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hazelfoureyes · 4 days

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hello babies! I’m honored to kick off Kinktober! This whole month we will be posting stories alternating between us 6. The culmination is the prompt Ducky Ball Gag, that all 6 of us will be posting a story for. That is 36 stories this month….!💖 below is the schedule for this first week. Be sure to follow my fellow coven lovins to have an October that’ll keep you sweating 💦 you’re welcome to use the hashtags as well and share your kinky stories 👀

Coven: @fraugwinska @minkdelovely @sugoi-writes @macabr3-barbi3 @synamartia (banner by Syn!)

Kinktober 2024 - Day 1 - Ride

Alastor visits New York to hunt down Mimzy’s ex and takes a younger Angel Dust as his tour guide, despite Angel….. not being a tour guide. Angel decides nearly immediately he will fuck this fancy tourist. ꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷

「warnings/promises: TopHumanAlastor x BottomHumanAngel, physical abuse mentioned and referenced through bruises, smut, Alastor gets into being called Daddy, Age Difference, prostitution, jerking off fingers in the cinema, lube needed prescriptions, condoms came in cans, oh murder is on the menu but not ordered, pretty cocks, creampie」

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MDNI 🕷️ 🎥 📻

For Anthony, Alastor looked like a good ride. Clean cut, tall, built well (but nothing he couldn’t take in a fight if things got froggy), and nice clothes to boot.

He shoved the others out of his way to get to him first.

“Hey sugar, lookin‘ for a friend?” He beamed, proud pearly whites his best front facing indicator of his cleanliness. “Cuz I’m quite friendly.”

Alastor stiffened, the alarmingly youthful man sliding lithe fingers down his back. “You could say that! I was looking for a tour guide of sorts.”

He and Anthony briefly looked around at their surroundings— they were standing in front of a rather obvious hourly motel. Anthony was…. clearly not a tour guide. Was this strange man an idiot? He wasn’t above taking an idiot’s money but he drew the line at false advertisement.

“Oh.” Anthony’s tone fell flat, a tinge of disgust.

“I’d pay for your time.” Alastor offered, reading the other man’s expression with ease.

“Oh!” Sweet as honey and twice as thick, “Why didn’t ya lead with that! Sure!”

Alastor looked the young man up and down. He was dressed sharp, his shirt a little open for a man with the top two buttons undone to reveal pale and slick skin, slacks high and showing off his petite waist. Perfectly respectable enough.

“Whaddya wanna tour, daddy?” The pet name was said with a deeper voice then the the rest of the question, Anthony being sure to meet Alastor’s eyes when he said it.

Alastor extended his hand, glossing over the word entirely, “Where are my manners! Alastor.”

Anthony inspected his hand, turning it over before grabbing the left hand. No ring. He shook his hand back, “An-,” a cough, “Angel.”

“Angel?”

“Yeah, cuz I’ll make ya see heaven,” he winked. Alastor’s cackle hurt his feelings a tad. He nervously ran his fingers through his soft, blonde hair to self soothe.

“I just wanna see the city, Angel.” A pregnant pause, Alastor fidgeting a little with his vest, “How old are you exactly?”

Angel’s turn to laugh, but nearly immediately his face went flat and his bright eyes turned dark, “I have a baby face, but I’m of age. If you’re lookin’ for younger you’d bettah hop on a train back to whatever backwater hole you came from.” He tapped his foot, ready to turn and leave.

“Just a local guide, thank you!” A sigh of relief, “You’d be perfect.”

Sometimes customers claimed they just wanted a date, but this one seemed to actually want a tour guide. But money is money, so Angel hooked his arm into Alastor’s arm with renewed hospitality, “What’s your scene, fancy pants?”

“I’d like a drink, how about that first?” Alastor’s ever present smile beamed.

“Uhhh it won’t be the kinda places you’re used to.” He let his eyes drift down and back up the tall tourist with broadcasting judgement.

“Dear you don’t know the places I frequent. Do your worst.”

Angel felt a tingle down his spine, oh, he liked this one. “My worst? I know just the place.”

It took a head nod, a series of knocks to a tune Alastor didn’t recognize, and a secret phrase but finally he had a room temperature glass of illegally imported Irish whiskey in his hands.

“If you want a pick me up I can get you one of those too,” Angel watched him sip.

“Very generous but I’d rather keep my nose clean while in a new city.”

“Oh right! Are you visitin’ or can I expect to be seein’ yous around?” Angel’s fingers walked their way across the bar top to tap softly on Alastor’s left hand. The older man’s hand slid out from under his touch.

Alastor had left New Orleans for a reason, but not one he could tell others about. A certain person had been particularly cruel to his dear friend and bar owner, Mimzy. Alastor had made the extended weekend trip to give the man his opinion of such things.

“Just the weekend, I’m afraid,” he said it with a sing song voice void of any supposed fear, “I work in entertainment, so I’m hoping to find some new talent.”

Angel nodded, sounded like bullshit but he knew prying could make people switch up attitudes fast. His family taught him well enough to not ask too many questions. But then a lightbulb went off for him. The kind that overshadowed his smarter senses.

“Speakin’ of, you talk funny. You an actor or somethin’?” Angel asked, leaning on the bar with his body fully turned to Alastor.

“Radio show host.”

“Oooh fancy!” Angel smacked Alastor’s thigh, causing his newest client to jump. With a roll of his eyes, he whispered an apology and leaned his chin on his palm. His foot began to shake. Eyes flitting over to Alastor, who was motionless and grinning with unfocused eyes.

“You’re so quiet. Bor-ing.”

“Silence is a virtue.” Alastor’s ears were peeled for certain keywords. Hints for where to go next. Mimzy was tight lipped on where she’d worked before, but he knew the kind of places she enjoyed.

He wouldn’t call the trip a failure if he never found Chester. But it sure would be nice. His usual means of disposal were unavailable, but since he was so far from home and the city already quite busy with crime, he’d just roll ole boy into the water. It wasn’t like Chester’s associates didn’t usually rid each other of deadweight this way.

Angel chewed his bottom lip. This wasn’t necessarily better than fucking but he figured it was nice to have someone buying him the good hooch rather than stealing it from distracted bars and his uncle’s refreshment cart.

He inspected Alastor closer with a sharp side glance. His hair looked soft and fine, his skin washed and smooth. When he’d taken his hand he checked for dirt under his nails and didn't find a speck.

“You don’t look like you get a lot of hookers.” Angel twirled his finger in his glass and sucked the tip. Alastor choked a little, drink clanking loudly when he brought it down.

Angel watched him flounder, glasses slipping down his nose. Cute, he thought. When he smiled, his eyes wrinkled at the corners and Angel found it uncomfortably endearing.

“No, I don’t.” Alastor patted his chest. He thought Angel had been trying to get a rise out of him but instead the younger man was just toying with his drink, seemingly unamused and unbothered. If not for the smallest smile pulling his lips to the left he’d had assumed he imagined the comment.

Angel thought about the kinds of men and women he encountered. Often times, the most dangerous seemed to be the ones you didn’t expect. The gaunt bookish type always had some fetish for choking until you blacked out. The rich liked to make you scream in the worst ways.

“You’re not some weirdo like that guy in ‘The Most Dangerous Game’, are ya? Hunting people for sport.” He narrowed his eyes, waiting for a physical tell.

The apt comparison flew past Alastor as he was too thrilled with the other aspect of that question, “You watch thrillers?!”

“Oh do I, I’m a fan of anything that gets the blood pumpin’,” Angel winked at him.

“Do you actually watch these movies or are you just in the theater.” Alastor was suspicious, given Angel’s overall focus on sex.

“Well it started as just a nice and shady place for some hand stuff, but I started gettin’ really into ‘em. Pissed off the Johns so I started goin’ solo.”

Angel did enjoy the movies, but free time and disposable income could be scarce. Letting dates, of sorts, take him allowed the excuse he was working. Until the complaints started. His face and name were known by most in the neighborhood, so it wasn’t difficult for people to find a cousin or an uncle and vent about their poorly behaved slut of a family member. The missed screenings were worth the absence of bruises. It’s harder to work when you’re different shades of red and blue.

He didn’t understand how the small common interest made his new friend feel invigorated.

Alastor downed the last sips of his drink, “Alright! Let’s dance. Take me somewhere we can swing.”

“Finally! Thought ya hired me to bore me to death. A very slow hitman.”

With a quickly hidden panic, Alastor let the comment die and linked his arm with Angel’s.

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Angel was amazed at the sight; Alastor could dance.

“You aren’t as tightly buttoned up as I thought!” Angel’s hand was in Alastor’s as their bodies disconnected and spun away from each other. Meeting back again, hands to hands, their feet did all the work.

“You’re quite the dancer too, Angel.” Alastor leaned in, saying it loudly into the shell of the other man’s ear.

The blush it earned made him grin, he wasn’t trying to impress him but he did enjoy seeing the cocky man go quiet and pink.

“That’s a lovely color on you! I’ll have to keep making you blush.” Alastor whispered now, lips pressed to Angel’s skin not to entice but to ensure he was heard.

What’s life without a little teasing? And the younger man had been so talkative and assertive. Nothing gave Alastor quite the same thrill as making people act unlike themselves. Inspiring a meek woman to be brazen; a cocky man to shy away; a loud person to go silent.

Self betrayal. Influencing that in the people around him was his second favorite hobby. Maybe tied with dancing.

“Do you go out to dance often?” He asked, now peeled off of Angel. Angel shook his head. “But I thought you liked making your heart race?” He smirked.

Alastor was equal in size to Angel, but the blonde felt slight in the other man’s hold. There was a magnetism rolling off of Alastor’s body. Something in the way he spoke and moved made Angel want to please him. To get his approval. To make him waver that well coiffed image.

While Angel plotted how to do that, he kept his eyes glued to Alastor’s own, unable to break away. He knew his usual charms (grabbing his dick and pulling him into the bathroom) wouldn’t work, but an opportunity would surely present itself.

“You seem the kind of man who knows how beautiful he is. Odd, given you don’t seem arrogant about it.” Alastor was reading Angel with skills honed over decades of moving amongst others in secret. Commentary he usually kept to himself given freely as he wanted to understand the man more, “Who is making you think otherwise? You should be arrogant.”

Deep blue eyes looked to the left, escaping Alastor’s own now that the topic made their gaze too intimate, “Whaddya mean? I know I’m a dish! No one is sayin’ otherwise.”

Alastor observed the way his tour guide’s shoulders drew up and in, making himself physically retreat from the subject. He advanced.

“I said beautiful. Not some dish. And I didn’t mention anything about words bringing you down.”

A roll of his eyes, “You sure are talkin’ a lot now, I’m beginning to see the radio skills. Tell me then, Alastor, what actions are you prepared to do to confirm my beauty?”

A loud laugh, Alastor feeling cornered in the most exciting way. The only music was from a radio playing weakly on a table on a rather useless looking bar, but Alastor swung Angel around with the same energy he did for the live bands in New Orleans. It was silly, Angel thought, how quickly he forgot where he was.

He was, for the record, at the only place he knew was open and allowed dance. One he knew too well.

“Hey Anthony!” The man behind the dark wooden counter bellowed much louder than necessary. Alastor could feel Angel recoil in his arms, the dancing coming to an abrupt end. In truth, they’d been dancing for quite a few songs already. It felt cut short anyway, as they could have gone on for much longer. No one else was dancing, he noted, though the bar only had a couple other patrons.

“I’m workin’,” his hands slipped from their place in Alastor’s with a palpable reluctance before striding to the bar. Alastor followed shortly behind, not drunk enough to cut a rug alone in a strange place. The music wasn’t even that good if he was honest. In fact, every foot Angel grew further from the dance floor, the less appealing the beat became.

“Oh sorry, Angel,” the short man said it with an overt sarcasm that made it clear how he felt about Angel. Alastor found it quite grating. “Uncle wants to talk. Go upstairs for a sec.”

“I’m busy right now.” Hissed as he leaned over the bar too far, body stretching with a leg kicking up. Alastor admired the line from nape to ankle. He wondered what kind of life Angel could have as a dancer.

“Oh ya know what, that’s funny you mention it cuz,” the bartender smacked Angel’s head with his hand, “I wasn’t fucking asking.” Angel winced, excusing himself to Alastor and disappeared behind a door. The unnecessarily mean man sniffled, swallowing whatever he managed to inhale, and said, “You look like a bitch.” He pointed at Alastor with a short and blunt finger.

Alastor’s head shook slightly with the surprise of the statement. His smile was sharp and drawn in, failing to suppress a chuckle. He made a point of straightening his back and looking the man up and down. Red face, an alcoholic’s nose, little grubby hands, and cauliflower ears. Had the barkeep been kinder, Alastor could label the details as charming. But given the frame of cruelty they were in, they made his lip curl up in disgust. Looking down his nose at the man, he hummed.

“Ya know, it’s funny you mention that,” he parroted, “I was just thinking the same thing about you!” Alastor said it with measured pacing but quickly leaned away from the bar in time to dodge the unsavory barkeep’s hand smacking at his head.

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“Where did Dom go?” Angel seemed to bounce out the front door, looking back with worry. Alastor thought it was terribly misplaced.

“In the bathroom! Poor man slipped and his hit head.” Alastor wiped the grubby little finger smudges off of his glasses with his handkerchief, “Let’s just walk for a bit. The bars are a bust at this time of day.”

Angel’s brow rose at the statement, what did it matter if the bars were empty? Hell, a busy place was more likely to get raided than an empty one. He let the door close and rejoined Alastor’s side. Reaching over, he smoothed a few of the other man’s hairs back in place. His fingers continued down the back of Alastor’s ears and to the nape of his neck.

“Your hair is so short in the back.” He raked his nails in the prickly hairs.

“And yours is quite long in the front.” The back of Alastor’s hand pushed the blonde hair from Angel’s eyes. It was quite easy to look Angel in the eyes, as he was nearly the same height. He took a step back and offered his arm, “Shall we?”

A prideful chill, seeing that pink blush spreading across the milky white of Angel’s cheeks. Angel knew it was just pleasantries but he couldn’t help the way his body reacted to the gesture. Touching his hair so tenderly, willing to link arms together. He knew he’d get it bad if someone saw and told on him, but he’d let tomorrow’s Anthony deal with that. Today’s Angel was enjoying himself too thoroughly.

They walked in silence, not out of boredom or awkwardness, but a misplaced familiarity. Well, seemingly misplaced. Neither man knew how much they shared in common. How they both came from broken homes, for one. Nor that they both had killed men before with their hands and tools alike.

When Alastor stopped just outside a theater and looked to Angel expectedly, the New York native took his arm back.

“Really? I’m not doin’ hand stuff.” Angel pointed sharply at Alastor, an oddly effective show of control.

“I really don’t want you to.” Alastor opened the door for Angel, “After you.”

Settled into their seats, Angel was vibrating with excitement. He didn’t often have time for movies and nearly never did he have company. Actual company. Alastor saw the fidgeting and smirked, the unhidden joy was something he could admire.

“I wanna be an actor someday. Be a star. Doesn’t that sound grande? Everyone knows your name and face?” Angel leaned dreamily into Alastor’s left shoulder.

Alastor couldn’t imagine something worse, that’d be a sign he royally fucked up.

He chuckled to himself, realizing he was a semi public figure whose voice and name was quite well known. So, actually, it was quite grande. Angel asked him what was funny but he just shook his head.

Angel’s eyes lingered on him. The screen light was bouncing off his date’s glasses. He looked so nice. Like the kind of guy who cleans off your seat before you sit and always tops up your glass. The kind of guy who wipes off your back after he cums on you and then draws a bath.

He decided he’d make it his goal to cause Alastor to fold, to be as love drunk as all the others he set his sights on. Why not? He seemed well off enough, maybe Angel could get a sugar daddy. Someone to take him to movies and spin him around dance floors.

His hand came to rest on Alastor’s forearm on the arm rest, and when Alastor asked him if he needed the space he shook his head no. They watched the thriller in silence, Angel’s hand drawing little lines and circles onto the top of the radio host’s arm.

When the movie was over, they stayed behind a little. Angel sliding his hand down Alastor's arm and blanketing the much larger hand.

“So this is what would happen.” Angel gripped two of Alastor’s slender fingers, “During excitin’ moments,” he made a fist around the digits and began short but fast jerking motions, “my hand would slow.” He mimicked the story with his mock handjob. “And when something shockin’ happened, I’d squeeze em waaay too tight.” He gripped Alastor’s fingers.

The action made the older man bite his lip, he wasn’t normally cognizant of sexual needs but Angel’s eyes never left his as he tightened and pumped his digits. He’d be lying to say his heart didn’t quicken a little.

“So, I had to stop bringin’ guys here.” Angel released his fingers. He watched with sharp eyes as Alastor stood and adjusted his pants slightly before offering a hand to him.

As they walked out and into the soft glow of dusk, Alastor asked if he disliked his job.

“Seems very impersonal.” He added.

Angel hooted “I love my work! Honestly the sex is the best part. I can’t stand that slow lovey shit. I need a good hard fuckin’ to get off. Plus, I like the variety.”’ His eyes brows danced up and down. The topic made Alastor grimace, he didn’t like the mental image of Angel receiving a variety of men.

“Do you ever find … more with your clients?” Alastor was curious, genuinely. Angel was younger than him, mid-20s it seemed, but he didn’t seem interested in anything deeper than sex. Surely by this age he was hoping to find meaningful companionship?

Angel kicked a rock, “Nah. I’m not opposed. But most men, they’re not exactly advertisin’ their love of cock.”

“Not like you.”

“Exactly! I’m not gonna be some guy’s dirty secret he rage fucks when his wife nags him too hard about … I don’t fuckin’ know. Money. Dirty clothes. Small apartments.” His hands were animated, moving around themselves to jazz up the point. Alastor nodded. It made sense to him. He didn’t want to subject someone to being a placeholder for society’s expectations of him. Alastor didn’t want to be the kind of person Angel didn’t want to be kept by. A man living a lie for the sake of pleasing the world around him, that fictional closeted man in Angel’s example, he could understand him well. And he didn’t want to become him. He hummed to himself low and quiet, taken aback by the compatibility he hadn't anticipated when he approached the group of men and women loitering in front of the shady motel. The non-response made Angel feel he’d been too open. He needed to close that vulnerable topic. “Sooo, did you want to go anywhere else or what?”

It was getting late, meaning Alastor’s chances were even better of finding some clues that could lead to his target.

“If you have the time…,” Alastor trailed off. Angel nodded in approval but stopped walking. He stopped too and looked back at his guide. Angel’s shirt seemed to have been unbuttoned another button, and his hand on his hip accentuated his shape. The mental image returned, but it wasn’t variety he saw now pressing Angel into a soft surface.

Something about the conversation, the realization they both were just trying to live their lives freely and as openly as they could without prosecution, made Alastor want to explore the other man more. Inside and out.

“Ya know you’re rackin’ up a pretty bill here. How’s about we stop at mine, you pay up for the day, and I can get ready to go out properly?” The sly smile made Alastor’s heart skip a beat, but it was the blatant challenge in Angel’s eyes that made his cock twitch. Angel barely said anything suggestive at all, but the way he seemingly dared Alastor to say no to the invitation was plainly a tell.

Had Angel asked him a couple hours earlier, he’d had handed him the cash and left. But, now? Well…

Alastor’s hands settled into his pockets and he leaned back on his heels, “Sounds grande. Lead the way.”

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“Take a load off, I’m gonna freshen up.” Angel slunk off into the bathroom as soon as the door was shut.

Alastor roamed the small one room apartment. A curved bar hung in the corner, a couple shirts and two trousers on hangers there. He felt the material between his fingers; expensive. Out of place in the space. Clearly he prioritized his image over his comfort. Alastor could feel a draft coming from the closed window, and the floor was warped.

He looked over the dresser, small make-up items neatly set in front of the mirror. Powder foundation and cream concealer. A faint lip tint. Alastor sat on the bed — it made a loud squeak as several springs whined under his weight. Leaning down he spotted a box and pulled it out. Heavy. Inside was a pistol, several photos, a small tin of condoms, and a silver money clip of bills. He closed it and slid it back.

The door creaked open and Alastor looked over his shoulder. Angel was in a black robe patterned with pink roses— a woman’s robe, it seemed. He knelt on the small bed and slide his long arms down Alastor’s torso from behind. Resting his head on his shoulder and pressing his chest into Alastor’s back, he undid the top button of his suit jacket.

“I want you to pay me now.” Angel’s tone was husky and, Alastor was sure he was misinterpreting this but, provocative. When Alastor tried to get up Angel’s strong arms pulled him back down. Chuckling, the now nervously excited Alastor raised his hips and fished out his cash.

“I never did ask how much.” Alastor realized.

Angel hummed, “How much ya got?”

A breathy laugh, Alastor pulling out a Jackson. Angel whined. Alastor unfolded another. Angel whined longer in a higher pitch. When he pulled out a third bill Angel pressed a kiss to his cheek and took the cash. Lying on his stomach he slid out the box, set the money within, and closed it.

“Now that that’s done.” Angel grabbed Alastor by the shoulders again and pulled him down, his strength startling. Alastor let himself be maneuvered, Angel putting his legs up and pushing his back into the pillows barely cushioning his spine from the metal headboard. Alastor didn’t say anything, just watched curiously at where this was going.

When Angel straddled him a smile pulled at his mouth. “What’s this, Angel?”

The robe opened, Alastor seeing Angel was entirely nude, a soft shine on his thighs catching the dirty yellow light of the room’s singular hanging bulb. His eyes drifted down a shaved and pale chest, a flat and toneless stomach, and a mess of bright blonde curls above a very pink and half hard cock.

“I prepared in the bathroom. And,” Angel leaned over and grabbed a small bottle, “I’m going to prepare you now, too.”

Alastor opened his mouth but Angel kept talking, “I know a guy, in case you were wonderin’. Doctor who will give anyone a lubricant prescription for enough money. Crisco is so hard to wash off…”

Angel didn’t see Alastor smirking or nodding, his hands busy undoing the other man’s buckle and pants. He found no resistance, Alastor letting him tug off his clothing until he was naked from the waist down. “Be a doll and take off your shirt and shit.” Angel poured the lubricant onto Alastor’s still very limp dick and began pumping. Alastor did as he was told, shrugging off his suit jacket and vest, then undoing his shirt and letting them all lie half behind him and half around him.

As Angel felt Alastor grow heavy in his palm and watched him become larger and longer, his mouth began to water. It was an attractive cock, two toned tan and pink. Not something he often saw. Little fantasies of choking on that length danced in his head. He nestled himself into the tan thighs and inspected Alastor for any signs of disease.

Not a blemish in sight, no growths or warts. He was clean, and Angel dared think he was even quite pretty to look at. As his foreskin drew back and his head was made bare, Angel decided to take him into his mouth. He hadn’t planned on it, but it seemed so enticing. He had to know, did he taste as sweet as he acted?

Alastor hissed, not in displeasure but from sensitivity. No one had sucked his dick in ages. He wasn’t a huge fan, but he liked watching Angel do it. His cheeks were flush, that complimentary color back. It made the light corn yellow of his hair seem to pop even brighter.

The weight of him on Angel’s tongue grew and Angel revelled in the reaction. Something about it made him feel powerful. His goal was coming to fruition.

“Glad to see you could get it up!” He teased, mood becoming light when Alastor tasted vaguely of soap.

“I’m only 40, Angel.”

“Meh sounds old. I’ll be long dead before then.” He began running his fingers along the impressive length. The other man wanted to argue how sad it was to think he’d be dead in what…a dozen odd years? But Angel moved on too quickly. “You’re packin’ more than I thought. This might actually be fun.”

Angel climbed onto Alastor and began lining him up. He was impatient now, hard and leaking from the little bit of Alastor he had in his mouth. “Don’t worry, I’m clean — and don’t let ‘em finish in me. My work rule. Condoms and all that.”

When Alastor’s slit was swiped over the lubed but still puckered entrance, Alastor clenched his eyes in response. He wasn’t sure how he’d started the day looking for someone to kill and ended up here, cock in the hands of a pretty man being rubbed along as his asshole. When Angel began the push, Alastor sat up reflexively. He felt blunt, and like the hole he was being squeezed into was not able to take him.

Angel knew better, and bit his lip in preparation for the initial pain. He hadn’t used enough fingers when he was frantically trying to get himself ready. But Angel was nothing if not ambitious. He held his breath and let his weight drop a few inches. Alastor’s hands shot to his slender hips to still him, the little cry Angel made worrying him that he’d hurt the man.

Or, that Angel had hurt himself.

Eyes wide and panicked, he felt himself go a little soft despite how tight he was being gripped. His cockhead was forced in, Angel’s hole quick to try and close again as soon as Alastor’s glands were past the rim. Using his hand to hold Alastor firm, Angel managed to fit the rest of him in.

When his balls came to rest on the curly hair above Alastor’s cock, he took a moment to breathe. Alastor hadn’t regained his erection fully, so when Angel lifted up his prize nearly folded out.

It happened sometimes– sometimes men just got caught up in the minute details of anal sex and got soft, is what Angel told himself as he tried to grind against the heated lap and bring Alastor back to life in him.

It felt good for him, soft or not the movement of his hips made himself jump with flickers of pleasure. Surely, Alastor would be hard again soon.

But when he looked up to Alastor, expecting to see a pleasured expression, he saw the man looked nearly confused. Face to face, suddenly he felt embarrassed. He felt naked and foolish.

Clearly, Alastor wasn’t into him.

Obviously, he’d made a mistake.

“What’s wrong with ya? You’re not— fuck, I get it.” Angel hurried off of him, sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. Alastor froze, unsure what had happened. Had he hurt him, after all? Or was he angry he became soft? Alastor sat up and leaned forward, moving that well tended to hair from his almost-lover’s face. “Just go. You’ve made a joke of me enough already.”

“Where’s the joke? Am I laughing?” Alastor asked softly, smile impossible to banish.

Angel grabbed his robe and bunched it into his hands, burying his face there. “If you don’t wanna fuck me then that’s fine,’I’m not some creep whose gonna make ya!” Alastor looked at him and couldn’t help but think he was quite cute when he was overreacting.

“Well you were fucking me, I think. Though, I’m not the professional here.” His hand came to rest on Angel’s shoulder. Alastor wasn’t sure where else was appropriate to touch.

Angel turned his head and gave him a sharp look. A little chill came to Alastor, it was a glare that could cut and he found that uniquely arousing.

“Would you like to try again? Come here.” He threw his legs over the side of the bed and sat beside Angel, patting his thighs, “Facing me.” Angel’s eyes looked from cock to face, then back. His pout made Alastor melt a little. Such a cute face on such a dirty boy. He took Angel’s hand and set it on his lap, “Do it like you did with the men in the movies who got mad.”

A flame flared back up in Angel’s stomach. He wrapped his fingers around the small and pliable cock and started slow and gentle, before squeezing him tighter at the base. Alastor leaned back on his palms, letting his eyes close and focus on the sensations and less on the odd situation he was in. Not that he was complaining, it was a stress relief he hadn’t turned to in ages. He felt that build up of heat in his crotch, pleasure lighting up the darkness of his closed eyes. Opening them again, he patted Angel on the hip and urged him back onto him.

“Could you help me-?” He asked, focused on trying to catch his now swollen head on the slick entrance but knowing he wasn’t sure exactly where to press in.

“Do you have much experience with men?” Angel lifted up and guided Alastor back into him. His hole was still softened, Alastor hard enough to be pushed in easily. A small pleasured sigh tumbled out as he was filled again.

Alastor hissed, still sensitive slit raking over Angel’s heated flesh from the inside. He shook his head no.

“None?” Angel sank down slowly.

“Does this count?” Alastor’s eyes were transfixed onto where he was disappearing into Angel. Rarely did he take interest in the mechanics of sex, but seeing his thick member be taken into the small frame was making his head spin.

“No,” when Angel laughed, Alastor tensed. The shaking of the chuckle reaching his core.

Fully in and feeling Angel’s heartbeat around his most sensitive area, Alaster grabbed his waist with both hands and began to roll his hips up into Angel. Not thrusting yet, he wasn’t sure how long he could last if he did.

A loud, sudden moan tore through Angel’s lips, breath rocking Alastor’s tousled hair. The sound was nice. The radio host kissed at his escort’s cheeks, feeling the warmth of his blush now against his lips. It tasted even better than it looked. His mouth moved to the side to pepper his hairline with quick pecks. It was sweet, nearly too much so for Angel. He leaned back with one hand on Alastor’s knee and changed the angle. When he found the spot he needed, he began to bounce on the stiff cock buried so deeply in him.

He hit his g-spot, moaning louder with each swipe. His head fell back, every breath now carrying another wispy moan into the otherwise silent room.

And then it happened. Alastor groaned, the feeling of his cockhead rubbing against puffy and slick walls compounded with the vision of Angel crying while he rode him made him lose his control. The sound made Angel shudder, now with both hands on Alastor’s legs he picked up his pace. He needed to hear it. He wanted more of Alastor’s noises for him.

When he hit his spot again, harder than before, his body shook and once deep moans now became high pitch and short screams. That thick cock twitched forward in his guts somewhere imprecise, making his knees draw in between their chests, feet planted on the bed.

“Does– fuck, it look like I’m mocking you,” Alastor moaned mid sentence, needing a few breaths to regain his composure, “now?”

Angel could only shake his head, focusing on his tempo.

Alastor was losing his breath. His hands took over the rhythm, pulling Angel down and toward him harder and faster as he felt his balls drawing up and near. Angel felt like hot, tight silk gliding over his cock. When he buried his head into the crook of his neck he found his skin the same — soft and luxurious to the touch. He moaned into his neck, “I’m going to finish; where?”

Angel’s arms wrapped around Alastor’s head, drawing his forehead in to rest on his, “Finish in me.”

“I thought you said that’s against your work rules. You don’t let them-.” Alastor’s eyes wandered over Angel’s shining blue irises before kissing him on the mouth. The sentence wasn’t worth finishing.

Angel returned the kiss, pulling apart to gasp out a reply. “I’m not working right now,” rushed into Alastor’s sweat covered cheek, “I was just a tour guide you already paid, remember?”

Alastor wanted to laugh, but he couldn’t control his body anymore. His lips reclaimed Angel’s and he used his often overlooked strength to fuck up into the tight, melting pleasure until his hips stuttered. His climax weakened his muscles in his thighs and stomach, only allowing another three deep thrusts as he came into the other man. Angel broke the kiss to moan Alastor’s name, the feeling of powerful and overflowing spurts of his seed filling him up. He felt warm inside and out.

After a few calming breaths, but before Angel could dismount, Alastor began stroking his still hard and leaking cock.

“What— ah, your hands are so soft.” His head fell onto Alastor’s shoulder.

He rocked his hips again, despite Alastor softening already. But as Alastor’s fingers slid over his head and spread his precum down his shaft, he started to ride again in earnest. Repositioning so his knees were on either side of Alastor’s thighs, he started fucking himself like Alastor was his newest toy. Head lolling to the side he let his mouth run, “Oh, fuck yes, daddy.”

Angel felt another twitch as Alastor hardened again in him.

“Oooh, you dirty old man!” Faster, his face smug but breaking into a pleasured slack jawed mess with each heavy hit, “Come on daddy, fuck me. Pound into me until I cum on your cock.”

“Anthony.” Alastor’s attempt at chiding was betrayed by his erection, now fully formed again and stretching Angel’s hole. He reached his lips to Angel’s, “You talk too much.”

“Then shut me up, daddy.” Their teeth hit with the clumsy, impassioned kiss. Alastor couldn’t figure out why exactly the nickname was getting him so worked up. He wasn’t a father and sure as shit didn’t think highly of them. But when Angel moaned it like it was some high praise, a singular position above him that granted him some kind of power, his heart quickened.

His hand began to stoke faster, hips thrusting up as Angel rolled his own hips forward with every meeting of skin. “Fuck me like a slut, Alastor.” Alastor could feel the carefully shaved and lotioned body tensing against him , “Use me. Be rougher.” It wasn’t a request, and Alastor loved that tone on Angel.

He fisted a handful of his hair and pulled back his neck, that hair in grip just as silken as the rest of him. Angel himself very much like the elusive fabric, his wit allowing him to glide effortlessly along Alastor’s own intellectual way of speaking and charm letting him slip through Alastor’s many attempts to know him on a deeper level.

Angel wanted something harder, and though it was out of the celibate’s wheelhouse he tried to meet expectations. Head dipped down, he let spit drip onto his pistoning hand, “You get off on being a cock sleeve, Anthony?” Watching the prim Alastor lube his cock with spit was so out of character Angel’s eyes rolled close, hole clenching tighter. “Daddy’s little slut?” Angel whimpered and nodded enthusiastically as best he could.

A moment to inspect the younger man’s face, Alastor wondering if he’d ever again see such a sight. Angel’s pristine chest and shoulders heaving, sweat sliding down his enticing neck, and mouth hanging open as he choked out his name.

“Come undone for daddy.”

A broken and strained, “Fuck!”, Angel pushing Alastor down onto the bed and riding him through the final thrusts he needed to cum. He bottomed out, knees coming to touch over Alastor’s modestly toned stomach.

His spend spilled over Alastor’s knuckles and stomach weakly, small cock twitching pitifully as it ran dry.

Leaning up on his elbows, Alastor inspected his hand. Messy. Angel patted his chest twice and dismounted, promising a speedy towel.

“Did I do that?” Alastor’s voice was quick and seemed to briefly lose its trans-atlantic pitch. There was a dark bruise on Angel’s ribs, nearly to his back, that he hadn’t seen before until the young man turned around. He gently traced his fingers along the edge and found his fingertips painted with a soft pinkish white powder.

“Oh no, ha.” Angel pulled away, slipping on his robe. When he turned back to offer the hand towel, he saw the upset worry painting Alastor’s usually smiling face. “Don’t look at me like that, I’m not some freak. I like it rough, not abusive. Just a family issue.” Eyebrows to his hairline, smile noticeably flatter, Alastor was unconvinced. “My family’s a real… uhh, tight knit one. Lots of rules and all that jazz.” Angel added.

“And this? Also… familial?” Alastor wiped away the make-up hiding a discolored wrist. Now that he knew what to look for, he was finding suspicious patches across Angel’s body.

“Ugh, that tone. Like ya pity me. Like —like, ya think I’m some victim.” He snatched the towel back and began wiping Alastor’s stomach. “This is just how things are, alright? Ya fuck up and you gotta learn to — to stop makin’ everything harder for evergone else.”

“I don’t pity you. Nothing about you is pitiful. I’m just surprised. You seem like the retaliatory type.” Alastor reached to take the towel back but was denied.

“You got that right. But no one hits back against my cousin. It’s best to just keep your head down.”

“And is that what you do? Keep your head down?” The insinuation wasn’t lost on Angel, who scowled while taking the other man’s hand and cleaning it finger by finger.

“Angel?” Alastor asked, naked and still being glared down at.

“What.” Angel set his hand down and walked to the bathroom. Alastor lied back down and let his head hang over the side of the bed, watching an upside down Angel saunter by. A vantage point he didn’t mind, eyes level with a very pert and now pink ass. Thanks to Alastor’s thighs.

“One last tour stop, before we enjoy a proper night out. If you have the time.” Angel leaned back so he could see Alastor’s face and nodded, waiting for more. “To a telegram office.” Alastor would need to let work know he’d be gone a little while longer.

⋅˚₊‧ ଳ⋆Masterlist.ೃ࿔*:･

˖ ݁𖥔.Summoning the Horny Little Deer Cult.𖥔 ݁ ˖

@eris-norwega @reath-solia @catticora , @angelicribbons , @xalygatorx

@cxrsedwxrlds , @nonetheartist , @tsunaki , @janchei , @moonmark98

, @readergirlstuff , @berry-demon , @chirimeimei , @fairyv-ice , @olive-frog ,

@thonethatflies620 , @tiredkiwiii , @ilikemyteawithmilk , @whateverlololo , @psipies

@howabouticallyou , @roxxie-wolf , @fizzled-phoenix , @star-kujo-platinum

, @a-case-of-attachment, @multifandomfanatic02 @watereddownmilk , @bontensbabygirl @smoky000

@hoebihoeshi , @pansexual-opera-house , @polytheatrix , @lorddiabigmommymilkers , @backinthefkingbuildingagain

@harley2223-blog , @poinappel , @midnightnoiserose , @spookieroz , @missmidorima ,

@ivebeenthearchersstuff , @downbadforfictionalppl , @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx , @sleepylittledemon , @aether-th3-enby

#hazel hotel #hazbin hotel smut #radiodust #kinktober 2024 #covenworks2024 #smut coven #hazbin hotel fanfiction

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galateaknife · 7 months

Text

Supernatural Wincest Reclist:

All stories here are over (roughly) 30k words, written before 2020, not frequently recommended these days (as far as I can tell), unearthed from various storage areas on my computer, and end with Sam and Dean together.

Please mind any tags and author-written descriptions.

If a story says (podfic available) underneath it, that means that I have a copy of the podfic. Feel free to dm me for a file.

I hope you find something new to enjoy here!

Under my skin by yourkidney. ~31k words. Post-S1. Ghost-induced mind meld.

https://yourkidney.livejournal.com/27595.html

(podfic available)

Chains of Babylon by poisontaster. ~43k words. Post-S1 futurefic. Dean is trapped in an evil mental institution.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/5721952

(podfic available)

Turn of the Wheel series by gekizetsu. ~111k words. Vague S2. There’s a war between the elements, and Sam and Dean get caught in the crossfire.

https://amalthia.mediawood.org/ebooks/viewstory.php?sid=127

This is Ourselves (Under Pressure) by clex_monkie89. ~30k words. Post 2x12. On the run from the FBI.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/230040

(podfic available)

The Things We Carry With Us by lovesrain44. ~48k words. Late S2. Dean thinks that Sam needs to get laid.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/267862

(if anyone has a copy of this podfic lmk, I lost mine a couple laptops ago.)

Black Velocities and Shining Movements by dimeliora. ~40k words. Late S2 AU. Sam is seriously injured, and something is seriously wrong.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/19454164

Swear By All Flowers by sweetestdrain. ~37k words. Post-S2. Sam’s out of the game, and Dean is cursed.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/18507

(podfic available)

Crush by sonofabiscuit77. ~61k words. AU from mid S3. Partially outsider POV. Dean owns a mechanic shop and Sam teaches.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/826173

(if anyone has a copy of this podfic, I’ve lost mine)

Threefold Path series by rei_c. ~182k words. Alternate end to S3. Sam gets Dean out of his deal. It changes everything.

https://archiveofourown.org/series/1581844

I’d Gladly Lose Me To Find You by flawedamythyst. ~36k words. Post S3. Sam makes a vow of silence to save his brother.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/2215497

(podfic available)

And So Awakens Devils by concernedlily. ~59k words. Alternate S4. Sam ends the world.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/190731

Not Time’s Fool by FayJay. ~58k words. Mid S4. Dean gets turned into a girl.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/4720

(I’ve also lost my copy of this podfic and would appreciate another copy)

The incestuous courtship of the antichrist’s bride by fleshflutter. ~48k words. Post-S4 AU. A classic.

https://fleshflutter.livejournal.com/102268.html

(podfic available)

As Through a Glass and Darkly by lexicale. ~118k words. Preseries and S1-5 AU with Hindu mythology instead of Christian.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/524025/chapters/927238

Hidden by AxeMeAboutAxinomancy. ~79k words. S6 Daemon!AU. Sam’s back from hell but daemon is missing.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/9488537

(podfic available)

Tornado Warning by dear_tiger. ~28k words. Early S6. Sam is walking around without a soul, and a man with no memory gets a job at a butcher shop.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/475602

Choir of Furies by Atanih88. ~32k words. Late S6. Sam’s wall has sprung a leak.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/221544

(podfic available)

Another Brick in the Wall by road_rhythm. ~170k words. Late S6. Sam disappears. Dean searches for him. Sam tries to survive.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/3207755

The Allegory of the Cave by Jay Tryfanstone. ~36k words. Post-S6. Memories and emotions and a hunt in New York City.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/488058

(podfic available)

Absolute Zero by pixymisa and selecasharp. ~61k words. Post-S8 AU. Sam closed the gates of Hell, and now he can’t die and can’t wake up.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/4156011

Sam Winchester’s Guide to Blood Magic, or How the Rockies Were Made by badbastion, thursdaysisters. ~46k words. S9AU. The apocalypse everyone forgot.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/4147914

(podfic available)

The Partisan by nigeltde. ~39k words. Mid S9. Post-Gadreel claustrophobia and restlessness.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/2049891

The Babel Fish Has Forsaken Us by orphan_account (indiachick). ~34k words. Late S9 AU. Phantasmagoria.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/2146206

a long hard day, a long hard night by deadlybride. ~39k words. Post-S9. Dean’s body disappeared. Sam gets him back.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/16475585

Apophenia by MeltinSkelton. ~149k words. S10 or thereabouts. There’s a hunt and human evil in a town by Austin. Mutual pining and fever dreams, with a side of pining Cas.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/17274647/chapters/40624721

Baba O’Riley and Eleanor Rigby walk into a bar by thecapn. ~33k words. The only non-hunting AU I’m likely to ever recommend.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/27906127

Captured by the Game by rivkat. ~54k words. Raised apart AU. Azazel sends Sam to gain the confidence of Dean Winchester.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/1389

(podfic available)

#spn #supernatural #fanfic reclist #wincest #wincest recs #longfic recs

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caramelcoffeeaddict · 1 month

Text

The Cute Guy From The Bar [Klaine Fanfiction]

Relationships: Blaine Anderson/Kurt Hummel Characters: Blaine Anderson, Kurt Hummel Chapters: 1/1 [Complete] Word Count: 4,300 Rating: Teen&Up Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Alcohol Summary:

A few days after moving to New York, Kurt decided to explore the city but ended up getting lost. He doesn't know anyone else in the city, so when he sees the name "Cute Guy From The Bar" in his phone, Kurt calls him for help. Luckily, Blaine is more than willing to be Kurt's personal tour guide around New York.

Original Post Date: August 2024 A/N: just a short little one-shot. hope you enjoy it :)

READ ON AO3

#klaine #klaine fanfiction #klaine fic #glee fanfiction #kiwi's writing #fic: tcgftb

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lodeddiperactivate · 1 year

Text

Part 3 High Society | Prowler!Miles Morales x Reader

Part 1, Part 2

Summary: Rich UES reader meets Prowler!Miles at a high society NYC event where Miles was working as a waiter. Reader took an interest in Miles but couldn't hide the fact that they were raised differently, having anything handed to them on a silver platter. Miles, on the other hand, was very hot and cold with the reader, considering he's secretly the vigilante Prowler, and most likely hates those that are in power. With the reader's family being one of the most powerful (and corrupt) families in NYC, Miles struggles with his interactions with the reader. Obv, he has a soft spot for the reader.

After you and Miles had finished your food, it seems that both of you had decided to walk back to campus. The walk back was quiet. Neither of you talked. Miles did not even look at you. You, on the other hand, were eyeing him from your periphery, trying to decipher what's going on in Miles' head. To say the least, Miles had piqued your interest, and all you wanted to do was to get to know him more. Aside from when he placed his hand on your lower back to guide you away from rushing cars on the side of the road, the only physical contact you two had made was when you were at the restaurant.

By the time you had reached campus, it was already dark. It seems that Miles had no plans of talking to you (or even fulfilling his plans of "showing you what he was capable") when you felt that he was already walking away towards the bus stops. Hot and cold much? You were frustrated by the inconsistencies in his actions. Never have you met someone who did not follow the usual etiquette of high society, but you couldn't help but entertain the possibility of you and Miles having any physical relationship.

Miles must've felt when you stopped walking all of a sudden. You were in deep thought about how your life is so different from Miles. Yours, handed on a silver platter with no say in things that matter the most in your life. Him, having to work hard to provide yet having all the freedom in the world. You started to question everything, and all you felt was that maybe Miles had the answers.

You were so deep in thought, you did not realize Miles had walked up to you. He was standing in front of you. New York City was particularly chilly that night, and you can see the cold air both of you were breathing out.

"What do you want to do?" Miles had asked. You weren't sure what to say.

"I don't know." You looked down at your shoes when you felt Miles' hand cupped your face, forcing you to look up at him, to meet his lips with yours.

You did not expect a kiss with Miles to be soft, gentle, and even to a certain point, calculated. His lips were careful not to invade anything. But you were sure you wanted him so you opened your mouth invitingly, letting your tongues wrestle. It was an alternate between kissing, licking, and sucking. You were sure that at one point, you had moaned into his mouth. You reached to tug on his coat and pull him even closer. Miles took this as a chance to start kissing you harder, and much more needier. By the end of the kiss, you were gasping for air.

"You can do whatever you want," Miles finally said, as if that was the only green light you were waiting to start living your life according to your rules. You smiled back and thanked him.

That night, you lie awake in your bed. After the kiss, Miles had offered to walk you back to your townhouse in the Upper East Side but since you were preparing for an upcoming exam, you were actually staying near campus on the West Side. It was one of your family's properties, and it was a decent-sized one-bedroom apartment.

You decided to watch TV to get yourself sleepy, and you landed on the news channel. There was a recent robbery in Brooklyn and the robbers took a bunch of medicine. Apparently, the main suspect is actually the vigilante Prowler. With the current situation in NYC, you don't blame people like the Prowler. In fact, you hoped that this raise awareness to how shitty the government is.

You turned off the TV with a resigned sigh. Big words coming from someone who hasn't worked a day in their life. You went to the kitchen to pour yourself a glass of water, when you heard a loud thump in your room. When you've gotten to your room, the window was open. You didn't think much of it, telling yourself that maybe you just forgot to closed it earlier.

You decided to lie back down, and this time, really try to sleep. Your mind started to wander to the events earlier that day. The kiss. Miles. What happened at the restaurant. His hands in between your thighs. You remembered how wet and needy you were. You wanted him right then and there.

All this reminiscing made you feel hot. Your hands started to roam all over your body. You were wearing a silk night dress which provided you with easy access. Your one hand had found your nipples and you gently pinched one of them through the fabric, allowing a soft moan to escape your lips. Your other hand found itself wandering between your thighs. You started to massage your inner thighs, and you can feel your own wetness. You couldn't help it but you started calling out Miles' name. You allowed yourself to imagine him, his hands all over your body. His mouth on the nape of your neck, and his strong arms wrapping around your body.

You had not realized that there was another presence in your room because you were so caught up in your own libido, that the only time you snapped out of your trance was when you heard your name - in Miles' voice.

"Y/N" His voice was so soft you almost couldn't hear it.

"Miles?" Your mind froze but your hands stayed where they were. One on your chest, the other between your thighs. You sat up from your bed, and strained to see the figure at the corner of your room. The only light was from the moon outside coming in through your open window.

When Miles had finally stepped out of the shadows, that's when you started to panic. You never thought that there was actually someone in your apartment right now. The building is highly secured so you wonder how he was able to get in. Through the windows? Heck, you lived on the 22nd floor! You had sat up and attempted to cover yourself with the blanket.

"Miles? What are you doing here? How did you get in here?"

"Hmm? The window," he said non-chalantly. You started to get nervous.

"Miles," you said, nervousness evident in your voice, "I'm on the 22nd floor." You said with more conviction this time, as if mentioning the floor you were in will make Miles realize how stupid his statement was.

Miles had just looked at you, as he had slowly walked up to you. Only now have you realized that he had bruises and that he was sweating. He seem fatigued.

"What happened?" You were no longer nervous but concerned.

"I ran into some problems back in Brooklyn," he said plainly. "I needed a place to stay." He walked over and sat at the edge of your bed. You sat beside him and surveyed his body. No major bruises, only a few cuts here there. It did not seem that he got these from a fight but more like from escaping somewhere.

"Stay here. I have first aid kit somewhere-" you mentioned as you stood up, but Miles held your arm and asked you to stay.

"No, I'm fine. Just stay here," he paused. "Please."

You sat down next to him, and your next instinct was to hug him. He hugged you back, and both of you were like this for quite some time. You were both sitting up and after awhile, he slowly leaned back, lying down on your bed. His eyes were closed and he was trying to catch his breath. You allowed him to regain his strength, and after a few more moments, he spoke.

"So Y/N," he said as you looked at him. "What were you doing before I got here?" He asked, now with a faint smirk on his face. You were confused for a second but realized what he was pertaining to. At this point, you no longer questioned how the hell he got into your apartment. No, the burning question is that was he here when your were masturbating and calling out his name? From the looks of it, he was! Terror was evident in your face, and pure embarassment.

"Don't be embarassed. I knew you couldn't resist, Mami," he said as he reached out to stroke your lap.

"What I mind," he said as he shifted all his weight on you so that your back is lying down with him hovering on top of you, "is that you're enjoying yourself," his hands started to roam your inner thighs, moving upward to your already wet pussy, "without me being present to witness this." As soon as Miles had said "this", he had twisted his finger to move your panties to the side and feel all of your wetness. You even gasped at the contact with his warm hands.

"Miles," you breathed and moaned his name into his ear.

"Yes?" he said, kissing your neck and sucking on it lightly.

"Please, I want you." You were surprised you were able to form a coherent response.

"You want this?" Miles asked as he inserted a finger in you, and another one, and had started pumping it in and out while you struggle to catch your breath.

"Uh-huh," was your only response.

"You're so wet for me, Mami."

"Miles, you're...so...good to me." Miles responded with a smirk on his face. At this point, you've allowed your hands to roam his body and slowly removed any remaining piece of clothing between the two of you. Every now and then, you'll press too hard on one of Miles' bruises which you still don't know where he got it from, and you'll apologize, only to be silenced by Miles kissing you hard on the mouth.

"Miles?"

"Yes, Y/N?"

"Can I.."

"What is it?"

"Can I ride you?" You muttered, slightly embarassed by your question. But ever since you had met Miles, you had always wanted to feel him inside you while you were on top.

"Of course, mi princesa," and with one smooth motion, you were straddling Miles. Your hands on his chest for support, and his hands on your waist for further guidance. You leaned in for a kiss which Miles greatly reciprocated with an additional light slap on your ass that made you gasped mid-kiss.

Miles positioned the tip of his cock near your entrance, as you slowly lowered yourself on him. Every inch filled you up, it was driving you crazy. You had dug your nails in his chest while his steady hands remained on your waist, guiding you further to take more of him.

After a few moments, you had allowed yourself to take him fully and you were swaying your hips side to side, forward to backward. At this point, you were using Miles' cock to pleasure yourself, and Miles was definitely not complaining. You hear him moan your name again and again, especially when you would switch up your motions.

"Fuck, Y/N, you're gonna make me cum," Miles said as he pulled you closer to him so he can suck on your nipples.

"Shit, Miles, yeah, just like that, please."

"Hmm baby, you taste so good."

With you riding him, Miles sucking your nipples, his occassional ass slapping, and the fact that he was very verbal about how you're gonna make him cum, it was only a matter of time, when you felt your own release coming. Your legs were shaking, and Miles knew that you were close.

At this point, Miles was matching your movements, and he was thrusting upward, meeting yours. Your mind was going blank, and Miles had pulled you closer to whisper how much of a slut you are and how needy you are, and how he was planning to destroy your pussy every chance he gets.

"That's right, Y/N, this pussy's mine."

"Yes!"

"Come on, tell me what you want."

"Please, I want you to cum in me."

"Oh baby."

"Say my name, Y/N, say it!"

"Miles, Miles, I'm gonna cum!"

Both you and Miles had cummed at the same time. It took a while after both of your release for one or the other to move from the original position. Miles was the first to lay you down beside him. You were still exhausted, and you had curled up into a ball beside him while he stroked your hair and back.

After that, guessed you must've fallen asleep, because the next thing you knew was that it was morning. Miles was sound asleep beside you, with his back to you, rising and falling slowly. You wrapped your arms around his waist, and you allowed yourself to spoon him for a couple of minutes, when you felt him move to face you.

"Good morning," you said.

"Good morning," he replied. "What do you want for breakfast?"

ATSV masterlist

#prowler x reader #prowler!miles #earth 42 miles fluff #earth 42 prowler #earth 42 miles x you #earth 42 miles x reader #earth 42 miles angst #earth 42 miles morales x female reader #earth 42 miles morales x reader #earth 42 miles morales x you #prowler miles #prowler miles smut #high society prowler miles #miles morales prowler #into the spider verse #across the spiderverse #high society

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sarahowritesostucky · 4 months

Text

📖"Alpha, Beta (& Omega)"

Rated: Explicit

Chapter Rating: Teen

Word Count: 5616

Pairing: Steve x Bucky

Tags: a/b/o, arranged marriage, enemies to lovers, nobility/royalty au, alternate history, dom/sub elements, beta bucky, anal sex, oral sex, hurt/comfort, first time, age gap, domestic discipline, spanking, head of household, wedding night, Edwardian time period, m/f/m poly marriage

Summary: To save House Barnes from scandalous ruin, James must agree to a contracted marriage, accepting Lord Senator Steven Rogers as his Alpha, Husband, and Headship.

To read previous parts of this series first, go to the story's masterlist

18. A Settling In

This Chapter: “Give me time, Beta. One way or another, I’m going to change the way you see things, I promise. I’m going to show you just what you are to me.”

Returning to New York is a relief. Ever since being thrown into this marriage with Steve, the two of them have been constantly traveling, first overseas and then back again. Being back on the familiar streets of New York City feels to Bucky like the first time he’s had his feet on solid ground since the cruise liner departed for England nearly a month ago. Finally, he might be able to gain his bearings. Or at least begin to.

“This is it,” Steve says, while he’s got a hand at the small of Bucky’s back and is guiding him up the front steps of the brownstone. “Home sweet home.” There’s an air of eagerness to him, as if he’s anxious for Bucky to approve of the place they’ll be living together.

Bucky lets himself be led inside, too busy taking it all in to bother saying anything about being led around like some dimwit housewife. The house’s air is a warm relief as they enter the front foyer with Sharon and Pietro at their backs, the latter shutting out the fall weather and the former setting down only some of their considerable amount of luggage. The rest will have to be brought in from the car in subsequent trips.

Steve thanks the butler who appears to take their jackets, and Bucky mutters a quiet thanks as well. He glances to Steve, looking for direction. There are more than a few other servants gathered down the hall, back by the kitchen. Bucky catches sight of a couple of them peeking around the door. He feels a blush creep up his neck at the obvious way they’re all staring at him, some even whispering excitedly. “Steve?” he asks.

“I’ll get them sorted,” Steve says, patting him on the shoulder. “Why don’t you look around, huh? Get comfortable. I’ll catch up with you in a bit.”

“Okay.” Bucky watches him go. A man like Steve will of course have a Household staff of no less than a dozen. He watches Steve’s back disappear into the kitchen, the uniforms of the servants moving out of sight as the few that were peeking out at Bucky go back to assemble for Steve’s instructions. Someone unseen swings the kitchen door closed from the other side. Bucky turns away, heading for the main parlor.

Left to explore on his own, he pokes around the first floor, learning the house like a new acquaintance. Dark wood, fine carpets, hearths in every room. The fires aren’t lit, but he can see how this place has the potential for warmth. This is likely where they’re going to live for the rest of their marriage, Bucky realizes. Egging Steve into a divorce seems less and less a realistic possibility these days, and the more Bucky tours the house and realizes what a home it really is—and how much more it could be, if he lets Steve make a life with him here—the more he starts to imagine himself maybe finding some sort of … contentment, in that life.

On the second level of the house, the master bedroom and two additional spousal bedrooms are all immaculately furnished, but Steve’s bed is the only one that’s been made up, the other two mattresses left naked. Bucky wonders if Steve left that direction for the servants. Does his husband expect them to sleep together every night?

The thought makes Bucky feel warm despite himself. Most spouses of Society use separate bedrooms. Sharing a room is really something more common among, well, commoners. Or love matches.

Steve had said he loved him the other night. Twice.

Biting his lip, Bucky trails up the stairs to the third floor, finding guest quarters and what he knows would most likely be utilized as a nursery, once such a space was needed. Not ready to think about a house full of children, he closes the nursery door and bypasses the chance to examine the servants’ quarters on the attic level. He goes back downstairs and finds Steve in the kitchen, the staff having just been dismissed. Jarvis affords a polite greeting as he passes, and Bucky is glad to see a familiar face. “Hi, Jarvis,” he says.

“Sir.” Somehow, the driver seems to smile without really moving his mouth much. “Off to park the car.”

Steve turns to Bucky once they’re alone. “So? What do you think of the place?”

“I can see why it’s your favorite residence,” Bucky says. He looks about the kitchen. Even this room is nice. Finely appointed, but still homey. The kitchen is arranged around a long central work table, with a thick wooden top that looks like it’s been in such service for a century. The house’s original cooking hearth is still there, side by side with the modern ovens. Windows above the sinks let in light from the street level, and somewhere along the line, someone has painted the icebox blue. “I like it,” Bucky says. “It’s very comfortable and homey. Not at all like your parents’—” he cuts himself off, realizing his mistake. “Oh—I mean…”

Steve chuckles. “It’s okay, you can say it: It’s not at all like my parents’ stuffy mansion, hm?”

Bucky nods, remembering the silk wallpaper and hard-stuffed settees from the small wedding reception Steve’s fathers had hosted; how the marble floors had gleamed and the crystal chandeliers had been without a speck of dust. “That’s not to say that their Household isn’t beautiful. It is,” he hedges, not wanting to insult Steve’s childhood home. Lord knows he’s probably attached to the place. But Steve only smiles at him.

“It’s a display of our status, I know. The requisite main residence with all the appropriate finishings.” He sighs and steps closer to Bucky, holding him at the waist and pecking a kiss to his forehead. “But certainly not my style. I bought this house after the war.”

“When you were still single?” Bucky asks. “That’s not a very common thing to do, buy a great big house when it’s just you.”

He watches as something tightens in Steve’s expression. The alpha nods. “Yes, I know. Coming home was … hard. I just wanted to go back to normal life. Family life held more appeal than ever.” He twists his lips. “But then my mother died.”

“Oh.”

“So I figured I should take steps toward forming my own Household. I threw myself into searching for a property, curated a staff, started paying closer attention to the families of Society and their … inquiries.”

‘Inquiries’, Bucky knows, is Steve’s polite way of referencing other people’s romantic pursuits. “You had many?” he asks, trying to sound nonchalant instead of jealous or overly interested.

Steve’s faint smile shows that he sees right through him. “Yes. I’m sure my parents had been fielding requests since before I even came of age.”

“I’m sure.” Bucky refrains from rolling his eyes. Logically, he’s always known that Steve was one of the nation’s most eligible bachelors. Before their marriage, he would’ve undoubtedly gotten dozens upon dozens of young men and women scrambling to secure a courtship with him. He’dve had his pick of some of the most beautiful, wealthy, and influential betas and omegas in American Society, plus standouts from the bourgeoisie and the elected, and perhaps even European nobility. All of them clamoring to make themselves the most attractive match for Captain Lord Steven Grant of House Rogers, Senator of New York.

All that choice, and look what he’s settled for. Bucky can’t understand it. “So what made you pick me, then?” he asks, eyes diverted to somewhere down around the level of Steve’s tie. “My mother’s letters couldn’t have held more persuasion than the next person’s?”

Steve hooks a finger under his chin and uses it to tip his face up. He eyes Bucky kindly, if somewhat patronizingly. “Your situation was unique,” he says.

“Ah, yes.” Bucky purses his lips. “Our ‘situation’. You felt sorry for me.”

“Yes, but I certainly wouldn’t have married you just for that,” Steve says, surprising Bucky. He looks pleased with himself when Bucky gapes. “What?” he says. “Did you think you were merely a charity case?”

“Well then what else?” Bucky blurts. “I mean marrying me was the farthest thing from a shrewd political move, and my looks haven’t exactly stood the test of time.”

He regrets it as soon as the words are past his lips, because Steve’s entire countenance darkens. He presses even closer to Bucky, crowding him against the kitchen’s countertop. “Hey. I told you I don’t like to hear talk like that,” he scolds, tone displeased and hands firm on Bucky’s body.

“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs. “Sure.”

“I mean it Buck. Look at me.” Steve waits until he has Bucky’s attention before he continues. “It hurts me. A lot.”

“What? The truth?” Bucky’s pushing it, he knows he is. But he can’t help himself from turning up a defiant chin at Steve. “It is.”

“Not to me it isn’t. And you know I hate hearing you talk about yourself that way. Your body is scarred. That doesn’t make you ugly.”

“I’m crippled,” Bucky sneers. “It is ugly.”

Steve’s hand appears at his face, lightning fast, gripping his jaw. “You’re not to talk about yourself this way,” he says, voice full of authority, a Headship’s voice. “And since you can’t seem to heed my requests on the matter, I’m making it a new rule in our marriage.”

Bucky’s eyes widen. “I—”

“You will not talk disparagingly about your arm, or your scars, or your abilities. Understand?”

Steve is so stern and adamant, it's out of character for him. Bucky frowns, taken aback. “I can if I want to.”

But Steve shakes his head. “No. It’s an order, Bucky. From your Alpha. Your Headship. If you disobey me, I’ll discipline you.” His eyes are imploring as they search Bucky’s face. “Do you understand?”

Bucky gulps, feeling trapped. “How?”

“What?”

“How will you discipline me?”

Steve releases his face and takes a step back from him, looking as if he’s mulling it over, not having thought this far ahead. Bucky waits, honestly wanting to know. All he can think about is why the heck Steve seems so freakishly invested in his injuries and insisting they aren't as bad as they are. “I suppose it depends on how willful you are,” he finally says. "But for most things, I'd spank you."

Bucky's belly swoops at that, and he can't help but think of that night in the hotel room in Turkey. "With your hand, though," he checks. "Right?"

Steve softens and steps close again. "Yes, Buck. Usually just my hand."

Bucky nods, unwilling to argue about it. He feels oddly mollified by Steve’s threat of punishment, and he wishes that he hadn’t pushed the issue with him. "Kay," he says quietly.

"So you understand the rule?" Steve checks. "No more being disparaging about your injuries."

Bucky winces. “I ... can’t help how I feel about it."

"Bucky,"

"But I’ll try not to talk that way. Around you.”

Steve’s eyes get sad, but he doesn’t admonish him any further. “That’s all I ask,” he says, reaching up to stroke his cheek. “Thank you, Sweetheart.”

Bucky tucks his lips in, shy. “Mhm.”

“Hey,” Steve thumbs his nose playfully. “You gonna be mad at me now?”

“No.”

“Good.” Outside on the street, a passing car horn blares loudly, and then several other horns sound, followed by colorful shouting. Steve’s eyebrows rise and Bucky snorts. The thin-paned windows over the kitchen sink face the city street. “Brooklyn,” Steve says. “Gotta love it.”

“How do your fathers feel about it?”

“Oh they were proud to see me starting off on my own. Sad to have me go, but that’s normal enough. I think my mother might have objected to the neighborhood and lack of grandeur, but she’d passed by then so …” he shrugs. “This is home.”

Bucky hums, thinking about that. He’s reminded all over again how young Steve was when he assumed the full responsibility of his position. “Well,” he says. “I do like it.”

“That’s good.” Steve kisses his hair, looking pleased. “I want you to be happy here. This is your house too, now.”

“Mm.” Bucky knows that’s not really true. Everything is Steve’s under the law. Even Bucky himself is now property of House Rogers. But he’s in a good enough mood to ignore that reality and tease Steve, “Does that mean I get to decorate however I want?”

"Oh dear. What are you planning for my house?" The corners of Steve’s eyes crinkle in that attractive way that forebodes future wrinkles. “Of course, Buck. However you like. I trust you."

"You do?"

He smiles. "Sure. You’re the Lady of the manor, as it were, until further notice.” Bucky scowls and pinches him, though they both know Steve only said it to push his buttons. “I’ve hardly spent time here at all since assuming the seat. It’ll be nice to settle in together.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Steve pecks a kiss to his forehead and steps away. “Don’t be grumpy at me now. You know I was just teasing. You’re Lord of the manor, same as me. We’ll leave all the frip and frill to whatever poor dame winds up getting stuck with us, yeah?” Bucky watches as Steve leaves the kitchen nonchalantly, calling back from out in the hall, “I’m going upstairs to put my clothes away. I’m too picky to let the servants do it.”

Bucky knows that’s an invitation for him to come up and do the same with his own belongings, but he lingers in the kitchen for a few moments longer, running Steve’s words through his head.

‘Dame,’ Steve had said. It isn’t the slang that’s caught Bucky’s attention. He’s just now realizing that Steve has never really expressed a preference for their future omega in any fashion, let alone one for what sex they might be.

Bucky pushes off the counter and sets off to follow after Steve—since in all honesty, he’d like to be the one to unpack his personal things as well. He enters the master bedroom and finds Steve taking hats out of their hat boxes and tucking them away. He brightens when he sees Bucky. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Bucky goes over to start on his own things, but pauses, unable to keep from asking, “So, when you picture us with our Third …” He waits. Steve glances up in surprise. “Do you imagine a woman?” Bucky asks. “Or a man?”

Steve sets down the next hat he’d picked up, coming around to the same side of the bed as Bucky. He’s watching him carefully. “I’ve … avoided talking about this with you,” he says. “I didn’t think it was something you cared to think about right now.”

Bucky averts his eyes, embarrassed because Steve is right: he’s been incredibly hostile, if not downright immature, about the topic of bringing a third into their marriage. “Sorry,” he mutters. “It’s not that I think it’s bad. I mean, everybody wants a complete marriage.”

Steve sighs. He pushes Bucky’s suitcase aside on the bed and sits down, reaching to pull Bucky forward by both wrists. Bucky steps into the vee of his legs, staring down at the tops of his thighs, rather than meet his gaze. “But you didn’t want this marriage at all,” Steve says, voicing what Bucky has told him in the past. Oddly, Bucky can barely bring himself to nod at Steve’s words. “Are your feelings changing at all, now?” Steve asks. His thumbs stroke gently over the backs of Bucky’s hands. “Hm?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says softly. “A little.”

Steve makes a noise of understanding. “And now here we are talking about our Third? About complete marriages?” He chuckles. “You move fast, husband.”

Bucky’s eyes flick up to Steve’s, peevish. “Just asking your preference,” he mutters. “No harm in that.”

The teasing slips from Steve’s eyes. “No,” he agrees. “No harm in that.” He pulls Bucky even closer, holding him by the middle and running his hands absently over the silk backing of his waistcoat. “Tell me then,” he says. “What did you imagine for yourself, when you were a little boy?”

Bucky falters. “W-what?”

Steve grins teasingly again, and damn him, but it’s a good look on him. “Come on, you know: when you were very small. Before you matured and let the world make you into such an ornery, uncrackable nut.” He knocks painlessly at Bucky’s temple, eliciting another scowl. “Did you play with dolls?”

“Dolls are for omegas.” It’s a statement, not a denial. Bucky grew up with three omega sisters and was often roped into their games. Steve has probably figured as much.

“What did you imagine?” he presses, not to be put off. He leans in and kisses Bucky’s cheek placatingly, one side and then the other. “Come on, tell me.” He kisses his temple, the spot just in front of his ear. “Were there two boy dolls in your triads, hm? Or were there three?” He kisses the other side of Bucky’s face, and Bucky, just because he’s getting so flustered from Steve’s light touches and even lighter words, throws out a breathy,

“What if I said there were two girl dolls? Huh?”

Steve sits back, eyebrow raised. “Well? Were there?”

The insinuation is, of course, that Bucky could’ve grown up imagining himself with a female omega and a female alpha. But he folds quickly under Steve’s attention, shaking his head and admitting, “No. I … I usually imagined three boy dolls, I guess.”

Steve hums. “Is that what you’d prefer, then? A young man joining our marriage one day?”

Bucky shrugs. “I dunno.”

“I’m not pressuring you Bucky. Just asking.”

“I know.” Bucky huffs, embarrassed at himself. He’s the one who brought this up, after all. He forces himself to meet Steve’s eyes once again. “What about you?” he asks. “What do you prefer?” Bucky knows that as Headship to their marriage, Steve will be the one to get the final say on who they bring in as their Third.

“I like both,” Steve says. “Though I suppose my imagination tends towards men, since I grew up with my father in that role.”

Bucky nods, remembering Steve’s more outgoing omega father, how kind and welcoming he’d been at their wedding reception. “I see.” He thinks back to that day on the ship when he caught Steve looking at a young omega man over breakfast. He’d been jealous at the time, but now he tries to imagine the omega here with them, a part of their marriage. He imagines Steve giving him his attention, imagines the three of them in bed together. He feels his face heat as he thinks of what it would be like, to get his chance with the omega.

“Buck?” Steve is smiling a little at him. “You like the idea?”

“Maybe,” Bucky admits. “But I also …” he trails off.

“What?” Steve pulls him closer. Bucky’s knees hit the bed and he has the urge to climb up on Steve’s lap. “Tell me,” Steve says. “But you also what?”

Bucky sighs and figures, why not just be honest? It isn’t like he hasn’t told Steve too much already. “I dunno. I guess maybe it makes me a little jealous, too.” He peeks at Steve, trying to gauge his reaction. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “It’s stupid.”

“Oh, Honey. No, it’s not.” Steve does pull him up on the bed, then, scooting back and pulling Bucky along with him until they’re both laid out on their sides facing each other. He holds Bucky close by the lower back, one leg hooking over his. “Why should you be jealous, huh?”

“I … it’s stupid, but I think about you having an omega and how maybe then … maybe then you wouldn’t want me or … or at least not need me as much.” Bucky pushes his face into the covers, trying to escape Steve’s scrutiny.

“Oh, Buck,” Steve says solemnly. “You’re right.”

Bucky tenses up.

“That is stupid.” Steve’s fingers dig in harder at his sides, pulling him against his body. He slots a leg forward; firm, thick thigh muscle pressing against Bucky’s crotch possessively. “Open your eyes and look at me,” he Voices, no nonsense. “Stop avoiding me.”

Bucky opens his eyes, not having realized that he’d shut them in the first place. Steve looks … determined. “M’sorry,” Bucky mumbles.

“Stop saying that,” Steve commands. “Bucky, I want to know where on earth you got these ideas put in your head that Betas are somehow inferior, or unimportant.”

Bucky squirms. “I dunno.”

“I mean your parents are an Alpha–Beta pair. They never took a third and they’ve had a long marriage, so what gives?”

Bucky frowns. “My father never stopped looking. I think he and my mother courted several engagements, but nothing ever came of them.”

“I see.”

“My father ��” He hesitates. “Well he um, he kept other Households.” Bucky sees how Steve’s face sets to stone in understanding. He remembers how Steve had once told him over a heated game of chess, that he wasn’t the sort to take lovers on the side. “All with omegas,” he admits quietly. “Outside of Society, but even still. It was like once he found them, he didn’t want my mother anymore. They weren’t the same.”

“How old were you when this was going on?” Steve asks.

Bucky shrugs. “Thirteen maybe? Or at least, that’s when I was old enough to notice.”

Steve sighs. He looks disappointed. “So right when you were hitting puberty then.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Bucky.” Steve looks at him meaningfully. “Right when you were maturing as a Beta? What kind of message do you think that sent you?” Bucky’s lips part, but he doesn’t answer. He’s never thought of this before, but Steve’s words make sense. Steve must see him mulling it over, because he huffs and turns them, rolling over top of Bucky and looking down at him from the new position. “I’m sorry,” he says. “But you’re wrong. Your feelings about what it means to be Beta are all wrong.” He kisses him once, softly, then pulls back. “I want to show you that. I … I need to show you that.”

Bucky feels his chest squeeze a little tighter at Steve’s earnestness. “How are you gonna do that?” he asks.

Steve lowers down to rest their foreheads together, sighing. On either side of Bucky, he finds his hands and twines their fingers together. “I don’t know,” he admits. “But I’m going to.” He kisses him again, this time longer and deeper, a kiss with real intent. He doesn’t pull back until Bucky parts for him on a sigh. He skims their lips together, the barest touch, his breath warm against Bucky’s skin. “Give me time, Beta. One way or another, I’m going to change the way you see things, I promise. I’m going to show you just what you are to me.”

They christen their marriage bed that afternoon, and in Bucky’s opinion it’s a very good start.

Over the course of the next few weeks, life settles into a sort of normalcy. Steve is out and about the city for work most days, and Bucky is kept busy by the servants—namely Sharon, who is the housekeeper. She presents Bucky with a list of duties that, as Steve’s only spouse, now fall on him. There’s far more to do than Bucky would have expected, and plenty to keep his mind off of any real desire to leave the house himself. At least for a little while.

Steve’s brownstone is a fine, handsome house, but it hasn’t been furnished properly. Too many corners and drawers have been neglected and left empty. Bucky’s first task, Sharon informs him, is to select the silver and china that the Household will use. The expense is daunting, but once he brings it up to Steve on their third night in bed and the alpha laughs and gives him permission to buy whatever he finds suitable for their home, Bucky feels better about it.

Houses of Society need personalized stationery, Sharon says, so Bucky orders some. He approves menus from the head Household cook (Steve has four kitchen staff, imagine!). He touches base with the gardener and is told to think about what he might want planted in the back garden and the front platers in the spring. Furniture must be bought, and Bucky has a rushed education on all the sorts of tables there are—console and high tables, coffee and end, sofa and side, card, dining, banquet, bedside, occasional, atrium. Too many types.

One room in the house that is already furnished to completion is the house’s second drawing room. It’s smaller than the main one, tucked away in a less trafficked part of the house. Bucky can tell by the cramped, comfortable layout of the room that it is probably intended only for family use, not for receiving guests. He likes it instantly. There are no windows, making it feel even more like a private hideaway. There’s a silver parlor stove instead of a hearth, and a spinet piano tucked into one corner.

Bucky’s attention is drawn to the piano despite himself, the urge to play coming unbidden. It’s only an upright piano, nothing like the grand instrument Bucky used to practice on back home. He hasn’t sat at one in years …

Quickly glancing back at the room’s door, he thinks about how Steve is out of the house. And Sharon was the only domestic home earlier, but Bucky remembers she said she was leaving for the day. So he’s alone. It wouldn’t hurt to give it a try, would it?

Scoffing at his own hesitance, he makes up his mind and strides over to the bench, seating himself and folding up the fall to reveal the keys. Bucky traces his hands over them, eyes the fingers of his right hand, and then his left. Relaxed like this, he can hardly see a difference. But he knows that if he tries to play, the fingers of his left hand won’t work properly. He frowns, tries to squeeze and flex that hand. It’s infuriating to watch the weak display, and he grunts in frustration. Suddenly, he feels very silly for sitting down at the piano. He dares to slide his fingers over the keys; not pressing, just ghosting over the tops. He imagines the opening notes to a song…

“I didn’t know you played.”

Bucky’s hands press down jarringly on the keys. He whips to the side in alarm at Steve’s voice, his heart lurching more than it should. “Shit,” he hisses.

Steve is wincing from the harsh clang of the keyboard. “Sorry,” he apologizes. "I didn't mean to startle you."

“It’s fine.” Bucky hurries to slide the fall back out to cover up the keys.

“Hey, no. Wait.” Steve is smiling, coming over and sitting on the bench next to Bucky. “My mother made me take lessons for a few years in primary school,” he says. He catches Bucky’s eye, wryness evident, and Bucky can't help but to guess,

“Didn’t like it?”

“Suffice it to say I wasn’t exactly a savant.”

“Mm.”

“How about you?” Steve asks. He uses one of the tiny knobs to lift the fall again. “Any good?”

Bucky grinds his teeth. “I was.”

“Play something for me.”

“I said I was. It’s been a long time.”

Steve chuckles quietly, scooting closer and pressing a kiss to Bucky’s neck. He seems oblivious to his mood. “Come on, it’s just me. Let me hear you play something.”

Bucky shrugs him off with an annoyed twitch. “No. I don’t play anymore. Not since the accident.” He can practically feel the change in his husband, at the admission and as Steve realizes that this isn’t simple bashfulness on his part. Bucky avoids his eyes as he says, “With my hand the way it is, my fingers ... I just can’t.”

“Oh. I see.” For a long moment Steve says nothing. “But have you tried?”

Bucky blows air through his teeth. “Of course I have. What? Do you think I’m stupid or something?”

“Buck, come on.”

Steve sounds hurt, and it makes Bucky feel bad despite himself. He shouldn’t be snapping at Steve when all the alpha is trying to do is help. “Sorry,” he mumbles, moving to get up from the bench. “Don’t know why I sat down here in the first place.”

“Wait.” Steve grabs him by the forearm, keeping him from getting up. “If you won’t play, I will.”

“What?”

Steve grins. “I’ll play something for you.” He shifts to the side, forcing Bucky to scoot down the bench several inches as he centers himself and orients his fingers to the keys.

Bucky scowls. “I thought you said you were crap?”

“Oh, I am.” Steve laughs, pressing out a hesitant chord. “But maybe you could teach me to be better, hm?” He moves his fingers, the next notes incorrectly placed.

Bucky winces and moves to stand up. “Yeah, I don’t think so.”

“Hm, well I guess I’ll just have to grace you with my musical stylings until you change your mind," Steve says airily, moving into another indecent chord, and then a string of jarring notes.

Bucky thinks he halfway recognizes the child’s piece that Steve is attempting to produce. But it is so bad. Blushing, and more than a little consternated, he actually does shove up from the bench then. “I told you: my gimp hand can’t play,” he snaps, mad at Steve for pushing the point. “Hire a tutor if you want to learn.”

“Oh no,” Steve drawls, continuing on in his playing. “I think I’ve got it now. It’s coming back to me.”

Bucky scowls at his back, unable to keep from wincing every time Steve bangs out a too-strong chord, the keys tangling in wrong notes and out of time combinations. Jesus, it’s bad. Bucky’s hands twitch at his sides, his inner musician wanting to stop Steve from the abuse he’s inflicting on the poor instrument. Ugh.

“Oh, here we go, here we go,” Steve says excitedly. “You know, I think I actually remember some of the words to this one.” He opens his mouth to start singing almost as badly as he’s playing, and that’s when Bucky cracks.

“Wait, wait, stop! Just … stop. Stoppit.” He hurries back to Steve, physically removing his hands from the keys.

Steve looks up at him with twinkling eyes, damn him. “What?” he grins. “I was just getting the hang of it.”

“Someone’s going to call the police, you keep playing like that.”

“Sit down and teach me, then.”

Even though he's obviously laughing about the situation, there’s still something so earnest in the way he asks for it, that Bucky finds himself giving in. “I hate you, you know that?”

Steve hums happily and repositions his hands over the keys, waiting. Bucky sighs loudly again and stands just behind and to the side of him, bending and placing his hands atop Steve’s own. This close, he can feel the warmth of Steve’s cheek near his, can smell the cologne that hasn’t yet faded from his skin. Resisting the urge to press his face closer, he focuses on readjusting the way Steve’s wrists are poised. “Hold ‘em like this,” he says, watching as Steve follows along. “Yeah, like that. You can’t play right if you don’t even know the basics of posture."

Steve turns his head just the tiniest bit, and Bucky knows he’s being side eyed. “I’ll bet you were a good student, huh? Bet you never got your knuckles rapped as much as I did.”

Bucky snorts, and Steve bumps their heads together, ending it by turning and pecking him on the cheek. The gesture is stupidly sweet and really shouldn’t make Bucky heat up as much as it does. “I—I really can’t, anymore,” he stutters. “I have tried, in the past. But the nerve damage is just ..." he cuts himself off with a sigh. "How can I teach you to play when I can’t even—”

“Come on,” Steve interrupts. “We can help each other, can’t we? Practice together?"

"It's a nice idea Steve, but I—”

"I want you to show me, Buck. Please. I want to learn this from you. … I want to learn this about you.”

It catches Bucky off guard, that last. He wants to shake his head, pull away, stammer excuses about how this isn’t him anymore, he can’t play. But something about Steve’s presence beside him, large and calm and honest, so obviously trying to forge a connection that Bucky just doesn’t understand, makes him unable to say no. So instead he huffs out a breath and forms his fingers more resolutely over Steve’s. “Alright,” he gripes. “If for nothing else than to spare the servants’ ears.”

“I want to learn Christmas carols for the holidays,” Steve proclaims cheerfully.

Bucky groans. “We’ve got our work cut out for us.”

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steddieunderdogfics · 5 months

Text

Paint the Devil on the Wall by MuseumGiftShopEraser

@museumgiftshoperaser

Rating: Explicit

64,609 words, 6/6 chapters

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Tags: Minor Robin Buckley/Nancy Wheeler, Past Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington, artist!eddie, Eddie POV, Enemies to Lovers, Forced Proximity, and they were ROOMMATES, unstoppable force (mommy issues), meets immovable object (daddy issues), past abusive relationship, mentioned childhood physical abuse, Alcohol, Weed, Drugs, Addiction, Period-Typical Homophobia, mentioned homophobic parents, Mentioned Death of a Parent, Autistic Robin Buckley, Explicit Sexual Content, Light Dom/sub, Praise Kink, but they're like really intense about it, Masochism, Begging, Under-negotiated Kink, Safeword Use(Yellow), writer takes liberties with the amount of security at art galleries, gratuitous descriptions of the painting process, Steve and Robin are platonic soulmates in every universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, 80s New York art scene AU, Alternate Universe - No Upside Down (Stranger Things), Gay Steve Harrington, Queer Eddie Munson, tattoos as plot devices, Art, Art History, Painting, pottery

Summary:

If Eddie had known that sharing his New York City art studio with Robin would include her buddy Steve, he never would’ve offered it in the first place. There. He said it. If that makes him a bad friend, so be it. Because Steve is around all the time. Pastel and prissy. Sculpted from marble, yet dressed like a Macy’s mannequin. Always hovering. They got Robin’s potters wheel up the stairs last week, a three man effort he can still feel in his lower back, and now she’s fucking teaching him. Full on, arms wrapped around his waist, hands guiding hands. Someone grab him a bucket, ‘cause Eddie’s about to throw up. He’s not even good at it. Steve can barely get the hump of clay centered on the wheel and he refuses to get stains on his clothes. It’s fucking clay. It comes out in the wash. Steve’s shirtless approach to pottery is borderline offensive to the arts.

Thanks for the rec! This recommendation is apart of our Writer's Wednesday! All of the recs today are written by @museumgiftshoperaser. Want to nominate an author? Fill out this form!

You can submit fic recs to our asks or the submission box!

#writer's spotlight #steddie #steddie fic recs #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve x eddie #stranger things #Artist Au #enemies to lovers #angst with a happy ending

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crystal-crax · 9 months

Text

A RANT

THE NEON LEON

(II) Why he needs to fail at being a leader

Inspired by Skulltrot's Leo analysis on Youtube (WATCH IT, IT'S SO GOOD, I LOVE IT)

What? Crystal! You're contradicting yourself-

Shhhh! This is poetry, listen to me

One of the reasons i've seen people complain about rise leo, is his overall "confidence".

They find him annoying or reduce him to "the funny guy", the one that messes everything up in the movie and deus ex machina's his way to the power of friendship.

But honestly, i think this is so far from the truth; Leo is integral to the concept and culmination of the rise turtles, he cements the message this version of the turtles has been trying to explain from the beginning.

You can't do everything alone; trust those who love you, and love those who you trust.

But honestly, i think a lot of people forget that we've all probably felt like him before.

Leo is quite a complicated character to understand easily (mostly bc the rise series got horribly cut down and omg i'm still hurting), because an important part of his character is he will literally never be honest about what he's feeling. The only thing he talks about? How he knows (bc he doesn't just think it, he's so sure about it) nobody trusts him or thinks he's capable of holding his own weight.

He comes off as uninterested and goofy because he so desesperately clings to that portrayal of himself because he needs to trick both others and his own mind that he's fine.

He doesn't think he's enough, he believes the team would be perfectly fine without him. He thinks he needs to prove he can do something so he can be valuable to the team.

And i think it's amazing

"Rise of the TMNT", the title already gives away the purpose of their different personalities and coping mechanisms on this version of the story. We're not meant to see an structured team of properly trained ninjas, we're here for the ride, we are walking alongside them as the team gets in line and learn how to be heroes.

Sure the other versions of the turtles had their own character arcs, you don't need to see something from the instant beginning to know the characters are growing, but rise has always felt more of a love letter to the turtle family itself. A complete exploration of an alternate universe where the mad dogz got to somewhat live as teenagers before earning the mantle as protectors of the world (and new york lol).

We're familiar with Leonardo's story in evey tmnt version, he's the leader. He's in charge of protecting the city and his family.

But the problem is always there, he fears he won't be enough, that he will fail to be the leader the world asks him to be. This is also something we see in rise leo but it's more...fresh? It feels naturally younger.

Were you never nagged about not taking things seriously when you were younger? Were you never yelled at for messing things up? Didn't you ever feel as if you had to prove to others that you were more they perceived you to be?

As someone that battles their own inferiority complex, leo feels...so easy to relate to.

He didn't ask for the responsability, and he kind of doesn't want it, but he learns to bear it properly.

He fails to be the good leader they expect him to be (i also have the theory he self-sabotages himself a lot?) but he learns to be more than what they expect.

To quote myself from my last post (yes i loved typing that) "a leader is not the one that orders, but the one that motivates and supports you". He learns how being a leader is not imposing or bearing every problem and responsability alone, but to motivate your team and guide them to never loose hope.

He uses everything he already knows about himself and his team to be better and guide them to a new version of the ninja turtle gang, one where family and trust is far more important than anything else (and it feels good to know we won't have the typical raph vs leo fight for leadership in the future- i mean there was a fight BUT IT WASN'T ABOUT THAT)

Someone stop me i might just start a tmnt rant loop of my own making and i'm enjoying it😭

#tmnt 2018 #tmnt rant #rise of the tmnt #rottmnt #rotmnt #rise leo #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #thanks for coming to my ted talk

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karolamurdock · 7 months

Text

SpiderWoman 2099 Pt.4

Miguel O'Hara x Spider!Reader

Sinopsis: The year is 2106. By day, you work as the head of the Genetic Engineering and Biotechnology division at Alchemax. By night, you are the one and only Spider-Woman, fighting tirelessly to protect New York from the tyrannical clutches of crime and delinquency. Your days are spent in an ordinary, organized routine: it's just you, the only barrier between your city and oblivion, dealing with the violence and pain that comes with being a superhero.

Everything is just normal. Then your dead husband appears in front of you, talking about alternate universes, spider societies and canonical disasters, and you discover that all your sorrows, losses and failures were possibly always meant to happen.

What the fuck.

Notes: No excuses. Let this chapter, full of Miguel, make up for the long time I was gone. I will keep the reader's background rather ambiguous, but it is implied that they also speaks Spanish.

If you want to be added to the taglist, let me know.

Warnings: Intrusive thoughts, mild violence, subtle references to depression. As always, english is not my first lenguague.

Word count: 2.6K

Pt 1 - Pt 2 - Pt 3 - Pt 4

Impassive white eyes stared back at you with disdain. You looked with abject curiosity at the spidery pattern on his red suit, the white glasses and the sharp claws, and you couldn't help but wonder...

Who makes a spider suit for a cat?

Undaunted, the animal yawned loudly and stretched lazily over the railing before leaping onto the pristine marble floor, completely silent and oblivious to your anomalous presence. He waved his orange tail and stretched the red patterns that hugged his hind legs.

You did not have the opportunity to entertain yourself with her pretty pink pads. A gloved hand brushed your shoulder, and you turned your masked face to observe your guide's own grim expression.

"Come with me." Miguel said. "I'll show you around before introducing you to the rest of Society."

Silently, you nodded. The man walked two steps ahead of you. His broad, imposing figure was like a bronze spur, parting the sea of arachnid entities that watched you with open curiosity.

As he made his way through the crowd, you quietly followed in his footsteps. Grateful for the foresight to keep your mask in place, you analyzed the discordant structure of the building that surrounded you. You noticed the long corridors and open configuration: designed to facilitate mobility for your kind.

Miguel moved forward, and you watched his impassive figure with stern eyes. You wondered if he too had become Orpheus in his willingness to claim you back, and now feared to look back and lose his Eurydice. Perhaps the anguish in his gaze would be enough to draw you into the shadows and lose you forever. Would he then be blessed to work and move the gods with craftsmanship born of his terrible grief?

Was it so for you? You could not claim that your deeds after his death were unselfish and sincere: you did not seek to soften the wind with your tender weeping, nor to drown the rushing waters with the song of your heroic prowess. The resolution of your vengeance was your reward: an analgesic balm to numb the turmoil of your burning soul.

Together, you entered the lift... You watched the changing landscape. On the glass, you saw Miguel's ponderous silhouette, stern and rigid. The pattern of his suit resembled your own. But your own profile was outlined with sharper lines, and your web shooters were not exposed, but hidden in the webbing patterns on your wrists.

The door opened, and you followed him through large, well-lit rooms, through huge recreation rooms, and through small, immaculate, familiar laboratories. You carefully analyzed the information he gave you along the way: where to find the scientists in charge of certain labs, the optimum hours for accessing the training rooms, the menu in the main cafeteria (a burger with Miguel's mask on it? Santo Dios...). Finally, he took you to his own office. On one of the top floors, of course. Just like your universe.

When the lift stopped in his office, your mask retracted. Miguel did a quick double take, pursed his lips and looked up; you followed his gaze to see a red light flashing rapidly on one of the screens above the platform.

You heard Miguel's grunt as Lyla appeared over his shoulder, giving you a quick wink before turning to face the man:

"An anomaly is causing trouble on Earth-1048. Homeworld Spider-Man is already on the scene, but he's limited to minimizing the destruction around him."

"Copy that." Miguel said. He ran a hand over his face, holding the bridge of his nose as he squeezed his eyes shut, and the gesture seemed so familiar that you almost let out the breath you were holding between your lips. "I have to deal with this. I'll talk to Jessica, she can show you the room you can use as your own."

"I can go with you." You finally spoke.

Miguel looked at you in surprise. But he quickly frowned and replied:

"No, it's too soon. I'll be able to show you how we deal with the anomalies once you're settled in and we know more about your universe."

Your universe. Like a wave crashing against rock, you felt heat coursing through your veins and burning in the pit of your stomach. You felt that in your rage, the marks on your suit might be burned into your skin forever.

You blinked. Ignoring the fire in your chest, you responded:

"I could settle in better if I knew what I was dealing with."

Miguel studied you. His red eyes scanned your face: your steel eyes, your unbending brows, your closed lips, and he said no more. Sharing a last look with Lyla, he nodded with finality, and she took it upon herself to open the portal for the two of you.

"Let 's go, then."

🕷 🕷 🕷 🕷 🕷 🕷 🕷 🕷 🕷 🕷

It was a cold morning in Harlem. The white sky barely hinted at the day's pale rays, and the streets were shrouded in a thick, damp gray haze. As you and Miguel landed on a lamppost overlooking the East River and the small buildings lining the street, an ominous silence settled over the scene at your feet.

You sat back on your heels, scanning the nondescript landscape, and Miguel followed, his back stiff and his hands clenched into fists as he exhaled:

"The signal seems to be coming from this warehouse." He gestured with his chin, and you peered intently at the gray silhouette of a building surrounded by tall grills and long containers. A cloud of gray smoke rose through the haze, and with a mighty leap you launched yourself in its direction, hearing Miguel's nets snap past you.

Soon you were perched on the railing of a neighboring building, with a clear view of the ruined courtyard. Sparks rained down from the ruined batteries; small fires burned and cracks in the concrete marred the once peaceful scene.

Rubble crunched beneath your feet as you landed in the courtyard. In the distance, you heard a muffled, heavy thud. You glanced cautiously at a large metal curtain to your right as a deafening screech pierced the jealous silence. Beside you, Miguel brought his knees to his chest and the two of you jumped away just as the door shot in your direction.

A red figure flew through the air. With a start, you threw your nets around the man's torso, jumping just in time to catch him before his body slammed into a large metal container.

"Nice catch." Gasped the Spider-Man in your arms. "Rhino's got an arm."

"Does he throw you often?"

"Well, yeah." The young man cleared his throat, pulling himself to his feet with a little help. "But I don't usually get caught by..." He tilted his head to the side, curious.

"Spider-Woman." You conceded.

Her white glasses widened comically as he whistled under his breath:

"Awesome!"

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Miguel's orange nets wrapped around Rhino's massive arm, and you spun on your heels as the beast slammed into the tower Miguel was standing on.

"He's really mad!" Spider-Man exhaled as he rushed to your side. "I don't understand, according to my intel, Aleksei's transfer still hasn't been coordinated. He is still in the custody of the police."

"He's not Aleksei Sytsevich!" Miguel shouted. He had dodged a large stone and landed next to you. "His name is Alexander O'Hirn. He is the Rhino of dimension 26496."

"Oh!" Spider-Man exclaimed. "I knew you weren't my Rhino! We've always had this connection, you know?"

The man lunged at you, furious. You caught a glimpse of a crane with a container suspended in the air, and you pulled the arm of the crane just as the man was passing underneath the box. The container landed on top of his armour with a clatter that made your ears ring.

"Watch out!"

A strong arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you out of the way of a huge chunk of concrete.

"Not one, but three Spider-Creeps!" he growled.

"Hey, that's not very nice of you." Spider-Man landed a kick to the chest, but Rhino didn't move. He grabbed the hero's legs and slammed him into the wreckage of the crane. Taking advantage of the distraction, Miguel jumped up and punched him in the face, the only exposed part of his body.

Rhino let go of Spider-Man and took a step back. With a leap, you stood on a low beam and surveyed your surroundings. As the man jerked and rammed into Miguel, you activated your drones; small winged spiders that flew over the villain's head, firing electric shocks that immobilised him with a scream.

"His face!" you exclaimed, and Miguel leapt to your side to dodge the rocks Rhino dropped as he stomped on the concrete.

Spider-Man, snapping out of his daze, noticed the same thing you did: the small visible part of his face was hyperemic and sweaty. "His suit must be restricting his ventilation!"

So this would be a battle of endurance. Good, you thought to yourself. You've been doing this for years.

With a nod, Miguel and Spider-Man squared up firmly and jumped into the fray.

🕷 🕷 🕷 🕷 🕷 🕷 🕷 🕷 🕷 🕷

As the portal to your dimension closed behind you, silence fell. Michael's gaze was on the horizon, and yours was on him. It was not his red eyes that you caressed with your thoughts, but you could taste the sweetness of his cheek beneath your lips. His hair was shorter, but his curly eyelashes were thicker than yours: a feature that made you playfully envious in the past.

In the warm, brief light of the streetlamps, his face was just as beautiful. His bronze skin was a ghostly contrast to the impassivity of the bustling nightlife, a backdrop to his stern profile.

He looked at you too. And his pupils wandered over the arch of your lips, your eyebrows and cheekbones, the slope of your neck and your bare ears. And you thought he was reflecting the same doubt that plagued you: because he is Miguel, but not your Miguel. And you were never his wife, but your smile is the same, and he only replaced your name with silence, and the space he occupied with you was filled with melancholy.

"You did a good job." Miguel said after a prolonged silence.

"Thank you." You replied with a small smile. "You weren't so bad yourself."

"Hm." He snorted. With a hand on his hip, he arched an eyebrow and looked you up and down, half mocking, half stern. "Now you know what we're up against. You can run away now. We won't blame you. I certainly wouldn't."

You moistened your lips and took a slow breath. So close, your arm inches from his shoulder, you felt his warmth, the energy of his holographic suit, his solid build and musky scent.

"You wouldn't reach me." You finally replied, and your heart skipped a beat as a grin revealed his sharp fangs.

"I already did."

"I was distracted."

"Sure."

He straightened up, and you took advantage of the brief appraisal that he was giving to the red horizon to revel in his presence... just one more time.

In your solitude, his face is your guest. With his presence, an outdated image shatters beneath your feet. This new precision is yours. And even if he were to leave you that night, his voice muffled by the wind, Miguel would not leave you. His eyes would remain in the burning sunset and his posture in the steadiness of the stars.

When he looked back at you, your expression was already composed. Silently, you tilted your chin in the direction of the busy streets, and when he raised a questioning eyebrow, you spread your arms wide and threw yourself into the void.

Your mask returned to your face and your wings spread from your arms. Behind you you heard a faint scream and a short curse in Spanish. You felt, before you saw, his broad, imposing figure leaping from the edge of the building, and you used the air currents to move across the city with ease.

The buildings blurred at the edge of your vision. Though your mask filtered out the piercing whistle of the air, you still felt the pressure in your ears; and you didn't look at him, but felt his presence, imagining him dodging antennas, aerial surveillance and flocks of birds skimming skilfully across the crowded sky.

You locked arms and landed in a somersault, legs cramped and right hand braced against one of the buildings, halfway across a complex of tall glass towers.

"Look."

Below you, the city lit up like fireflies in the night. Thirteen hundred feet away, the cars and streetlights looked like tiny fiery wisps traversing the busy, colorful streets. And in the distance, the black silhouette of Alchemax stood out against the red horizon.

"I recognise this place." Miguel said, leaning over to stare in awe at a small purple-roofed shop on the side of the road. "It used to be a very popular artisan bakery in my universe."

"It's quite popular here too."

"I still have fond memories of their vanilla cake. I would get it for all... my events." He finished lowly.

"I used to buy the orange bread," you hummed understandingly, shaking your head disappointedly. "And now I can't eat citrus."

He looked at you in silence... and then laughed, shaking his head in astonishment, "Neither can I."

In the privacy of your mask, you smiled back. And with the first dark brushstroke on the horizon came your resolution.

"I can help you." You began, looking away from the night to stare at his cloaked profile. "But I will not be part of the Society."

He bowed his head, listening.

"I have work to do here." Your work at Alchemax; the company you were leading was just beginning to take a course that you could be proud of. Being Spider-Woman; a full-time job you couldn't give up: you were already the symbol of your city. An embodiment of hope, perseverance and goodness. "But... I understand that your work with the multiverse is an even more arduous and complex task, and I offer you my services as an advisor. If you ever need help... you know where to find me."

A hero must be impartial. And to you... his mere presence would be a constant challenge, an exercise in moral skill tested in the crucible of your everyday life. How could you not choose him? The strange man with your husband's voice. The friend whom you love the most, the one who lives in the moments of your delirium.

Because, after him, living seems distant. You have no anger left... only pain. And although your better judgment led you not to get involved with the Society, you could not find the strength within yourself to ignore him. Even though this Miguel is not yours, letting him go is almost like losing him again.

His mask pulled back and you watched him run a hand through his hair, tousling his auburn locks as he nodded slowly.

"I understand."

He stood to his feet. He held out a hand to you, and you followed as he took one last, searching look over your city.

He opened his mouth, then closed it. He seemed to hesitate for a moment. He gave you a long look, and in the end he just said:

"Then I'm counting on you."

You remained standing, staring at his silhouette, even as the portal swallowed his dark figure.

"What have I just gotten myself into?" you whispered into the empty air.

@alicefallsintotherabbithole @digipaw2-0 @sunshowernaps @qiaipia @luciiferian @saltyllamakidwombat @amnmich @autismsupermusicalassassin @miggyyyyohara @oscarissac2099 @songbirdlully

#marvel #miguel o'hara #atvs #miguel o'hara x oc #miguel o'hara x reader #spider man: across the spider verse #across the spiderverse #into the spider verse #oscar isaac #miguel x reader #miguel o'hara x y/n #spiderman atsv #spiderman 2099 #spiderman #itsv #spiderman itsv

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