think Mig would dare use that pronoun. My. Not in good conscience, not when he didn’t kiss you for fear that it’d be crossing a boundary.

“I swear I’ll burst if you squirt again.”

“Don’t expect too much from her in this state.” The trigger to it all, that aching bundle of nerves mashed against your husband’s pubes, starts buzzing with electric urgency. You brace yourself for the lightning, the shock. “Silly thing, can’t begin to form words let alone ideas. Look at me, corazón. What do we say?”

You don’t know. You can’t care. No flying fucks exist outside the devastating wreck that’s about to transform you, squalling loud and shrill from every organ that still retains its function. Heart fluttering like a baby bird’s wings. Lungs depressing into shrivelled cavities. Soreness gnaws on your cervix, abused by successive thrusts. Your bones feel like mush, macerated under mortar and pestle and dissolved in blood.

It’s coming, that celestial calamity.

Mig agrees, gasping. “I’m gonna–”

“Oye. What do we say?” Miguel exhorts, catching your glassy-eyed stare with his.

The former man barks your name, completely winded. Your asshole jerks on his cock, which twitches inside of you, ready to blow. Sopping with lube and pre-spend, spit and your own slick, you can’t control the syphoning noises your holes make, blubbering on the cocks that split you apart.

It’s then the words finally find you – manners that your husband insists on.

“Pleeaase.” You cry.

“Fuck!”

Thick spurts of fluid coat your insides, wrung from the man behind you. His cum is blistering, burning the thin layer between him and Miguel – who surprisingly, given the control he’s exhibited thus far, follows suit, pumping you full of his seed. Your womb and rectum, the puffy folds and rim that try to keep it all in – are all frosted with pearlescent spend. Heady and dripping, staining a depraved mess on every crevice between your legs. Gross globs of it caking you, your skin barely visible anymore.

The thought alone – of two men’s essence, beckoned and bled out by you, mixing something disgusting on your most intimate parts – is enough to kick you off the edge. Flailing off that cliff, plummeting into an outburst that lets nothing escape. Not smell, or taste, or light – spinning a black hole of groundbreaking proportions.

You orgasm, again and again – or maybe the whole thing is all just one prolonged, feral, exhausting endeavour. Cumming until your muscles physically give out, going paraplegic with the strain of constant contractions. You crumple, sandwiched between two sturdy chests, stuffed with cotton and sex and pure endorphins, flying with no sign of ever coming down.

A siren's song – sleep, calling to you from the depths of consciousness – almost pulls you under. That is, until your husband manoeuvres you onto your back again, spreading your legs in a near split to expose your sloppy holes to your paramour. His expression is doused with reverence. Supple, soft, the tiniest bit guilty at the sight of you, desecrated by their combined efforts.

“Well?” Miguel prods, fanning your leaking cunt and asshole out wider. “Are you waiting for her to absorb it all? Clean it up.”

And – for the last time that night – Mig does as he’s told, ducking to gather every last bit of proof with his tongue.

Much later, you watch him pull his shirt over his head, snuggled close to your husband. The sky has deepened to its darkest form – midnight, a gibbous moon cushioned amidst glimmering stars.

“Well, it’s been fun.” The man sighs, brushing imaginary lint off his abdomen. He winks at you before turning to leave, testing his luck now that it can’t backfire on him. “If you ever want to trade him in for a newer model, you know where to find me.”

Miguel just grumbles beneath you, displeasure rumbling the hollows of his hairy sternum. You, on the other hand, smile gently, giving the parting gift of your humour.

Only for something better to occur to you. When his grasp closes around your bedroom door knob, you call out – voice a faint, hoarse thing.

“Mig.” You say.

“Yeah?” He replies, blinking back at you.

“I think you should go for it.”

And all your mild musings are confirmed when he nods, sheepish, like a child caught with a fist in the cookie jar. It’s okay – you mouth, because you know. Whoever you are on his Earth, with whatever cosmic odds stacked against you, you’ll fall. If only because it’s Miguel. Mig. Your O’Hara – such truth woven into the fabric of every conceivable reality.

Your husband catches on quickly, patting your sleepy head. It’s the first time he talks to himself with a tone that isn’t condescending, laying a sentiment you recognise as meaning more to his younger counterpart than anything you could say. Perhaps because it’s kind, a bit of proper advice made mushy by an echoed devotion to you. Or, perhaps because he’s witnessed the evidence to it consistently, all night long. Wide eyes.

“It’ll be the best thing you’ll ever do for yourself.”

part two

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the-kr8tor · 7 months

Text

Mudwood Manor

Pairing: Fae! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 3.1k

Tags: no use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, CW food mention, TW Blood, CW injury.

The Fall Masterlist

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Part I >>> Part II

You lay awake alone on the plush mattress that's not your own. Morning light filtering through the curtains, shining warmth right on your cheek. Your hand roaming around the soft fur of the blanket as the clock ticks slowly to eight. Eyes above the detailed swirling patterns on the bed's canopy, mind drifting back to the home you've left just a few days ago.

Tick.

Taking the ad for this house-sitting gig went better than you thought it would be. Thinking the house you would be watching over will just be a regular house in an urban subdivision. Not an estate full of ancient history situated in the middle of nowhere with only an elderly dog as a companion.

Tock.

At least it's better than your dead end job that makes you feel your soul is getting sucked with every hour you stay on the eighties musky carpeted floors, tapping away your entire life on the grainy screen of the corporate issued computer. The pay's good, better than what you were getting before anyway, even though it's only five months of house sitting it's way above your salary grade. You thank whatever entity out there that blew over the newspaper that literally landed on your lap while waiting for the bus stop, the 'help wanted' page open and glaring right at you. You only wish the job's longer though.

Tick.

The house being nice is an understatement, all oak and narra floors, fixtures and furniture made of the same wood. No sign of modernity in the entire estate. Even the kitchen is in an old style, well except for the coffee maker and microwave. Every hall and wall is covered in oil paintings, portraits of people dressed in old garb keep watch of your every move. The house creaks and shrieks during the late hours of the cold autumn night, always prompting you to keep your eyes tightly closed in an attempt to tamp down your curiosity.

Tock.

It's secluded enough that the air here feels crisp and cleaner than in the city. Trees whisper in the wind, moss clinging to its trunks. You suspect the house is as old as the woods that surround it. With vines curled and looped around the house's exterior and curved stained glass windows decorate its walls. Mudwood Manor they call it for every time it rains, mud gathers around the estate, threatening to swallow you like quick sand.

Chime!

The old grandfather clock's hand reaches eight, the sound echoes around the large room you've settled in. With an exhale, you reluctantly sit up, feet cold from the icy floor. Yawning, you wipe the sleep off your face, bones crying out in protest.

Lumbering your way through the usual morning routine, you change out of your pajamas even though no one else would see you in it, you still wear your usual day clothes, always feeling like you have to dress appropriately in this opulent house. If jeans and a jumper is considered appropriate in the massive estate.

The bathroom is no different than the rest of the house. With the large stark white bathtub in the middle of its tiled floors, twin sinks covered in dark marble, golden faucets squeak open as you turn the knob to brush your teeth. The entire bathroom is as big as your flat back in the city, you scoff at the extravagance of it all.

You like to think the owner of the place fits well with the manor, as eccentric and elegant as their home– all pearls and gold rings, silk and cashmere on their body. But alas you've never met him or them personally, only talking details on the telephone, his gruff voice vibrating against the receiver. They leave the key under the large mat after you've driven three hours to get there. The only clue you have of them actually existing is the instructions they've left you. The note now pinned on the fridge stocked full of food that could last you the entire five months, not to mention the large pantry that could feed an entire village.

You've got everything you'll ever need to survive five months alone. The thought scares you for a bit, but with the silence, fresh air and an entire library of books that you've never thought you could read in your lifetime, the loneliness isn't all bad, the place calms you down; if not for the bouts of sadness, you could see this place as your home for the time being.

The old border collie waits for you in the kitchen, mismatched eyes staring at your form, her tongue lolling on the side, greeting you with what you see as a smile.

"Morning, old Nellie" you greet back with a quick pet on her fluffy head, taking the time to scratch behind her ears. She wags her tail happily, while her eyes are closed in content. You've decided to talk from time to time so that you don't lose your voice, which Nellie appreciates the chatter.

You feed Nellie her breakfast first before fixing one yourself. She eats it in glee. The instructions written in neat cursive jumps at you every morning before opening the fridge.

You can't help but read it again.

1. Do not let anyone in.

You thought that was reasonable enough, it's not your place to invite people in here anyway.

2. Do not wipe the salt line on the doors and windows.

Now that's weird, you've always thought, but to each their own. The salt probably helps with keeping out the smell or rodents. Right?

3. The house is old, the sounds at night are from the metal pipes and scaffolding. Nothing to worry about.

Creepy, it's not like the place needs an extra creep factor added in it.

4. Feed Nellie three times a day without fail. Take her on walks around the estate every morning and before the sun sets.

That's alright, taking care of pets was part of the deal anyway. And it doesn't hurt that Nellie's a good dog to hang around with.

5. Do not in any circumstance go to the woods.

6. Wear the necklace at all times.

Your eyes drift over to the simple circular metal necklace sitting on the counter top, scoffing, you chose not to wear it just because an eccentric millionaire tells you to.

7. Only eat and drink the food I have provided.

You don't think you want to meet the owners now with how creepy they are just based on his instructions. Possessive much?

8. Be wary.

A shiver runs down your spine by just reading those two words.

You shake it off, opening the fridge, nothing piques

your interest this morning. Huffing, you have a hankering for fresh bread, alas you've eaten the last loaf yesterday. The strawberry jam inside the fridge mocks you. You recall on your drive to the manor you've passed by a small village, you're sure the place has a bakery or even a café in it. You crave a different scenery, and to use your voice other than for talking to Nellie.

Turning around, you put your hands on your hips, smiling at your companion who licks at the last bit of food in her bowl.

"What do you say for a stroll, Nellie?" She tilts her head in question, ears perking up, tail wagging excitedly.

—

You've never felt more isolated from civilization while walking towards the village, no houses run along the bumpy road, just miles and miles of trees with its aging wood, wild violets swaying around its trunks. The tall grass makes it hard to see the path. Mist blanketing and moistening the soil.

The walk was a lot longer than you thought it would be, now you're absolutely starving after walking for almost an hour. Nellie wasn't complaining though, for an older dog she seems to have so much energy in her. The village has clearly seen history, with its cobblestone streets, iron lampposts and ancient bricks. The fog thickens, blanketing the roofs of the village like marshmallow fluff.

You tie her leash around a lamp post, petting her fluffy head, you instruct her to sit and stay. She obliges, staring happily at you through her blue and brown eyes.

"Good girl, I'll be back in a flash" you make a mental note of buying her a treat for being such a good sport while you drag her from the manor.

Entering the shop, the bells chime signaling your arrival. Freshly baked bread wafts your senses as various meat is on display over at the counter, waiting for your perusal. You smell the soup of the day, judging by the aroma, you deduce it being butter squash soup, your stomach rumbles at the thought.

The modest shop has quite a few people in it. They chatter amongst their friends whilst eating breakfast and drinking their morning tea. Another patron enters behind you, she greets everyone by name, while the others immediately greet her the same. Well, except for a group of strangers sitting at the far end, they pay her no mind at all. It's a small village, you never doubted for a second that everyone would know every person that lives here. You've anticipated it actually, so used to being alienated from the crowd, you haven't noticed the old woman beckoning you over with a smile.

"Bonnie?" She calls for the third time.

"Oh! Sorry, I was thinking what to order" you move closer to the counter, the chill from the cold cuts display seeps through your jumper.

"You're the new caretaker at the old manor I presume?" She grins sweetly, showing her smile lines around her lips.

"House-sitter, I'm only here for five months" you're wary about telling her vital information, but she's an old woman. What's the harm in telling her that?

"Oh, I see he's going for a quick business trip this time. He would usually take an entire year away, y'know" her thick accent makes it hard for you to understand some of her words. Nonetheless, you don't miss the vital information about your mysterious employer. "But I don't gossip" she chuckles, "what will it be, deary?"

"You know Mr. O'hara, the owner?"

"Aye, known him since he was a lad. Good kid he was." She shakes her head. "There I go gossiping again, what are you havin'?"

You want more answers to feed your curiosity, but you don't want to pester the poor woman. "A BLT with cheese if you have them, lightly toasted and some of the soup, please." she nods, heading over to her station to prepare your sandwich when an older man chides in your conversation.

"Oh please, Orla y'know stopping yourself from gossiping just hurts you more" he laughs from his belly, white beard bouncing as he guffaws with his friends sitting him with.

"This" Orla, gestures from you to her. "Was a private conversation, where's your manners?"

"Don't know where I last put it!" He laughs again, shaking the wooden table in front of him. "Miss, let me guess, O'hara gave you those crazy rules?"

You perk up at the mention of the list. "Yeah, he did. How'd you know?"

He shrugs while the other patrons listen in, "he does the same thing to his other caretakers, there's a 'be wary' one, right?"

"Yes, it's really creepy"

The old woman pipes up, talking over her shoulder as she slices your sandwich. "It's a necessary evil after what happened to his daughter"

"What happened to his daughter?" You ask with trepidation.

"Don't tell me you actually believe that, old woman?" The older man argues back.

"Believe what?" You feel like there's an inside joke you keep missing.

"She was taken by them." Orla, turns around with your soup packed in a tupperware. You look at her questioningly.

"Bullshit if you ask me" the old man mumbles behind his mug. He sees your confused look, "she's talking about the fae" you thank him with a nod.

"It's true!" She wraps your sandwich inside foil, carefully putting it inside the paper bag. "There's no logical answer on where she is! Now it's just O'Hara in that massive estate."

"Kid just ran away, that's all!" Another older man argues back.

"Pssh," Orla swats him away with her hand, he turns away with a scoff. She turns back towards you, ringing your order up in the cashier. "Just do what his list says and you'll be fine" she says it like a warning to never stray far from the rules.

"Why do you think it's the fae?" You give her the payment she needs.

Humming, she clicks her tongue. "Just know it's them."

"Okay, um thank you" drifting away, she holds your arm back, taking your attention again.

Orla looks at you with wide eyes. "You know about them, yes?"

"Yes, like don't eat their food or you'll get stuck or don't give them your name or say thank you. I've heard the folk stories"

"Not just a story. The wood sings and they crave an audience." she lets go of your arm, your breath hitching, goosebumps appear on your skin.

You shake the thought, or try to at least.

The door chimes as you leave. Nellie lays on the pavement, tail wagging as she sees you come back to her side.

"Hi, got you something" she stands up, barking at you in excitement. "Okay, okay, here" Chuckling, you take a slice of bacon from your sandwich, giving it to her.

Nellie carefully takes it from your hand without biting your fingers, she chews happily.

"Good?" You scratch behind her fluffy ear. "Let's go back" untying her leash, you juggle the sandwich and her lead with your hands. The horror stories you've been told in your youth echoes in your mind, as your soft footfalls on the moist pavement. Wind rushes past you, pushing you back towards the manor.

—

Arriving inside the gates of Mudwood Manor, you gaze at the large brick building. It casts a shadow over you, its stature imposing. Fading bricks and trellises crawling with overgrown vines that's starting to wither and turn dark with bits of oranges and red still clinging to its last life. The large red door of the main entrance adds to your uneasiness. You attribute the fear from what the deli owner told you, the woods don't look much better. Tall trees with leaves so thick it blocks sunlight from hitting the undergrowth. From where you're standing, darkness seems to prevail inside. The thick fog added to the eeriness of the scene. It drapes over the treeline like curtains, swirling smoke falling down to the tips of your shoes, hiding something behind you can't quite see.

Just staring from the woodland edge gives you a sense of belonging with every second you stand idle. You have no idea why this feeling encapsulates you. The wind tries to push you towards the dark, flashes of autumn colored leaves swirl past. Eyelashes fluttering in the wind, your lips part as you listen to the flora dancing in the wind, as if it beckons you over. Daring you to cross the edge.

You wake up from the trance as Nellie growls at a squirrel taunting her from the ground. She pulls at her leash, the rope taut, your hand aches at the burn. You let go of the paper bag, half eaten soup spills over the grass, now holding the leash with both hands, you struggle to control the border collie.

"Nellie, calm down!" You yelp in pain when Nellie lunges, escaping your hold. The rope leaves angry marks on your palms, skin aching from the piercing pain. Nellie runs, following the grey squirrel into the woods. You can hear her barks fading in the distance. "Nellie! Come back!" You yell but it's futile as the old dog disappears from view.

"Fuck!" Without thinking, you run after her, legs carrying you further into the thick trees. The fog parts, opening the way. Eyes roaming the moss covered soil for her footprints. "Nellie!"

You're gonna lose your job, the thought makes you run faster. Tripping on a rock, you land on your already injured hand, dirt and grime sticking to the angry gashes, blood mixing with soil. Ignoring the pain, you push through the thicket.

Running, muscles aching, there's a stitch on your side as you stop to catch your breath. Hands on your thighs, you inhale and exhale. Nellie's footprints are barely visible under all the green and orange. Standing to your full height, your heart thumping like a drum under your ribcage. Eyes widening at the darkness that envelopes you, whirling around, fear overtakes your entire being.

You're lost.

Everywhere you look, identical trees fill your vision, cold seeping into your bones, smoke escapes your parted lips. Fingers turning stiff, you turn around when you hear Nellie's familiar bark.

"Nellie! Come here, girl!" You clap your hands to get her attention. "Nellie!"

Another bark echoes out in the dark, with only bits of sunlight filtering through the thicket, you let your other senses guide you to the sound. Speed walking, dry leaves crunch under your shoes, you call out to Nellie again. Narrowly avoiding a tree root protruding from the ground, you step over it so you don't land face first into the moist soil.

You stop when silence permeates the woods again. Standing still, a ring of mushrooms at your feet, you breathe heavily. "Nellie!" Frustrated, you yell again.

Instinctively stepping past a mushroom, you move your neck around, eyes roaming, looking for her white and black fur. Your palms land to your clammy forehead, wincing when you graze your injury.

"Fuck!" You stop circling around when the woods seem to expand right in front of your eyes, moving, flinging away, adding to the acres of wooded land. Vision focusing and unfocusing as the expanse extends further away. Fear once again blankets your nerves. Your mind claws at you to keep running.

"Lost?" A deep voice asks behind you. Alluring, tempting you to answer back.

Your blood suddenly runs cold. Primal fear makes your heart leap out of your chest.

Light suddenly appears behind you, your shadow gets taller and taller until it finally leaves you. Alone, you don't dare look behind you. The hair on the back of your neck stands up despite the warmth radiating from behind. Trepidation howls inside you.

Blood rushes in your ears, knuckles tighten, nails digging into skin as crimson drips on the tall grass below.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, curiosity wins over you.

You dare look behind.

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merakiui · 4 months

Note

for the fwb asks, "you're enjoying this way too much." with trey please? I am. frothing at the mouth <33

<3 forgive me for being indulgent with this. I wanted to include food play as well,,, orz please enjoy the tasty treat that is Trey's dick. >:D

(fwb dialogues)

In hindsight it was dangerous to do this in the Heartslabyul kitchen where anyone could walk in at any moment. But it's late into the night, and Trey had been kind enough to sneak you in on account of owing you a favor. That's all your relationship really is, truly. Just transactions. Mutual give and take. You help him relieve some stress (because Queen knows managing Riddle is an undertaking in itself) and in return he offers to pay you in sweets (and bodily pleasures, but the former is far more tempting).

You'd been expecting one of his renowned strawberry tarts or a slice of cake, so you're stunned when his lips lift into that trademark scheming smirk. He holds up a can of whipped cream next. Having known Trey long enough to decipher his tastes, it doesn't take a genius to figure this one out.

"You're crazy," you breathe, eyes wide.

"Just risky," he corrects, pushing his glasses up, because everyone's mad here. Moonlight catches on the lenses, shimmering back at you in a foreboding glint.

"We can't do that in here. What if someone walks in?"

Trey procures his magic pen from his pocket, pressing it to his lips. "I won't tell if you won't."

Right. Doodle Suit. Convenient.

"All right then. Get on with it," you concede after a short internal debate. The rewards outweigh the risk in this case. Something tells you Trey would bail you out even if you get caught. Partially because he'd be just at fault.

Trey grins. "Would you like to do the honors?"

"Absolutely. Did you even have to ask?"

Snatching the can from his hands, you squirt some on your finger for a taste while he works to fish himself from his pants. He works himself slowly in one hand, peering down at you after you've lowered to your knees. This isn't the first time you and Trey have fooled around with food and it certainly won't be the last.

You make quick work decorating his erection, unable to tamp down the delighted giggle when it twitches in response to the cool cream.

"Eager," you comment, finishing off with a dollop to his tip. You set the can on the tiled floor and admire your handiwork with an approving nod. "Do we have any cherries? Ooh, what about sprinkles?"

Amusement flickers on his face. "I've been meaning to pick some up. We used the rest of them last time."

"Aw. This'll have to do for now then." You press your lips to the head of his cock, swirl your tongue over it, and draw away with a mouthful of whipped cream. "It's still just as good."

Trey inhales sharply, grabbing at the counter behind him to brace himself. "Mm, yeah," he mumbles, clearing his throat. "T-That'll do..."

Scooting closer on the ground, you place your hands on his thighs and lean in again to lick a languid stripe up the underside of his shaft, gathering cream as you go. The motions come easily; you've had his cock in your mouth more times than you've truly studied for any of Professor Crewel's alchemy exams, a bad habit Trey's working to correct. To think you could retain information better when he's blowing your back out... Isn't that something?

Breathing through his nose, he tamps down the slew of sinful groans and instead grips the counter with more force. He's purposely holding back, whether for the sake of keeping quiet or because it's the build-up that entices him. You're not sure which it is, but you're determined to break him tonight.

Licking your lips clean, you look up at him through your lashes to assess the lustful haze glazing his eyes. Whipped cream spots your cheek; you pay it no mind and lean in and wrap your lips around him once more. It's sweet. There's definitely an innuendo to be found there, and Trey seems to notice it right away. He throbs in your mouth, painfully hard.

"You're enjoying this way too much," you say around the mouthful.

Trey chuckles, feigning sheepishness. "It's that obvious, huh?"

You pull away to speak more clearly. "It's cute."

"Not the adjective I'd use, but if it fits..." He laughs, shaking his head. Your word choices always enthrall him. Once you called him a midnight snack, a callback to previous times spent wrapped around one another. He doesn't mind it. Not particularly.

His fingers card through your hair to hold you firmly in place. "Sorry in advance."

"You don't mean that," you tease, and both of you know it's true. He likes seeing you choke on his cock. It's exhilarating.

You don't mind it. Not particularly.

#twisted chit chat #n/sfw #luna-the-moth #meraki dialogues #I NEED HIM SO BADLY #up against the wall in the kitchen in a pool on the floor on the table on a sofa on a desk in the rose maze no protection all risk #so filthy and completely maddening and so sheet-gripping all night all day in the afternoon every position and angle nonstop #OTL no one does it quite like trey clover

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thatsmzbitchtoyou · 18 days

Text

Norsemen & Anglo-Saxons Chapter 1

Here's the new story! I hope y'all like it.

Summary: Princess Y/N has a secret that her parents are ashamed of. A conquering Viking chief recognizes the gift she has. Will they be able to bring peace between warring people, and maybe find love along the way? Viking!Bucky Warnings: eventual smut, abuse, violence, animal attack, blood

The New Year was upon them. The castle was bustling with maids and squires decorating and scrambling to get everything ready in time. The halls were filled up with garlands, pinecones, dried oranges, berries, and candles lit every ten feet. A large tree had been hauled into the great hall during Christmas Time and decorated with the same oranges, berries and pinecones, as well as ornamental pieces that shone through the branches in the candlelight. The last seasonal ball was to be held in a few days time, and the noble families from all over the Isles had traveled in to be part of the festivities.

Princess Y/N watched the chaos in boredom as her little brother Prince Alfred, or Alfie, ran around the room with a stream of ribbon in hand, singing holiday songs at the top of his lungs. As much as she loved and adored him their age difference was definitely apparent during these moments. “I watched three ships come sailing in on Christmas day on Christmas day…”

“Alfie if you sing that wretched song one more time I will–”

“You will do nothing,” her mother, Queen Eugenia interrupted as she walked into the great hall to inspect the decorations. “After all these years of training, you still resort to violence, you ridiculous child.”

“And you still call me a child when I near my thirtieth year, Mother,” Y/N spat back. “Perhaps my penchant for violence comes from my frustration with said training and the constant degradation of my age and ability.”

“Your petulance and independence has made you unmarriable and therefore a thorn in my side,” Eugenia sighed.

“There have been no, as you and Father called them, “suitable” suitors to marry me off to, Mother. And this,” she held out her hand, opening her palm, wherein a green orb of light appeared, “scares you both to death.”

“Put your hand away!” Eugenia ran over and slapped Y/N’s hand down before anyone could see. “Stop being so careless!”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Yes, Mother.”

Eugenia sat next to her. “You will attend tonight’s ball, dressed appropriately, with a smile on your ungrateful face and nothing but patient, polite mannerisms escaping that mouth of yours. And you will not play tricks,” she looked pointedly at Y/N’s hands.

Y/N glared at her. “Yes, Mother.”

Eugenia sighed again. “Go get ready.”

Y/N left the great hall as Alfie continued singing away. Her lady’s maid followed her as she roamed the halls towards her room. The only ones who knew about her ability were her family, the royal advisory court and her lady’s maid. No one had been able to figure out what to do with it. She didn’t have a handle on it, either. She could manipulate objects and people’s bodies to move how she wanted, heal minor injuries, and when touching someone she was able to see their thoughts and feel their feelings. She could feel that there was something more to it, that her power had the potential to grow, and yet she and her ability had been tamped down so heavily from the moment she first started exhibiting it that she was unable to truly hone it and see what she was capable of. The advisors had researched their history and fairy tale books extensively and could not find a rhyme or reason as to why she had this power. The only reason she had not been burned at the stake as a witch was because her father thought it could be useful to him and his never ending battle against the Norsemen.

Y/N had only seen one Norseman in her entire life. Her father had captured one after a horrible battle and brought him back from the battlefield. He was what they called a Berserker, a Norseman warrior that would lose all sense of self-preservation and run into battle like a feral animal, like they were out of their minds and drunk with bloodlust. Her father had put them in a room together, separated by a line of thin prison bars. The Norseman didn’t try to attack her, just watched her intently. Her father told her to try her powers on him, see what she could make him do. Y/N had refused, so her father flogged her to try and make her submit. The Norseman had become so incensed by her father’s mistreatment that he had broken through the bars, bending them like they were butter, and just as he was about to lay his hands on her father she threw her hands up. The Norseman was encircled in the green light, stopping him midair. Her father gave the first genuine smile towards her she had seen in years.

The guards had shackled him and took him away shortly after that. The look in his eyes as they dragged him away was one of shock and betrayal. Y/N couldn’t stand it, and that night snuck through the castle to the dungeon. She had found secret passages as a child that she used regularly, and slipped through undetected. She stole the keys and found his cell. He was awake, and when he heard the jingle of the keys he looked up at her. His eyes widened and he scurried towards the farthest wall from her.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” Y/N had whispered, holding her hands up. He watched her carefully as she unlocked the door and swung it open. She had stepped away, giving him room to leave. He had slowly walked out of the cell, watching her constantly. He stepped away towards the nearest exiting door. “Run,” she whispered as she backed away from him, keeping her hands up.

He stopped for a moment. He cleared his throat and asked in perfect English, “Are you a witch?”

Y/N had blinked at him in surprise. “I…I don’t know,” she answered honestly. This man could kill her in a second without making a sound, and yet he merely nodded. “Thank you, Drottning,” he bowed his head to her then ran off towards the door.

Y/N had never seen or heard from him again. The castle had been abuzz with confusion and fear upon finding him missing the next morning, but they ultimately decided that the barbarian had his ways and wasn’t worth pursuing.

Y/N had never trusted her father again after that day, and had steered clear of him whenever and however she could. He only wanted her for her power and what it could do for him. He didn’t love her, he didn’t love Alfie. He was a true English King, hoarding power and wealth wherever he could.

Y/N dressed in her holiday best for the ball and begrudgingly entered the great hall later that night. The party was in full swing, nobles dancing together as the music played, the King and Queen laughing madly at the jester performing in front of them. The wine was flowing, making the crowd more rowdy by the second. As Y/N ascended the stage where the King and Queen sat she saw two short legs poking out and found Alfie hiding behind the Queen’s wide throne chair. She quickly walked over and pulled him into her arms. “What are you doing here, Alfie? It’s late, and this is no place for a young boy,” she scolded him.

“Papa said I had to be here, because I’m to be king, and this is what kings do,” he mumbled. Y/N glared over at her father, who was drinking himself into a stupor. Alfie was a mere 11 years old, and already her father was trying to sink his dirty claws into the little boy’s mind and heart.

“No, Alfie, this is not how kings should act,” Y/N reassured him as she ran her fingers through his hair. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Suddenly there was a loud bang and a whistling as wind whipped through the hall from where the front doors burst open. A thunderous roar from what seemed like hundreds of men swarming the hall filled the room, echoing through the high ceilings and making Alfie cover his ears. Y/N held him close as she huddled behind the throne, concealing him and herself as best as possible. There were shouts and screams from the nobles as the men started to cut many of them down, pushing and beating others as they made their way to the stage.

The King and Queen sat in shocked silence as they watched their guards and nobles die or be captured around them. Y/N glanced around looking for an escape and saw men standing in the higher windows, pointing arrows at the royals. She knew they were seen and so any attempt to run would be met with death.

Heavy footsteps walked up the stage steps, and before she could even move large hands were hefting her and Alfie from behind the chair. They ripped Alfie from her arms and she screamed, trying to get ahold of him again as he cried and tried to grab for her. Y/N’s body was wrenched around and she came face to face with a familiar looking man.

“Hello, Drottning, remember me?” the Norseman from years earlier smiled at her.

“You!” Y/N breathed as her eyes widened.

The Norseman chuckled as he led her to the front of the stage to stand next to her Mother and Father who sat dumbfounded on their thrones, Alfie on the other side of them being held back by another man. Y/N looked around and even through her fear was struck by the attractive nature of these men. Most of them were spattered in blood and sweat from fighting, and yet she had never seen so many handsome men. The yelling started to die down as one Norseman walked forward, assumedly the leader, the rest of them parting to let him through. The one approaching her and her family was easily one of the most beautiful men she had ever seen in her life. His long, dark brown hair was half tied back with braids that had ornaments of beads and metal cuffs attached to them. His full beard was cut neatly and framed his pink lips, which were stretched into a menacing smirk. His blue eyes shone bright like the ocean just after a storm, and she could see the mischievous glint in them as he scanned the family. He was covered in Norse battle gear from just under his jaw to his feet, a large sheathed sword on his right side and a war hammer at his left. His left arm was bare, and upon further inspection Y/N realized it wasn’t flesh, but some kind of metal, yet it looked and functioned like a normal arm. He was huge, like all the other men, tall and broad. His eyes settled on her and he appraised her, giving her a long look up and down. Y/N straightened herself under his stare, refusing to bow or show weakness to him. His smirk deepened at her as he looked back at her parents.

“King Henry, Queen Eugenia,” he greeted them in a deep, booming voice. “I am James Barnes, Jarl of the Danes, or Norsemen as you like to call us.” He nonchalantly took a half eaten pastry off the table closest to him and popped it in his mouth, chewing it slowly. “What a lovely party. We missed our invitation,” he said with a sly smile, making his men laugh heartily around him.

Henry just couldn’t help himself as he stood up. “You aren’t wanted, heathens! Leave immediately!”

“Now now, Henry, is that any way to speak to the ones who have conquered you?” James admonished him. “I’ve come to make peace, and you want to scream insults?”

Y/N silently gasped. Peace? With the Norsemen?

“Make peace? While you murder my nobles and threaten my family? That’s preposterous,” Henry scoffed. Y/N glared at her father, silently wishing for him to shut up.

“Well you could either choose peace, or watch the rest of your nobles and your family die, starting with your heir,” James threatened, glancing at Alfie. Y/N squirmed against the Norseman behind her at the threat. “And we’ll make some stops along the way to some of your most prosperous cities and take what we need. The choice is yours.”

“That’s no choice!” Henry yelled and then started to move towards James. “You wretched, barbaric–”

A whistle sounded through the hall as an arrow was loosed. It flew straight towards Alfie’s chest. Y/N’s hand yanked out of the Norseman’s hand that was holding her and stretched toward her brother as she screamed, “NO!”

The arrow stopped, hovering right in front of Alfie’s heart, surrounded by the green light. The men gasped, James staring at Y/N with an awestruck smile on his face. “So it’s true,” he whispered. Y/N flicked her wrist and the arrow went flying towards the wall and shattered. Before she could even drop her hand James was in front of her. He looked at the Norseman holding her back and nodded to him. “Thor, is this the English witch of royal blood who freed you?”

The man behind her nodded and lightly shoved her into his arms. James held her by her arms and looked down at her. “What’s your name, Princess?”

Y/N could only stare at his bright blue eyes, her heart hammering in her chest at exposing herself and her ability. “Y/N,” she whispered.

“Y/N,” he repeated it like it was a prayer. “I’ve been talking to the wrong person.” He pulled her forward to face her family. “Henry, you’ve been hiding something,” he chuckled as he plopped his chin on her shoulder so they were cheek to cheek and ran his fingers up and down her arms, the metal ones sending chills up her spine. “She’s the one with power, not you.” Henry glared at her, a hateful look on his face. “Oh, I see,” James’ voice became sharper. “You feel threatened by her, so you’ve hid her away, stomped on her potential to grow,” Y/N was nearly shaking as she felt the adrenaline rush through her. “She’s a goddess among you pathetic royals,” he kissed the side of her head, “and you wanted to reduce her to a torture device. You let the magic go to waste.” He turned her towards him again and dipped his face to be at eye level with her. “We have magic at home. We can help you learn and grow,” Y/N’s eyes widened at him. “So I ask you, Princess Y/N. What do you choose, death or peace?”

Y/N exhaled a shaky breath as she stared at him. As he touched her she let her ability slip into his mind. She could find no lie in his words. He and his people were tired, the constant war depleting their resources and wiping out families. They won the battles more often than lost, but it had put a strain on their lives. His mention of magic seemed real, too, with glimpses and flashes of things that were unexplainable popping up in his mind. Y/N thought about her people and how the English had been begging for peace for years as well, all of it falling on her father’s greedy, prideful ears. She could tell James was good, and only wanted good for his men and his people.

“I propose an allyship,” she said. James blinked and his eyebrows furrowed at her. “A peace treaty with a tradition as old as time,” she clarified, gulping quickly. “We join our families in marriage.” His eyes flicked between hers, like he was studying her. His men around him mumbled as they considered the idea. “If you are unmarried,” she amended, since she wasn’t sure, “or if someone in your nobility is unmarried, I will come with you as a peace offering, a marriage tribute. You will have me, and my power, and leave my family and my people be,” she said, trying to look and sound every bit the princess her mother had always wanted her to be. “And we will end this war and finally bring peace to our people.”

James stood straight, towering over her. He watched her for another moment, then stepped back and looked to his men behind him. Two of them walked up and spoke to him quietly. Y/N waited on baited breath as they consulted with each other. They stood back and he turned toward her again. “Done,” he said simply, the smirk returning to his lips. Y/N nodded and quietly sighed. “My Drottning,” he spoke lowly, holding out his metal hand. She put her right hand into his metal hand, admiring it.

“What does that mean?” she asked him.

“My Queen,” he winked at her. Y/N blushed deeply. He turned to his men and held her hand up high in his. “We have peace!” he yelled triumphantly. The thunderous roar returned as they cheered, their hands and swords and axes held high as they hugged each other and drank some of the wine left on the tables around them. James dropped their joined hands and kissed the hand he held, making her blush again. “Say goodbye to your family, Drottning, we leave immediately.”

He let her go and she ran up the stairs towards her family. She ignored her parents altogether, grabbing Alfie and holding him tight against her.

“Don’t go,” Alfie cried as his fingers clutched her dress.

“I have to,” Y/N cried as she carded her fingers through his hair. “You listen to me,” she knelt in front of him and held his face in her hands, “you remember what I’ve taught you.” He nodded frantically. “Do not listen to Father,” he nodded again, making her father sneer at them next to her. “I’ve seen it in you,” she whispered, laying a hand against his heart then tapping her finger to her head. “You will become one of the greatest kings England has ever known, as long as you don’t do as Father has done. You will bring continued peace and prosperity, you hear me?” She wiped his tears away. “Because you are a good boy, and will become a great man. My little king,” she kissed his forehead firmly before pulling away.

Alfie cried harder as she stepped away from him. She turned to her father. “Stay away from him,” she warned him, glancing at Alfie. “I have procured a peace that you, and your father, and your father’s father could never have dreamed of,” she sneered back at him. “Do good by our people, for once in your miserable life.” She glared at him before turning back towards James who stood patiently waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs.

His men were slowly retreating out of the great hall as he held his hand out for her again. She took it as he flashed one last glance and triumphant smile at her father before leading her out the front doors. As they walked through the courtyard and towards the horses waiting for them he glanced at her attire.

“Hm, this won’t do while riding,” he said as he twirled her around. Y/N furrowed her eyebrows at him. “Where’s your lady’s maid?”

Y/N looked around and saw the telltale eyes peeking from behind the stables. “May,” she pointed.

James summoned her forward out of hiding. She quickly ran across the courtyard and into Y/N’s arms, sobbing as Y/N pet her hair. “Miss May, go fetch your princess’ riding clothes and some simple dresses for travel,” James instructed her. May stared at him with wide eyes, looking at Y/N who nodded to her. She was escorted back inside with Thor to get Y/N’s things packed.

As they stood there waiting, the snow started to fall. Y/N looked up and sighed as the cold kissed her face, a welcome reprieve to her inflamed cheeks from the night’s tension. She looked towards James who was already looking at her.

“What do I call you?” she asked him.

“You can call me Bucky,” he said.

“Bucky?” she asked, a small smirk pulling her lips.

“A nickname,” he laughed at her perplexed look. “Saved for those closest to me. And since you’ll be my queen–”

“So it is you I’ll be marrying then?” Y/N asked.

“Yes,” Bucky laughed harder. “I guess I didn’t make that very clear.”

“Hm,” Y/N hummed. “You have a very English name...James.”

“Yes,” he agreed, sighing as he looked at the falling snowflakes. “We Norsemen and you Anglo-Saxons are not that different from each other,” he said with a twinkle in his eye as he winked at her again.

Y/N pondered that as May came out holding Y/N’s riding clothes and boots with Thor holding a small trunk that he loaded onto one of the wagons they had waiting. May ran back to Y/N.

“Go change, and then we’ll be off,” Bucky excused Y/N, who led May over to the stables. They went into an empty bay and May quickly stripped Y/N out of her gown and into her riding clothes.

“My lady,” May said as she held Y/N’s crown in her hands. Y/N looked at it and gingerly took it from her. She stared at it for a moment before giving it back to her. She gave May another hug.

“Take it, my love,” she said as May sobbed in her arms again. “Run away and marry that stable boy, Ben, and use it to live long happy lives together,” she said as she pulled away.

May nodded as she cried, gathering up the gown as she said goodbye.

Y/N came back out in her riding clothes. She approached Bucky who was preparing his horse. He mounted it and held his hand out to her. She took it and he helped hoist her behind him on the saddle. He wrapped her hands around his waist then she felt him tying her wrists together.

“What–” she started, trying to look over his shoulder.

“So you don’t run off,” Bucky cocked an eyebrow at her in warning as he looked back at her.

“I won’t,” Y/N promised.

“That’s what they all say,” Bucky chuckled before he turned to his men who were all waiting. “To Danmark!!”

“To Danmark!” they all yelled, and the pounding of hooves rang through the night as they all rode out of the courtyard and into the English countryside.

Y/N’s arms tightened around Bucky, her head tucking in between his shoulder blades as the winter wind stung her face. She was not going to run and wanted to prove it to him. She wanted peace, even if it meant giving up herself to get it. After about an hour they all started to slow as they reached the water’s edge where multiple ships were docked, secured by other Norsemen who waited anxiously for them.

Bucky untied the rope around her wrists then dismounted. He held his hands up to her hips and helped her down as well. He inspected her wrists, giving them a short rub. “I’m sorry,” he whispered as he pressed a kiss to each wrist. Y/N was surprised at his affection, but welcomed it in the moment. He pulled her towards one of the boats. He helped her step onto it and settled her into a corner of the stern that was covered in furs and quilts. He pulled one of the furs up and covered her with it, securing it around her shoulders. There was plenty of room around her as she got herself comfortable.

“It’s going to be a four day journey, Drottning,” Bucky kneeled in front of her. “This area is for all of us to sleep, so you’ll have at least a few men next to you, but don’t fear,” he reassured her at the look on her face, “they’re harmless. Just tired.”

Y/N looked around at the men loading themselves into the boat, many of them taking seats at the benches where the oars were sitting. She felt worried but nodded at him. He gave her a smile and stepped away to help load more things into the boats. They all worked methodically together until in just a few minutes they were ready to pull off. Bucky was stationed at one of the oars as well, giving the signal and they shoved off the shore.

Y/N watched the men in her boat and the others row in perfect unison. She admired their strength and the way they all seemed to be of one mind as they worked together to get into a good rhythm, making the boat fly through the water. The rhythmic rowing lulled her to sleep as she snuggled down into the furs below her.

She woke a few hours later. It was still dark out, the rowing still going strong. As she shifted to get more comfortable she felt a heavy weight around her waist. She panicked until she turned and saw Bucky’s peaceful face sleeping next to her, his metal arm resting on her side. Y/N looked down at the arm. She admired its craftsmanship, unsure of how he was able to find or create such a thing. Her fingers traced along the metal, the plates and divots carved like the muscles of a real arm would be. When she reached his hand she lightly traced each finger with the tip of her pointer finger. His hand suddenly moved to grasp her wrist. She gasped as he gently maneuvered her to face him. His eyes were still closed as he let go of her wrist then wound his metal arm around her back this time, holding her to his chest. “Sleep, wife,” he mumbled, his voice coming out hoarsely as he kissed her forehead and rested his chin on top of her head.

Y/N was stiff for a moment until the warmth enveloped her and she melted into his embrace. She pressed her nose into his sternum and breathed deeply as her hands gripped the fur coat he was wearing. He hummed as his breathing evened out and a soft snore rumbled in his chest. It lulled her to sleep again, a small smile on her face.

**picture is A.I. from Pinterest, unknown original "artist" or "creator"**

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x reader #marvel #smut #viking!bucky barnes #viking!bucky barnes x reader #medieval #viking #chapter 1 #princess!reader #powers!reader #magic

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 3 months

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I’ve been dreaming of the Spearman of Spades.

The journey was tough, and the battles tougher. At the height of his success, he's his own worst enemy.

With this spear and his strength, he will dutifully serve his sovereign.

How does a moment last forever? How can a story never die?

Deuce hardly recognizes the young man in the mirror.

It's him--it's very obviously him: navy bangs, aquamarine eyes, the spade mark on his left eye, Heartslabyul uniform--but it doesn't feel like him. Not the same stiff, awkward first year that had stumbled onto Night Raven Campus, all his rough edges still not sanded down. The time had flown by, rounding him out.

Second year Deuce is different. Built studier, packed with more muscle from track meets. The wild glint in his eyes is tamped down, shielded by a certain seriousness.

It’s still me… right?

Deuce swallows, anxiously fidgeting with the brim of his hat. It's a keepsake passed down from his senior.

"I won't be needing this for my internship. It's yours now," Trey had told him. "Wear it well, okay?"

"... Do I deserve to?" he mumbles to his reflection. Me?

"Of course you do, idiot. Quit doubting yourself."

Deuce startles--but calms once he feels an arm sling around his shoulder, and a familiar cheeky face joins him in the mirror. Ace hangs off of him easily, the two troublemakers peas in a pod.

"Hey. Nervous?" his friend asks with a smirk.

"More than ever," he confesses. His breathing is shaky, despite his best attempts to wrestle control of it.

"Well, don't be." Deuce rolls his eyes at the simple, snarky response. Very Ace of him. "I don't care what anyone else says, you'll kill this." A pause. "If you don't pass out before then, that is."

"Thanks for the encouragement." The sarcasm is palpable.

"Don't mention it!" Ace replies cheerily. "Where would you be without me, huh? Better put in a good word on my behalf."

“Can’t guarantee that.”

“Ah, come oooh! Cut your buddy some slack here. I’ve been behaving myself recently, I deserve something nice.”

“Being nice should be its own reward.”

“Bro, you sound like the headmaster,” Ace remarks, wrinkling his nose. Clearly, not a compliment.

Ding!

Deuce lifts a brow. “Is that…”

“Huh? Oh—it’s my phone.” Ace whips out his mobile device, checks his messages, and groans.

“Something up?”

“Yeah, uh… It’s a special guest we’re receiving. You know! For today’s ceremony. They got lost in the hedge maze, so they told us they miiight be running late for this very important date.”

Deuce frowns. “We’re starting in a few minutes and Rosehearts-senpai can be really strict about punctuality.”

“Don’t worry about it!! I’ve got it covered. All you gotta do is go to that ceremony and soak up all the praise.”

Before Deuce can protest, the fanfare of distant trumpets meets their ears. It is a victorious song, one ushering in new beginnings. He shares a look with Ace, who grins wickedly.

"Aaaand there's your cue. Talk about timing.” He aggressively smacks Deuce on the back. "Go ahead, everyone's waiting for you. I gotta go help out our special guest, but I’ll be in the crowd! Catch ya later!"

"See you…” He has barely finished speaking, but Ace is already gone.

Deuce sighs and fixes his posture, shoulders squared and head held high. He runs a hand through his hair, letting his locks fall back into their natural place. His gaze is deep, contemplative—an ocean wondering whether to let a wanderer sink or swim.

A generous gulp of air for his shaky confidence.

Out with the old and in with the new.

With that, he steels himself and makes a bold stride into the gardens.

Heartslabyul students stand at attention, making way for his entrance. Their best tablecloths and decorations are set out, and a band is in full swing. Even the rose trees seem celebratory today, letting loose a scatter of petals dancing in the breeze.

The sunshine, a solitary spotlight illuminating his path.

All eyes on him.

Deuce follows the road paved for him by a crimson carpet. His dorm leader, in all of his finery, awaits him at the other end with a scepter and a stern smile. When he reaches Riddle, the redhead clears his throat.

At once, the trumpets cut off. The song, at its end at his command.

Deuce immediately lowers into a kneel. His eyes are kept trained on the ground, both to steady his stance and to keep from being ill on the spot.

Riddle looks to the waiting crowd, his authoritative voice projecting outward. “Students of Heartslabyul! We are gathered here today to witness the ascension of one among you: Deuce Spade.”

“Yes, dorm leader!”

“He has proven himself worthy countless times over,” Riddle continues, glowing with pride. “Deuce entered this institution with a crude attitude and barely comprehending basic mathematics—but with time and rigorous study, he has risen from delinquency to the ranks of the honor roll.

“What’s more, Deuce has demonstrated immense honor and strength of character. Countless times has he held true to his own moral convictions, defending the weak and the downtrodden. His goodness is immeasurable—a model for us all to follow.

“Deuce Spade wholeheartedly embodies the spirit of strictness extolled by our dormitory. I can think of no better man to have as our next vice dorm leader.”

Riddle gently brings his scepter down upon Deuce. First on the right shoulder, then the left.

“You may rise.”

He does, newly knighted.

“Heartslabyul!” Riddle lays a hand on Deuce’s arm, spinning him around to face the audience. “Your new vice dorm leader!”

The students erupt into applause and cheers. Card suits of all kinda, gathered to celebrate him.

How far he has come.

“Congratulations, Deuce! Congratulations, vice dorm leader!”

“Th-Thank you!” he manages. His nerves are still in control, and his next sentence seize in his throat.

“Any words for them?” Riddle asks quietly. “Something to inspire confidence.”

An acceptance speech?! Deuce completely locks up. I-I didn’t prep for this…

“Um, I’m not sure if I…”

But he sees the eager faces of his peers, thinks of the expectations places on him. His eyes frantically search, seeking another way out, another answer. Then—

In the corner of his vision, figures darting out from the rose maze.

It’s Ace, sprinting as fast as his feet will take him. His cheeks are cherry red from exertion. He falls in line at the back of the crowd, doubling over, hands on his knees, and gasps for his breath.

Ace is followed by a woman, her bobbed hair streaked with blonde and navy—a navy not unlike Deuce’s own. She is dressed modestly, her cap and jacket stamped with a white rabbit logo, aquamarine eyes piercing through the shadow of her hat. Her lips painted a golden brown, a spade dangling from an ear.

Their special guest.

Mom?

"Deuce!!" she calls out, waving an arm at him. "I wanted to be here--to see you on your special day! I'm not too late, am I?"

"Mom...!" his voice rings out, carrying across the garden and to her. "Of course not. You..."

You're always there for me.

Deuce straightens, his courage gathering. He is a flower, freshly watered and reinvigorated as he addresses the onlookers.

“For a long time, I thought I was a bad kid... that I would always be a bad kid, no matter how much I tried. But I'm here. I've made it."

Deuce glances around the assembly. At Ace, at his dorm leader, at Riddle, at the spaces once occupied by his upperclassmen.

"So... thank you very much for giving me a second chance...! For this opportunity! I promise, I'll keep doing my very best from here on out and get better and better every day!"

He bows.

The audience is uproarious. A sharp whistle--from Ace. Riddle nods approvingly.

His tears well in spite of himself.

When he at last raises his head, he sees his mother is sobbing too.

So proud of him.

#twisted wonderland #twst #Deuce Spade #Riddle Rosehearts #Ace Trappola #disney twisted wonderland #disney twst #Trey Clover #twst anni #twisted wonderland anni #twisted wonderland anniversary #twst anniversary #I’ve been Dreaming…#twisted wonderland scenarios #twisted wonderland imagines #twst imagines #twst scenarios #twst countdown #twisted wonderland countdown

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assbestos · 2 years

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currently crying over ancient humans and how the drive to create art and tell stories is literally ingrained into our DNA. how our species loves so deeply and mourns our dead so tenderly that we laid them to rest in beds of wildflowers, curled up like they were going to sleep for the final time. How children, when walking in mud and sand would tamp down their footprints and look at the marks they left. That in caves, small hands are on the ceiling because a loved one lifted the child up to decorate their home like we lift little kids up to decorate a Christmas tree or their bedroom walls. the fact that art was one of the first things to be created for our own enjoyment fills me with a feeling I don’t know how to describe. If I wasn’t going into illustration, I’d be an archeologist because I can think of nothing more amazing than uncovering the threads that weave the timeline of humanity together. I will never know these ancient humans and it makes my heart ache. The fact that we, hundreds of thousands of years in the future, are able to look back and see ourselves in those who never could have imagined what today is like is the coolest feeling ever.

#having a normal one #archeology #ancient humans #ancient history #paleolithic art #the creative spirit endures under every circumstance #and I think that it’s the most beautiful trait the human species has

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penvisions · 1 month

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from grief to grace {javi g x reader drabble}

Pairing: Javi Gutierrez x Reader

Word Count: 1.2k

Summary: Determined to work through your heartbreak, you end up spacing out until your boss comes to check on you.

Warnings: hurt and comfort, break up, heartbreak, asshole boyfriend, negative language, degrading language, disrespect, um idk if there's anything else?

A/N: written for @iamasaddie as part of their writing challenge 2.0! decided to go literal with the prompt of 'javi's blue jacket' and pick javi g since i've never written for him before. the genre i was given was hurt/comfort and the prompt was 'will you tell me about it?' i had so much fun with this even if i took an angstier route (apparently that's my thing lol)

drabble masterlist || main masterlist || ko-fi

You were trying to concentrate on threading the needle, but your hands were trembling, and tears were brimming. Sighing, you set the needle’s pointed end back into the pin cushion atop the desk, beside the jacket you had been attempting to fix.

Footsteps echoed down the hall, and you quickly picked up the notebook you had scribbled Javi’s measurements on, double checking them against the thin white lines you had drawn onto the fabric as you heard him enter the room.

“Okay, my apologies, that meeting ran a little longer. It was unexpected.” He clapped his hands together, seemingly done with that part of the day and more than willing to move onto the nest.

“Th-that’s okay, senior.” You tried to sound normal, but your heart sank when you realized it hadn’t been convincing enough.

“Is everything okay, you do not seem like yourself.” Javi’s cheerful tone had dampened, worry creeping into him as you could feel his eyes look you over completely as you sat frozen at your desk. No doubt taking in the way the jacket that was supposed to be ready for him to try on was sitting in front of you in pieces.

“I know, I’m sorry. I’ve been too slow on this jacket, senior, please accept my apologies.”

“I am not worried about the jacket, I am worried about you. You’re crying, querida.” He intoned softly.

Quickly raising a hand to wipe at your cheeks, you were startled to discover that you were crying. The tears having fallen to the fabric you were supposed to be working on. Damp spots decorating the bright fabric. It was a mustard yellow, the color deeper where you tears had landed. You frantically tried to rub the wet spots off, patting at them with a tissue from the box near the edge of your desk.

“Oh shoot! No, no, no, I will fix it, I swear.”

“No need,” Javi strode further into the room, kneeling beside you to take your hands in his. They looked so small in his, the freckled tan of his feeling warm. “I worry for you, tell me what’s wrong?”

You shook your head, aware of a few errant tears flying away at the motion. You wanted to keep it inside, to not ruin the day or be the cry baby that vented to their sweet, understanding employer.

“I’m okay, I swear.” You wouldn’t look directly at him, knowing his wide brown eyes that glittered in the sunlight would make you spill the news far too quickly if you were to gaze into them. You always had a soft spot for him, for the way he was endlessly kind and wore his heart on his sleeve. Something that had been a thing to tease you over, from both your friends and your – well now ex – boyfriend.

“Will you tell me about it, querida, please? I will do my best to make it better, whatever it is.” He beseeched in that deep baritone he had, his hands squeezing yours reassuringly.

“My-my boyfriend, h-he broke up with me. He said he was embarrassed to tell his friends I was a seamstress.” You sputtered, the ache in your heart making the words flow from you to your boss. He was always so kind, so thoughtful. You hadn’t wanted to tamp down on his sunny and excitable demeanor today of all days. He was preparing to host a viewing festival, indie film makers from all over the world would be there and he had requested you to work overtime if you wanted to. You had taken him up on it, even in the wake of the breakup. You needed to save as much as you could to cover the down payment for a new place, your ex not too prideful to kick you out of the one in your name that he had moved into. “He ki-kicked me out of our apartment, I have nowhere to go.”

You felt a tug on your arms and you leaned into it, your bottom thudding on a plush pillow Javi had pulled from the nearby couch. He took you into his arms carefully, on the watch for any signs that this was not the way to go about this. But you went willingly, your arms going around his neck and your cheek going to his chest. You breathed in deeply, one of his hands rubbing up and down your back soothingly.

“I’m so sorry, mi amor. Why don’t you let me cook for you or take you out to a lovely dinner, mi amor. To help get your mind off of things. You can stay here in the meantime, there are countless rooms here for you to have.” His voice vibrated through you, comforting in how it caressing your ears at the same time. You could only nod, not trusting your voice to be more than a warble of nonsensible words. You tightened your on hold on him, feeling safe for the first time all week.

The next morning you woke naturally, the sunlight filtering in through the sheer curtains over the windows. You had opted to stay in, too nervous to be out in public lest you run into your ex. Javi had understood completely, whisking you toward the kitchen after he had dried you tears. Glasses of wine were shared over the course of making dinner and during. Two led to three led to four and you found yourself slow dancing with the graceful man in the kitchen once you had finished. The soft sounds of the distant ocean paired with the oldies flowing low from the radio too tempting. He whispered how he would never treat you in such a bad way, how he would always take care of you, make sure you were happy and healthy.

When he offered you a room again, you had been emboldened by the wine and casual touches. It urged you to lean up close to him, hands still around his neck from dancing to ask if his room was available. He had answered you with a deep kiss, his hands wide on your back as he licked into your mouth. He had assured you he was a man of honor before offering you a pair of pajamas and settled into his plush bed beside you. He hadn’t done anything more than tangle his fingers with your underneath the covers before you both drifted off to sleep.

Smiling to yourself, you stretched out. A moan bubbling up as you felt a few kinks work themselves out in your back. You felt heat rush to your cheeks, the sound so dirty in the warm bedroom. But when you looked over to the other side, you were the only one in the bed. Your eyes flashed to the pop of neon color on the bedside table.

There was a post it note atop the alarm clock, blocking the display of numbers from view. Javi’s script penned in ink, a message for you.

‘Mi amor, I had to leave early but did not want to wake you.

Please join me for the festival if you’re feeling up to it. Just ask my assistant for a VIP pass.

I will bring home something for dinner. I hope you got some rest last night, please take it easy today.

Yours, Javi’

You liked the sound of that. Home.

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bp-zb1fics · 1 year

Text

Because it’s your birthday~

pairing: matthew x reader

pronouns: none used

genre: canonverse, fluff, suggestive themes

tw/tags: waking up together, kisses, making out, pet names, bday requests, marking, implied intimate acts, scandalised hyung line, lowkey pda, yujin is an innocent child, embarassment, yall know what matthew asked for lmao

wc: 785

summary: matthew wants one thing for his birthday. you indulge him, much to the horror of, well, everyone else.

a/n short fic for our one and only woohyun-oppa's bday! not my best work but i hope y'all enjoy! also abt 30 mins left before bday live~

check my pinned for more fics!

Strong arms wake you up, tugging towards a warm solid body. You shift a little, tucking your head into the crook of his neck. Both of you sigh, basking in each other before he speaks up.

“Babe.”

“Mmmm?”

You hum, nuzzling at him like a particularly affectionate cat.

“It’s my birthday.”

Yes it is. Which is why Matthew is over at yours, both of you planning to go back to the dorms later to celebrate with the rest of the boys before he has to do a birthday live.

“I know.”

After having your own little “celebration” the night before, you did ask your boyfriend what he wanted for his birthday. And even though he told you without hesitating, you needed to hear it from him again.

“You promised you would-”

You cut him off, tilting your head up to kiss him softly before rolling over until you were lying on your stomach on top of him. He’s so cute in the morning, mussed up hair and sleepy eyes but a promise is a promise. And it is his birthday.

“Happy birthday oppa.”

He looks so pleased, smiling in a way that you can’t resist squishing his cheeks and kissing him again. Hands slide down your back and grip at your waist as he surges forward and deepens the kiss, only relenting once you’re breathless and panting and very aware of how you’re pressed against each other.

With ease, he flips you both over so that your back’s flat against the mattress, him hovering over you. He’s leaning down to press kisses to your neck, mouthing greedily at your skin as you let out little gasps. Several times you feel his teeth, your back arching towards him as he sucks a mark into your shoulder that will most probably bruise.

Pausing for a bit to pull his shirt over his head, you’re greeted by the very pleasant site of his muscular biceps and abs. Even though you’ve been together for quite some time, you can’t help but feel a little light-headed every time you see them like this.

You run your hands along his sides appreciatively. He shivers a little, hips lowering to meet yours, both of you hissing at the contact.

“Matt.” You call weakly, only for him to pull back, staring at you with dark eyes.

“Ah, ah babe, that’s not my name today.”

You barely stifle a giggle before you stare at him through your lashes coyly and say it.

“Oppa.”

“Yes babe?”

“Please.”

Safe to say, Matthew spends most of your morning making sure you’re calling his (preferred) name.

__________________________________________

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!”

You try not to smile as the members greet Matthew at the doorway. You’ve managed to, after your “morning activities” drag yourselves to the shower, pick up the takeaway you ordered in advance and make it to the dorms by lunch time. Your boyfriend is promptly assaulted by loud singing, several hugs and pats on the back and a decently decorated cake that you hoped they baked properly. Food poisoning would not be a great gift for any day.

Jiwoong and Hanbin are helping you and Matthew lay the food out on the table while Hao’s wrangling the younger ones. Absent-mindedly, you ask.

“Matt, where do you keep your serving spoons?”

When you don’t get an answer, you look up only to see him staring back at you expectantly.

You raise an eyebrow and throw a glance at the members. Really? In front of them.

It’s my birthday. He mouths, having the audacity to pout just a little. You tamp down the urge to sigh and summon a little aegyo, feeling sorry for those in the immediate splash zone.

“Oppa, can you bring the serving spoons?” Both Jiwoong and Hanbin freeze. Matthew smiles, answering you cutely.

“Sure babe.” And he’s off to fetch them. Hanbin’s about to catch flies with how much his mouth has dropped open and Jiwoong’s eyes are so big they’re about to pop out of his head.

“Don’t ask.” You hiss under your breath, looking Hanbin in the eye. “He’s your best friend.” Jiwoong’s managed to mediate his expression back to placid serenity, the actor he is.

You think that’s the end of it but later, when you’re reaching for one of the side dishes, Yujin makes a noise of concern and asks if you’re alright. Suddenly everyone’s staring at the bruise peeking ouIt from where the neckline of your shirt shifted. You want to die. Several of the members pointedly avoid eye contact. The younger ones look confused. And your boyfriend? Matthew’s expression is too smug for his own good.

It’s a good thing it’s his birthday. You’ll get him for that tomorrow instead.

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1eaf-me-alone · 5 months

Text

𝖀𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕸𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖑𝖊𝖙𝖔𝖊

This is my Secret Santa for @st6rly I hope you enjoy, have a great Christmas if you celebrate, if not happy holidays :)

Summary: In which you’re working in a coffee shop near Christmas Eve and Heizou wonders in to keep you company.

Genre: Fluff

Warnings: None.

length: 1.9k words.

Other: modern au, reader works in coffee shop, the relationship between the reader and Heizou is established, Heizou is a criminology student, and both are in college/university, Gender-neutral reader

— — — — — — — —

The coffee shop was filled with an array of people overflowing onto the polished wooden tables which cascaded with chatter and laughter.

Christmas decorations adorned the walls and golden tinsel had been carefully taped along the ceilings. A pretty garland of lush red berries and deep green holy hung below the counters and on top of the cakes. Mistletoe had been appended below the entrance door (an incentive for couples that were in a romantic mood.) A small green Christmas tree stood on the counter next to the till and was embellished with a variety of colourful quaint trinkets and baubles.

The fireplace, which had been lit to combat the unforgiving snowy weather was thriving in the heat of the fire, its ruby red flames licking the logs provided and enveloping anything in its path. Although wild and untamed, the fire still seemed to dance in a captivating manner. The bright yellows and oranges meandered with the reds creating a powerful hue which constantly changed and shifted in the light.

In front of you, an arrangement of freshly baked cakes had just been deposited on the counters. Warm gingerbread cookies, sea-salted gift-shaped caramel swirls and Christmas tree brownies decorated with white spiralling icing all lay in front of you. The sweet and irresistible flavours of spiced cinnamon and aromatic chocolate wafted leisurely up your nose.

You heard the bell of the front door jingle, indicating the entrance of a new customer, and being pulled back into reality, you looked up and saw a familiar-looking face.

A man with maroon hair tired loosely back in a ponytail, vibrant, emerald green eyes and the hint of a smile tugging at his mouth sauntered towards the counters.

“May I have the spiced gingerbread latte?”

You raised your eyebrow “Suprised to see you here, I thought you had that assignment on the history of criminology to complete?” Veering around the counter, you stepped towards the espresso machine.

Heizou nodded.

“I still need to start it, but I needed a break from the same environment and I wanted to visit you so I figured I could revise here.”

Swiftly measuring out and smoothing the dark coffee grinds in the portafilter, you tapped lightly on it and tamped by pressing into the espresso grounds. You apacely inserted the porta filler back into the machine and pressed the gauge button, watching as the previously dust-like coffee grinds transformed into liquid which poured and submerged into the latte glass.

Laying his arm on the counter, Heizou quirked an eyebrow. “When does your shift end?”

Hearing his voice, You glanced up at him and sighed.

“Two hours, unfortunately.”

You quickly grabbed the milk from the mini fridge below the coffee machine, pouring it into the milk jug. Then you turned back towards the espresso machine with the milk in hand and pulled down on the steam arm into the jug. You watched as the jug replenished itself with steam which overflowed out of the container and floated torpidly up in the air.

Heizou’s brows creased hearing your unenthusiastic response.

“You don’t seem too happy about this job.”

Wiping your hand with a handkerchief, you turned quickly back towards him.

“Well, I need the money for university funds and bills.”

You spun back towards the coffee cup adding the espresso first and mixing it with a bag of gingerbread flavouring into the mug. You began to pour the frothed milk into the coffee lowering the milk and steeping your angle to swirl it with the milk. Lastly, you grabbed the cinnamon shaker and tapped lightly onto it as the cinnamon sprinkled onto the coffee.

Tucking the loose strand of hair behind your ear and brushing off the coffee granules on your apron, you handed Heizou his coffee.

“A spiced gingerbread latte, hope you enjoy it.”

Heizou beamed, the dimples on his face revealing themselves.

“Why thank you.”

Hearing him say that, a warm smile spread across your face. However, you were quickly pulled away to attend the next person in line. In a momentary glance, you caught sight of Heizou and conveyed your regret with a subtle expression of "I'm busy" and "sorry" Heizou returned your silent apology with a reassuring nod and a mouthed "No worries.”

As you worked diligently, Heizou watched you with a grin that radiated pride. For a brief moment, you disappeared behind the counters, leaving Heizou to take in the coffee shop's ambience. He gazed at the glittering decorations, the colourful atmosphere, and the lights that hung from the ceiling. Holding his drink in hand, he scanned the wooden tables, searching for one that was unoccupied. When he found an empty table, he strolled over to it, pulled a sleek laptop from his bag, and settled into the chair.

I suppose I’ll have to start studying at some point.

Sipping his drink, he started to type.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Darkness had unbeknownst crept upon you. The sun had descended beyond the horizon; a blanket of darkness plummeted upon the sky. From the windows of the coffee shop, the world outside was hardly discernible - only the vague outlines of objects could be seen and deep shadows swooped the trees and buildings, smothering them in temporary darkness. The only sources of light were the newly lit street lamps which framed the snow-covered roads and the twinkling stars above, adorning the sky with speckled patterns.

Once a bustling hub of activity and laughter, the coffee shop now lay empty, save for one individual who remained seated, their laptop resting upon the table. The silence was only broken by the low hum of the coffee machine and the sound of fingers tapping away at the keyboard.

As the clock struck 7 pm, signalling the end of your shift, you carefully removed your work badge and placed it in your pocket. Dusting your hands off, you neatly folded your apron and set it down on the counter. You glanced around the nearly empty café and noticed that only Heizou remained. You smiled as you made your way over to him.

“Did you… wait for my shift to end?”

As soon as he heard the sound of your voice, he swiftly turned his face away from the screen and shifted his gaze towards you. His eyes met yours, and for a brief moment, everything else seemed to fade away.

“Mhm.”

He looked back up at you. And in a matter-of-fact tone, he commented“You look stunning today, by the way.”

Despite knowing Heizou for so long, you didn’t expect the sudden compliment and felt a sudden rush of heat from your ears. Instinctively, you pulled the strands of your hair down and tugged them over your ears.

Gaining your composure, you smirked "Of course I’m stunning," you flipped your hair back with your hands.

He closed his laptop lid promptly and slipped it into his bag. His eyes gleamed with a hint of mischief, and his lips curved into a smug smile.

“Are you…blushing?" his tone was laced with a sense of satisfaction and playfulness.

Immediately your masked confidence fell, and about to deny this allegation you opened your mouth to speak, but before you had a chance; Heizou pushed his chair back and stood up from the table “It’s dark outside. We should probably head back to campus soon.”

You nodded.

“Let me put my jacket on.”

You reached for your jacket hanging on the back of your chair. You slipped your arms into the sleeves and pulled the jacket over your body. Hastily, you zipped it up to the top, ensuring that you were well-covered and protected from the chilly air and snow.

You glanced back at Heizou, a look of “I’m ready” in your eyes as he pulled out his hand for you to take. You accepted it and looked outside.

“Let’s go.”

As you both approached the door, you felt a sudden tug on your hand. Looking back, you noticed that Heizou had come to an abrupt halt, causing him to stop in his tracks.

You stared back at him, the words “What are you doing?” About to exit your mouth. You stopped. He was looking up at the wooden frame of the door where the vibrant leaves of the mistletoe hung.

He looked back at you, a smile stretching upon his face.

“Would you like to kiss under the mistletoe?” his question was direct.

You glanced up at the mistletoe, then back at the man in front of you. His big green eyes glittered in the darkness, and a hopeful smile on his face.

You nodded. A soft smile radiated on your face.

Before you had time to react, Heizou leaned forward and embraced you. His heartbeat was thumping loudly against your own. His lips were feathery and cushioned they were smooth and soft and gentle. His hands clasped you and your heart throbbed faster, your head was buzzing, feeling your cheeks grow hot once more. With your eyes closed, you felt his mellow breath against yours, his hair lightly tickling your neck, his eyes half-lidded, eyelashes tickling your face. And then slowly, he stepped back, his face beaming and equally as red as yours.

For a moment, you both stood in silence. Not knowing what to say. The gentle sound of snow falling outside could be heard, accompanied by the temporary howling of the wind as it rustled the branches of the trees.

You looked back at him, with your cheeks still flushing red, and you rubbed the back of your neck. “We should really start heading to campus now, it’s getting late.”

“I agree.”

As you pushed the door of the cafe open, a harsh gust of wind slapped your face and penetrated through your skin, sending a sharp prick all over your body. Its icy fingers seemed to crawl into your bones, making you shudder. You quickly wrapped your coat tighter around your body in a desperate attempt to ward off the chill and find some warmth. "It's freezing out here," you shivered.

“Yes, but look up.” he tapped your shoulder, and gently, Heizou turned your head so you could see what he was pointing at.

The night sky was alive with falling snow, each flake gliding down as if performing a delicate dance amongst the stars. The snowflakes landed ever so softly, wrapping the the ground beneath in a blanket of pure white. The warm glow of the lamps along the path cast a shimmering light upon the snow, illuminating the way ahead. As you walked hand in hand with Heizou, gentle snowflakes landed gracefully upon your nose, eliciting a small laugh from you. Feeling his hand tighten around yours, you both continued your journey home, the snowflakes falling steadily around you like a serene, calming melody.

— — — —

After wandering for a while, you finally arrived at the campus. Heizou had stepped alongside you up the stairs to your dorm until the two of you reached it. You inserted the key into the lock and turned it, feeling a satisfying click as the door unlocked. As you pushed the door open, you turned back to face Heizou and offered him a soft, appreciative smile.

You reached out your hand and gently pulled him towards you, feeling the heat of his body against yours. As you leaned in, you pressed your lips softly against his cheek, savoring the comforting sensation that spread through your body. The moment was fleeting, and you pulled away just as quickly as you had drawn him in.

“Merry Christmas Heizou.”

He grinned.

“Merry Christmas.”

#gixrsecretsanta2023 #Heizou x reader #Genshin x reader #Fluff #Shikanoin Heizou #Christmas fic #genahin impact

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scorpiussage · 1 year

Text

The Ghost of Margate Manor

(Alfie Solomons x Reader) - Oneshot

Pairing: Alfie Solomons x Y/N

Summary: Everyone in Margate knows the mansion on top of the hill is haunted. Y/N finds this out first hand.

Warnings: none, swearing

Everyone who lives in Margate knows that the mansion on top of the hill is haunted. They say some gruesomely ugly ghost haunts the corridors and eats those who trespass. Really, it’s all rubbish, but when you’re five drinks deep like Y/N is, the idea doesn’t seem so far fetched. Her friends are no help, either, as they are also horrendously drunk and daring her to break into the manor if she’s so sure there’s no ghost.

That was thirty minutes ago and now that Y/N is standing at the top of the hill next to the mansion, she’s suddenly worried that those tall tales might be true. Her friends are all waiting at the bottom of the hill, though, and she absolutely cannot go back without following through; she’d never live it down. So here she is, rock in hand, breaking into a side patio door into what used to have been a ballroom of some kind. The few pieces of furniture (and the chandelier) are all covered in eerie white sheets that billow in the breeze from the open doorway.

Tamping down on her fear, Y/N continues forward, exiting the ballroom into the main corridor. That’s all the further she gets before she encounters him.

…

Alfie is just trying to enjoy his first night on his own. Since getting shot in the face by that Peaky cunt, he’s been laid up in bed being tended to by nurses and maids. But now, now, he’s finally healed enough to be alone for extended periods of time and he’s been looking forward to it for months.

He’s got a nice pot of tea, hot and ready, his newspaper in his hand and a big fire in the hearth. With an excited giggle he moves to sit down in his favorite chair when he hears the sound of glass breaking. He looks at the pot of tea and newspaper forlornly, already knowing that the relaxation of this night is gone. Throwing down his newspaper, he surges out into the hallway while readying his pistol, ready to kill the fucker who thought it was a good idea to break into Alfie Solomon’s house.

Something rams into his chest and lets out an ‘oof’. Raising his brow in surprise, he looks down at who broke into his house.

It’s a woman, a tiny one at that, and she reeks of bourbon like there’s no tomorrow. She looks up at him, the color draining from that pretty face of hers.

Before Alfie can say something, she shrieks, “Ah! A ghost!”

And then she punches him in the face.

Alfie lets out a loud curse and clutches his sore cheek. Little bit got him right on his wounded side too, “What the bloody fuck was that for?!”

They stare at each other for a long moment before the woman drunkenly asks, “Wait, you’re not a ghost?”

“I’m fuckin’ what?” he demands, reaching out and grabbing her by her arm.

She gapes up at him stupidly, and says, “Everyone in Margate knows that this mansion is haunted.”

What sort of looney bin did he move to?

“Well as you can clearly see, I am not a ghost, love. Now, why the fuck are you in me house?”

The woman doesn’t get a chance to answer because in the next moment she’s bending over and vomiting all over Alfie’s slippers. Yeah, the peace that he’d been promised tonight is long gone.

…

Y/N wakes up with a pounding headache and a terrible taste in her mouth. She looks around herself in confusion. She’s in some plushly decorated bedroom with extravagant curtains and warm hand carved furniture. This doesn’t look like her room or the room of anyone she knows.

Looking to her left, she sees a man slouched down in an armchair, his loud snores telling her he’s asleep.

That’s when she remembers what happened and feels a wash of horror and embarrassment overcome her. God, she was such an idiot and to top it all off she assaulted this poor man. Reaching over, she gently shakes the man’s shoulder to wake him. He does so with a snort and he squints over at her with a contemplative gaze.

“I just want to say that I am so terribly sorry,” Y/N says while wringing the edge of the blanket on her lap, “I can’t believe I broke into your house! I will pay for whatever repairs that are needed, I swear.”

The man smacks his lips as he takes in what she’s just said before he reaches his hand out, “‘It’s alright, love. No harm done. I’m Alfie.”

He’s an oddly handsome man under his unkempt beard and the large scar on his face. And his hands are large and warm as they engulf hers in a handshake. Y/N introduces herself in return.

“Surely there’s something I can do to make it up to you? I did break your window after all,” she tells him fretfully while climbing out of the bed.

He watches her while rubbing his chin and says, “Yeah, ‘suppose there’s one thing you could do.”

That’s how Y/N finds herself returning to the not-so-haunted manor later that night and having dinner with a one Alfie Solomons.

#Alfie Solomons #alfie solomons/y/n #alfie solomons/reader #alfie solomons x y/n #alfie solomons x reader #peaky blinders

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walker-extended-universe · 1 month

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4x01 Review

Walker has returned and it's better than ever. Like all good premiere episodes, "The Quiet" set up a lot for us to expect this season and I can't tell y'all how excited I am to see what comes next. But first, there's a birthday boy to celebrate!

The bulk of the episode covers Cordell's birthday celebration. Five months after the return of the Jackal and a horrific break-in at the bungalow, Geri is looking to make it a day to remember, especially after everything he did for her birthday. Initially, this plan includes a family trip to a Lonestar Steak Eating challenge that Cordell has been looking forward to since he was but a wee 16 year-old. But major unexpected events, including a break in the Jackal case and Cassie bringing a huge drug case to their doorstep forces the celebration to be more local.

August suggests getting some steaks and hosting their own competition and everyone jumps on it. Geri takes over decorating, Abby makes the sides, and Bonham handles the steaks. Everyone else just has to keep the party a secret, which they do very well, even when roping Cassie in to deliver him to the party. While Cordell was happy to insist he didn't need such a big celebration, he was more than happy to chow down on his steak. Even if he didn't win, the party was definitely something he needed and Geri is right to be proud of her work- even if it did get interrupted by work.

All this winds down into a more serious discussion about where Cordell's head is at looking at the next year of his life. While Geri wanted to focus on the positives of an empty nest (like perhaps more of what they got up to at the beginning of the episode and maybe more time just for them), she listened to Cordell's concerns about his kids growing up and leaving him behind with just "the quiet". He loves his children for who they are, but he also loves the distraction they bring from the heaviness of his work. Not having them to come home to in the near future is something he doesn't know how to deal with, something he came to realize when August asked to leave the birthday party. While that wasn't where I thought the conversation was going, it was one that needed to be had and I think it was a really solid moment for Cordell and Geri's relationship and that's a big part of why I finally felt the ship this episode.

The other big thing this episode was Cassie's return to Ranger HQ. We discover her 8-week summer camp trip with the FBI to Tampa turned into a 5-month investigation with near radio silence from her to back home. While Cordell and Trey are a little salty about being abandoned by her for Tessa Graves, they're excited to have her back and more than happy to help when she drops a case in their laps- even if it does tamp down on the birthday celebration.

While Cordell's feelings on Cassie's new career are likely dampened by his upcoming empty nest, he is happy that she's pursuing a new opportunity with the FBI- if that's what she really wants to do.

Though Cassie spent most of the episode assuring everyone she wasn't really being swayed one way or the other, it wasn't hard to see that she'd found her place in the FBI, leading an investigation despite not being a full special agent and successfully getting her guys. James did offer her a more local opportunity to make the big changes she was so committed to making with the FBI, but we'll have to see what that opportunity is and if she'll take it.

Trey's interactions with Cassie were extremely awkward this episode. It's clear he was looking forward to her coming back much sooner than she did- or at least being able to talk to her while she was gone. Maybe him holding onto her is why his current attempts at a love life aren't going so well. But, at the very least, it's good to see them back in action as friends.

One of the more serious plots that returned in this episode was the ongoing Jackal investigation. We learn that the Jackal has been quiet since he took his last victim, but that Detective Luna found a lead in a motel room. When Trey checked it out, they found evidence that the Jackal was there, and he left behind a pile of his calling card- jackal teeth (hence the name). This is proof that Hollis was not going to be his final victim- a fact Kelly recognizes all too well when she sees the evidence for herself. She begs Cordell and Trey to keep this a secret from James and Cordell is happy to agree; they both know how bad things got all those years ago and neither of them are ready to relive that.

While Trey is willing to go along with it, he does wonder if the situation is really that serious. After all, he's only ever known James to be a cool, collected leader. Would a serial killer case really be enough to spin him out? When he asks Cordell, we get a flashback to a time during the initial Jackal investigation. James was drinking while looking at evidence and he hadn't been home in days. Desperate to get him to take a break, Cordell brought Kelly to the office to talk to him. James was less than happy about this impromptu intervention and things got physical, scaring everyone involved- especially James. But he still wasn't ready to give up, not yet.

Seeing James like that was shocking; that man is definitely not the captain we've come to know and love. Which begs the question- how close to that will we get when the secret investigation is finally revealed?

Another subplot of the season that was dropped this episode is how Stella is dealing with the aftermath of the break-in. Based on the state of her dorm room and how distant she's been from the family, it's easy to tell she's not doing very well. It's bad enough that she had to go through something like that, but we find out during her meeting with the investigator's that she's lied to them and to Liam about knowing Witt prior to the break-in.

Which begs the question of why? Why lie about that? Surely it wouldn't affect Stella badly to say that she'd met him at a college party a few weeks before. If anything, it might help the investigation. But, if my theory is right about Sadie working with/for Witt and his cohorts, a connection like that could put her in danger, so it's possible that that was her idea, just like not calling the police was her idea and Stella went along with it out of panic.

Speaking of Sadie, where is she in all this? We can gather from Stella asking about Sadie's "counsel" that the two girls haven't been speaking, but we didn't see anyone else showing concern, not even Geri. Was this distance encouraged because of the investigation or has enough time passed since she left that everyone is okay with it?

Big questions aside, it was really nice seeing Liam's support of Stella in this episode. She's nowhere near okay, and he somewhat understands why. Here's hoping he can keep helping her like this in future episodes.

A small but noticeable plot dropped in this episode is August drifting away from his family. Based on dialogue, he's been spending more time with his friends than his family and even dipped out of his father's birthday party early. Though his reasons aren't quite as dramatic as Stella's, it's a distance everyone is feeling to different degrees. I can only imagine this gap is going to get bigger as August attempts to fulfill his military dreams.

can't wait for next episode!

All in all, this was an excellent start to a new season and I am so excited to see what happens next and I have so many questions! Where is Sadie? How long are Trey and Cordell going to be able to keep their Jackal investigation a secret? How will James handle it when he finds out? Will Stella be forced to tell the truth about her and Sadie's connection to Witt? Will Cassie stay on past season 4? Will Cordell ever be able to live out his steak eating competition dreams?

See y'all next episode!

#walker #walker spoilers #walker review #s04e01 #the quiet

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stinknoodle · 1 year

Text

Just One Dance

Summary: Steve bumps into you after dropping Dustin off at the Snowball and decides to stop and catch up, unintentionally uprooting long forgotten feelings within the both of you.

Fic Flavor: Childhood friends to lovers(kinda), mutual pinning, mild angst

Word Count: 5,316

As Steve pulled away from the gym entrance, jaw clenched, he spotted a familiar form in the distance, one he hadn't taken in for a while. You were perched on the edge of the sidewalk, your leather jacket pulled tight around your body and a cigarette in hand. He frowned, this was an odd hour to be sitting alone outside. With recent events weighing heavily in his mind, he pulled up to park about a yard away. He'd just check up on you, maybe offer to give you a ride home, just in case. He only harbored fond memories of you and the thought of something bad happening to another person he knew made his stomach turn.

As he approached, you didn’t take notice. A skateboard, your skateboard, sat upside-down on the road, pushed against the sidewalk. The bottom was decorated and seemingly hand painted, your name in an edgy font surrounded by haphazard doodles of skulls and flowers and all sorts of other clashing designs. Your shoulders jumped slightly when you finally became aware of his presence.

"Uh- hey." He greeted awkwardly, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

Much to his relief, a wide grin split across your face. "Well, well, well, if it isn't King Steve, in the flesh."

He scoffed lightly at the faux title, choosing pointedly to not comment on it; the only thing he'd felt like "the king" of lately was the losers. "Glad to see you haven't changed too much, (Y/N)."

Which isn't to say you hadn't changed at all, you held yourself very differently than the last time you had really talked. You sported some new piercings and dark eye makeup that made the color of your eyes pop. A couple chains hung loosely at your belt loops and a few wrapped about your neck. The alternative style you'd taken to was starkly different to the softer, preppier one you had worn the last time he had checked, but then again that was, what, eighth grade? He tried to not be too surprised. You seemed much more comfortable in your skin now anyways; it was pleasant to see.

"What's Mr. Harrington doing out here all alone on this fine night, hm?" You tilted your head with a smirk.

He scratched the back of his neck. "Just dropping off a, uh, friend at the Snowball." It felt a little weird to call Dustin a friend, but at this point it would be weirder to call him anything but.

"Ah," You grimaced slightly, "s'that why you look like a kicked puppy?"

"What?" He snapped, a little more irritably than he had meant to, immediately regretting the tone.

Thankfully, you held your hands up in mock surrender and chuckled. "Sorry, I just saw Nancy in there and assumed. Teach me to make assumptions."

"No it's-" He sighed, dragging a hand down his face, "it's fine, I'm sorry."

You shifted a bit and leaned back on your free hand. "You are forgiven, your highness. Care to take a seat with a lowly peasant, have a smoke?" You offered up the cigarette with a friendly grin.

He sat next to you gratefully, hesitating a moment before taking the cigarette from you and taking a long drag. The quiet between you was filled with the distant thrum of music wafting from the gym. Your shoes tapped the pavement, but there was no anxiety to the movement; it was more like you were bursting with energy that your body was hardly containing. It had always been like that with you, though you had tamped it down more in your younger years.

"Do you remember our Snowball?" You suddenly spoke up, a fond smile on your lips. You weren't looking at him, but at the hole in the thigh of your black jeans, which you were picking at with bored hands.

"Uh, kind of." He shrugged, the memory felt so distant now.

Suddenly your gaze shot up, your grin widening impossibly. "Wait, do you not remember?"

He blinked at you, brows slowly knitting together as he tried to scrounge for what you could be talking about.

You laughed easily, catching yourself on his shoulder as you leaned back from the intensity of the movement. "Holy shit, you really don't! That's fucking wild!"

"What are you talking about?" He finally relented, cheeks flushing lightly with embarrassment. You gently plucked the cigarette from his hand, taking a short pull from it before pushing the smoke through your teeth.

"Way back when, I asked you to go to the Snowball with me. You said yes." You snickered as you watched recognition slowly leak back into his face. "Then, when we got there, you completely ignored me. Didn't even dance with me once."

Guilt boiled through his stomach and up his chest, remembering vaguely with horror. "Oh, God, right. I- I'm so sorry-"

"Don't be!" You laughed again. He didn't understand, especially as you propped a warm arm up on his shoulder, looking up into the sky with a fond expression on your face. "It's kinda funny now. I mean, obviously it was absolutely devastating at the time, but now I look back at it and laugh. I mean, what did I think would happen?"

His frown deepened, confusion marking up his face. "How is that funny?"

Your smile didn't falter as you turned your gaze to him. "Just- what did I expect? You're Steve Harrington and I'm- well, I'm me." You shook your head and chuckled, lowering your gaze to your lap. You sucked in another breath of smoke and blew it out of the corner of your mouth. He didn’t miss how you used the present tense in your statement, implying that this was still a current dilemma.

Quiet fell over you once more, but this time there was a mild tension to it. Steve floundered for a way to express the thoughts in his head as he recalled that night.

"I'm sorry I did that to you, it was really shitty of me to ditch you." He spoke genuinely, picking at the sidewalk.

You glanced at him with a funny look and you shook your head. "Nah, there's no hard feelings, really. I just get it now, y'know?" You shrugged. "It's probably for the best you crushed that when you did, we would've never ended up suiting each other."

"What does that mean?" It stressed him out how casually you sold yourself short. You tapped the ashes off of the tip of the cigarette on the thick sole of your shoe and placed it into his hand in favor of toying with a safety pin on your jacket.

“I really liked you, Steve. Like, a lot.” You smiled. Before he could respond, you continued on. “But, if you had indulged me even a little, I’m certain things would have turned out much worse. You let me down arguably easily, I never would’ve survived the popularity you garnered.”

He let the words settle in for a bit before he shook his head. “I wouldn’t have let anyone give you shit.”

You smiled appreciatively, but still mirrored him with the shake of your head. “Nah, look at us. You would have been a social outcast just from being around me. It’s better like this. I’d rather us be distant than ruining everything over some stupid, shitty eighth grade break-up anyways.” You laughed.

“I guess… I just feel bad for screwing you over, even just as a friend.”

"Don't worry, Stevie. You'll find a nice girl to settle down with, make a little family, and I'll- I don't know, find someone more my speed. Things will work out one day."

He rolled the cigarette between his fingers in thought, swallowing hard. Why did that sting so badly? He hadn't thought about you like that in years and yet it hurt to be written as completely incompatible, for you to paint your respective futures without the other in them. He knew you hadn’t really talked in years, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t start again, especially with how well things were going tonight. He took one more drag before putting out the stump of the cigarette, discarding it in the street. The two of you listened to the music, a light hum starting in your throat.

"I actually did want to dance with you." He suddenly confessed. You gave him a confused look and his cheeks burned under your gaze, a hand scratching at his neck. "At the Snowball. I remember thinking that you looked really pretty and uh, I wanted to dance with you. Really badly. But I-" he coughed into his fist anxiously. "I let my friends talk me out of it. Which fucking sucks and was really rude, and even though you say it's fine I'm still sorry."

Your lips parted slightly, something unknown sparkling in your eyes. As he finished speaking, you smiled warmly and let your cheek press to his shoulder, almost like you were hiding.

"Thanks, Steve…" Your voice was softer than before.

"Yeah…" He replied, tentatively wrapping his arm around your back to softly grip your forearm on your far side. The silence rolled back in, but it was softer this time, and lasted much longer.

"I'm sorry about Nancy, by the way." You spoke quietly, hands fiddling in your lap. "I was- uh, I saw you guys kind of get into it at that dumb Halloween party. And then I saw you leave without her and Jonathan and-" you sucked in a breath, like you'd said too much. "Yeah, I'm just sorry."

He squeezed your arm lightly, swallowing the lump in his throat before replying simply with, "S'fine."

You chewed your lip for a long pause, but when the distant song changed to something slower, you suddenly sat up straight; Steve quickly missed your warmth.

"Well, I believe you owe me a dance." You grinned brightly at him and held out a hand.

He stared into your scraped up palm, bewildered at the sudden change in mood. "What?"

"Hey, it's the night of the Snowball, I'm dressed in my best,” you gestured to yourself almost sarcastically, “and you always look good,” you gestured to him, sounding a hair more sincere, “and you owe me at least one dance." You snickered and pushed yourself to your feet, offering up your hand again. "Unless, of course, you've suddenly decided you don't want to associate with undesirables."

He rolled his eyes and took your hand, albeit gently to accommodate for the scuffs there. "Stop talking like that, I'm not really that much of anything anymore, and you’re not," he scrunched his face up and shook his head, “undesirable.”

You tugged him to his feet with surprising strength, and he was mildly grateful for your thick-soled shoes; it put you at the perfect height difference, which made it easier to dance. You guided one of his hands to your waist and trailed your fingers lightly up his arm to rest on his shoulder. The two of you slowly began swaying awkwardly, a little stilted and bodies just a little too far away from each other.

You laughed sweetly, head thrown back in a way that exposed the pretty skin of your throat. "Harrington, I don't think any teachers are gonna come tell us off if we get a little closer. I didn't take you for being shy." That smirk pulled back onto your face.

He rolled his eyes, cheeks burning hot as you stepped into his space without hesitation. He released your waist and brought your joined hands above your head to give you a quick spin.

"How's that for shy, huh?" He said as his hands returned to their previous placement.

You only laughed again in response.

As you both relaxed, you slowly drifted closer and closer, as if being drawn together by an invisible string. Soon, your head was pressed to his chest, his hand released in favor of joining your other hand behind his neck. Both of his hands stayed respectfully on your waist, his chin lightly pressed to the top of your head. While you swayed, he was suddenly very glad he had decided to stop and talk to you. That reminded him, however, of the reason he'd stopped in the first place.

"(Y/N)?"

"Yeah?" Your voice was like a fluffy blanket, soft and warm.

"Why were you sitting out here alone?"

You laughed shortly, leaning up to his ear. "To be honest?" You hesitated, voice shaking with hardly contained humor, with an ever widening smile. "I ate shit while riding my skateboard around and was trying to pick the gravel out of my body, but it made me nauseous so I stopped."

"Oh my God." Steve laughed through the words, delighting in the way you hung off of him as you lost it. You hid your face in his shirt, muffling the high, hysterical sounds of your giggles.

"Do you want a ride home after this, then?"

You looked up with tears of laughter in your eyes. "I thought you'd never ask.”

Despite your protests of being okay to walk on your own, he helped you into the passenger seat of his car, giving your hands a light squeeze before drawing back to shut the door and head over to the driver's side.

"So, how's about we head over to my place to patch you up first, hm?" He spoke as he pulled onto the road. "It's pretty late, though." He added, more to himself than to you.

You chuckled, "Sure, Steve. My parents aren't home anyways, they won't even notice."

He nodded knowingly. Some things never change, and that had been one of the reasons you two had originally gotten so close in eighth grade. Neither of your parents were ever home, so you'd just walk to each other's houses after school. Sometimes just to hang out, but mostly to spend the night. It made you both feel just a bit safer, to have another body in the house with you. He realized how much he had sorely missed that feeling of security as he pulled up to his house.

"Do you… do you wanna stay the night?" He cleared his throat and tried to sound more confident than he actually was. You winced and opened your mouth to reply when he suddenly realized how charged with implications that question now was.

"Not to like- not like that, just, y'know," His voice died as he concentrated on parking the car and finally turned to look at your hesitant face, "like we used to. Obviously I have the guest room and you can say no of course you can always say no but-"

"Steve," You pressed a reassuring hand to his shoulder, "I'd love to stay the night."

He sent back a small, apologetic, and grateful smile. To be truthful, he hadn't been sleeping very well, if at all. Every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was those things. He heard them between every baited breath, and when his eyes slipped closed, he felt them watching. The rational part of him knew it was all over, that he was probably safe in the confines of his room, that the only creatures he had to worry about in the tender hours of the night were wild animals typical to the area, but he just couldn't shake that feeling. The feeling that he was being watched, that the worst was only yet to come, that something was waiting just beyond their sight, watching, waiting.

"Steve?" Your voice pulled him out of his spiraling thoughts, hand clenched around the cold bathroom doorknob.

"Sorry," He mumbled before twisting the handle and stepping in.

"It's fine," you stated gently, closing the toilet seat and sitting atop it while he dug through cabinets to locate the first-aid kit. "Where were you?"

"What?" He glanced up at you without turning his head.

You waved a hand, lips pursed. "You looked like you were… somewhere else. Somewhere bad."

It took a moment for him to get what you were saying, but once he did a lump formed at the back of his throat. He knelt at your feet, trying to roll up your pant legs with careful consideration for your knees.

"Nowhere, it's fine. I'm just kind of… tired." Not a lie, he felt like his limbs were made of lead.

You hummed, leaning forward to rest an elbow just above your knee and perching your chin on your hand. "This'd be easier if I was wearing shorts. You got anything I could borrow?"

He stood up, relenting and letting your pant leg drop back down to your ankle. "Yeah, I'll be back in a sec."

It was only when he had started digging through his dresser that he realized how readily he agreed to lend you his stuff, how easy you had found it to ask him to. There had been no hesitation, it almost felt natural, like it hadn’t been nearly four years since you’d even spoken a word to each other. He felt something warm in his chest, and he decided to be grateful for the comfortability that still remained between you two.

When he got back, you were picking at the open wounds on your palms, wearing a bored expression. "Stop that, you're gonna make it worse."

You looked up and gave him an award-winning smile of innocence. "Doing what? I've got no clue what you're talking about."

He tossed you the shorts and t-shirt in his hands and headed for the door. "Let me know when you're done changing."

You tilted your head curiously. "Why's there a shirt? Something wrong with mine?"

"Just figured you'd want to sleep in something other than your street clothes, you're free to just give it back." He called over his shoulder before pulling the door shut behind him.

The bathroom was nearly silent behind Steve as he leaned against the wall beside the door. He was almost nodding off when your voice suddenly sounded.

"You can come back in, pretty boy."

The pet name made his cheeks glow with blush, taking a calming breath before opening the door with indifference forced onto his face. It got even harder to keep the expression when he saw you, in his clothes, in his bathroom, staring up at him. Your street clothes were folded neatly on the edge of the sink, your socked feet lightly tapping at the tile. A smirk tugged at your lips, and you were opening your mouth to say something when he quickly ducked the statement to kneel at your feet once more.

"Christ, how were you even standing?" He lightly ghosted his fingers over the bloody gashes at your knees. He pressed his palm just above your knee and stroked the skin there with his thumb. "Why didn't you say something sooner?"

As he looked back up at you, he found your mouth still hanging open, cheeks flushed. You coughed into a fist and cast your gaze to the side. "Looks a lot worse than it actually is."

He scowled lightly. "Really?"

"Yeah, I've experienced worse." You chuckled. "Nothing will compare to when I broke my leg sophomore year." You grinned down at him, an attempt to reassure him gone wrong. "The bone was sticking out, it was pretty sick."

He looked horrified and you laughed, loud and hearty and so very you. "That's terrible."

"It's fine, really. I've recovered, obviously." You chuckled. He finally withdrew to start digging through the first-aid kit, shaking his head in disbelief as he did so. That definitely explained the massive scar on your left knee.

"Okay, here, this'll probably sting a bit, but it's important that we get them as clean as possible." He narrated as he pulled out some hydrogen peroxide. He dug around for a small hand towel and dumped some of the liquid on it.

"I'm a big kid, I'm sure I can handle it."

He shook his head again. "You can squeeze my shoulder if it hurts too bad, and we can always take breaks if you want."

Your grin turned mischievous, "Oh, yeah? You gonna take care of me?" Your flirtatious tone made his face light up like a Christmas light. He quickly pressed the cloth to your right knee.

You gasped loudly, hands flying down to squeeze at his shoulders. "Jesus Christ, Steve! A little warning would've been nice!"

He didn't respond, opting to rub your left thigh apologetically. He would've apologized out loud if he had trusted his voice to not shake. By the time he was done wiping down your knees, you had two fistfulls of his red shirt in each hand. Your makeup was running down your cheeks and neck, forcing yourself to swallow back a pained sound.

"You did such a good job, we're almost done, alright?" He spoke softly, setting down the cloth in favor of antibiotic ointment and bandages. To give you some credit, they did in fact, look a lot worse than they actually were. Still, he hadn't been expecting any reaction less than the one you’d had.

"Give me your hands?" He asked lightly as he finished up bandaging your knees.

You gave him a hesitant look, paired with a sniffle, but extended your hands at his patient expression. He felt you relax in his grip as you realized those didn't hurt nearly as bad as your knees.

"There," He practically breathed the word out, having to clear his throat to continue, "all better."

"Gonna kiss 'em better?" He looked up into your watery grin, and he found himself having to scramble to regain his footing in the situation. He looked back down, and leaned in to press a soft kiss to each knee.

"St-Steve-" you stammered, but you choked on your words as he took your hands into his, looking into your eyes as he pressed light kisses to your palms.

Satisfied with your silence, bright red cheeks, and gaping mouth, he stood. "Better?"

"Y-yeah." Your voice trailed off, quickly glancing into your palms to trace the kisses with your eyes.

"Good, you had anything for dinner yet?"

You shook your head wordlessly, jumping a bit when his hand reached into your view.

"C'mon, I think I can whip something up for us." He didn't actually expect you to take his hand, you would probably just push it away with another hearty laugh. That's what would have made sense with what knowledge he’d gathered on you. You did no such thing, however, taking his hand and letting him pull you to your feet. He felt your hand squeeze at his lightly, lingering just a little longer than what was probably acceptable, and let go.

What was happening? Why were you both acting like this? Steve was absolutely puzzled as you started talking his ear off, it was almost as if none of that had just happened. He was only half listening as you rambled, but you didn't seem to mind his distant expression; you must have just wanted someone to talk to. The entire time all he could think about was how bizarre tonight had turned. He felt almost bad at the fluttering in his chest, but it was kind of soothing and certainly preferential to the ache that had been there earlier in the night.

After dinner, you had cleaned your makeup-smudged face off and gone your separate ways. You had patted Steve's shoulder with a splitting yawn and mumbled out a "G'night." The knowledge that you were in the house with him did less to soothe his nerves than he thought it would, less than it had when you were little. Then again, he had had less things to worry about at that time, As he laid in his bed, his eyes kept drawing back open to stare at the window. Every little sound was some nightmarish creature, every shadow was hunting him. He dragged a tired hand down his face, stretching out the heavy bags under his eyes. Suddenly, he ripped the blankets back from his body and stood, a hand quickly being pressed to his desk to steady himself. He couldn’t help but look out of the window at the pool. His stomach lurched and he forced himself to turn away, a sad attempt at shutting out the millions of thoughts spinning through his head. It’s bullshit, we killed Barb, we killed Barb, bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. He tried to be quiet as he stumbled to the bathroom and splashed his face with palm-fulls of water; it took at least 30 minutes to stop himself from retching.

With any chances of sleeping officially ruined, he made his way to the kitchen. He got himself a glass of water and sipped at it morosely, trying to convince himself that he was safe. The creak of the stairs set him on edge, hand gripping at the cup. His heart pounded in his ears as the sound of something moving through the house got closer and closer until-

“Steve?” Your groggy voice immediately shattered the tension. You gave him a tired smile, your tone teasing as you continued. “You too cool for sleep, huh?”

A heavy sigh of relief tore through his chest, the inhale proceeding it shaky. “Yeah, something like that.”

“You okay? You look…” You sleepily searched for an adjective as you made your way over to him.

“Like shit?” He provided.

“Scared.” Oh. “Terrified, actually. Did something happen?” Oh.

It was humiliating how that simple question nearly brought him to tears. He liked to blame the lack of sleep for how vulnerable his body was trying to be. It took a massive amount of effort to dam up the flood of tears and the selfish explanation that came rushing in. The less of the truth you knew, the safer you would be, and he refused to be the one who put you in that kind of danger just because he couldn’t keep his shit together.

“Bad dream?” Your fingers lightly brushed the back of his bicep as you unknowingly provided a helpful excuse for him to escape with.

He nodded, teeth clenched tightly. He averted his gaze quickly to stare into the wall and attempt to blink back the tears.

You were quiet for a long beat, fingers drawing soothing patterns into his skin. You took the glass from his hand and took a sip from it. “D’you wanna build a blanket fort in the living room?” When he looked back at your face, you were grinning childishly.

“Okay, that should do it,” You groaned with a stretch as you gave one last tuck to the corner of the blanket draped over the top of your soft structure.

“You’re still really good at that; you been practicing without me?” He teased with a tired smile.

You laughed and shook your head. “Build a fort? With another man? What do you take me for?”

He let out a responding laugh, combing a hand through his hair to push it out of his face.

You grinned up at him, clearly pleased with that response. “Well, what are we waiting for?” And with that, you were crawling in through the entrance.

Steve waited for you to settle inside before heading in out of fear that he would tear the whole thing down. You were snuggled into the corner, surrounded by pillows and trying to set the flashlight up in a way that it didn't need to be held to still shine light into the makeshift cove. The fort was not as spacious as it had appeared to be, or rather, the two of you were a lot bigger than the last time you'd built a fort together, and you hadn’t accommodated for this factor. His legs ended up snug against yours as he laid next to you, your shoulder pressing into his chest.

"There." You finally let out a quiet, excited woop as you succeeded in putting up the flashlight. "Now," you turned your gaze to Steve, suddenly holding a faux air of severity, "you gonna come here or what?"

“What?” He laughed the word out, feeling the tops of his cheeks and the tips of his ears heat up at your opened, welcoming arms.

“Well,” you wiggled a bit to get more comfortable, “this is a pretty small fort, and you look pretty cold, and I’m pretty sure you’d benefit from a good snuggle.”

“You look pretty,” He grumbled out, the words a failed knee-jerk attempt at sass. Your cheeks leaked rouge and you beamed back at him.

“C’mon, I won’t make you do anything if you genuinely don’t want to, but you seriously look like you need a hug.” He was grateful that you hadn’t brought up his comment.

You were right, of course, he definitely needed a hug. The longer he stared at you in contemplation, the harder it was to resist giving in. Finally, he slid closer to you, careful to not press his entire weight into your body. Your arms wrapped around him and your hands came up to hold his head, all to pull him closer into you.

“There we go, c’mere big cat,” Your smile was evident in your voice as you gave him a tight squeeze. “Isn’t that so much better?”

He grumbled a half-hearted complaint about your fingers being cold, but his body language spoke very clearly that he was in pure bliss. His arm slid up to hold across your waist, grip a little stronger than you had expected. His other arm was pulled up against his chest, fist tucked up under his chin. Your breath ghosted over the top of his head, one hand stroking gently through his hair, picking softly and splitting apart hairsprayed strands. The other hand rubbed a line up and down his back with a firm tenderness; every careful touch pulled him into a state of calm that he hadn’t known for quite some time. A soft, embarrassing sound came from his throat as you pulled your hand away from his back and you chuckled.

“Just grabbing a blanket, s’that okay?” Your voice was somewhere between speaking and whispering.

He nodded against your chest, letting you lean up slightly to grab a blanket and he helped you pull it over your bodies. You tucked it gently up to his chin, sending a small smile down at him when he met your gaze. Your fingers were warmer than before as they slid down from his hair to gently cup his cheek, thumb brushing under his eye.

“You comfy?” You smiled brilliantly when he nodded again. “Good. Try to get some sleep, yeah? You look like shit.”

He huffed out a half-laugh and pressed his cheek back down to your chest. “Easier said than done.”

“Yeah, I get that…” You continued to stroke his hair, apologizing when one of your rings caught and tugged a strand.

Despite his snarky comment, he found himself slipping into the clutches of sleep in your arms. He could hear the rhythm of your heartbeat through your ribs underneath his ear, and he felt the rumble in your chest when you started to quietly hum. His tight grip around you slowly eased as he drifted away from the conscious world, finally letting his tired body rest.

You could feel the moment he fell asleep, could see it in the way his expression relaxed. His eyebrows finally drew up and apart, his lips parting just slightly and the softest snores started to leave through the gap. He looked very pretty like this, all relaxed and peaceful. You leaned down to press a feather-light kiss to his forehead, and eased your head back into the pillow. You squeezed him one more time, his arms unconsciously tightening around you a hair, and you let yourself finally be taken from the world by sleep as well.

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