#caught in a blizzard masterlist

[skzdust]

Hotel Showers

SMUT. MINORS DNI.

This fic was a request from @chanchansgirly (here) and part of my 500 followers celebration! The request was prompt #1, only one bed, with Chan, NSFW!

I hope you all like it!

Summary: Y/n and Chan get stuck in a very cold hotel room together... and there's only one bed.

Pairing: Bang Chan x Flustered!reader

Includes: only one bed trope, handcuffs, fingering, cumming inside (PLEASEEEEE USE A CONDOM IRL)

Word count: 1.9k

Taglist (Comment on a post/send an ask if you'd like to be added): @weirdowithaphone, @caught-in-the-afterglow, @palindrome969, @skzstan12345, @katsukis1wife,

@hyunjinsjeans, @somethingkindazainy, @silverstarburst, @atzlordz, @jeonginsleftcheek

Network:@mirohs-aurora-society

Reblogs, likes, comments all appreciated!!!

Masterlist

-----

“Seriously?” You blinked at the desk attendant.

He smiled back at you apologetically. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m afraid the blizzard’s got us more crowded than expected. The only room we have left does just have the one bed.”

You sighed. “Just give me the key.”

He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

You walked back over to Chan, key card in hand. “Sorry, it looks like they’ve only got one room left, and it only has one bed.”

Chan smiled. “Oh, no worries. It’s just one night.”

“I can sleep on the floor if you want. Or in the chair. Those hotel chairs are surprisingly comfy sometimes. I mean, sometimes they’re just not, but, like, this one will probably be fine.” You found yourself rambling.

Chan laughed. “Y/n, if you’re okay with sharing the bed, that works for me.”

“Oh—okay.” You could feel your cheeks reddening.

He turned towards the elevator. “Lets’ go.”

You went upstairs to your room, and you pulled a book out of your bag to read while Chan was in the shower. You tried to stop yourself from thinking about that shower, about the water running through his hair, down his shoulders, over his abs, and lower…

You closed your book with a sigh, opting to doomscroll instagram instead.

The water turned off, and a few minutes later Chan opened the door. Thankfully for your sanity, he was wearing a shirt. “Bathroom’s all yours.”

You smiled. “Okay, I’ll just be a few minutes.”

You went into the bathroom. It felt strangely intimate, erotic, almost, to be in a bathroom filled with the steam from Chan’s shower.

You started your shower before you realized you’d left your body wash in your suitcase. You resigned yourself to hotel soap before seeing Chan’s little blue bottle on the shelf. He must’ve left it there.

He probably wouldn’t care if you used it, right?

You carefully squeezed some into your palm. It smelled good, masculine and clean.

You got out of the shower, dried off, and put on a T-shirt and sleep shorts. You regretted your decision as soon as you stepped out of the now even steamier bathroom. “My God, it’s cold.”

Chan laughed from where he was sitting under the covers. “I was just messing with the thermostat, doesn’t look like it’s getting any warmer in here.”

You gave a short exhale. “Of course.”

Chan patted the sheets beside him. “Here, it’s warmer in bed.”

You got in bed with him, burrowing under the blankets. “I guess a little bit.”

“Can I help?”

“Can… can you help?” You were confused.

“Can I touch you?” Chan’s smile was soft. “Just to help warm you up.”

“Oh… um, yeah, please.”

Chan reached towards you, pulling you into his arms and cuddling you close to his chest.

You were sure he was able to feel your heartbeat, because you could feel it all over your body, especially between your legs.

“Are you comfortable?” Chan whispered.

“Yeah, I’m really comfortable.” You pushed your head into his chest. “You’re warm, Channie.”

“Channie?” He laughed.

“I— sorry, I just, like, a nickname, you know, like, how, like, friends call each other nicknames. You know, like friends do?” You rambled.

“Y/n, calm down. You’re allowed to call me Channie. I would even go so far as to say I like it.”

“Oh.” You could feel your cheeks going hot.

He paused for a moment. “Wait.” He helped roll you over, so your back was flush against his chest. You could feel yourself growing wet at the manhandling.

He pushed his face into the crook of your neck and inhaled deeply. You took a shuddering breath of your own at how his lips brushed your skin.

“Did you use my body wash?”

“Um… I forgot mine, I didn’t think you’d… mind.”

“I don’t… mind, exactly.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I think it’s hot more than I think it’s a problem. Which is, in and of itself, a problem.”

“Why?” You breathed.

“Because we’re sharing a bed… catch my drift?”

“I think you need to spell it out for me.” You shifted, angling your hips against his crotch. You could feel a bulge forming already.

He hissed. “Y/n, don’t tease.”

“I’m not teasing.” You whispered. “I mean it.”

You squeaked as Chan flipped you around again, and you were met with his piercing gaze. “You mean it?”

“Yeah.”

His hand drifted up the inside of your thigh. “How do you want it?”

You were a little taken off guard. “Want it? I— uh, inside me, I think.”

He laughed, then brought his lips up to your ear to whisper to you. “I mean, do you want it rough? Want to worship me? Want me to put you on a leash and choke you like a dog? Do you want me so bad you’d do anything for me?” He nibbled on your earlobe, and you shifted with a whine. “You know, if you’re into that.”

“Yes, Chan.”

“To which one?”

“All of it.”

He smiled, and you were caught off guard by his wide, ray-of-sunshine grin. “We’re gonna have fun. I’ll be right back.” He got off the bed, and you shivered at the sudden loss of his heat.

He shuffled through his luggage before pulling out a pair of leather handcuffs.  You didn’t even want to question where he’d gotten them or why they were in his suitcase. “You want these?”

Your eyes widened. “Ye-yes, Chan, I do want those.”

“Good girl.” He murmured, climbing back onto the bed. “I’m gonna tie your hands to the headboard, okay?”

“Yes, Channie.” You held out your hands. He guided you to lay back, and he fastened the cuffs around your wrists and then clipped them around the headboard. You tugged a bit at them, and you moaned when they didn’t give.

He just sat in front of you for a moment, watching you watch him.

“Beautiful.” He eventually mumbled. “Lift up those hips for me, and we’ll get your shorts off.”

You nodded, lifting your hips so Chan could slide your shorts and underwear off. You were soaked, and Chan dragged a finger through it before licking it clean. “Damn, all this over me just touching you a bit?”

“I— I mean, before, the shower, I was just thinking about— um, about nothing.” You stopped before you could make a complete fool of yourself by admitting to picturing him naked in the shower.

It was too late for that, though. Chan raised an eyebrow. “Were you thinking about me in the shower?”

You swallowed. “Uh… maybe.”

He shook his head, smiling. “You want me more than you’ve been letting on, don’t you?”

“Uh… maybe.” You said again.

His eyes raked over you. Once, then again. “Can I finger you, sweetheart?”

You felt a wave of heat rush through you, and you were hyperaware of your heartbeat again, pulsing through you. “Yes, please.”

He circled one finger around your entrance for a moment before beginning to press inside. You whined.

He paused. “Something wrong, baby?”

“No!” You squeaked. “Nothing’s wrong! Keep going, Channie, please.” You breathed the last word, and you were unsure for a moment if he’d even heard you until he hummed.

“Please sounds so good coming from your mouth, baby.” He all but purred, pushing his finger in all the way.  Your eyes rolled back, and a broken moan fell from your lips. “Say it again.”

“Please.” You whispered. “Another finger, Chan, please.”

“You’re asking so nicely.” He added another finger, as requested, and you arched your back off the bed.

“Fuck.”

“Can you take another?”

“Yes.”

He added in a third finger. You felt so deliciously full of him, and you absently wondered if his cock would fill you up as good.

He pulled out his fingers and licked them clean, keeping eye contact with you the whole time. His tongue lewdly lapped at his long fingers, making wet noises.

You moaned. “Please, Chan.”

He paused to raise his eyebrows at you. “What are you begging for, hm?”

“You.” You said honestly. “Want you, um, deep— deep inside me.”

“Shy all of a sudden?” He dropped his hand to your pussy, rubbing at your clit. “I’m gonna be deep inside of you in just a second, sweetheart.”

You pushed your hips into his hand, and he laughed. “Greedy little thing.” He pulled away to take off his shirt and pants, leaving him completely naked on the bed in front of you.

“Fuck.” You whispered. You’d known he was muscular, but he was absolutely gorgeous like this, sculpted like he’d been made by Michelangelo.

And his cock… he was big, and he was hard, and you wanted him so badly you were practically salivating.

“Can I fuck you now?” He whispered, his hands hovering over your hips, waiting for your consent.

“Yes, Chan, please, yes.”

You watched as he lined himself up with your dripping hole. “Ready?”

You nodded. “Mhm.”

You put your attention to his face as he pushed inside, at the way his expression went slack as he went deeper and deeper inside of you. You tried to reach up to touch him, but the cuffs rattled loudly.  Something burned inside you. The restraints were turning you on.

His eyes snapped open. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just… it’s hot, not being able to touch you, while you touch me all you want.” You said shakily.

He smirked. “Good, that’s the goal.”

“Can you fuck me now?”

He pushed your hair back from your desperate expression, gently pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Yes, sweetheart.”

He started to rock back and forth, and it took a bit of adjustment before you found a position that was comfortable, but when you settled into it, it was heavenly. Chan’s cock hit spots inside you you didn’t even know existed, and you were soon seeing stars. You gently moaned with each of his thrusts, the sounds of his skin on yours and your moans and his strangled noises filling the room. Chan was so good at this, so good at figuring out exactly what your body needed.

Chan changed angles one more time, and you were suddenly crying out with every motion inside you. “Fuck, Channie, that’s so good, don’t stop!”

“I’m not gonna stop, sweetheart.” He grunted, his hands beginning to feel up your chest. “I’m not gonna stop. You feel so good around me, so warm, so nice and tight, fuck.”

You whined, glad you were being good for him.

Eventually Chan’s movements grew animalistic; his thrusts shorter, tighter. “I’m gonna cum, sweetheart.”

“Inside!” You moaned. “Cum inside, Chan, please, please, Chan, please— oh!”

You could feel him cum inside you just as your own orgasm hit, and you twitched through it while Chan collapsed on top of you.

Both of you were drained. Chan unclipped the handcuffs and took them off, and you cuddled under the blanket. “So cold.”

“It is.” Chan wrapped himself around you. “What do you say we take another shower, together, to warm up and clean off?”

You nodded, snuggling into his chest. “Yes, that sounds lovely.”

“That means we actually have to get out of bed, you know.”

You gave a long-suffering sigh. “Fine.”

[chososcamgirl]

(SHE’S) JUST A PHASE CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: lust & rage

masterlist

cw: cheating, angst, violence

Life with Ryomen Sukuna wasn’t always hell—at least, not in the way most people would think.

It was the week before Christmas, the storm outside relentless as the blizzard pummelled the city, driving everyone indoors. People sought refuge wherever they could, and for you and a couple of friends, that place turned out to be a small, crowded pub. Not the kind of place you envisioned yourself drowning your frustration in after failing your finals, but it was warm, and it was shelter. 

Inside, the pub was alive, the air thick with the clinking of glasses, the low hum of laughter, and the heavy scent of liquor. But none of it reached you. The world felt muffled like you were hearing everything from underwater. The weight of failure pressed down on you—your head aching, your thoughts scattered. You sat there, elbows on the bar, hands cradling your skull, staring at the worn wood beneath you like it was the only thing in focus. Your friends’ voices faded into the background as you swirled your drink absently, too tired to care.

And then, he sat next to you.

The shift in the air was immediate. You didn’t even need to look up to know that someone had taken the empty chair beside you. You could feel it—the heavy presence of someone who didn’t just occupy space but commanded it. 

When you finally allowed yourself a glance, your breath caught in your throat.

He was... imposing. His hair was a shade of pink that shouldn’t have worked but did—a pale salmon that contrasted sharply with the cold, dark mood of the pub. Tattoos snaked down his arms, intricate patterns that seemed almost alive, and multiple piercings gleamed on his ears, brows, and lips, each one a mark of rebellion or defiance. He wore a grey work jacket that hung off him with careless perfection, his broad shoulders filling the fabric in a way that made the jacket seem almost too small. 

He was a giant—physically overwhelming. Even sitting down, he towered over you, and there was something about the way he carried himself that made your pulse quicken despite the gnawing exhaustion inside you. The man wasn’t just hot—he was magnetic, a force of nature.

When he finished speaking to the bartender, his gaze turned toward you. His eyes, dark and steady, locked with yours in a way that felt almost predatory, and a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t playful—it was knowing, like he could see right through you.

“Take a picture,” he said, his voice smooth and rich, “It’ll last longer.”

The words hit you like a challenge. The cocky, effortless arrogance in his tone made you bristle, and you instinctively rolled your eyes. The remark was as predictable as it was infuriating, and yet, you felt a flicker of something—annoyance, attraction, or maybe something darker. 

Rather than answer, you turned back to your drink, your fingers absently twisting the straw in your gin and tonic, trying to ground yourself in something that felt less intense. Something you could control. But there was no escaping the pull of his presence. He was impossible to ignore, impossible to look away from.

"Name's Sukuna," he said, his voice a smooth drawl, effortlessly rolling the words off his tongue with an edge that felt like it was meant to unsettle. "What's yours, doll?"

The word doll hit you like a spark, irritating and almost condescending, but there was something in the way he said it—slow, confident, not asking, but claiming—that made you hesitate. You wouldn’t know it at the time, but soon enough, that simple pet name would become something you wanted to hear, something that would reverberate through your mind long after the moment had passed.

You shot him a look, dark and calculating, the tension in your chest rising. Was he worth indulging? There was a part of you—curious, cynical—that wondered if you’d end up walking away from this with nothing more than a quick, filthy fuck. But then there was the other part of you, the one that couldn’t shake the feeling that this man was dangerous in ways you couldn’t yet comprehend. A hot creep, sure, but a creep all the same.

“Don’t speak all at once,” he quipped with a lazy grin, holding his hands up in mock surrender as he settled in beside you, his presence filling the space like it was meant to consume it. He then turned to the bartender, thanking him for the drink that slid over to him with a familiarity you didn’t quite understand.

You turned away, your gaze shifting to your friends, who were so wrapped up in their conversation they hadn’t even noticed you slipping into this exchange. Typical. That left you alone with him, trapped in a game you weren’t entirely sure you wanted to play.

“No, no, let me guess,” Sukuna continued, his voice lowered as he leaned forward, the smirk on his lips widening into something almost predatory. His eyes were sharp, calculating. “Ten bucks says I won’t get it in two minutes.”

Your lips twitched in a mixture of scepticism and intrigue. Ten bucks? You didn’t have the energy to humour this game, but something about him—his confidence, the way he looked at you—made it hard to resist.

"I’ll have you know, I’m exceptionally good at name guessing," he added, his tone dripping with an arrogance that, oddly enough, intrigued you even more. "And I’m incredibly observant."

“Wow. And humble, too,” you shot back, your eyes narrowing as you swirled the drink in your hand, allowing the cold liquid to serve as a grounding force against the heat rising between you.

He took out his phone, his fingers moving with deliberate precision as he set the timer. 

—

The next few minutes stretched on like a game of cat and mouse, his guesses rolling off his tongue with ease. But there was a subtle tension in his words, a challenge in his tone as if he were testing you with each name. You could tell—each name, you suspected, belonged to some girl he’d slept with before. A litany of beautiful faces, a history of conquest. 

BZZ BZZ BZZ

The timer beeped. Two minutes up.

“Fuuuck,” he groaned, the sound raw and frustrated as he dropped his head into his hands, shoulders tensing with defeat. You watched, a small smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. There was something almost refreshing about seeing the cocky facade crack, even just for a moment.

You stifled a quiet laugh, your gaze flicking to him as he peeked out from behind his arms, his eyes locking onto yours.

“C’mon,” he said, his voice taking on a more serious note now, a sense of genuine curiosity seeping through the casual bravado. “You gotta tell me now.”

You leaned back in your stool, tapping your chin in mock contemplation. For a split second, you let yourself enjoy the power of the moment—he was waiting for you now. You were in control. You made him wait.

Sukuna groaned, rolling his eyes at your teasing, but there was an undeniable edge of anticipation in his gaze. He was dying to know, and it made your chest tighten with something you couldn’t quite name.

“Yn,” you said softly, the smile that curled at your lips really this time. It wasn’t just a name anymore. It was something personal—an introduction to who you were, who you’d be, when this night was done.

Sukuna clicked his tongue, clearly not expecting the answer, but his smile never wavered. “Pretty name,” he murmured, his voice low as he took another swig from his drink, eyes lingering on you in a way that felt more like an invitation than a compliment.

“Chivalry doesn’t dismiss the fact that you owe me ten bucks,” you said, your tone lighter, almost teasing. You crossed your legs, the motion fluid, as you watched him carefully.

His grin widened, but there was a hint of something darker in it now, a promise of things yet to come. “Right,” he muttered, standing up and patting his pockets as if checking for something important. His movements were effortless, his confidence spilling into every small gesture.

“Aah, shit,” he cursed suddenly, scratching the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. “I think I left my wallet back at my place.”

The words hung in the air for a moment. The room, the noise, everything seemed to fade away as you processed the invitation behind them. There was something about the way he said it—casual, sure, but laced with an unspoken challenge—that made your pulse quicken.

“Are you coming?” Sukuna stretched his hand out toward you, his fingers curling slightly like he was giving you the space to choose. 

Your eyes drifted toward the window, where the storm had finally begun to calm. The streets were now dotted with people, but the lampposts lit up with twinkling decorations, bathed the city in a soft glow that made it all seem... different. More inviting. 

Your gaze drifted toward the window, where the storm had finally begun to subside. The wind had softened, leaving behind only the whisper of snowflakes gently falling from a cloudless sky. The world outside seemed suspended in a hushed stillness, as if nature itself had taken a breath, waiting. The streets were dotted with people now, wrapped in coats and scarves, moving with purpose, but there was something ethereal in the air—like the weight of the storm had shifted something within the city, had made it feel more alive, more real.

More inviting.

You looked back at your friends, who hadn’t noticed your absence. You could slip away. Nothing to keep you here anymore. And yet, with him, there was something else pulling you, something that dared you to step into the unknown.

Without a word, you stood up from your seat, feeling the cold air rush back as you let go of your reservation. You slid your hand into his, the warmth of his fingers wrapping around yours, steady and sure. You didn’t need to say anything more—your choice was made.

Tonight, you’d follow wherever he led.

—

The first year you were together, it felt like you had stepped into a dream. He was everything you had hoped for—thoughtful, romantic, and effortlessly charming. Surprises came without warning: spontaneous dates that made you feel like the centre of his world, gifts that were carefully chosen, and random “just because” flowers that seemed to say more than words ever could. It wasn’t just love; it was a feeling that everything was right—secure in a way you had never known before. You believed you had found something real, something lasting. Hell, you thought you would marry him. You were so sure, so convinced this was the one. It was the first time you hadn’t laid awake at night, haunted by doubts and the weight of tears you couldn’t wipe away. This was different. It seemed like everything was too good to be true.

And you were right.

By the second year, things began to change, though you couldn’t pinpoint exactly when it happened. He started pulling away. The sweet surprises stopped; the gestures that once felt like an outpouring of love vanished. The kisses, once soft and lingering, became hurried, almost perfunctory like he was counting the seconds until he could pull away. The warmth that had once been in his touch turned cold. The embraces you once lost yourself in now felt like an obligation, a quick fix to mask the distance between you. The affection became transactional. You had to beg for even the smallest effort, pleading for scraps of the love that had once flowed so freely. Every conversation became a minefield—one wrong step and the explosion would come. You were walking on eggshells, never sure which version of him you would get. Was he the man you fell in love with, or the stranger who barely acknowledged you? It was a constant game of hot and cold, and no matter how much you tried to reach him, everything began to feel meaningless. You were drowning in a relationship that had gone numb, a hollow shell of what it used to be.

And still, you made excuses. You kept thinking it was just a phase. He was stressed, maybe. Maybe it was work. Or maybe it was you. You blamed yourself. But deep down, you knew—you knew something was breaking, unravelling.

And then, one night, it broke.

It wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t civil. 

“What the fuck, Yn?” he snarled, rage flooding his voice the moment the words "I think we need to break up" left your lips.

“Kuna,” you choked, the once endearing nickname coming out like they were torn from your throat, “you’ve been pulling away for months. I’ve tried, okay? I’ve tried so many times to fix this, to fix us. And it’s not working anymore. We’re just—broken. I think we’re both fucking sick of each other.”

The air thickened with tension. He didn’t speak at first—just glared at you, his fists clenching. And then, the rage came, raw and explosive. Dishes flew across the room, smashing against the walls, lamps were torn from their sockets and thrown with a force that made you flinch. The furniture was upended like it was made of paper. His anger consumed him as if the entire apartment had become the battleground for something far darker than either of you had anticipated.

Each fight, each breakup, grew more intense. It was a spiralling chaos you could never control, and the more you tried to resist, the worse it got. The pattern was becoming so familiar, that it almost felt predestined. The violence wasn’t always physical, but it was always there—volatile, unpredictable, suffocating. The way he raged, the way he destroyed everything in his path… it was terrifying, and yet, you couldn’t look away. 

You had to wonder—how had you let yourself get here?

Looking back, it was almost laughable, how he’d react like a child throwing a tantrum when things didn’t go his way. But in the moment, there was nothing funny about it. You were terrified, not of him hurting you physically, but of what would happen if you didn’t walk away fast enough. You were afraid of the unpredictability, the way his temper would shift on a dime, the silent threat that always hung in the air after the storm.

You tried to stand your ground, but the arguments always ended the same way: one of you crying, and it was always you. Always you who broke first, always you who ended up storming out of the apartment, not knowing where you’d go, only that anywhere was better than being there, trapped in that suffocating tension.

And without fail, you found yourself at the pub—the same damn pub. The one place that somehow always called you back. You never meant to end up there, but it became a place of comfort ironically . And just as predictably, he’d show up—hours later, sometimes days—but he would always come. The silence between you would stretch, and for a moment, it was like the storm had passed. But it never lasted. You both knew it, even as you shared a drink, even as you spoke about nothing and everything at once. There was no going back, no fixing what had broken. Yet neither of you could seem to let go.

A few hours later, or maybe a couple of days—it didn’t matter. He’d show up, like he always did, with that look in his eyes, the one that both broke you and made you want to beg him to stay. The same pattern. The same broken promises. It was like a script you couldn’t escape, a loop that kept tightening around your chest.

And you couldn’t escape.

—

You gave him a second chance. No. You gave him multiple chances. And with each one, you convinced yourself that this time would be different. That this time, he would change. You clung to the hope that his empty promises would turn into something real. You told yourself you could forgive, told yourself love could heal the wounds, told yourself that maybe, just maybe, he was worth it. And for a while, you believed it. But now? Now, you were just a shell of the person you used to be.

Every lie, every broken promise, every moment of disappointment had chipped away at you until there was nothing left but the remnants of a relationship that never truly existed. And now you were standing at the edge of it all, staring into the wreckage of your love, heart heavy with everything you had given, everything you had lost.

It had all been a lie. A beautiful, painful, suffocating lie. And you couldn’t take it anymore.

You found yourself standing in the kitchen. The kitchen. The place that once radiated warmth and laughter, where the two of you had shared quiet mornings, intimate dinners, and whispered confessions under the soft glow of dim lights. The place where, at one point, you had felt like you were home. Now, it felt like a cold, hollow cage. The warmth was gone, replaced by something sharp and empty. Every inch of the space felt suffocating, the air thick with the weight of things unsaid, the things you couldn’t take back. It felt like the walls themselves were closing in on you, trapping you in this suffocating lie.

And there he was. Sukuna. Standing in front of you, avoiding your eyes, like he always did when the truth was too painful to face. You were done pretending. Done waiting. Done hoping. You were sick of the excuses, sick of being the one who always gave, always forgave. 

Sick of him.

The anger bubbled up inside you, but beneath that anger was something worse—something darker. It was the raw ache of betrayal, the gut-wrenching reality that you had loved someone who never deserved it. And you were done. Done. 

"Sukuna," your voice trembled as you forced the words through the tightness in your throat. "Look me in the eye... and tell me you’re not cheating on me."

The words felt like a knife to your chest, like you were forcing yourself to bleed. But you needed to hear it. You needed him to admit it, to look you in the eye and lie to your face one last time, so you could finally stop lying to yourself.

He didn’t meet your eyes at first. Instead, his gaze darted to the side, as if searching for something—anything—to avoid this moment. But you wouldn’t let him. You wouldn’t let him. 

And then, after what felt like an eternity, he finally lifted his eyes to yours. And for a split second, you thought maybe, just maybe, this time would be different. This time, he would tell you the truth. This time, he would finally be honest. 

But instead, he reached for you. Slowly, as if he thought you might pull away, his hand hovered near your face, before gently cupping your cheek. The touch was familiar, but it was wrong. It felt like it belonged to a stranger, to someone you no longer recognized.

“Doll," he said, his voice so quiet, so soft, as if he thought it would make a difference. “I promise you; I’m not cheating on you.”

I’m not cheating on you. 

The words echoed in your mind, hollow, meaningless. You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to believe him. But how could you? How could you possibly believe anything he said when everything in front of you screamed the truth? How could you ignore the thousands of lies, the betrayals, the coldness, the distance? You had been drowning in his lies for so long, pretending to breathe, pretending to live. And now? Now, you were suffocating.

You tore his hand away from your face, your breath ragged, heart racing with fury and heartbreak. This time, you wouldn’t let him play you. You wouldn’t let him lie his way out of it. You fumbled for your phone, hands shaking as you unlocked it. You scrolled through the messages, through the photos—the undeniable proof of his betrayal with her, the woman who had once been your friend. The woman who had smiled at you laughed with you, shared stories with you, all the while hiding behind your back, betraying you in the most intimate, unforgivable way.

You shoved the phone in his face, your fingers trembling, forcing him to look at the evidence. You didn’t care if it destroyed him. You didn’t care if he was about to cry, or if he was going to beg for your forgiveness. He had destroyed you. He had broken something inside you that you couldn’t fix, and now he had to face the consequences. You deserved to be seen. To be heard.

He stared at the screen, his face going pale, his eyes flickering between the images and your face, trying to process the weight of it. But it was too late. You were already done. You had already given him every chance you had.

“Doll... I can explain—” 

Explain?

You couldn’t even hear the rest of his words. Your body trembled, the rage and hurt burning in your veins like fire, the tears you had been holding back for so long finally spilling down your cheeks. "No," you spat, your voice breaking but stronger than you had ever felt before. "No more. No more fucking excuses, Sukuna. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear how sorry you are, how much you love me, how this time it’s going to be different. We’re done. We’re fucking done. Today. Tomorrow. Forever. I don’t care. I’m done."

The words came out in a rush, and it felt like your heart was being torn in two, but it was also the most freeing thing you had ever done. You had to say it. You had to cut the ties, even if it hurt, even if it destroyed you. Because staying would have destroyed you even more. 

And then… silence.

The kind of silence that made your skin crawl. It wasn’t the kind of silence that came after a fight, the silence that came before reconciliation. No, this was a different kind of silence. A suffocating, crushing silence that screamed of finality. It wasn’t him trying to fix things. It wasn’t him begging you to stay. 

It was him, standing there, in shock, with nothing left to say.

“Do you really want to break up, Yn?” His voice was almost too calm, too detached like it didn’t matter either way to him. As if you were just another fight, another issue to be swept aside. The words tasted like poison on your tongue, the way he said them—like he had already convinced himself that you wouldn’t do it. That you wouldn’t walk away. That you wouldn’t leave him. 

Was he really this fucking dense, or was he just pretending? 

The anger inside you flared, hot and vicious. You’d given him so many chances—too many—and he still never got it. How long were you supposed to wait for someone who didn’t care enough to fight for you? The truth cut through you like a blade. You tried to steady your breath, to force the words out without cracking. 

But the pain, the bitter disappointment—you couldn’t hide it.

“I would have to be drugged to stay with you,” you whispered, each word feeling like a nail in your chest.

It wasn’t just the end of a relationship—it was the end of you. The person you were before him, the person you tried to hold onto, was already gone. He had drained you dry, and now, there was nothing left but emptiness.

He didn’t even flinch at the words. Instead, he tilted his head, the same indifference in his eyes that had been there for so long. “Like... how much?” he asked, his voice almost playful, like he was still trying to make a joke out of this—your pain. Your heart breaking right in front of him. How could he be so blind?

You couldn’t stand it anymore. The way he dismissed you. The way he made you feel like everything you said and felt didn’t matter. The way you’d sacrificed yourself for someone who could never even give you a fraction of what you deserved. 

Your breath hitched in disbelief. He really didn’t get it, did he? How empty his words were, how little they meant. 

You scoffed, the sound rough and bitter in your throat. “Like how much?” you repeated, voice trembling, but with all the venom you could muster. “You make me fucking sick.” 

With those words, you grabbed your suitcase, the weight of it making your hands tremble, but the finality of it all felt like a relief. You didn’t even look at him when you walked out the door. You couldn’t. If you did, you knew you’d break. And you weren’t going to do that. Not anymore. 

This time, you didn’t run to the pub, desperate to escape the silence of your thoughts, hoping he’d come after you. This time, you didn’t wait for the inevitable apology, the hollow promises that meant nothing. You weren’t waiting anymore. You were done. 

This time, you had somewhere to go. Somewhere he would never find you. Somewhere safe. Somewhere that was all yours.

And it was with them. With Maki, Nobara, and Panda—your real family. They didn’t ask questions. They didn’t judge. They didn’t offer empty comfort. They just were. They were there when you needed someone to scream at the top of your lungs. When you needed to break down and let it all out without worrying about how you looked, or what they thought. They let you rage, let you cry, let you feel everything that had built up in you, until you couldn’t carry it anymore. 

For the first time in ages, you didn’t feel small. You didn’t feel like you were nothing. You didn’t feel like you had to fight for someone to care about you. They didn’t need you to prove anything. They just loved you. And that was enough.

But even now, after all of that—after all the love, after all the care—they couldn’t make you forget. How do you forget someone who carved their name so deeply into your soul? How do you dismiss the absence of someone who was once everything to you? Someone you gave all of yourself to, and in return, they took it, slowly, piece by piece, and gave you nothing in return? 

How do you stop hearing his voice in the empty spaces between your thoughts? How do you stop seeing his face in the places you used to find peace?

It’s not something you can just erase. You can’t just close your eyes and forget. Over time, you learn to live with it. To keep going, even when it feels like a piece of you is missing. 

But his name—his name was a curse that you couldn’t stop hearing. 

It would always be there, lurking in the background of your thoughts. The way he’d looked at you, like you were never enough like you were just something to be discarded when it became inconvenient. The way he’d said your name, not with love, but with contempt. The way he’d never fought for you never gave you the kind of love you’d deserved.

You would carry that curse with you. And maybe, just maybe, that was the hardest part of all—knowing that no matter how far you ran or how many people actually loved you, you would always hear his voice in the back of your mind. And you would always wonder why, after everything, you still couldn’t forget him.

backstage!

• the girl that sukuna cheated with was one of yn friends with her the night she met him…. taking name suggestions in the comments.. #OPP

• yn & sukuna were together for i think almost 4 years but on and off after the first year

• but they moved in together like 5 months into dating so that factored into why yn kept going back (she just like me😛)

• so the timeline is she dated sukuna, met the party girls, broke up w sukuna (for good) and THEN moved in with the party girls

• dunno where that bitch is that kuna cheated on us with probably dead in a ditch courtesy of panda or nobara or both of em

• now I need a gin and tonic after this chapter…

• this would’ve been posted earlier but i was cosplaying as choso…. sorry..

• thank you mitch @.sandwhitches 4 the last bit of dialogue #kudos (she will not see this)

a/n: aaaand i’ll see u guys next week! whoop back on schedule (kinda) are you guys proud of me? are you? are you? this chapter was the hardest to work on because there were so many essential points to hit. but i hope you enjoyed some sukuna lore! this has been in the works for a while. only 5 more chapters left guys!!!!! we are nearing the end….

taglist: @shokosbunny @satoryaa @prozacprinc3ss @essjujutsu @therealsatorugojo @yeehawslap @gojodickbig @dawnisatotalqueen @j2upiters @nappingnai @burnishingbagels @totallytatum @3cst4syy @lysaray @saltypuffin1040 @standcom @makeshiftproject @kurtcobaingirlie @kokoiinuts @dashingaurries @slvttycorpse @cuupidsss @mochroialainn @tenjikusstuff4 @ichcocat @sugurubabe @allthestarsarecloserrrrrrr @tyigerz @yoyo-yui @megoomies @yizmiu @jasminasblog22 @marst4rz @guitarstringed-scars @kalulakunundrum @lovefrominaya @beepbopzlorp @itsdragonius @meguemii @chilichopsticks @starantulas @1l-ynn @sluttkuna @rcveriees @solaqes @starrysho @sukunaspillow @evry1luvssm @syxoki

*if i can’t tag you please change your tag settings otherwise i will remove you from the list!

[inkedinshadows]

ACOTAR Masterlist

Requests: open

Last update: 03/10/2025

Prompt List • Current WIPs

Fic recs: @readinshadows || Other fandoms: @yennishadows

Hello and welcome 🌸 I'm Yennifer, but you can call me Yenni or Yen! English is not my first language, so sorry if there are little mistakes in my fics. At the moment I write mostly for Azriel, but I'm planning on writing for more characters. I hope you'll enjoy your stay here and if you want to chat, I'm always up for it 🩷

💖 --- > Fluff

❤️‍🩹 --- > Angst

❤️‍🔥 --- > NSFW

🌼 --- > personal favorite

Azriel

A Helping Hand ❤️‍🩹🌼 (completed)

The bond snapped for Azriel the moment he saw her, thrown into the Cauldron with Elain and Nesta. Now, he wants to help her as she struggles to cope with what happened.

Echoes of the Bond 💖❤️‍🩹 - part 2

Where You Belong 💖 - part 3

Unraveling Truths ❤️‍🔥 - bonus scene

What Truly Matters ❤️‍🩹

After the war, Y/N has fallen into an unhealthy routine of training and pushing everyone away. But Azriel had enough of it and wants to know why she’s doing it.

Nights and Days ❤️‍🔥🌼

Azriel and Y/N are on a mission in Illyria, but while they go from one camp to another, they're caught in a snow blizzard and are forced to find shelter in the closest inn. Thanks to the shadowsinger, there's only one bed.

Little Rainbow 💖🌼

When you can’t comfort your baby daughter, you bring her to her dad, who always manages to calm her down.

Play It For Me 💖

You hear music coming from somewhere in the house, and when you go to investigate, you find something completely unexpected.

Until the Last Breath ❤️‍🩹🌼

Azriel is injured in battle. Badly. You try everything you can to save your mate, but sometimes, it might still not be enough.

Lost in Submission ❤️‍🔥

After you spend all day teasing Azriel, he grows very needy and very eager to be alone with you.

Lazy Mornings 💖

Azriel really loves to wake up next to you.

Red or Black 💖

Cassian insists on helping his sister out when she needs to choose an outfit for a date.

Random Azriel headcanons

Kinktober 2024 (multi-character)

Azriel Appreciation Week 2024

Acotar Gift Exchange 2024 (Elriel)

1k Celebration (ft. Cassian & Eris)

Lovely dividers (here and in my posts) by @cafekitsune [specified where otherwise]

[littlexdeaths]

𝕚𝕥’𝕤 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕞𝕠𝕤𝕥 𝕨𝕠𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕣𝕗𝕦𝕝 𝕥𝕚𝕞𝕖 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕪𝕖𝕒𝕣…

hello everyone! i wanted to throw together a fun little writing game to get everyone in the holiday spirit! ❄️

anyone is welcome (and encouraged) to play!

this game will begin on december 1st!

rules: please pick one (or as many as you’d like!) of the prompts from the list below. it can be with any character in the stranger things universe. you can spice things up, keep it fluffy or make us cry, whatever your heart desires! all i ask is you finish and post all of your works by midnight on december 24th!

and the most important rule of all, have fun!

i can’t wait to see what everyone comes up with, so please tag me in all your lovely creations!

and use the tag the #thetwelvedaysofpromptmas 🎄

also a little shout out to both @undead-supernova and @uglypastels for helping me come up with some of the prompts ♥️

⋆⁺₊❅. day one: snowed in or caught in a blizzard

⋆⁺₊❅. day two: whatever you do, don’t feed it after midnight

⋆⁺₊❅. day three: you’re stuck chaperoning the annual snow ball with your nemesis

⋆⁺₊❅. day four: mistletoe mayhem

⋆⁺₊❅. day five: meet the parents…with a twist

⋆⁺₊❅. day six: battle of the christmas decorations

⋆⁺₊❅. day seven: you need a last minute gift, but man that salesclerk sure is cute

⋆⁺₊❅. day eight: snowball fight

⋆⁺₊❅. day nine: a very merry hellfire

⋆⁺₊❅. day ten: ghosts of christmas past

⋆⁺₊❅. day eleven: you find mysterious tracks leading away from your window in the freshly fallen snow

⋆⁺₊❅. day twelve: spending christmas/christmas eve in the ER

i will make a masterlist of all the promptmas fics as they are posted, so be on the lookout for that.

happy writing! ♥️

bonus prompts:

⋆⁺₊❅. a crowded room, friends with tired eyes… i’m hiding from you and your soul of ice.

⋆⁺₊❅. i’ll be so blue, just thinking about you…

[bitterrfruit]

houndtooth [6]

[masterlist]

Ghost x f!Reader - tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, abduction, bodyguard, forced cooperation, smut 18+ mdni - 3.9k words

There should be blood.  

You’d never have thought you could experience such visceral, rib-crushing pain, with so little blood.  

It feels like blood, the hot foam spraying from your mouth as you cough so viciously, forcing as much of it as you can out of your aching lungs. It feels like blood as it pours from your nose, thick with mucus, the delicate skin of your swollen sinuses and closing throat burn like you’ve inhaled blistering steam.  

But it’s only water. Saturating you inside and out, dripping from orifices and off extremities, you shiver violently as if you’d been left in the blizzard – though you don’t feel cold. Your body smoulders with adrenaline, so ravaged by the carnal desperation to survive that your heart still blazes hot and your muscles burn with the acid of exertion.  

Your jittering fingers are weak, barely strong enough to grip the soaked rag from your face and drop it to the plastic floor with a splat.  

Your lungs gnaw for oxygen, too anguished to swallow a breath to sate the need – you only sip at the chemical air as you attempt to roll yourself off the steel table; now that no masculine claws hold you down to it.  

The impact as you land face-down on the linoleum tosses an animalistic squeak from your throat. Purely mechanical; the whine of deteriorated, corroded machinery.  

But you alert the skullhead, all the same. Your hunter turns his head over his thick shoulder, just enough to look down at you, as the other tormentor marches out of the cell and slams the door behind him.  

You’d like to run. You dream of it, as you float in between states of consciousness – you see yourself leaping to your feet, tearing open that door and jetting off down the hall – only to open your eyes again, to blink, and see the speckled vinyl under your nose.  

He simply stares at you. Observes you as if he is intrigued by your suffering.  

You see his boots, hardly able to lift your head enough to see him in his mammoth entirety. The boots take hesitant steps in your direction, heavy and thumping on the floor, you feel the vibrations of his weight across it. Your reaction to his approach is reflex – a shriek, sudden adrenaline giving you the strength to push yourself up just enough to scurry backwards away from him, though still unable to stand.  

“You’ll survive,” he says under his breath, but it sounds more like a promise than an admonishment. You glare up at him. Panting like a trapped rabbit. Vision faded and throbbing.  

“I can’t – I,” your attempts to beg get caught in your swollen throat, wet and desperate, “please, I can’t take – please don’t do it anymore. Not again, please–”  

“There’s not going to be any more water,” he grunts, through teeth, as though irate that you had made him say so.  

A soaked sob escapes you, indeterminable whether out of relief or simply your body shutting down. You attempt to wipe away the wetness on your cheeks with trembling hands. 

“Promise.”

In your utterly fevered mind you cannot not understand the source of your audacity to request such a vow, from a man so plainly without morals, and yet your tongue forms the plea nonetheless. “Please.”  

And after a tense pause, he surprises you. With a beleaguered huff, he answers; “Okay.” 

Your sticky eyes flit across his features, from under your brow, you attempt to thank him with a shaky nod. He crouches slowly in front of you, rests his elbows on his knees. His shadowy eyes seem to catch the light of the glaring overheads, the colour of burnt honey, the first time you’ve been able to see them. Maybe it’s because he’s not scowling. 

“Don’t get your hopes up,” he mutters, muffled by the dense knit of his mask. “You’re not done here.”  

Your appreciation is quick to sour. Your lips curl into a vengeful line, but your eyes betray the cracks that spider through your veneer; brow twisting into an expression of misery despite trying to contain it, you cry. Breaking out in stunted sobs. Sucking in squeaking breaths to fuel the next ones.  

He’s adept in keeping you confused, the fucking beast, not allowing a single expectation to form, a single prediction to prove correct. Rewrites his code just as you begin to translate it. You can beg at him, but only so long as he is entertained by it. You can seethe at him, but not so viciously that he is compelled to punish you.  

Does he want you to submit to him? Does he want you to fight him? Despite your attempts you cannot determine. Up until now you’ve been walking the line between both, careful not to tip too far in either direction.  

Now you are running on pure instinct. Your torture has, for now, rinsed away any mask you have tried to maintain. Leaving only the raw, dripping, desperate organs that you consist of. Burgundy and beaten.  

He reaches forward, calloused hands slipping indifferently under your arms and lifting you up with him as he stands, hoisting you like you’re a limp cat. It’s odd feeling his bare skin on yours. So far only gloved fingers have grazed you. It’s warm.  

“Can you stand?” He asks, monotonously and impatiently, ensuring you interpret no kindness in his concern.  

“Think - so,” you shudder, not yet quite able to create cohesive words.  

He lowers you to your feet, you tap the floor with your toes to ensure you can grip it as he removes his hands from you. Your knees wobble like colt legs as your weight returns to them, you’re rendered dizzy by the sudden verticality. And, wholly unintentionally, your arms jut out on reflex to prevent yourself from toppling over, bound hands landing flat on his upper stomach. You feel his muscles tense rigid with the touch, skin burning hot through the fabric of his black half-zip fleece – for a brief, nauseating moment, you find comfort in it. Heartbeat. Breathing. Human.  

His monstrous hand moves disinterestedly to your wrists, and he clutches them tightly – your stare darts to meet his. His eyes are cautious, scrutinising, blond eyelashes flittering as his glare dances around your face, reading words on a page.  

You expect him to scold you, or tell you that won’t work as if you had done it purposefully to endear yourself to him – but he silently peels your hands from him, pushing them towards you so they sit under your chin.  

“Ready to see your husband?”  

Ghost is well acquainted with terror. Both endured and inflicted. And after years, decades, of suffering his own, he has become a savant in that specialty. Injecting the fear of God into those that cross him, only to remind them it’s him they should pray to.  

But it has never made him feel so sick.  

So nauseated.   

A silent pleading in your touch. Accidental and yet so careful. It turned him to stone, the moment the pads of your fingers landed on him, the resting of your wobbly weight in your hand against him. A gentle and ruthless reminder that despite being a foreign, machiavellian, billionaire warlord;  

You’re just a girl.  

Too scared of him to beg, too frightened to fight, too small to try. 

The bitterness of guilt bubbles at the back of his tongue. Acrid enough to make him swallow. A taste he had long forgotten. Your red eyes gaze at him wetly and nervously, smeared black by the makeup that has been liquefied by your torture and your tears. And he feels guilty. 

Christ. Pathetic.  

He’s got one job to do. One objective. Prevent the mass murder of thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions. Your husband is an orchestrator of death and agony. You are the leech at his ankle, bleeding him of that evil.  

You’re ready for your only purpose here. To be used as leverage, to coerce and extort a terrorist kingpin. To be shaken, tearful, yet still alluring enough to remind him of the cost of his sin – losing the only thing that lets him pretend he’s more human than creature. You.  

Your reaction to the mention of your husband is unreadable. Nervous and yet hopeful. Scornful and yet tender. But you are speechless, only whimpering as your lungs readjust to the ability to breathe, as your fight-or-flight begins to settle back down into dark dejection. You stay quiet as he once again pulls that black hood over your head, not bothering to tighten its fastening.  

With a commanding grip of your upper arm, he guides you with a push, keeping you in front of him so you don’t trip on your feet. And you need that balance, clearly, squeaking and stumbling over your weak legs as he takes you to the door. You land with your back against him, unintentionally using his rigidity to keep you stable.  

Unlocking the door, he nudges you through it, steers you down the clinical hallway; a continual tunnel of plastic, painted cinderblock walls, droning fluorescents, heavy steel doors. He ferries you to one in particular, marked No Entry, and kicks it open – it leads to a steel staircase, spiralling deep into the subterranean basement of the compound.  

The guttural roars are already audible from deep below. They echo through the cement chute, reverberating like the cries of angered spirits from the walls, chattering the rusting stairs as they creak with the weight of him.  

You let out a yelp, tripping over your feet as you attempt to descend the stairs with him; you tumble knees-first onto the steel and cry out from behind your blinding hood. Firm grip not waning, he prevents you from falling any further. Fuck’s sake.  

“C’mere,” he chuffs, disgruntled, lowering himself to scoop you up. Tosses you over his shoulder. You feel different. When he carted you to the helo, you were unyielding, stiff, hot – every muscle, every breath begrudging your abduction. Now you’re damp and flaccid, cold like a wet cloth. You hang from his shoulder like he might be able to wring you out. It makes his job easier. It makes his stomach churn.  

A minute of raucous cries growing louder, Ghost reaches the door, hauling you like a body bag. Thick, steel, no window. He knocks in code. One-two, one, one-two-three.  

Shut up, shut the fuck up – he hears through the door, some shuffling and and the odd thud.  

The door squeals open. Price stands in its frame – bloody, swearing, red on his neck and veins bulging in his temples.  

“Simon,” he greets through his jaw, “good timing.”  

Ghost nods, adjusting you on his shoulder with a jolt, you respond with a squeak.  

Price sucks his teeth, an air of disapproval, he raises his eyebrows. “Glad you’ve kept her alive for us, eh.”  

Fuck off, captain.  

He feels the urge to defend himself, but he bites his tongue. No sense in attempting to prove he’s not as barbaric as they think he is, while you’re wet, half-naked, and near-dead slung over his shoulder.  

Price steps aside to allow Ghost through – the room is dark, lit only by the down-lighting of the bulb hanging from the centre of the ceiling. Raw concrete walls, cement floor, the odd steel shelving housing old tools and electrical paraphernalia.  

In the centre sits your husband. Victor Zakhaev. 

Duct-taped to his chair, hands bound to the armrests, ankles tethered to the legs. Shirtless, dripping with sweat, skin red and purple and speckled with blood. What a fucking sight to behold. Ghost’s mood is lifted just at the vision of his much deserved agony.  

His eyes swollen nearly shut, thick with the blood that pools under the surface of his skin – he looks up, scowling, glare catching on the ass of the woman carried into the room.  

“What the fuck,” he mutters, teeth bared. 

Ghost carts you towards the seat across from your husband. He drops you down into it, too carefully, makes sure you don’t land too harshly. You whimper nonetheless – panting, shivering, negligée still too sheer from the wetness of your torment.  

“Mia?” Zakhaev grunts, squinting, his tone more bitter than concerned.  

Price, having locked the heavy door, strolls to stand behind you and abruptly tugs the hood from your head. You wince in the sudden brightness, head bolting around as you hastily absorb your surroundings. He watches as your gaze lands on the man across from you, chest hitching as you hold your breath.  

“Victor?” You breathe, a whine, he cannot determine if out of fear or relief. “Слава богу, ты жив.” Thank God, you’re alive.  

“Что ты им сказал?” What have you told them? 

Seething. Accusatory. No concern for your wellbeing. Ghost suddenly feels he overestimated your value as leverage.  

“Ничего, малыш, я им ничего не говорил.” Nothing, baby, I haven’t told them anything.  

You little liar. Are you attempting to spare yourself the wrath of your husband? Are you trying to ensure you remain useful by keeping your husband on your side?  

Cleverer than he thought.  

Do you love him? 

You know that face.  

That lour.  

The stare your husband gives you when he hates you. When you disobey him. When you disappoint him. The hatred that reminds you how replaceable you are. How easy it would be for him to leave you in the snow-blown wilderness and let you die, how little he would care if he did so.  

You had at first found it almost amusing, that your militant abductors thought they could use you to extort him. As if he cared about you enough to bother spilling a single secret in exchange for your life.  

But, you now know what awaits you if it doesn’t go the way they want it to. Your usefulness will expire. Your time will be up.  

And now, aching, exhausted, withering, your beaten mind only yearns for comfort. Something familiar. The care of a man that isn’t itching to murder you. You just want him to love you.  

Despite how long, how ardently you scorned him and the life he forced you into – now, you miss it. You long for it. Your heart leaps back mere hours ago, when he kissed you, when he held you, when he whispered his Cyrillic pet names in your ear. Mere hours ago, you hated it. Looks like you got what you wished for.  

“Xерня.”  Bullshit.  

You feel the jagged rock rising in your throat, and you release it with a sob, eyes swelling with tears as you longingly glare at him.  

His wounds upset you. Bruises and slices and welts. You wish you could just float back to the estate with him, put ice on his injuries, apologise for ever wishing that you could inflict those wounds on him yourself. You had everything and you forsook it.  

“Я этого не делал, обещаю. Я тебя люблю.” I didn’t, I promise. I love you.  

The man whose voice you recognised, the one you had named The Captain, steps around your chair, stands in front of you with a roll of duct tape in hand – a shrill tear as he pulls off a piece. You tilt your head to glare up at him, and he takes you in his hand. Sticks the strap over your mouth, silencing you. 

He moves aside, your eyes once again land on your husband. Even more hateful than before. You hope he can see in your eyes how devotedly you love him. It mightn’t even be true, but you cling to it, with nothing else left.  

Your hunter re-enters your line of sight, sauntering behind Victor, leaning against the concrete wall, returning to the shadows. He crosses his arms, spectating it as if it were sport. He meets your eye from under the darkness of his mask. Fucking animal.  

The Captain grumbles from elsewhere in the room, amongst the clinks and clatters of whatever tool of suffering he prepares. “Had no idea your wife was so pretty, Victor.”  

Victor scoffs, as though amused, still harshly disdainful. “Как ты думаешь, почему я женился на ней?” Why do you think I married her? 

Captain chortles. “Mh. Not sure why she married you, though, eh?”  

“Take a guess,” your husband snarls, switching tongues. You know the answer, don’t you? His wallet. His empty promises.  

“Can’t be for your looks,” the Captain jeers. The familiar clicks of a spinning barrel ring out from where he stands. “I expect you lovebirds are familiar with русская рулетка.” Russian roulette.  

Your heart drops like steel.  

Your tongue forms your pleas behind your lips, as if you could speak them, instead you just moan and quiver in your chair, hoping they’ll listen. 

You jerk your head to see the Captain approach you. Behind you, he puts a warm and gentle hand on your shoulder, and you feel the sharply cold point of the revolver’s mouth against your opposite temple. You can only whimper, too terrified to tug yourself away, deathly afraid the gun will go off with the slightest movement.  

Please don’t kill me, you silently beg, entreating eyes land on your hunter. He observes disinterestedly. Please don’t let him kill me.  

“Alright, Victor,” the Captain drones, nudging the pistol at your forehead. “Tell us about London.”  

“Пошел на хуй.” Go fuck yourself. Victor spits, the apprehension in his voice belying the venom in his throat.  

“We know you’ve got WMDs in production. You know you’re only delaying the inevitable, right?”  

“You’re full of shit,” your husband growls. “You think I’m stupid? You have nothing.”  

“You’d be surprised.”  

Click.  

You scream – jolting unconsciously as you feel the gun crack against your temple – chamber empty. One down. Five to go.  

Your husband jumps, glowering at you, then the Captain, shuffling in his chair and out of breath.  

“Иди на хуй! Fuck you. Fuck you,” he roars, neck straining with his intensity. “You’re too fucking noble, Captain. You’re going to murder a woman in cold blood? No, you don’t have it in you, Ты жалкий хуй.” You pathetic fuck. 

“London. When.”  

“You’re stupider than I thought if you believe this will work.”  

Click.  

Your throat burns with the intensity of your crying, shrieking in horror as you survive yet another pull of the trigger – the click as loud as the eruption of a bullet. 

“You’ll really let your wife die for your lost fuckin’ cause, Victor?” The Captain admonishes him, grip of your shoulder firm and bizarrely comforting – your sanity begins to drift away from you, you watch as it fades.  

Victor releases a huff of scornful laughter. “Lost cause? You are desperate, Captain. Desperate enough to bring my wife into this.”  

“She’s one of many options,” the Captain threatens, “not a last resort.”  

“You’re a fool. It might be your first time killing a woman, it’s not mine.”  

Click.  

Your screams turn to whimpers, heart and lungs depleted of all strength, eyes itching with the flood of tears that flow from their swollen glands.  

“Do it. Go on. You fucking asshole.” Your husband goads him, shaking with fury, he averts your gaze even still  

Click.  

“Two left!” The Captain roars, “the odds really are in Mrs. Zakhaev’s favour, eh? Now we’ve got a fifty-fifty chance, don’t we.”  

“Fuck you. I’m not telling you anything. Not for that whore.”  

You sob, head tumbling from your shoulders in defeat and exhaustion – you'll die here. Two chambers left, one containing certain death. Your fucking husband will let it get down to the last round just to prove his obstinance. He’d let a bullet blast through your head just to prove a point.  

“It’s two simple things, Victor. Only two things you need to spill. When your fucking cabal of Soviet pricks is hitting London, and what with. Is that really worth her life, mate?”  

The Captain slips his hand under your jaw, lifting your head to realign it with his pistol. Victor glares at you. Finally meets your gaze. His eyes are small and black, beady like a shark, furious that you’ve put him in this position.  

“I’m not as pathetic as you, Captain,” he shouts, knuckles white, he shakes the steel chair like he might break it.  

Click.  

This time, you shriek, so certain that would be the end – no, another blank shot, another roll of the barrel. Which leaves the last chamber.  

Now it’s an execution. Now, you cry, and writhe, and tug, and kick, and scream – wordlessly begging, anything to plead with your husband to just tell them! It can’t be that horrific. It can’t be worth more than your life. He can’t love you that little.  

“Doesn’t seem like your wife is ready to die for you. Listen to her.” The Captain snarls, his thumb on your jaw, the revolver cold on your forehead. “It’d be such a waste. An awful shame to lose such a beauty. Wouldn’t it?”  

Victor’s skin is burning red, thumping with rage, he glares at you so viciously it terrifies you that he might tear free from his restraints and kill you himself. Something you always feared might happen eventually.  

He snorts loudly, hurling a lump of thick saliva onto the cement floor with a loud spit.  

“Go on, Captain, fucking shoot her,” he roars. “I’m not weak, like you. She’s just a fucking whore. I picked her up from the streets. And I married her for her cunt – and there are plenty of nice cunts out there. You think I give a shit what you do to her? You’ve probably already fucked her, I bet. Did she ask you to put your cock in her? It’s all she’s fucking good for, and she’s not even that good at it. I'm sure she bent over the second you broke into my house, you son of a bitch. Tell me, was she good for you? She’s not very good at listening to me, so maybe not. She’s good at sucking cock, though – did she offer that to you? It’s the only thing she knows how to do. I bet that’s why you haven’t fucking killed her already. You’d be doing me a favour. She spends my money like it’s fucking hers. You’d be saving me money if you put her down like the worn-out bitch she–” 

Bang. 

Wailing in horror, you’re certain that was your demise, that you had just drawn your last breath – briefly wondering if your spirit had already drifted from your filthy body, a death so instant that you were spared the agony of a bullet tearing through your skull.  

But you open your eyes, trembling, sobbing, dizzied by the sudden silence; to see your husband’s head hanging off his shoulders. A fountain of maroon blood. The splash and dribble of it pouring thick from the red crater in the centre of his forehead. It lands on his knees, drips from his fingers, puddles on the concrete floor around his feet.  

Behind him, your hunter.  

Gun raised. Still smoking.  

“Fuck’s sake, Ghost,” the Captain chides loudly, releasing his grip on your head, dropping the gun from your temple.  

You release a heaving breath, almost fainting with the relief, your vision begins to fade.  

“Had to shut him up,” your hunter grunts. Seems nonchalant about his sudden murder. Irritated that he had to waste the bullet.  

“Why? We were just getting him talking.”  

The hunter sniffs, rolling his head on his shoulders, cracking his spine.  

“Just had to.” 

[jamdoughnutmagician]

A Very Merry Munson Christmas (Fluff)

@littlexdeaths shared some festive prompts for the twelve days of promptmas and I really wanted to try and write at least a few short fics for some of the prompts.

Day 1:Snowed in/Caught in a blizzard.

When a snow storm sweeps across Hawkins, and your plans to fly out to visit your family for the holidays are thrown out of the window, Eddie does his best to bring his family to you.

Word Count:835

Masterlist // Eddie Munson Masterlist

*divider by @strangergraphics

“I just don't want to upset your parents babe, I mean, this is the first Christmas we're spending together and we were supposed to be staying with your family!”

It's true, you had made plans that this year you would be flying out of Indiana with Eddie to be with your parents for the holidays. It would be the first time that you were going to introduce Eddie to your parents. Of course, they already knew about him, given how much you talk about him whenever you're on the phone to them. But this was going to be the first time they had met him.

Or at least it would have been.

“Eddie, there is a blizzard sweeping through Indiana and the rest of the midwest right now. There are no flights. The only way we're getting out of Hawkins is if Santa flies us there on his sleigh.”

“But your parents are going to-” he starts, already worrying about what your parents are going to think of him.

“-But nothing. I’ll call them and I’ll tell them everything. We can speak to them together. They’ll understand, I promise.”

“But-” he tries again, but you’re quick to silence his worries with a soft kiss pressed to his lips. 

“Eddie, stop worrying, and who knows! We might be able to reschedule it and fly out to see them on new year's!” 

Sure enough Christmas day rolled around, and despite knowing you weren't going to be able to see your parents for Christmas this year, calling them just wasn't the same. Sure,  they were so completely warm and understanding, and reassured you that if the weather held out, you and Eddie were more than welcome to stay over new year's, but it didn't stop you from missing them. 

You rolled over in bed to find Eddie’s side of the bed empty. Touching your hand to the empty space where you expect to find your boyfriend, you're met with the cold press of the mattress. 

Just as you're about to sit up in the bed, the bedroom door swings open, and Eddie, dressed in a soft grey tank-top and red plaid pyjama bottoms, his wild hair pulled back into a little bun at the nape of his neck with a few soft strands falling down around his face, steps into the bedroom holding two steaming mugs.

He hands one of the mugs off to you as he places a soft kiss to your cheek. 

“Merry Christmas, Sweetheart.” he says with a lazy smile pulling at his pink lips. 

“Merry Christmas to you too, Eds.”

“Drink up that coffee and come with me to the living room, we’ve got presents to open!” he smiles with that happily wild smile.

You let him lead you through to the living room, where the rainbow fairy lights illuminate the room in a soft colourful glow, and the tree in the corner of the room stands proudly, adorned with your’s and Eddie’s combined collection of unique Christmas tree ornaments. The scattering of a few presents sat underneath the tree, ready for you and Eddie to exchange them between yourselves.

You reach underneath the tree to give Eddie one of his carefully wrapped presents, but he lays a soft touch to your arm, as if asking you to wait for just a moment.

Looking down at his watch on his wrist quickly before his eyes flick over to the front door.

And then as if perfectly choreographed there’s three distinct knocks to the front door.

“You should probably answer that.” Eddie says, giving you a soft smile.

You go to answer the door, and immediately you are met with the weathered, yet kind expression of Eddie’s Uncle Wayne. 

Wayne was someone who you felt an immediate kinship with when Eddie had introduced you to him, something about his hard on the outside, yet soft on the inside demeanour reminded you very much of your own father, and when he saw how much Eddie loved you, and you loved Eddie, it seemed only right to welcome you into his life with open arms.

“Ed told me you were missing your family this Christmas, and whilst I may not be your family, you’re in my boy’s life and you make him happier than I’ve ever known him, and  I’ll be damned if I let you be sad on Christmas day, missy.” and although he wasn’t know for his physical affections, he wasted no time in giving you a warm hug.

“I couldn't take you to your family, but what I can do is bring my family to you.”  Eddie smiles brightly, happy to have two of his favourite people surrounding him this Christmas.

“Come on in, we were just about to start opening presents, and there’s real a big one right here with your name on it, Mr. Munson.”

It may not have been the Christmas you had planned, but it ended up being the one of the best Christmases you could ever have hoped for.

@penguinsandpotterheads @abitchyouhate @mrsjellymunson

@userchai @rebelfell @ali-r3n @eddiesxangel @seatnights

[astroboots]

EVERY YOU EVERY ME #9

COLLABORATED WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader

Summary: You get a new mysterious co-worker.

Word count: 8,100

Series Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist | thirstworldproblemss’ Masterlist

[Previous] [Next]

August 1st

Nearly pancaked by grand piano falling from the 8th floor outside of favorite cafe. No casualties (except the piano).

August 5th

Freak blizzard out of nowhere during lunch. Nearly crushed by large icicle dropping directly outside the exit of the Chrysler building. No other known casualty.

August 6th

An escaped hippopotamus from the Bronx zoo ran 11.3 miles, nearly got stampeded when exiting hotel for work. No casualties.

August 12th

Tornado appeared inside the Guggenheim museum, nearly squashed by large falling statue. Nobody nearby was seriously injured.

It's already mid-August now. You've used up more than a month of your allotted three. It means you don't have much more time to waste, but that knowledge does nothing to help you in figuring things out. 

You’ve compiled a comprehensive list of the Universe's ongoing murder attempts, determined to keep track of them all. All in all, there are 37 incidents and counting that you’re aware of… and they’re all different. 

They differ in severity. They differ in scale and they differ in frequency. Sometimes it can take weeks, sometimes days, sometimes within hours of each other. If there’s any sort of pattern to them—anything that might help you predict what will happen next or how to stop it—you can’t see it.  There’s nothing that gives you any hint or clue as to where you can start to make progress with solving this mystery.

The one thing you have been able to observe from cataloging these incidents is that Miguel was right about what he told you that day at Starbucks: the universe is ramping up. Each attempt is becoming more and more bizarre, defying the very laws of physics and nature in its attempts to snuff you out. Before this, in all of your years in New York, you’ve never heard of a blizzard in July or a tornado indoors. 

With the escalating dangers, Miguel is more on guard than ever. Sticking close to you at all times like a particularly insistent herding dog that’s always a few inches from nipping at your heels. Even when he’s seemingly preoccupied by something else—reading a book, folding clothes, eating a crate of kit kats in one sitting—you can always tell that he’s keenly aware of and attuned to your every minute move. 

Practically, the only time he lets you out of his sight is for bathroom visits. 

Work is still a point of contention between you two. He hates that he can't enter the building to monitor you at work and make sure you're safe, and after that incident when you caught a co-worker trying to take a surreptitious selfie with Spiderman while Miguel was loitering around in the windows, you’d banned him from climbing and scuttering around the exterior of the building like some deranged squirrel. 

It’s made him even less pleased about your whole work situation, something he’s not shy about sharing with you. Every morning when you are about to leave for work, Miguel will stand by the door with that ever present frown and ask you: 

“Why are you still going into a job you hate when there’s only two months left?”

This morning, you sigh as you reach for your jacket and messenger bag. 

Part of you completely understands and even agrees with his logic. If the end of the world is only two months away, why go back to that shithole everyday? You could go to Disneyland. Eat fancy croissants in Paris for breakfast. Have Lyla fake a reservation at an all-inclusive yoga retreat in Bali. You could be living your life like every moment is your last. 

The thing is though, as delusional as it may be, you’re not ready to bet on the world ending just yet. 

“Miguel, I fully intend for the universe to still be around in two months. And I don’t want to be unemployed when that day comes. I’m not some trust fund baby. Once we figure this thing out, you’re gonna be free to go, and if you take Lyla with you, then what am I supposed to do? Live on the streets? Rent in the city is ridiculous, and my rent-controlled apartment got blown into a million pieces.”

For once Miguel doesn’t seem to have anything smart to say back. He tilts his head, quietly studying your face. Then after a long pause, he gives you a curt nod, as if something clicked into place. 

"Fine."

You stop mid-way through zipping up one of your boots to eye him suspiciously. 

Okay, that’s… different.

In all the mornings you’ve repeated this argument, this is the first time he’s simply accepted your explanation without sassing you back. He just gazes right back, apparently unperturbed, and holds the door of your hotel room open for you, ready to walk you to work. 

There is definitely something going on inside his head, because this stubborn dummy never lets anything go without a fight. You just don’t know what it is yet. 

By mid-morning, you've forgotten all about your suspicions, too busy dealing with the aftermath of your coworker's incompetence. You're not entirely sure how they managed to corrupt the Excel formula you’d painstakingly inserted to make sure all the numbers add up correctly, but two hours later, you're still trying to get the data to compute properly. 

It’s the kind of mind numbing task that lets your mind wander, and you spend most of that morning wondering what Miguel is up to. He’s probably lingering near the building, eating mini donuts by the dozens from that food truck that is always parked around the corner. 

There’s a pointed series of knocks on your cubicle wall. The noise is grating, and it makes the whole of your back seize up because you recognize that signature knock from sound alone. It’s your boss, probably here to ask if you have capacity to take on more case evaluations. 

And sure enough, as you reluctantly turn to look, you see her, toothy smile and all, looking down at you in that hammy and strained way of hers. 

“Are you busy?” she asks. “I just wanted to introduce you to the newest member of the team.” 

She gestures to the person standing beside her. Your gaze goes up over their insanely long legs, up and over the narrow and tapered waist and torso, up over the wide chest and broad, broad shoulders, and even before you get to the familiar face, you already know who you are looking at, because no one else is that tall.

Your mouth gapes open wide in shock.

This stupid motherf-

“This is Mickey O’Hara,” your boss introduces, simpering up at him. (You didn’t even know she knew how to simper.) 

Has Miguel gone insane?

What is he playing at?!

He didn’t even bother to change his name properly!

And the man looks unfairly good in office casual! He’s dressed in a white, well-fitted button down shirt and dress pants. Wearing ridiculous thick-rimmed glasses that would belong on Gregory Peck. Riotous curls are as messy and wild as ever, not having even bothered to comb it back. You don’t know who he thinks he’s fooling, the subdued get-up only makes him stick out like a sore thumb.

“Mickey is our newest hire,” your boss continues, batting her eyes at him. “He's interning with our team as a junior insurance claims adjuster and will be shadowing you for the next two months.”

After that, Miguel truly is with you everywhere you go. 

He spends most of each workday sitting on a spare chair in your small cubicle, the two of you squeezed into 6'x6', shoulder touching shoulder in that tiny, cramped space.

A superhero he may be, but Miguel is a terrible office worker. He seems completely bamboozled by the copier, and you quickly learn not to ask him to do any copying or scanning or even pick your printouts from the printer, because he always manages to mangle the process, coming back with crumpled up prints or half-shredded paper that looks like budget confetti.

Before the week is over, he’s gained a reputation with the rest of the team as the handsome-but-useless junior that can’t even make coffee for shit.

Most of the time, he doesn't even make an effort to look like he’s doing any actual work, just sits right next to you, and reads books all day long. When you scold him and ask him to at least pretend like he's doing busy work, or he'll get fired, Miguel will just shrug and quietly hum back at you, engrossed in whatever latest sci-fi book his nose is buried in. 

"If they fire me, I'll just have Lyla hack into their HR system and rehire me."

Then there’s the way his sleeves are always rolled up halfway up his arm, hugging tight around the firm muscles of his forearm. The peep show of gorgeously tanned skin that is always on display for all to see. It's obscene. 

He’s maddening and distracting. 

Still, you can’t be too mad about his presence. The office is a much more treacherous place than you’d initially thought. It’s a danger zone of death traps. 

One morning when you’re in the supply room, getting a new pad of post-its from one of the massive industrial shelves—the ones that are supposed to be bolted to the wall for safety—suddenly crumpled, taking half the wall with it and nearly flattening you. That was almost game over for you. Squashed like a bug and entombed under a pile of archived TPS reports. 

Then there’s that time with the runaway elevator when the supposedly secure and unbreakable industrial cables snaps, with you in it, falling through 40 floors. And you still shudder everytime you walk past the copy machine because of that time it tried to electrocute you. If Miguel hadn’t been there for all of these incidents, you’d be a goner. 

Another upside is that it’s also nice to have a cubicle buddy. On slow days, the two of you kill time watching YouTube origami tutorials and practicing with post-its stolen from the temporarily-relocated office supplies. 

Despite having hands the size of a giant, Miguel is surprisingly good at it. Delicately folding paper cranes, butterflies and flowers that sit in the place of pride atop of your computer screen, compared to your questionable attempts that usually wind up in a crumpled ball in the trash. 

With Miguel there, your days at the office are never boring or predictable in the way they used to be. It no longer feels like you are just going through motions. It's almost… fun. 

If there wasn’t a cosmic executioner’s ax looming over your neck, you don’t think you would mind spending every day with him like this.

You take it back. You do mind spending days with him like this. Miguel is the worst. 

You've been doing data entry all morning, and the man will not shut up about how primitive Excel is. 

“Malo! I don’t understand how your company relies on this software. There are so many data consistency issues! It completely lacks data validation and integrity checks, and it’s too prone to human error when entering crucial data, which results in–” 

You take deep calming breaths as you continue to type, trying to pretend his rant is white noise.  

The previous day's near death experience—an electrical surge from the printer, trying to finish what the copy machine started—also wiped out one of the file servers, and now you and half your department are stuck manually re-entering three years worth of data.  

Two hours in, your fingers are aching, and you're about ready to start banging your head on the keyboard out of frustration. (Or banging the keyboard on Miguel’s head if he doesn’t shut up.)

Like he can hear your thoughts, the man in question obligingly stops talking, and there’s a moment of blessed silence before your chair glides smoothly and suddenly to the left as Miguel rolls you out from in front of your computer. Your first instinct is to wonder what new danger he’s saving you from, but no… He’s just moving you out of the way to make space for him to drag his own chair in front of the screen. “Enough,” he says firmly, already typing out some unintelligibly complex code at a speed that far outstrips your own personal best of 67 words per minute, “I can’t watch you keep doing this when it’s so simple to automate.”

You sometimes forget just how smart Miguel is. 

True, he can’t seem to work the office printer, but he’s a genius scientist who single-handedly built an A.I. sophisticated enough to hack into financial institutions and topple governments. He successfully invented a machine that travels between dimensions. Every other sentence coming out of his mouth sounds like something that would confound Stephen Hawking. You don’t know why you’re surprised he’s able to automate Excel spreadsheets. 

It doesn’t take him very long at all. 

Within minutes, he’s finished, hitting enter one final time, and then you can see all of the cells rectify themselves one by one. Errors disappear and new corrected information appears, data populating blank cells and aligning itself in tidy rows. 

You lean in closer to get a better look. Your elbow snags the edge of your coffee cup and the cup topples over, splashing runaway hot coffee across your hand.

Before you have a chance to react, there’s a strong pull backwards. Miguel is already grabbing you and pulling you sideways into his lap and out of the firing range.

The cup clatters off the edge of the desk and onto the floor. The rest of the burning liquid never had the time to land on you. 

Then you’re sitting on top of him, confined in the much too small seat of the office chair that can barely fit him and his broad backside, and much less the both of you. But if it’s uncomfortable, Miguel doesn’t show it. He takes your hand in his to inspect it carefully.

The patch of skin burns and stings, but you can’t tell if it’s from the coffee or his burning touch that makes you feel like there’s liquid fire simmering in your veins. 

“You okay?” he says, his voice right in your ear.

He is so close. Surrounding you. Broad arms locked around your waist and the firm muscles of his thick thighs under yours.

“Yeah,” you manage, nodding slowly. Your tongue feels heavy and dry in your mouth.

He quietly drags your hand closer to his face, then blows on the back of your burnt knuckles to soothe the sting. 

“Better?” 

Those stunning eyes are staring into yours from inches away, cut cheeks right there, nose barely brushing against yours, and – god, is he close. Too close. 

Miguel is always in close proximity to you these days. Never more than a couple yards away, but save for life or death situations, the two of you do not find yourself like this. He only ever holds you when you’re crashing through the skies or about to collide with a runaway vehicle. This is different somehow. 

Your heart feels like a trapped bird in your chest, fluttering so fast and panicky it might burst from inside out at the proximity. 

“I– um– ah…” You’re not saying any words, just making strange noises in your throat like a squawking bird. 

Your eyes flicker away from his face avoidantly and from the corner of your eye, you spot Matt from accounting spying on you from the cubicle across. 

Oh god. This probably doesn’t look great, does it?

You’re sitting on a co-worker’s lap in the middle of an open plan office. Compromising does not even begin to describe the position you two are in.

Jumping off his lap, you quickly stand up and turn away, trying to ignore the flustered heat in your cheeks. 

You walk back over to your chair, about to sit yourself back down, but there’s spilled coffee everywhere. The dark brown liquid quickly sinking into the already stained fabric of the seat.  You need to clean this up or else your chair is going to smell like expired coffee for the rest of time. Grabbing for your bag, you start digging for some tissues so you don't have to walk up to the supply closet.

You pull out item after item. Tampons. Sunglasses. A half-eaten chocolate bar. More tampons. New wallet with new ID, (expedited, all courtesy of Lyla). A handful of pennies. A random pamphlet. Still no tissues though, so you upend your bag onto your desk, wincing at the clatter. 

How on Earth have you accumulated this much stuff in the few short weeks since your apartment was destroyed?  And how on Earth do you not have any kleenex or napkins or anything in your handbag?? 

You paw through the mess, hoping for something useful, then swear as some of it spills over onto the floor. Ducking down, you crawl half under your desk, collecting wayward tampons and receipts, until your eyes pause on the pamphlet.

Not just any pamphlet. It’s yellow and bright with Whoopie Goldberg's face in the corner. It's the map you received from the fortune teller lady. One of your many misfires.

Now that you look closely at it, there are faint lines that seem to glow faintly in the dimness under your desk that weren't there when you were looking at it in plain daylight.

You pick it up and unfold it, laying it out on the floor. It looks like it’s been written on with some kind of a glow-in-the-dark marker, but it’s not dark enough for you to see clearly. You need to get somewhere darker to test your theory.

Backing out from under your desk, you get to your feet and head briskly off down the hall. You barely make it three steps before Miguel’s on your tail, his towering height blocking out the bright LED lamps above as he follows after you like the world’s biggest duckling. 

“Cielo, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” you murmur curtly under your breath. The heat from before is still riding persistently on your face, and you quicken your steps, hoping it doesn’t show. 

You half run to the end of the hall until you reach the small supply closet. When you open the door to step inside, Miguel is right behind you, apparently trying to squeeze himself in after you. 

"We won't both fit in here!" you scold as you close the door after you.  His unhappy expression is the last thing you see as darkness envelops you in the pitch black.

There’s a niggling feeling of guilt that wiggles down into your skin. But you remind yourself that you can always steal cupcakes meant for clients from the conference room to make it up to him. All will be forgiven if you appease his sweet tooth. 

Ducking your head to stare down at the map clutched in your hands, you squint your eyes in the dark to study it closely. There's a small star glowing bright in the middle of the map.

It's a literal star map.

She gave you a location.

You're standing in front of an old stone building at 177A Bleecker Street, smack in the middle of Greenwich village with its picturesque ivy covered old brownstone houses. 

Then there's this monstrosity: Sanctum Sanctorum. The infamous residence of Dr. Strange.

The mansion is built in a mix of a Victorian and Gothic style as if the architect couldn't make up their mind and just decided 'why not both?' Throughout the rooftop, there are ornate carvings and intricate stonework that you suspect was meant to lend it a mysterious air, but instead the place reminds you of Disney’s Haunted Mansion ride attraction. 

You bring up your hand to the old knocker, gripping it firmly. Your lungs tighten, breath constricting in your chest as you hesitate, unable to bring yourself to pull the brass down to make contact with the wooden front door. Instead you’re holding it still in the air. 

Maybe this isn’t a good idea after all. How are you going to explain this? 

‘The universe is out to get me, please send Avengers to help.’

Isn’t he just going to think you’re nuts? One of those delusional Supes-fan with munchausen syndrome?

"We can still leave," Miguel says. 

The man's been protesting every step of the way here, buzzing in your head about how much of a bad idea this is.

You frown, turning around to him. "I want to do this,” you answer. 

His continued opposition is the final push you need. You bring down the knocker against the front door and tap it repeatedly. 

There's no answer.

Part of you has to fight the urge to turn your feet and flee, saving yourself the embarrassment. But before you do, there’s a loud creak and a heavy scraping noise against the entrance as the double door swings inwards and slowly opens. 

No one greets you by the door. The entryway before you is empty, revealing a grand imperial staircase leading to the second floor, curving upward into a majestic spiral on each side of the room. 

It looks deserted. It’d be impolite to just step inside without someone to greet you and explicitly invite you in. But the doors did open to let you in. 

You look at Miguel, unsure of what to do, but the man does not have the same compunction for politeness that you do, he’s already walked in, shoes and all, straight into the main hall. 

“Can we just get this over with without you making your usual stupid grand dramatic entrance?” Miguel says into the empty room seemingly to no one in particular and you don’t know who he thinks he’s talking to. 

A ring of ember and fire sparks into existence out of nothingness in the center of the room. The ring grows wider, and you can see hints of another room inside of the circle: one decorated in a different decoration style than the current room you’re in: moroccan seats and plush cushions with oriental wooden carved furniture. 

A man steps out from within that room to stand in front of you both. The ring of light closes behind him once he’s made it through. Clad in a rich purple tunic and dark robes that is monk-like in appearance. Miguel steps in front of you, tucking you safely behind him. 

"You're not Strange," Miguel sneers, and you want to smack him. Why does he always have to be this rude?

"Oh, I'm quite strange. But I am not the Doctor. I am Wong. I’m the Sorcerer Supreme and guardian of this place." The man’s voice is calm and formal, and he holds himself with a stately manner as he speaks. 

You pop out your head from behind Miguel’s side. "We’re here to see Doctor Strange." 

At the repeated mention of Strange, the man’s formality seems to fall away, an expression of irritation bleeding into his features. 

"Let me know when you find him. Because he is not here."

"Where is he?" Miguel asks, and there’s that contempt rumbling in his voice again. 

"I do not know. Probably playing hooky again. The man comes and goes as he likes." Wong makes a muttering noise under his breath as he continues. "Treats this sacred place like a summer gig at McDonalds."

Your chest deflates. How are you supposed to get Dr. Strange to help you if he’s not even here?

"I need help,” you plead with Mr. Wong. Maybe he can help you if Dr Strange can’t, he is the Sorcerer Supreme after all, supreme is the highest level, right? This might even be an upgrade from Strange. “I know this sounds crazy, but I think the universe is out to get me." 

Wong just looks at you, expression unchanging, and okay, yeah, that was maybe not the best place to start. You take a deep breath, trying to figure out how to make yourself sound less paranoid.

"I've almost died 40 times since the beginning of the summer. I just want to know why this keeps happening and how to make it stop."

You dig into your bag, pulling out the folded map. 

"We talked to a fortune teller in Chinatown, and she gave me this map. It led us here, and I'm really, really hoping you can help me."

Wong dips his head down to the map, "This is a celebrity home star map," he says, with a straight face and a neutral voice that only slightly betrays that he thinks you're batshit crazy.

“I know it sounds crazy, but-”

“Sanctum Sanctorum opened its doors for you, which means it wanted me to meet with you. I believe what you’re telling me.”

Oh thank god.

You tell him everything, rambling on as you try to explain what’s been happening and what little you know about it as best you can. The near death experiences, Miguel being a Spiderman from another dimension, the destruction of your apartment,  the unnatural phenomena and the universe’s escalating attempts on your life. 

Wong is quiet throughout, studying your face with grave concentration as you speak. 

When you’re finally done, he sighs with deep weariness that emanates from the core of his soul. He looks down on his feet, tapping them in deep consideration.

"I have an idea,” Wong says cautiously, “I could perform a Multiversal Divination on you, that might give us a clearer idea of what we’re dealing with,” 

“What does that mean?” Miguel asks, anger vibrating off his skin and boiling in his tone.  

This man needs to calm down. You clearly need to take him to anger management, because since the moment he’s stepped into this place he’s been on the edge (even more so than usual).

“What does a ‘Multiversal Divination’ entail?” he continues, “Is that some magical mumbo jumbo that’s going to hurt her? Because if so we’re not–”

“I’ll do it,” you say, interrupting his objections, and you sidestep Miguel who is scowling, mouth already parted in yet another protest, to stand in front of Wong. 

Wong looks to you and then Miguel, then back at you again, caught in the awkward stalemate, before you interrupt. 

“Please, I need answers. Whatever it is, if it might help, I want to do it.”

Wong nods, stepping closer to you. "This will feel a little bit strange," he warns with the bedside manner of a patient doctor.

His hand comes to your collarbone and he places his palm there with a gentle push. There is barely any effort put into it, but you feel the force of it as if you had been slammed with the full force of a six ton truck. Your body wants to leap out of its skin. It is the sensation of being dumped in cold water from head to toe. A shock runs through your entire nervous system.

Images flash before your eyes, flickering by too fast for you to process. They’re vivid and bright. Glimpses of a scene: your apartment, your work, your commute home. Each of them expiring in a fraction of a moment before you have a chance to latch on and make sense of any of them individually.

You see yourself in picture after picture. Except slightly different in each. Short hair. Long locks. Curly.

In some you're wearing glasses instead of the contact lenses that you usually use. In others, you’re sporting the piercing you wanted to get at 16 but never did. Sometimes you have tattoos, sometimes not; occasionally you’re covered in them. Dyed hair, in every color of the spectrum: pink, blue, purple. A myriad of versions of you, of every variation of the decisions you could have possibly taken in your life. 

There are pictures of memories you have had and not had. They rush in and flee before you're able to grab hold of one.

Captured moments of lifetimes you have never lived.

It's overwhelming. You don't understand what you're seeing. There’s pandemonium inside your head.

Then everything slows to a crawl.

The scene unfolding before you is one that you immediately recognize. An image that you'll never forget.

Window after window after window flashing you by. You know this view. Have seen it twice before. The same view of the Chrysler building as you were falling. But it's different this time. 

The sky isn’t blue, nor is it gray. It’s a pink and an abnormal purple, a color you’ve never seen on it before and it looks both beautiful and completely wrong. There’s an angry tear in the sky, cracking at the edges with static. The whole of the sky looks like it is going to cleave in two and bring the whole world with it. Is this the future? Is it the past?

There's no pain, but somehow tears run down your cheeks uncontrollably.

In the distance you hear Miguel's voice, muted even though you know from that tone that he's furious and must be bellowing loud enough that it echoes through the walls. It sounds like you are underwater, and you have to strain to make out what he is saying.

"Why is she crying?" He's definitely shouting, voice raw and growling. Is this part of your memory or is it happening in the now? "You're hurting her."

The ground approaches. 

"Stop! Stop!" Miguel's voice is shouting, but there's no way to stop this. Everything is going too fast this time around.

Miguel is here, tearing through the sky towards you. But you know it's too late. He's too far away. He can't save you this time.

Then everything does stop. 

No images in your head. No noise in your ears.

Everything goes black, like the ending of a movie.

Then you hear a thud.

It's loud and close and real.

You snap yourself out of your fugue state, to see Miguel towering over Wong's body where the Sorcerer Supreme lies, limp and lifeless on the ground.

“What did you do!? Are you out of your mind?" you shout, running up to them.

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. Wong isn’t moving, not even blinking!

"He was hurting you!" Miguel roars. 

"He wasn't hurting me, you big doofus!" you shout back, and it’s only then that the fury in Miguel’s eyes seem to abate. 

"What's wrong with him?” you ask, bending down Wong’s limp body on the ground. “Is he dead!? Did you kill him?” There's a rising panic pushing inside your throat.

"He's just paralyzed."

"He’s para– What do you mean paralyzed? What did you do to him?"

"I just... I bit him," he uses a finger to part his lips slightly, pushing the upper one up just enough to reveal the sharp edges of his fangs. "There's toxins in them that can have a paralyzing effect."

You glance back at Wong. He’s still worryingly still. 

“Is there some kind of way to un-paralyze him!?"

"It was just a small bite," Miguel says, ducking his head down sheepishly to stare at the floor, like a scolded boy. "I didn’t use that much venom... It’ll wear off. He shouldn't be out long. Maybe half an hour or so."

“I’m sorry. So, so sorry,” you tell Wong fervently, hovering over him. You can see his eyes tracking yours and the rise and fall of his chest, and you breathe a sigh of relief at the proof that he’s still alive. “Do you, um… Do you want me to help you up?”

“He’s not gonna want to move for a few more minutes,” Miguel interjects from behind you. “Moving will be incredibly painful until the venom wears off the rest of the way”. 

What the actual fuck!?

You throw a glare at Miguel, as you loop an arm under Wong’s waist, “Well help me move him so he can be more comfortable.” 

At your command, Miguel helps you prop the man up against the wall in what is (hopefully) a more comfortable position, and then you sit next to each other and wait.

"I can't believe you bit the Sorcerer Supreme," you mutter under your breath. “Miguel, you can’t just–” you cut yourself off, too frustrated to find the proper words. 

"I'm sorry,” he says, grimacing at your scolding, looking regretful for once as he ducks down his gaze. “You looked like you were in pain".

Your anger subsides, if only slightly at his repentance. 

“It still doesn’t make it okay. You can’t just attack someone like that! He was trying to help us.”

He doesn’t say anything more to that, just stares down at his feet in contrition. 

The two of you sit in the silence. 

Your mind goes back to the surreal experience you just had. The myriad of thousands if not millions of images that were flashing through your mind at the speed of light.

The warped shape of your world, the jarring images of it distorted and wrong, as it started to collapse. 

Miguel had said that didn’t he? That the universe was going to ramp up its game and if it didn’t succeed, it would eventually self-destruct in its mission to get you.

It takes 26 minutes. The first sign that the toxins are wearing off is that Wong is able to wiggle his toes. His recovery accelerates after that, he's able to move his fingers, then the muscles in his face until he's able to form a grimace. He doesn't look happy, and you don't blame him.

After another five minutes or so, he's able to speak again. 

"Strange way of expressing gratitude, literally biting the hand that helps you."

You get up on your feet to help Wong, and Miguel moves next to you. 

“No, you stay there! Don’t move,” you order, and even though he scowls, Miguel complies. 

You hunch over next to Wong, and help him sit fully upright. He stays seated, but dusts his robe off from the caked soot and fine layers of dirt. 

“This has happened in other dimensions,” Wong tells you. “And if we don’t stop it, our universe will be destroyed.”

“How do we stop it?” you ask. 

“The universe wants you dead. It won’t stop until it achieves its goal.”

Your stomach drops. 

“So in order for this to stop… I need to die?”

There’s a look of barely contained fury burning in Miguel’s red eyes that seems to vibrate out of his skin and pounce. But he doesn't, this time he remains in place, visibly restraining himself, still following your orders. 

“There is that option, or you will need to find the reason for why it wants to kill you. And you need to find it soon, because you don’t have a lot of time left. You will have even less time once the people of this world realize the threat you present to the continued integrity of this universe.” 

“Are you threatening her!?” Miguel demands, and somehow even though you didn’t hear him move, he’s right behind you, red eyes glowing, shoulders rising, looming over Wong, ready to cut him down at any further hints that the man might be a threat to your safety. 

Wong doesn't seem deterred in the slightest. 

You have to give it to the Sorcerer Supreme. He's a brave one. It took you weeks before you stopped being intimidated by the man, and Miguel’s never bitten you. 

“I am only telling you what the universe tells me. And it tells me that you do not belong here at all. The universe thinks neither of you belong here.”

You think back on fortune teller's drawing of the poorly drawn circle and stickfigure of you that’s speared with arrows.

"What if we went… somewhere else?" Miguel asks.

For the first time since he entered this house, his tone is no longer dripping with anger. “What if we left this universe and dimension?”

The image of white blankness enters your mind at his words. You shudder at the reminder. The cold numbness of the void and the sensation of nothingness. Dread fills your veins. A cold clammy sweat flashes hot and cold against your skin at the memory.

Wong tilts his head up in deep consideration. “That might work. This universe would slowly return to equilibrium with her gone. But… This will just start again in any new Universe. Most likely she wouldn’t be able to stay. She might have to leave every dimension she's in for the rest of her natural lifespan. A life spent always on the run.” 

Wong pauses as he glances over to you with sympathy and concern in his gaze. “Is that something you would want?” 

What is the alternative here? To lie down and die?

“Yes.”

“One month’s time, you need to find a way to leave this dimension before then.”

Back at your hotel that evening, you wake up to the sound of distress. Muffled whimpers and quiet moans. 

By habit, your eyes roam the room, seeking out Miguel in the dark. He’s lying on the sofa from across the room and even in this distance you can make out that his body is writhing beneath the covers. But you’re groggy and too sleep-drunk to make sense of what you’re hearing or seeing. 

There’s murmured noises from him, and it takes you far too long to understand what’s going on. 

He’s having a nightmare. 

Tugging off the blanket on top of you, you get up and scoot over to the end of the bed over to him. Miguel looks like he’s in pain. There’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead as he tosses and turns, face pinched in pain and distress. Now that you’re closer, you can make out words in the sounds he’s making. 

“Quiero quedarme contigo. No te vayas, no te vayas,” he keeps murmuring. 

He looks exhausted. Which, of course he is. He's been on constant alert trying to protect you. Fighting off supernatural weather phenomena, blocking hazardous furniture and fighting off charging hippos out of nowhere. Of course he's worn out.

“Shhhh, It’s alright.” you whisper to him, reaching out to gently stroke his arm, attempting to soothe him. “It’s okay.”

He groans unhappily in his sleep, burying his head into the cushion.

“Quiero quedarme conti–”

"Hey, hey, Miguel,” you tap insistently at his shoulder now. If you can’t soothe the nightmare away, then maybe you can at least wake him up out of it, “It's okay. Wake up."

This time his eyes slam open, wide with adrenaline and shock, and he shoots upright, head whipping from side to side as he scans the room. Every inch of him prepared to leap into a fight.  

“What’s wrong? What’s–”

“You were having a nightmare,” you explain to him. 

He stiffens at that, dropping his eyes to stare down at his lap unhappily. 

“Shit, did I wake you?” he runs a hand over his face, then lays back down, “Sorry.” 

Silence blankets the two of you, and you don’t know what else to say to him. Except just that you want him to be able to rest–truly rest–after the day, week and month you’ve both had. You don’t want him to have to go back to snatching moments of troubled, uncomfortable sleep on that stupid, too-small couch.

“You could come sleep on the bed with me,” you offer, “That couch is nowhere near big enough for you.”

"It's fine," he mutters, "It's been fine the last month, and it's fine now."

"It's not though. You're clearly not sleeping well.  I should have asked you before.  I'm surprised your back isn't already killing you—that sleeping position looked painful."

His head darts down, eyeing his own spread legs that are sticking out into the empty air from the bottom of the couch. But he doesn't concede the point.

"Please?" you try again, "It will make me feel better."

Apparently all you needed to do was ask, because Miguel immediately complies like your request was a decree. He gets up, pulling the quilt with him, his mop of curls in adorable disarray as he drags his feet over to the other side of the bed and flops down with a loud thump that makes the whole mattress bounce underneath you.

You can feel the pull of the sheets where his legs threaten to brush up against your bent knees, and you're beginning to realize you didn't think this through. Even in the big bed, there's only so much space, and he seems to be taking up most of it.  

He's close, and you can't seem to peel your eyes away from the strong line of his throat. Can't help the way your body reacts. Your pulse starts to race, heart kicking up hard and fast against your ribs.

Miguel turns around to observe you with narrowed eyes. “You okay?” 

Shit! Did he hear you? That timing was too on the nose. You nod at him a little bit too frantically and you sound high-pitched and skittish even to your own ears. 

 “Yes of course, why wouldn’t I be?”  

“Your heart is beating really fast.”

Fuck. He could hear you. Of course he can, he has super hearing powers doesn’t he? 

“I’m just tired,” you stammer out, wrapping the blanket close to your chest for layers as a shield from his super hearing. 

Miguel doesn’t push it. He turns back around, letting his head drop down the pillow. 

The distance between you has been growing smaller and smaller with each passing day together and you think you have been crossing an invisible line that you shouldn’t be crossing as of late. 

You think of the closeness of him in the office, the weight of his arms on your waist as he held you in his lap. His eyes on you. The bare skin of his broad back casually revealed to you when he was changing. The same back that you find yourself staring up at in this moment. 

“Go to sleep,” Miguel rasps from your side, and you nearly jump out of your skin in surprise. 

You close your eyes, but somehow in the dark you become even more keenly aware of his presence in the bed with you. Your heart seems to skip a little bit faster as the seconds pass, each beat a little bit harder. 

There's a quiet sigh, then a much louder exhale, as he turns back towards you in bed. 

"What's wrong?" His voice is still gruff with sleep.

"I can’t fall asleep,” you say, staring up at the ceiling in the dark. “Can you talk? It might help me sleep."

He snorts with a laugh. The sound of it makes something pleasant skitter up the length of your spine. He's got a nice laugh. It's a shame he doesn't laugh often.

"What's so funny?"

"No, nothing. Just... some things never change." Even in the dim of the unlit room, you can see the smile on his lips.

"What do you want me to talk to you about?" he asks.

You tilt your head, considering it. Miguel rarely gives you a carte blanche to ask him for information. Logically, you should use this moment to seize a tactical advantage and ask him for all the salacious details that you know he’s been keeping from you. But as you wrack your brain for questions, the only ones that come to mind are disappointingly ordinary. You just want to know more about him. Small, silly, personal details, the way he seems to know everything about you. 

"Tell me about where you're from," you request, "Your dimension. Your hometown." 

He shifts on the bed, lying flat on his back until he’s staring up at the ceiling with you as he reminisces. 

"It's called Nueva York. It's significantly more technologically advanced than this dimension. Definitely cleaner. People aren't as big of assholes as they are here. Public hygiene is way better, everything doesn’t reek of piss. Oh, and there’s not a rat epidemic in the public transportation system there." 

His head turns to his side to look at your face, and he gives you a small mischievous grin as he continues. "Food is healthier. You don't get junk food there."

The words should be complimentary, but from his tone of voice and what you know of his eating habits, you think it’s probably a win for your dirty, rat-infested dimension.

"Lots of skyscrapers and neon-lights everywhere. It's colorful."

He pauses, as if he's struggling to find anything more to say about the place. Then his head tips to the side, meeting your eyes, and his gaze is soft. 

“I'll take you there," he promises, voice quiet and warm and it makes something sweet and honeyed trickle inside your veins pleasantly. 

“How?” you wonder.

His smile drops, replaced by an unhappy frown. “Not sure yet, but I’ll figure it out.”

“Can’t we just open up a portal like last time?”

He shakes his head. 

"The last time I took you through the portal, it was meant to take us back to my dimension.  But I built the parallel universe traversal device to transport me—and only me—through the multiverse."

He reaches out to you, fingers wrapping gently around your wrist. The contact makes your skin tingle, but you don’t pull away. 

"I wasn't thinking last time. We can’t take the risk of winding up back in the void.” 

He’s mumbling now, nearly asleep. His eyes half-shut as he blinks slowly, struggling to keep them open as he slowly blinks.

"Someone that disappears in the void, they'll be erased from existence and out of every timeline. No one will ever remember you or know you existed. It's as if you've never existed at all."

You eye the watch on your wrist. The slight sheen of the bed light reflecting against the shiny glass.

"Can we modify the watch?"

"Firstly, not a watch", he reminds you by rote as he fluffs up his pillow with his arm. 

"And second..." he pauses, eyes drifting up to study the ceiling before he shakes his head, "I've tried. It doesn’t work. The power source isn’t powerful and your world is not technically advanced enough for me to build an upgraded self-sustaining fusion power source that would be needed. It’s how we ended up in the void.” 

Worry burrows into your chest, and your gaze drops down from his face. It always feels like you’re taking one step forward and ending up two steps back. Futile and hopeless but that’s what you get for trying to fight against the will of the universe. 

"Go to sleep," he says again, his hand coming to rest gently on top of your head, "I'll figure it out, don't worry.”

You smile, warmed by the comforting gesture and his reassurance. 

“I won't let you get hurt this time."

…‘this time.’

The promise cuts through you like glass. Sharp and jagged and clawing its way into your chest until it hurts you to breathe.

Miguel is talking to you, but you don’t think it’s you he’s thinking of when he says the words.

He attacked Wong without a second of hesitation when he thought you were hurt. He's exhausting himself half to death to protect you. But you know that he’s not really doing any of this for you. 

It’s not your comfort he was thinking of when he cradled your burnt hand and gently blew on your fingers. It’s not your love of egg tarts that makes him save the flaky pastries for you when the two of  you go out for dinner. It’s not you—has never been you—that he’s seeing whenever his eyes linger on your face when he thinks you’re not paying attention. 

You're riding on the emotional coattails of the other you. The unwavering loyalty that he had for her has transferred to you now that she's gone.

He must have really loved her. 

There’s a sharp fissure in your chest, and you try to swallow down the thistle of needles that’s found its way into your throat, only to discover that your saliva tastes sour and bitter. 

Closing your eyes, you can see an image of yourself smiling with him, laughing with him, holding his hand. Except it’s not you. 

It’s her. 

Other-you, with the wedding band and the happy life and– And somehow better hair too, the lucky bitch!

Except… she wasn't lucky, was she? She's dead.

She’s dead, and you still resent her for what she had with Miguel. It's such an ugly feeling. 

You squeeze your eyes shut as hard as you can, but the image doesn’t go away. Nor does that acrid taste in your mouth. You can't help it. This irrational and childish madness is eating into the edges of your mind. You're envious of your other self. 

God that’s fucked up. 

Does someone like you even deserve to be saved at all?

~ Next Issue

Credits & Dedications: To @thirstworldproblemss for all the rubberducking we do together on this silly little story. Thank you so much for sitting with me and making this fun! I love you 234238472938492374923 x infinity and back again.

a/n: to be notified of new writing updates follow astroboots-writes and turn on notifs.

[bumpkinspice0]

Recovery Time: Chapter 9

Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

No use of y/n

Rating: Explicit (Minors do not interact!!!!!!)

Word Count: 3.9k

Summary: You and Joel prepare for a storm together

Warnings: SMUT! Oral (f receiving), sex, kinda rough sex? dirty talk, multiple orgasms, aftercare AN: I have no excuse for why this took so long to update and you all have permission to beat me up for it

Series Masterlist

Previous - Next

AO3

_______________

Chapter 9: Storm Breaking

The wind had picked up, and a thin blanket of snow already covered the ground in what felt like a matter of seconds. The brown dead vegetation was already being choked out by endless white. You were right to be concerned about this storm. It was going to be a bad one.

You rushed out the door while half-explaining what needed to be done to Joel. You’ll take care of the chickens and food, and he’ll take care of pumping the water. You’ll need to get the storage up in the tank. You’ll both take care of the wood. He runs up the hill where the well pump is, and you scurry to the chicken coop. With the potential of being snowed in, you had to be well-stocked. You had to be ready. Of course this all had to happen when you were finally having a moment.

The quicker this gets done, the quicker you get back to… everything else.

Well, that was half true. You’d been caught with your pants down—this time literally— by unexpected weather before, and it always ended poorly. Never underestimate Mother Nature. If you were prepared and ready every time, then you were safe. This time, you seemed to be justified in your anxieties. You didn’t even waste time putting on a jacket before leaving the cabin, and you were already regretting it. 

A cold burst of wind nearly knocks the Buck Shack’s door open. You hurry inside as Gus herds the precious poultry in behind. You start a small fire in the smokehouse just above the floor. 

“It’s not a heat lamp, ladies, but it’ll have to do. You know the drill.” You assure the hoard of hens.

Gus makes quick work of the herding, rushing them all inside in less than 2 minutes. A new record. If only there was time to congratulate him on such a feat. You’ll have to remember to give him an extra piece of jerky later as a thank you for helping you get laid slightly sooner. 

You toss in a few good handfuls of dead leaves for bedding. After double-checking the ventilation, you latch the new hen house door behind you. 

Now the cellar. 

You don’t even look at the jars as you shove them into the basket by the stairs. You’re not sure if it’s because of your actual worry for the storm or because of what’s waiting for you after. What you hope is waiting for you afterward. You can’t deny a small part of you is a little happy about this. 

He was about to leave. He was ready to step out the door, and now this happens. You’re not sure you believe in miracles, but you’ll take what you can get. If the almighty sent a freak blizzard to keep Joel in your life a little longer… Well, then you better start praying again.

On your third trip up from the cellar, you see Joel stumbling down from the water tank. 

“Should have a few extra hundred gallons now,” he’s shouting, but his voice is practically lost in the billowing wind. “What else is left?”

“Firewood.” You re-latch the cellar doors, your fingers already stiff and numb from the dwindling temperatures. You’ve lost track of how long you’ve been running back and forth to the front door. You consider rushing inside to dig out your gloves but decide to push through. 

The quicker you get this done, the quicker you get back…

Arm full after arm full of wood is unceremoniously dumped inside as you both rush to finish the final task before hunkering down through the storm. You wonder if he’s thinking the same things you are. If he’s eager to get back to you. You were trying to quell the stirring butterflies in your stomach at what was to come next— nervous about the possibilities. Now that he had time to think about it, would he reject you? In the heat of the moment, the actions were so clear, but now that you both have a moment to pause, maybe you should reconsider. 

He was leaving. Not anytime soon in this weather, most likely, but he was going to leave eventually. Getting attached would make it all the more difficult. At the same time, the thought of having to tiptoe around each other in your cramped little cabin sounded nauseating. Tensions were already so high between you both, and now this?

Is his mind racing the same way yours is? Does he have unfounded anxieties about made-up scenarios? He was such a straightforward man; you doubt it. Joel didn’t seem like one to just wonder about something— he would just take it. 

That would make this all so much easier if that’s how he started this. His confident, guiding hand to quell your anxieties. Would he do that? Take care of you in that way? Maybe. You’ll find out soon.

“That should do it!” 

You both toss a final bundle of logs through the door, a good pile towering in the corner of the living room. Enough to last a few days.

You stand at the door of the cabin, mulling over your mental checklist. Was that really it? No, something felt off. You were forgetting something, you’re absolutely sure of it. What else could there possibly be?

“What is it?” Joel’s gloved hand comes to grasp your freezing one. You try to ignore how his gentleness makes your stomach leap.

“It’s… I don’t know,” you bite your lip, “I feel like I’m forgetting something.”

“You got the chickens in? Wanna check the water level?”

“No, no, I—” A wet nose nudging your other hand is your first clue. You look down to see Gus whimpering at your side, eyes darting to the raging snow outside. Oh no. 

Lilly. 

You look down at the porch and see a set of quickly filling little paw prints in the snow that lead off to the east side of the house. She must have run out with you and Joel, and you didn’t even notice. With Gus acting this way, it was clear she wasn’t in the house.  She was still out there, cowering and scared. Oh that stupid fucking cat. It’d been so long since you’d viewed her as just a cat, though. She was your family. Some of your only family. You had to find her.  

You jump off the porch, calling her name. 

“Wait!” Joel calls out, his voice only landing on deaf ears.

You follow her tracks away from the house. They quickly disappear in the pelting snow, but there was just enough to tell she went toward the water reservoir, likely trying to follow Joel there. Of course, can’t let her new favorite person brave a crippling storm alone—stupid, stupid cat.

The snow was already ankle deep on you, and the wind was punishing. You were struggling just to walk; you can’t imagine how hard it might be for a ten-pound animal.

You made it to the water tank. A quick look behind your shoulder and you see no sign of Joel. He was likely taking his time to search the lower part of the hill. You circle the reservoir, calling out Lilly’s name and praying that dumb little animal can hear your voice over the wind. There was barely ten feet of visibility now, she’d likely gotten lost. 

You take a brief moment to check the water levels of the tank. Joel had pumped in another five hundred gallons, definitely enough to assure neither of you has to come back up here for a while. Unfortunately, you can’t bring yourself to be grateful just yet. 

“Lill–” you’re cut off as you round the tank a second time, slamming directly into a familiar board chest.

“I have her!” He shouts over the wind. He opens up his jacket ever so slightly, and a set of familiar green eyes peers back. You immediately sigh in relief, “Damn thing was just under the porch. Come on, let’s head back.”

He puts an arm around you, shielding you from the wind as you both carefully walk down the hill. Now, with a moment to breathe and every task completed, you can feel the cold start to creep in. Snow clung to every part of your clothes and froze into your hair. Yeah, you should have definitely grabbed a jacket.

You both burst into the cabin, quickly locking the door behind you. In the peek of gratefulness, Lilly scurries under the couch, quickly followed by Gus. Their own way of saying thank you for rescuing them from a certain frozen demise. 

You kick off your boots while Joel latches the door behind you. Limping over to the wood stove to thaw yourself out, you curse your practically frozen joints. Well, that’s what you get for running out blindly in a blizzard without sparing a second to even grab a damn coat. 

“Holy shit,” Joel grumbles as he adds a few more logs into the stove. Its warmth already filled the cabin. Still, that didn’t make you thaw out any faster. 

You jump in surprise when Joel grabs your hands. His own hands were rough and already warm. He always seemed so warm. 

“Silly woman, didn’t even think to put on a coat or gloves.” He scoffs, delicately running his fingers over yours. 

“I think my panic was justified,” You scoff through chattering teeth. A gust of wind shakes the cabin walls as if to agree with you. 

You stand there in silence for probably too long, both of you likely too dumbfounded on what to say next— or maybe too nervous. Really, what could you say? Can you just get right back to business? Did he want to talk it through? If he did, then this would be the perfect time for him to say something. 

He was stuck here in this little cabin with you at least until the storm passed. He wanted to leave. He’d been waiting to leave. You kissed him. He kissed you back— And he wanted to kiss you back. 

This wasn’t one-sided. That’d become obvious. Even still, with the rush of adrenaline and too much time to ponder your own desperate actions, you started to doubt it all. All the courage you had earlier depleted. 

You’re cold, you’re tired, and now your whole body is sopping wet to top it all off. 

The snow sticking to your hair and clothes was finally melting, the fabric awkwardly clinging to your skin. You realize you must look like an absolute wreck at this point.

You pull your hands away from his and turn away. You start to unbutton your top flannel before you take a step towards the hallway. A hand on your elbow stops you. 

He silently turns you back towards him— that same fiery look in his eyes before the storm came. You gulp as he reaches for your flannel. His hands replace your own frozen ones. Slowly, he starts to unbutton the shirt, one by one.

“Let me help,” He murmured, his gaze transfixed on your peaked nipples. 

“Joel—”

“You do too much, you know that? Too busy takin’ care of someone else.” He rolls the sleeves off your shoulders, and the soaked garment falls to the floor with a wet plop. Only your white undershirt remains, equally as drenched and clinging to your skin. 

His fingers hook under the hem of your shirt. The final layer of fabric that separates him from your bare breasts underneath. You’re positive the shirt is drenched to the point of being see-through. His eyes dart to yours, asking permission to continue. Your breath hitches as you give a small nod. 

He savors the moment, slowly gliding his rough palms up your torso as he rolls the shirt over your head. You gasp at the chill the air sends over your bare skin. Your T-shirt joins the flannel on the floor. 

His eyes don’t leave yours, even though his hands roam up and down your bare skin. He pulls you into him. He’s warm. He’s so fucking warm.

“Who’s takin’ care of you, darlin’?” That raspy baritone sends shivers down your spine like it never had before. He knew exactly what he was doing.

His lips crash into yours with the same urgency as before. The frenzied roughness is all the permission you need to rip at his clothes. You feel his breathing jump when your hands reach the bare flesh of his stomach. He pulls you closer into him, your bare chests crushed into each other. His warmth against your peaked breasts makes you mew in delight. 

He brings you both down to the floor, pushing you down and crawling on top of you. He breaks the kiss for a moment, those deep whisky eyes setting you even more on edge— if that was even possible. His breath is heavy with lust, yours is too. 

An impatient whine escapes your lips as you reach for his belt buckle again. His hands instantly grab your wrists, a dangerous warning flashing in his eyes. 

“I told you,” his voice has nearly dropped a full octave, “You do too much.”

He gently returns your hands back to your sides before reaching for your pants. The graze of his knuckles against the soft flesh of your stomach sends jolts down your legs as he runs them across the hem. He slowly unbuttons them, his eyes never leaving your own. If he keeps this shit up you doubt you’re gonna last long.

You worry for a moment that his touch may linger on your scars there. A sporadic pattern of jagged, ugly lines on your lower abdomen. He’d never seen this part of you. Luckily, he’s a gentleman, or at least doesn’t seem to care.

You raise your hips, and he pulls your final garments down in one yank, both underwear and pants quickly discarded across the room. You lay underneath him fully bare and waiting— eagerly waiting.

You have to will your legs not to shake as his hands run up them, his mouth placing stubbled kisses along your inner thigh. Each contact of his lips sends a new jolt of wetness straight between your legs. Despite your efforts, a few moans escape you. You swear you catch the hint of a smile on his lips as he trails closer to your pussy. He likes this, you think. Seeing you start to crumble from so little.

 He hovers there for a moment, his warm breath caressing your eager cunt. “Let me take care of you, darlin’.”

He rips a scream from you as he engulfs you, hot tongue delving through your folds and dragging up to your bud. His fingers dig into your squirming hips, nailings leaving crescent indents in the supple flesh. He could break skin and leave you bleeding for all you cared, just as long as he didn’t stop. 

 Christ, when was the last time someone did this to you? And was it ever this good? No, no, you doubt it was. 

Your hands find his lushious curls, holding onto him for dear life. He laps at you greedily— furiously. His skilled tongue moved with a precision you’d never known. Somehow, you're not surprised he’s an expert at this. You’re not sure why. 

His deep moans as he works send shockwaves through your whole body. They tell you something that sends your head swimming. He’s enjoying this just as much as you. 

The previous freezing cold is now completely forgotten in the warm embrace of Joel Miller— and it’s everything you imagined it would be. 

“Christ,” You hear him murmur against you, “S-so fucking wet, sweet girl. So wet.”

“Just for you,” you mew in a voice you thought you’d forgotten. “All for you.”

“So good,” He runs his flat tongue over the length of your slit before sucking in your clit. 

“Fuck!” you scream, your thighs closing around his head. The orgasm hits you unexpectedly. Liquid fire rushes through your veins in an instant— and entirely too soon. Still, Joel doesn’t seem to mind, his mouth still eagerly consuming you as you attempt to crush his skull. 

You knew you wouldn’t last.

The tight coils of your muscles slowly unwind as you come down, sweat pricking at your brow already. And it was… embarrassing. You came so fast and it was fucking embarrassing. You groan and cover your face with your hands.

“Hey? Sweetheart?” You feel Joel crawl over you again, your dripping cunt already missing his perfect mouth. “I’m sorry I didn’t—”

“No! No, not that! You were— That was—” you stammer over yourself as usual. He hovers over you, patiently waiting for an explanation. You feel your cheeks heating even more, if that was even possible, “I… I came too fast.”

“Nothin’ wrong with that.” 

“No, it’s not— I just—” you sigh, brushing your hands up his chest. You feel his muscles tense in the wake of your touch. “I just wanted to enjoy that a little longer.”

He smiles, leaning down to kiss you. You sigh at the taste of yourself on his lips. He moves down to your neck, nipping small marks down to your shoulder.

“I don’t know what I did to make you think I was stoppin’ there,” He murmurs against you, his voice painted over with lust once more. He’s a far more attentive lover than you’d thought he would be— not that you’re really complaining, of course.

You finally manage to rip off his belt. He pulls down the waistband of his pants and finally pulls his hard cock free. He sits there for a moment, slowly stroking himself above you. Your mouth waters at the sight of him. Massive cock already throbbing hard and dripping. You’re absolutely delighted to keep finding out that no part of Joel Miller is how you’d imagined he would be— not at all.

He finally completely abandons his pants and comes back down to you. You’re both here, completely bare. The barriers are finally broken down and neither of you have to hide anymore— you don’t have to resist anymore.

Nothing is ever going to be the same.

You feel the blunt head of his cock jump as it comes into contact with your sopping entrance. He sighs, dropping his head back to your neck. He rolls his hips gently, not to enter you but to coat himself in your release. The gentle yet so purposeful soft contact makes another moan escape from your lips— his velvet hard cock stroking through your weeping folds. It was heaven.

“I—” His gravel voice drips with desperation, “I don’t know how gentle I c-can be, sweet girl.”

Whoever said you wanted things gentle? Clearly, you’ve given him the wrong impression as well. You place several sloppy kisses along his shoulder as you wrap your legs around his waist. You lick a stripe from his neck up to his ear before you whisper— 

“Then don’t be.”

He growls, a filthy but exciting sound, before he pulls back and slams into you. You arch in a silent cry, your nerves screaming from the sudden fullness you hadn’t known for far too long. He waits for you to adjust, only for a moment. You can see the tendons tensing in his neck, heavy ragged breaths blown into your hair. 

“Sweet little t-thing,” he groans as he slowly draws back.

He slams into you again, the force far more pleasurable this time now that you know what to expect. Christ, you were so full. If you’d known he would feel this good, you would have cornered him on the couch weeks ago.

“Joel…” You can’t help but moan his name as he sets a pace, his heavy breath against your neck sending chills down your spine. His grip on your hips tightens, each thrust becoming harder than the last— more punishing. He needed this as much as you did. Is it selfish to think that? You don’t really care at the moment.

He shifts you both, coming up to his knees and raising your hips to meet him. His first thrust at the new angle hits something inside you, something that makes you gasp and the edges of your vision blur. He took notice, a small grin pulling at the edges of his lips. With crippling precision, he hits it again, and again, and again…

“S-so busy takin’ care of everyone else,” he grunts through his efforts. “When’s the last time someone took care of you, darlin’?”

He holds you against him, grinding his pelvis into yours. His hand comes up, his thumb pressing against your clit. You can’t help the scream that practically drools out of your lips.

“Tell me,” you almost don’t hear him say it, “When— when was y–your last time…”

So it wasn’t rhetorical. You muster up all the brain strength you can to answer.

“T–too long… years,” you manage to squeak out between gasps. His hand still hasn’t left you, “T–too f–fucking… long…”

“Shame… fucking s-shame…” he finally pulls out again, resuming his same brutal pace, “Woman like you… out here all alone… fucking shame…”

Joel Miller is a dirty talker; who knew? You don’t have the capacity to register his words while he's holding you on the cusp of another orgasm, though. Those rough hands working you like he already knew every part of you— or maybe any amount of intimacy is good enough for you now. Though, you highly doubt that. 

He releases your hips and you both fall back down to the floor together. He doesn’t slip out as you do, his movements becoming more sporadic as you both chase the same high.

It catches you by surprise again, a crashing orgasm that shakes your whole body. You arch into him, your mind numbing for precious split seconds. 

“Oh god— that’s it. That’s—” He hastily pulls out of you, spilling his release over your stomach with a final sinful moan. 

He holds himself over you while you both come down from the same high, his head hanging low between his shoulders. You see his back rising and falling with his breath as he gathers himself. You reach up and grab his hanging head, placing a soft kiss in the messy mop of his hair. He immediately looks up, capturing your lips for another kiss. You both hold it longer than expected. 

The room is so quiet now— Only the sound of crackling fire to cut through the dense, sex charged air. Wordlessly, Joel rises and steps into the kitchen. You gasp at the loss of him. He comes back with a damp washcloth. He kneels at your side and silently runs it over your stomach and between your legs, cleaning up the mess you both made. You wonder if he’ll bring up the scars now. He doesn’t. 

He discards the washcloth, throwing it across the room. He puts his pants back on and you just wrap a blanket around your naked body, the warm air more comforting against your bare skin than any sweater would be.

He pulls you onto the couch and you curl into him without hesitation. You both sit there silently, listening to the raging storm outside.

“Guess you might be stuck here for a while longer,” you eventually say. His hand gently strokes over your bare shoulder.

“Yeah… guess I am.”

[yiiyiiwrites]

❄️| Snowball fights |

Summary: Azriel enlists the help of Balto, the winter fox to try and snag the win of the annual snowball fight. (The bat boys telling you what happened on their return). Winter!reader x Balto x batboys.

[Balto fic]

[winter solstice masterlist]

The crunch of snow and the pitter and patter of claws on the decking drew your attention from your book. You marked your page and closed the cover, setting it down.

You heard Balto’s yap before he lunged into your lap, book sliding down the side of the cushions. His fur clumped with ice, but the tinge of red staining his chin and trailing down his chest had you scrambling off the chair.

“What happened, boy,” you said, kicking the knitted blanket tangling your legs and pulled your snow boots on. Balto circled your ankles, matching your steps as you walked down the pebbled path.

The coppery tang of blood grew stronger, your gaze scouring the compacted white snow in search for a red trail. Too focused on finding the source, you’re startled as a large shadowed figure loomed over you. Dark wisps invaded your vision and you sighed, leaning back against the familiar warmth and firm chest.

“Is that for me, Angel?” Azriel’s lips brushed the curve of your ear and his gloved hand trailed up your chest between your breasts. Fingers tapping the erratic beat of your heart.

“Stop copping a feel and get in the cabin!” Cassian yelled in the distance, “blizzards heading this way.”

You elbowed Azriel in the gut and spun around. “You oaf!” You snapped shoving his arm as he tried to reach for you. “Balto came back covered in blood! I thought something had happened.”

His hazel eyes soften, the deep line between his brows disappearing as he caught your flailing hands in front of him. “Everything’s fine, just a minor teething problem,” he said, his gloved hand cradling yours in his as he guided you back into the cabin.

The heat hit you as soon as you entered the hallway. You searched every inch of Azriel’s body, dipping your head to get a peek of his face. There were no signs he’d been harmed, but he was pretty good at acting like he wasn’t in pain that your assessment wasn’t helpful.

Azriel knelt down before you and untied your boots, palm cupping your calf as he helped you remove them. Your fur coat slipping down your arms, Azriel hanging it on the hook.

“What do you mean minor teething…” you didn’t need to finish your train of thought as you turned to enter the large open plan room. A gasp fell from your lips.

Cassian stood beside the dining table, blood sticking the leather to his thigh. A gaping flap of fabric hung loose and you held your hand to your nose as an earthy stench stung your nostrils the closer you got.

“Get that thing away from me,” Cassian said, pointing towards you. It wasn’t till you followed the direction of his finger did you realise he was talking about Balto.

The white fox ever so slowly padded across the room and laid down in front of the crackling fire. His head resting on his paws, onyx eyes on Cassian and tail flicking as if he was waiting to play.

“Gods what is that smell.” You fell back a step, pinching your nose and trying not to blink.

Hot breath fanned against the side of your face. “Had to make a herbal pain reliever, don’t ask,” Azriel whispered behind you, but he remained a step away that you wanted to stumble back and close the distance.

Rhys and Azriel seemed to enjoy whatever had gone on. A smirk playing on their faces, shoulders shaking as they fought back their silent chuckles.

“You lost then Cass?”

Cassian scoffed, “that bloody menace popped out of the snow and bit me.” He slapped a wet cloth to the open wound on his inner thigh. He sucked in a breath, pressing down on the tender spot and clamping his eyes shut for a second.

“You did step on his tail,” Rhys added, petting the top of Balto’s head as he collapsed into the armchair by the fire.

Balto huffed, his head turning to you and he flicked his tail as if asking for sympathy, but you raised a brow at the mischievous fox. He must have thought he was playing too.

“His jaw locked, took both of these idiots to get him off.” Cassian threw the cloth across the table, his fingers dipping into a jar of soothing balm and pasting it on the now visible teeth marks on his thigh.

“Least he didn’t jump a bit higher, brother,” Azriel chuckled, his arm draping over your shoulder as he pulled you closer. His shadows skimmed the nape of your neck and curled beneath your braided hair, the cool whip of wind making you shiver.

Rhys laughed, his gaze flicking down at Cassian’s hands guarding the sacred spot between his legs as if he expected the fox to attack on command. His wings shuddered at the thought.

“I’m sorry Cass,” you said slipping out from under Azriel’s arm and walking to Cassian. You pushed him back gently guiding him to lean against the table. You peeled back the torn fabric of his fighting leathers, fingertips close to inspecting the teeth marks, but cool wisps pushed your hand away.

It was the first time he’d bit a member of the inner circle, well apart from Azriel. Balto seemed to warm to Cassian and Nesta instantly, so you didn’t think he meant to do harm, only wanted to play in the fight like the boys.

You swatted the shadows away swarming your vision. The curved row of wounds standing out against Cassian’s bronzed skin. You winced the moment your eyes fell on the two sharp canines that still wept with blood. Those would take a day to heal, whereas the rest would be gone in a couple of hours.

“You did step on his tail,” Azriel said, pulling you back by your elbow. You smiled against his arm as it wrapped around you again and pulled you flush against him.

“Don’t know why you’re laughing,” Cassian shot back at Rhys, the flames dancing in his gaze. “Warming your cobblers? eh.”

Azriel’s chest rumbled, you felt your whole body shake with his laughter. Even cassian couldn’t keep a straight face. You glanced up at Azriel, brows furrowed as you waited for one of them to explain.

“Rhys took a swim, he tripped over Balto and slammed into the frozen lake.” Azriel smirked, a stray wisp dove for the white fox and it curled around his bushy tail. If you didn’t know any better they’d be whispering praises to the fox.

Limping to the kitchen, Cassian pulled a crate of beer out of the cooling box and set it down on the table. He threw a can to each of them and flicked his open, chasing the foam before it could roll down his hand.

“So who won then?”

The two Illyrian’s in front of you groaned, Cassian crushing his can in his hold and flinging it to the table to open another.

“I did,” Azriel said, his arm retreated from you and he fell back into the sofa. His arm hung over the back of the seat, wings twitching as he looked up at you and leant his head back. “Looks like you owe me, Angel.”

Dammit, you shouldn’t have made a bet against him. You’d be talking to Balto as soon as you got home.

Will have some more winter!reader fics coming soon up until Christmas :) hope you enjoy and thank you for reading/interacting - Yiiyii

[portraitofalinkonfyre]

12 Days of Christmas: 2024 Christmas Event

Day 7: Snowed In

Pairing: Four x Reader

Warning(s): N/A

Notes: I honestly love this one lol; did get a bit suggestive, but I'm keeping this clean for y'all.

Main Masterlist | Event Masterlist | Previous Day | Next Day

Well, you thought as you stared out the half-covered window into a veritable sea of freshly-fallen snow, there's no way I'm going to work today. It wasn't often that it snowed in your part of Hyrule, and even rarer that it reached the awe-inspiring height of what had to be mid-thigh on you. Fuck that, you might as well use those vacation days you'd saved up for moments like these, especially when your boss was a tiny old lady who lived a mile up the road, meaning she wouldn't be caught dead wading through the catastrophe that was last night's blizzard.

There was a creak, and you were torn from your thoughts when a pair of arms wrapped around your waist. "You're up early," Four murmured against your shoulder, his breath puffing across the bared skin where your tunic sagged, and you couldn't help but huff a laugh at the countless memories of him waking before dawn. Sometimes it was nightmares, and occasionally insomnia, but you'd found it was usually to get a head start in the forge. You had no complaints, especially when he wore that sleeveless tunic beneath his heavy apron. A contemplative silence followed. The snow outside continued to fall. "...You're not going to work, are you?"

You shook your head, placing your hand over his clasped ones. "Not a chance, I value my life."

"Good, I was worried," came his smartass response, and you smacked his wrist in retribution. "Sorry, sorry, I was distracted."

You shouldn't; it was a trap of the highest caliber, primed and waiting. Despite this revelation, you opened your mouth for something that wasn't food or dick and took the painfully obvious bait. "By what?"

Four pressed a kiss to the back of your shoulder before delivering the very blatant, very terrible punchline: "You."

"Wow, for realsies?!" You gushed, and the sheer force of his eye roll could have broken down more doors than you'd seen the knights of Hyrule do on their off-time.

"You're a menace, you know that?"

You didn't even try to contain your glee. "Absolutely. It's my best trait."

Four, unfortunately, was less than impressed. "That's beside the point," he huffed, the tip of his nose ghosting over your flesh.

"Actually, I think it is the point," you shot back, giggling when he held you a bit tighter, fingers digging into your flesh in a way that made you want to take the holiday festivities to the bedroom. Again. "But since you're so desperate to change the subject since I'm obviously right, how do suppose we spend our first official snow day?"

"I have a few ideas," responded your boyfriend, a little too casually to be completely innocent.

"Oo, like that creaky floorboard by the kitchen?" you asked like the little shit you were. "Or that very dangerous loose nail on the porch?"

"Actually–"

"Or! Didn't you say the forge needs a deep clean?" you smirked, turning around in his grip to wrap your own arms around his shoulders, giggling when the point of his nose brushed your sternum.

Four's eyes narrowed, and you swore they flashed a bright, brilliant blue before fading to a familiar, muddy green. Despite the height difference, his gaze made you feel like he was at least a foot taller. "It will when I'm done with you."

"Wow, no breakfast first?" you joked, watching as the tips of his ears pinked, though there was nary a crack in the expression he was giving you.

There it was; a deep, unfiltered violet. "Who said I wouldn't be eating?"

Well, hot diddly darn, he had you there.

Despite the many, many innuendos shared between you and Four throughout the morning, the forge remained mercifully undefiled, which was a miracle unto itself.

You didn't flinch when the Hero of the Four Sword tugged your arm, expression drawn. "It's no problem, I can–"

"No," you adjusted your bandana and glared at the top corner of the room, where a large spiderweb resided. Let it never be said that you two skimped on cleaning duties, but the frequent adventuring had taken a larger toll than you originally assumed. "I've got this, Link. You're too young, too beautiful."

"You say that like you're not–"

"Hush, beloved," you used your free hand to press a finger to his lips, making sure to sound as dramatic as possible. Fuck common sense, you wanted to be ungovernable. That, and the romance novels you'd taken to in his absence. "With love comes sacrifice, and this is mine. Do not despair, my fate is sealed."

Four's gaze was one of amused exasperation. He released your arm, running a hand through his stick-straight strands. "At least let me get you a chair? We both know that broom isn't long enough."

"If you must," you simpered, leaning on the broom like an overly emotional maiden, just shy of placing the back of your hand across your forehead. "Know this: every second lost is a sweet sorrow, my love."

"...How do you feel about expanding your reading horizons to nonfiction?" your boyfriend asked dryly, irises swelling with a familiar purple color.

"Gasp!" You slapped a hand over your heart. "Blasphemy!"

Even though Four was pretending to be unamused, not even a fool couldn't miss the way the corners his mouth ticked upwards. "...I'll get that chair."

"You're the man," you grinned.

"I'm the man."

You were ready; the chair was properly positioned beneath the web and the broom was appropriately brandished in your dominant hand, aimed directly at the bane of your sleep schedule. That damn spider.

"You've got this," Four encouraged from below, holding the chair to prevent it from tottering. "Remember: strike quickly to disarm your opponent."

"Got it," you said, eyes trained on said opponent. The broom was no sword, but it might as well have been in your hands. "Strike quickly... like a bee. A really quick bee."

"Buzz buzz," were Four's next words as his intrusive thoughts won once again.

"Fuck yeah, baby," you grinned, drawing your arm back, pointing the base of the broom at the web. "Buzz me up."

"Oh, I'll–"

It happened so quickly. You inhaled. Exhaled. Prepared yourself for the possibility of failure, though it was hardly an option. Then, you struck, slamming your broom into the epicenter of the woven threads with a dull thud.

Then, out of nowhere, a dark blur whizzed past your face, and you felt something land in your hair.

You couldn't help it. You screamed.

"Oh my Hylia!"

It was on you; it was fucking on you!!

You shrieked again when something skittered across your scalp, practically tearing your bandana off to dislodge the creature, which was your second mistake of the afternoon. The bandana, complete with a small black blog clinging to the edge, sailed downwards, splatting against Four's very confused, very shocked face.

"Wha–" The hero let out a muffled sound of bafflement, tearing the cloth away from his beautiful face, and promptly gasped when he caught sight of the very alive, very fast addition. His hands scrabbled to remove it, but the fucker was quick. "By the three–!?"

Amid the chaos, you managed to hop down from the chair, brandishing your broom like a weapon of m-ass destruction, feeling nearly feral from the adrenaline rushing through your veins. "Stay still!"

Four's gaze snapped up, and you caught the very second he registered your next move. Terror coated his expression. "WAIT–!"

You whacked the broom against his chest, screaming in terror when the spider skittered onto the thick bristles, heading straight for you. A string of curses left your mouth, and you would have been impressed with their variety had you not feared for your very life, flinging the object away like it had burned you.

It clattered to the floor. The spider escaped. You felt ready to pass out.

Slowly, you turned to Four, wheezing and clutching his chest. Slowly, you spoke.

"...Fire rod?"

A determined expression crossed the hero's face. He straightened. "Fire rod."

Gotta put some holiday fails SOMEWHERE lol.

[yourlittlebunnyy]

blizzard -azriel x selaene

masterlist

this little fic can be read alone or as a little prequel of a court of shadows and darkness ♡

summary: Azriel and Selaene share their first kiss.

warnings: fluff

wc: 1.3k

enjoy💙

Azriel knows Rhysand's sister; he knows who she was. He saw her once, an infant in her mother's arms, and never again.

Now Rhysand's mother, their mother, no longer lived with them, and although she visited them often, she never took Selaene with her. It was up to her brother to update them on her condition though: Selaene is strong and healthy, her wings big and fast, her beauty equal to that of the Moon itself.

The only thing he remembers about her are her violet eyes.

Eighteen years after her birth, now that she has finally come of age, it was Rhysand himself who introduced her to his brothers, asking them to help train her. To protect themselves.

When Azriel first lays eyes on Selaene, his breath catches in his throat. His own shadows seem to admire her gently as they dance around her. Azriel tries to call them back, but they are too delighted by the little Selaene.

She is introduced first to Cassian, who offers her a smile full of mischief and touches her hips a little too much when he embraces her, causing a twitch of Rhysand's nose. Azriel, internally, also has a similar reaction, and he does not understand why. He dismisses the thought believing it is because he already sees her as a little sister to protect. But oh, how wrong he is.

When the heir to the Night Court introduces Azriel and Selaene, he finally has a chance to look into those two purple pools full of dreams and life. She does not recoil from his shadows or disgust at his scarred hands, and he offers her a genuine smile, the rare kind. They seem to observe each other for years on end when a cough, Cassian, he realizes, interrupts them. He wants to roll his eyes at his childish behavior, but he restrains himself. He silently escorts Selaene to the small cabin where the three siblings live, and seats her while he stays to listen to her talk to Cassian. He remains silent, seemingly disinterested, but he is listening to every single word that comes out of the young girl's mouth, wanting to hear more, more, more.

A deep friendship is born between Selaene and Azriel, different from that between Cassian and her, who joke like two brothers.

No, between her and the ShadowSinger there is something more intense, more complicated. It doesn't escape the eyes of Rhysand how the two exchange glances that they think are discreet, only to blush whenever they are caught. Or how their hearts beat slightly faster every time they accidentally brush against each other.

As jealous as he is of his sister, he knows Azriel would treat her well. Azriel has always loved with all of himself, and he knows that with Selaene it would be the same.

The night when everything changed, however, was when during one of the usual blizzards of the Illyrian steppes. Azriel had to seek shelter in the cabin where Selaene and her mother live. He knocked several times, and when no one answered, he decided to enter anyway.

The young Fae, who was surrounded only by the melodic sound of the piano and her own voice, heard neither the knocks on the door nor the male enter.

When Selaene sings the little songs she so enjoys writing, she sees and hears nothing but the music - she is in love with it. And she certainly does not expect visitors, her mother is not home, and now that she is finally alone she can give some vent to her emotions by singing.

Azriel freezes just as he enters upon hearing Selaene's angelic voice and the sweet symphony of the piano. His feet move before he can stop them, and he follows that delightful sound until he reaches the living room doorframe.

He lays eyes on the figure of the female, dressed in a thick wool sweater from her brother and nothing else, playing and singing and giving all of herself as she does so. It strikes a part of his heart he did not know he had. The shadows do not control themselves, and they wrap around her and dance between the tiny fingers that move the keys. She does not notice, too absorbed in the music.

Azriel does not know what to do, but he cannot take his eyes off her in any way. Her voice, she...

He doesn't want to admit it out loud, he doesn't even want to admit it to himself, but the ShadowSinger is falling madly in love with Rhysand's sister.

And today, after seeing her so... bare. So free of masks, in an intimate moment with herself -- he is no longer sure he can hide it. He has to leave, or he might do something stupid, and Rhysand might kill him.

But she decides to open her eyes at that very moment, the notes of the piano slowly fading to an end. And that's when she notices the shadows moving around her.

She has never been afraid of them; that is another thing Azriel loves about her.

She laughs as she savors the feel of the cool wind they leave on her skin. Moments later, she realizes that Azriel must be somewhere nearby if they are here. And indeed, as she turns to take a look around the room, she finds him there, eaning against the doorframe with his arms folded, an indecipherable expression on his face, and his usual shadows around to give him an enigmatic look.

"Azzie! How did you get in?" Selaene asks positively surprised. He smiles at her before approaching her. He is a little unusual, she thinks, he is different than normal. He seems agitated under that mask of indifference.

"There's a blizzard outside and I thought I'd ask for shelter here, I knocked and no one answered. So I went inside and ... well, I found you." He tells her as he gets closer still, closer than he ever has. The young girl's heart beats faster and faster, and she hopes he can't hear it. But, of course, he can.

"I didn't know you could sing." He tells her, and the way he does it, slightly whispered, as if they are talking about their little secret, pleases her. It makes her realize that she would like to share all these little secrets of hers with him, and she would like him to do the same. She trusts him with her own life.

"I ... yes, sometimes it helps me release negative emotions." She answers uncertainly, laying bare a part she had never told anyone, not even her brother.

"You are very good, Selaene." He tells her getting even closer, and the Fae can feel his warm breath on her face. His hazel eyes look at her so intently that Selaene is convinced he can see right through them. She responds with a shy thank you.

He approaches her again, his lips brushing hers, and with his breath mixed with hers he asks her, "May I?" And he is so sweet, so full of affection that it is the Fae herself who kisses him, leaving him slightly surprised. She has never kissed anyone, and it takes a couple of seconds to get her bearings, but Azriel holds her up and guides her into it, causing them to pull away breathless but happy. Selaene can swear that their hearts beat at the same rhythm. The male holds his hands over her face, while she holds them on his shoulders. They look into each other's eyes, an awkward silence between the two, before they burst out laughing in each other's embrace.

"My brother will kill you." She tells him with her face hidden in the crook of his neck, still giggling.

"He can try." He pinches her side affectionately, causing her to pull away with amusement.

"Ow!"

"Do you want to sing?" She looks at him surprised.

"Can you sing?"

"Of course, I am called ShadowSinger for a reason, you know."

[phiehasleaves]

stuck in the snow - ellie williams

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patrol goes south when you find yourselves stuck in the middle of heavy snowfall, resorting to the trees as shelter.

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ellie williams x reader

w/c - 660

fluff

masterlist

——————————————————————————

you nuzzle closer into ellie as she pushes shimmer through the oncoming blizzard. she has one hand on the horse's reigns, the other holding your hands encompassed around her.

"you up for staying in the forest?" she asks you, moving her head back slightly so that you can hear her.

"sure, if it's the only option." you respond.

"yeah, there's no buildings or shelter close to us."

this was now the second time that patrol with ellie had gone wrong.

the first time you'd managed to get lost, this time was due to unexpected weather conditions.

before you knew it, you were in a sea of blanketed trees. the snowfall eased down as most of it got caught on the leaves.

"we brought the tents with us, right?" you ask her, your voice quieter now.

"shit. only one tent, i didn't bring mine."

"ellie." you sigh, “how many times did joel and i remind you?”

she shrinks a bit, “���four times” her voice voice seeps with shame, not because she was embarrassed but because she felt bad for not listening to your previous reminders.

"it's okay, next time i'll double check your stuff as well."

"thanks, babe." she cheeses, slowly pulling shimmer to a stop.

you take in the area, it looks flat enough to put a tent up. the leaves above are condensed too, so not much snow can get through.

although, lots has already.

cautiously, you both drop off the horse, ellie picks up the bags as you wrap shimmer up in an insulated blanket you'd found a few months back.

"cozy spot." you comment, now at her side. she passes you the tent's poles.

"you think a log fire would last long here?" her gloved hands fumble with the zips of your bags.

you're quiet, thinking, whilst you knock down the second post for the tent, pulling the polyester material down with it. "i'd say so."

she clasps her knees, standing up. "i'll go get some kindling then."

"wait!" you call out, dropping the metal in your hands to face her. "you know it's not safe to go out on your own. or to leave me here."

her tongue glides across her lips, "okay, i'll stay and help."

in an instant, she's at the other side of the tent, movement mimicking yours as you finally get it set up.

"it looks stable." you grin, proud of yourself.

ellie pats your shoulder, "well done, i've taught you well."

"joel has taught me well." you tease her.

the pair of them had spent many months making sure you knew all these small life skills and whatnot's so that you could survive on your own. ellie contributed more to it, joel was too busy most days with tommy.

she snorts, "yeah, okay. did joel teach you how to make the perfect snowball?"

your short moment of confusion gives her the opportunity to step back and launch a snowball right at you.

"hey!" you laugh, wiping snow off your face, ignoring the soft sting.

her quiet giggles warm you more than a fire would, eyes brightening when she sees your grin. "i'm sorry, i just had to."

"mmhm." slowly, you lean down, scooping up a decent amount of the powdered ice and compressing it.

her arms cover her face, "hey, we don't have to do this."

deciding against taking a snow fight further, you gently toss it at her feet, just catching her converse.

a look of pity is thrown your way.

disappointment too.

"i wanted a snow fight." she pouts, sauntering up to you.

you wrap your arms around her, "you know the snow would melt on you."

"because i'm so hot?"

"your words." you hold back a laugh, pulling away to kiss her cheek.

a gentle blush rises to her face, ears tinted rose too. instantly, she notices your playful stare, clearing her throat and turning away. "we should get that wood now."

"lead the way."

[ghostiesnightmare]

Welcome, I've been expecting you.

Ghostie's updated masterlist awaits.

One-Shots: Bound By Kindness - A raging blizzard brings an injured man to your doorstep. Against your better judgement, you decide to help him and show some compassion. But as the snow piles up, so does the tension, and you begin to wonder if your kindness was a terrible mistake. (12.4K words)

Drabbles: Professor Albert Shaw

One-Shots: Tricks and Treats - As Halloween approaches, so do ominous phone calls that leave you terrified in the night. Was it just a Halloween prankster, or was it someone with much darker intentions? (2.8K words)

One-Shots: The Rules We Keep - While working in the Heelshire manor, you were given one warning: follow the rules. As near-supernatural events rock you to your core, the rules seem to hold you in a vice-like grip. As paranoia takes hold, a chilling discovery marks the start of a deadly game. The rules were meant to keep you safe; but what if following them was the most dangerous thing of all? (9.6K words)

One-Shots: The Subject - As a graduate student writing your dissertation on the enigma of Michael Meyers, you try to prove his acts of violence fulfill a dark, psychological need- a crude substitute for intimacy. When Myers resurfaces, your academic obsession drives you dangerously close to the darkness you have been researching. The deeper you delve, the clearer it becomes that you aren't just studying the monster; you're caught in his gaze. (12.6K words)

Salvation - You were never supposed to survive him. You could have fled and buried the haunting memory of that fateful night– yet something draws you back to the ruins of faith and blood. Back to a place where your fear turns into something more like devotion. (8K words)

[stayteezdreams]

12 Days of Christmas 2024 - Masterlist

Daily fic posts from December 14th to the 25th!

A/N's: Warnings are posted in each individual fic. Everything is a Gn!Reader Insert.

(12 Days of Christmas 2023 Masterlist)

Status: Finished

December 14th: "Christmas Spirit"; Wooyoung x Reader (fluff/comfort) You and Wooyoung have a cute Christmas movie night together at home to get yourselves into the Christmas Spirit.

December 15th: "O' Christmas Tree"; Beomgyu x Reader; (cute/comfort) You and Beomgyu decorate the Christmas Tree together.

December 16th: "White Elephant"; Vernon x Reader (cute/romantic) Your friends decided to switch up the rules to your game of White Elephant. Instead of winning a mystery gift. You win a date with someone else in the circle.

December 17th: "Distraction"; Joohoney x Reader (comfort/cute/fluff) After having a bad day, your boyfriend decides to distract you from your thoughts by starting a snowball fight.

December 18th: "First Snow"; Hyunjae x Reader (cute/fluff) They say if you witness the First Snow with your crush, you are destined to be together. Originally mentioned as a childhood superstition, Jaehyun took it to heart.

December 19th: "Holiday Party"; Boss!Lee Know x Reader (romantic/mature/pining) During the company Holiday party, your boss decides to give you a present in private, finally addressing the tension between you.

December 20th: "Ghost of Christmas Past"; Hongjoong x Reader (angst/romance/pining) Due to circumstances neither of you could control, you and your first love were forced apart, never to see each other again. Or so you thought. Until one Christmas, years later, when fate decides to cross your paths again.

December 21st: "Peppermint Kiss"; Minghao x Reader (cute/mild humor) When you take the advice of Minghao's friends to force him to look at your friendship differently, you accidentally initiate a game of cat and mouse.

December 22nd: "Blizzards and First Dates"; Barista!Eric x Reader (cute/fluff) During a snowstorm, you get stuck inside a cafe. Much to your surprise, its just you and the cute barista stuck by yourselves.

December 23rd: "Masquerade"; Changkyun (I.M) x Reader (romance) While attending a Christmas masquerade, Changkyun meets someone who steals his heart. But what does he do when they disappear at the end of the night? (Cinderella-esque au)

December 24th: "Secret Santa"; Hoshi x Reader (humor/cute/little angst) For years, someone has been leaving you presents at Christmas, and you never knew who it was. This year, you caught them in the act.

December 25th: "Christmas Comfort"; Han x Reader & Stray Kids & reader (angst/comfort) You expected to be spending this Christmas alone, left with your own thoughts and loneliness. But your boyfriend and best friends have a surprise for you.

[doormatty3]

Blizzards and Beef Stew - Chapter 5 (Patrick Wilson x FOC)

Masterlist Ao3

Blizzards and Beef Stew Masterlink

Summary

[Patrick Wilson x Original Female Character] [Patrick Wilson x Original Character] Éléanor had always adored winter: its snow, its crisp air. But what she treasured most was retreating to her cosy cabin in the Swedish mountains. There, she could bake, sketch, and enjoy the solitude, far from the noise of the world. At least, that’s how it used to be—until a new neighbour arrived. Patrick Wilson was tall, charming, and with a smile that seemed to melt the coldest days. As they struck up a friendship, Éléanor found herself drawn to him, even though he remained oddly secretive about his last name and evasive about his work. But when a fierce snowstorm trapped them both, it became clear that Patrick might just be the warmth she needed in more ways than one. OR: Patrick uses his body to warm up Éléanor in the snowy mountains.

Wordcount: 3535

A/N: and the smut begins - god what I'd give to be warmed like this in the mountains

As the kiss deepened, Éléanor’s hands roamed over his back, feeling the muscles ripple beneath her touch. She arched her back, pressing against him, desperate to feel more of him as her underwear clung uncomfortably to her wet pussy. She felt his hard cock pressing against her through his clothes whenever he shifted and moved.

But then, as if realising where this was heading, Patrick paused, his breath coming in shallow bursts. His eyes searched hers, the intensity in them making her pulse race even faster. 

“Éléanor,” he breathed, his voice low and husky. “I don’t want to rush you… or anything.”

The sincerity in his voice, the way he was so attuned to her feelings, made her heart ache in the best possible way. She smiled softly, brushing her fingers along his cheek, feeling his stubble scratch her fingertips, her own breath unsteady. “You’re not,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I want this too.”

The relief that crossed his face was palpable, and without another word, he kissed her again, this time with a passion that left no doubt about where this was going. 

His hands slid under the flannel shirt she wore, pushing it higher, his fingers teasing against her bare skin in a way that made her gasp. Éléanor’s body responded instinctively, arching into him, craving more of his touch.

Patrick was gentle but insistent, a contrast to the intense heat of the moment. His hands, so confident and capable, withdrew from underneath her shirt and shifted to her front. With practised ease, he found the buttons of the flannel and undid them one by one. 

Each click of the button being released seemed to echo in the intimate space between them, a rhythmic accompaniment to their heavy breathing. The shirt fell open gradually, revealing more of her skin to the flickering firelight and the cold air in the cabin.

Patrick’s gaze was locked on hers, his eyes dark with a mixture of desire and tenderness as he exposed her. The warmth from the fire caught the glow of her skin, casting a soft, golden hue over her shoulders and the swell of her breasts. 

“Éléanor,” he murmured, his voice a rough whisper filled with awe as he continued to undress her. “You’re... so beautiful.”

She felt herself blushing as his fingers brushed lightly over her exposed skin, sending shivers across her body. 

The contact was electrifying, and she could feel the heat of his body radiating towards her, mingling with the warmth of the fire.

As Patrick’s hands continued to work their way down the remaining buttons, Éléanor’s own hands were not idle. They roamed over his chest, feeling the hard planes of his muscles, tracing the contours of his shoulders and the smooth, warm skin beneath. 

Once the final button was undone, the flannel shirt fell open, the fabric pooling around her waist. Patrick’s eyes never left hers as he gently pushed the shirt aside, his touch reverent as he explored the newly exposed skin. 

His fingers skated lightly over her shoulders, down her arms, and back up to trace the delicate curves of her collarbone. 

Éléanor’s breath caught as Patrick’s lips followed the path his fingers had traced, leaving a trail of warm, feather-light kisses along her shoulder and collarbone. 

The sensation of his warm mouth against her skin was both thrilling and soothing, each kiss making her squirm with pleasure and leaving a mark of fire against her chilled skin. 

The warmth from the fire made his skin feel almost feverish as his hands found her breasts. His fingers, rough yet gentle, traced the contours of her curves, making their way to her nipples, which hardened under his touch. 

Each caress, each playful tug sent waves of pleasure radiating through her, her cunt clenching around nothing.

Ragged gasps left her lips as Patrick’s mouth travelled lower, his breath hot and uneven as he kissed, licked, and nibbled.

He dipped his head down to leave hot, open-mouthed kisses across her breasts. He paid meticulous attention to every sensitive area.

Éléanor’s moans grew louder, her body arching and writhing against him as she felt the growing pressure of her desire, her cunt throbbing dully. 

Her hands roamed over his back, feeling the tension in his muscles and the heat of his skin. She could feel his hard cock pressing against her, and her hands moved urgently to his waistband—she was aching to feel him, to be filled by him.

Patrick helped by lifting his hips, and his eyes locked onto hers with a blend of desire and anticipation.

Together, they pushed his joggers and boxer shorts down, his fully erect cock springing free and leaving him completely bare.

Éléanor’s gaze fell onto his hard dick that stood out proudly against his abdomen. It was big—long and thick in a way that made her clench her thighs in anticipation of how he’d feel inside her. 

She watched as Patrick wrapped a fist around the base and squeezed to relieve some of the pressure. He was gorgeous in the half-light, his skin shining with sweat as the flickering flames painted intricate patterns on his heaving chest.

He kissed her deeply again, his hands moving to her pants with equal urgency. As he helped her remove them, she felt the cool air on her overheated skin, causing her to shiver with anticipation. 

Patrick’s hand slid down over her stomach, his fingers trailing lower until they found the edge of her underwear. He paused, pulling back slightly to look at her, his eyes darkened with lust but still questioning, still asking for permission even now.

Éléanor nodded, her breath coming out in shallow gasps. “Please.”

That was all he needed. 

Patrick hooked his fingers into the waistband of her panties and slowly pulled them down, his knuckles brushing against her skin as he did. The firelight caught every movement, making the moment feel almost surreal, as though they were the only two people in the world.

His gaze was locked on Éléanor's as he pulled her closer, his breath hot against her skin. With a mix of urgency and tenderness, his fingers began to explore her once more, their touch now more focused and determined.

He gently parted her legs, his fingers brushing against her thighs with a possessive heat. As he traced a path toward her sex, his touch was deliberate, each movement a blend of teasing and intense pressure.

Patrick’s middle finger found her clit, the rounded tip pressing and circling with a steady rhythm. Éléanor’s breath hitched, her body arching towards his touch as the sensation intensified. His movements were smooth and calculated, his fingers applying just the right amount of pressure to make her gasp with every stroke.

His touch grew more confident, his fingers slipping lower to explore her entrance. He teased her with gentle caresses, his fingertips dipping inside her with a slow rhythm. Each movement was calculated to heighten her pleasure, his touch building a steady crescendo that left her yearning for more.

Éléanor’s moans grew louder, her body shaking with the intensity of her arousal. Patrick’s fingers continued their relentless exploration. His touch was both rough and tender, a contrast that made the sensations even more intense.

“You’re so wet,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire as it rumbled in the quiet space between them. 

Éléanor’s body trembled under his touch, her moans escaping uncontrollably as she gripped his shoulders, feeling herself being driven to the edge by his expert touch.

“Patrick…” she breathed, her voice a barely audible whisper as her hips instinctively moved in sync with his fingers. Her need for him was overwhelming, her desire nearly consuming her as he worked her into a frenzy with his two thick, capable fingers.

He curled them inside her, pressing against that sensitive spot deep within her cunt. Éléanor’s breath hitched, a sharp gasp escaping her lips as he hit the perfect angle. His thumb brushed over her clit again, adding an extra layer of intense pleasure.

“Please,” she begged, her voice rough and breathy with need, her fingers tangling in his curls as she pulled him into a fervent kiss. The kiss was passionate, a desperate attempt to bridge the gap between their intertwined bodies.

Suddenly, Patrick pulled his fingers out, leaving her feeling empty and yearning. 

He cupped her face gently, his touch tender against her flushed skin, as he pulled away from the kiss. The abrupt shift left Éléanor’s cunt still tingling with desire, her body craving the connection that had been so abruptly interrupted.

She let out a protesting whimper and arched her back, desperate for more.

Patrick’s eyes locked onto hers, a mixture of heat and barely constrained want flickering in his gaze. He leaned in and captured her lips in a deep, hungry kiss and hovered over Éléanor, his chest rising and falling heavily, their breaths mingling as the heat between them intensified. 

His cock brushed against her entrance, teasing her, the anticipation driving them both wild. 

Éléanor’s hands gripped his back, pulling him closer, urging him to stop teasing. 

He let out a low groan, the sensation almost too much to bear as he rubbed against her, the tip of his cock gliding over her wetness, sending shivers through them both. The firelight flickered, casting a warm glow on their skin, highlighting the raw desire in Patrick’s eyes.

She was sure that he could bend you in half if he wanted and use the strength he held in his broad frame to pound her into this couch until he broke it—broke her. 

Éléanor bucked her hips against him again, whimpering and begging as she felt the broad head of his hard dick on her cunt, slick with her wetness and his precum.

Then, without warning, he finally pushed the tip of his cock inside her, just enough for them both to feel the intensity of it. Éléanor gasped at the sudden stretch, her fingers digging into his back, arching her back, wanting more, needing more.

But then Patrick suddenly froze, his breath catching in his throat as reality crashed down on him. 

He pulled back slightly, his hard cock slipping out again, leaving her empty once more. His body tensed up in a way that made Éléanor’s heart race in confusion.

“Wait,” he said, his voice rough and breathless yet laced with urgency. He swallowed hard, trying to gather his thoughts, his body trembling with desire but his mind racing with the sudden awareness of the risk.

“Wait—wait,” Patrick muttered again, his voice tight, almost panicked. He pulled away completely, sitting back on his heels, his expression shifting from desire to something more like fear.

Éléanor blinked, trying to understand. Her body was still buzzing from everything, her mind racing to catch up. Everything had been perfect just moments ago, but now Patrick was suddenly pulling away, clearly agitated. His face was flushed, and he seemed almost frantic. 

“What? What’s wrong?”  she asked, her breath still coming in uneven gasps as she tried to understand, her eyes searched his with a mix of frustration and concern, her mind still caught in a haze of blissful want. “Patrick… nothing happened. Why are you freaking out?”

Patrick ran a hand through his tousled hair, his agitation evident in the sharpness of his movements. His expression was tight, a mix of panic and frustration. “We didn’t use a condom,” he said, his voice strained. The realisation seemed to hit him all at once, like a punch to the gut. “I didn’t even think... God, I didn’t even think .”

Éléanor stared at him, bewildered, her brow furrowing in confusion. She could still feel the echo of the heat they’d shared, the intensity of the moment between them, but now that was being replaced by a strange sense of disorientation.

He was freaking out about this? This was why he’d stopped?

He looked at her, clearly still caught in his own spiralling thoughts, his hand running through his hair again as if trying to make sense of it all. “We didn’t use protection, Éléanor,” he repeated as if the words alone should explain everything. His tone was still tinged with worry. “I didn’t even think about it, and I should’ve—”

“Patrick.” Her voice was firmer now, breaking through his panic as she cut him off. She sat up slightly, facing him, her eyes locked on his. “I’m on the pill. It’s fine.”

Éléanor hadn’t even considered the possibility of STDs in the heat of the moment. She was too wrapped up in his presence, too caught in the intensity between them. Besides, she trusted him inexplicably. It was strange, really—this unspoken certainty that he wouldn’t hurt her, wouldn’t do anything harmful. 

But that made the sudden rejection sting even more. The fact that he’d pulled away, that he didn’t seem to feel the same ease, hit harder than she expected.

“Do…you think I’d babytrap you? Or give you some STD?” The words slipped out before she could stop herself.

Patrick’s eyes widened in shock, and he quickly shook his head, his voice coming out in a rush.“No, no! That’s not it at all. I just—I wasn’t thinking, and I don’t want to take any chances.” 

He looked rattled, his hands hovering in the air as if he didn’t quite know where to put them. It was almost as if he couldn’t figure out how to express the jumble of thoughts racing through his head.

Éléanor let out a breath, sitting up more, the firelight reflecting in her eyes as she looked at him. “Patrick, it’s okay,” she said softly, her tone calming, trying to ease the tension that had suddenly taken over the room. “You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just... you stopped before anything happened.”

He stared at her for a moment, his chest still rising and falling rapidly, his mind clearly racing. “I just... I panicked,” he admitted, running a hand over his face. “I didn’t want to risk anything, but I wasn’t thinking .”

Reaching out, Éléanor rested her hand on his arm, her touch light but reassuring. “Hey, it’s okay,” she repeated, her voice steady. “I get it. But we can fix this.” She gave him a small smile, hoping to reassure him. “You have condoms, right?”

Patrick exhaled, some of the tension leaving his shoulders as her words started to sink in. He nodded, though he still looked a little embarrassed by how everything had played out. “Yeah, I do,” he said quietly.

Éléanor’s smile widened, warmth returning to the moment. She leaned back into the couch, her hand sliding gently over his back, her touch soothing. “Then go get one,” she said, her voice soft but sure. “It’s fine.”

For a long moment, Patrick just sat there, staring at Éléanor as if trying to process her calmness. His chest rose and fell quickly, the remnants of his earlier panic still evident in his eyes. 

Slowly, a sheepish smile began to tug at the corners of his lips, soft and uncertain. “Okay,” he finally said, his voice quiet but steady. “I’ll be right back.”

He stood quickly, his cock still half-hard hanging between his legs, bouncing slightly as he crossed the small space to where his bag sat near the corner of the room. 

The soft glow of the firelight cast shadows along his bare back, the muscles of his shoulders and arms flexing as he knelt down, rummaging through his belongings. His movements were hurried, his fingers searching frantically until he finally pulled out a small foil packet. 

Holding it in his hand, he paused for a moment, staring down at it before turning back toward Éléanor.

When Patrick sat down beside her again, condom in hand, Éléanor couldn’t help but tease him, her voice light and playful, the words meant to ease the remaining tension. “See? Crisis averted,” she said with a grin, her eyes sparkling with warmth.

Patrick let out a breath he didn’t seem to realise he was holding. His shoulders visibly relaxed as he sank back onto the couch, the tight lines of worry on his face softening. 

He chuckled softly, though the sound was still tinged with a hint of embarrassment, his eyes avoiding hers for a moment as he fumbled to place the condom on the table beside them.

But as they sat there, side by side, the fire casting flickering shadows over their faces, Éléanor noticed something had shifted. 

The sharp edge of their earlier desire had softened, dulled by the sudden wave of panic. The firelight still danced over Patrick’s bare chest, illuminating the lean muscles beneath his skin, but the urgency was gone. 

Patrick wasn’t hard anymore, and as she adjusted her position slightly, Éléanor realised that she felt the same. The intensity had ebbed, leaving behind only a soft warmth, a sense of closeness that wasn’t driven by lust but by something gentler, more intimate.

The moment had passed.

She sighed softly, her gaze drifting to Patrick’s face. His blue eyes still held a lingering flicker of tension, the remnants of his earlier anxiety clear in the way his brow furrowed slightly, his lips pressing together in uncertainty. 

But beneath it all, there was warmth in his eyes—a vulnerability that made Éléanor’s heart soften. She reached out, cupping his cheek with one hand, her thumb brushing lightly over the rough stubble on his jaw. His skin was warm under her fingers, a contrast to the cool air around them.

Patrick’s eyes met hers, his gaze steady but searching as if he were still waiting for reassurance. She gave him a small, soft smile, leaning in to press her lips against his in a gentle kiss. 

There was no urgency in the kiss, no hunger—just a soft, slow connection. She lingered there for a moment, letting the warmth of his lips seep into her before pulling back just slightly, her hand still cradling his face.

“Maybe it’s better if we just cuddle for now,” she whispered her voice low and tender, each word wrapped in understanding. Her fingers moved gently over his jaw, tracing the line of his cheekbone as she looked into his eyes, hoping he could see the sincerity in her expression. “There’s no rush, Patrick.”

Patrick closed his eyes briefly, his chest rising and falling as he let out a long, deep breath. 

The tension seemed to drain from his body, his shoulders finally relaxing completely as he leaned into her touch. His hand came up to cover hers on his face, his fingers warm and reassuring as they curled around her smaller hand. 

When he opened his eyes again, there was a soft, almost relieved smile playing on his lips.

“Yeah…” he breathed, his voice quiet and full of gratitude. “That sounds nice.”

Éléanor smiled in return, her heart swelling with affection as she shifted on the couch, pulling the soft blanket up around them both. She leaned back into the cushions, feeling Patrick move with her, his body warm and solid against her side as he settled in beside her. He wrapped his arms around her waist, drawing her close, and she nestled into the crook of his arm, her head resting on his shoulder.

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its warmth spreading through the room, chasing away the chill that lingered in the air. The flames danced, casting long, flickering shadows on the walls, their light a comforting presence in the dimly lit room. 

Patrick’s arms tightened around her slightly, pulling her closer as they curled up together on the couch. She could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the rhythmic thrum of his heartbeat under her ear. It was soothing, that steady beat, and she let herself sink into the comfort of it, the warmth of his body lulling her into a state of calm.

For a while, they lay there in silence, simply holding each other, wrapped in the quiet intimacy of the moment. The earlier panic and urgency had melted away, replaced by a sense of contentment, a shared understanding that they didn’t need to rush anything. 

They had time. 

There was no pressure, no expectation—just the warmth of the fire, the comfort of each other’s presence, and the soft, steady rhythm of their breathing in sync.

Patrick’s hand moved gently, his fingers tracing small, soothing patterns along her arm, his touch light and tender. Éléanor closed her eyes, letting herself relax completely into his embrace, feeling safe and secure in his arms. The storm outside seemed distant now, a world away from the quiet cocoon they had created here, wrapped in blankets and each other.

His lips pressed softly against the top of her head, a gentle kiss that made her smile against his chest. She squeezed his hand in response, feeling a warmth spread through her that had nothing to do with the fire and everything to do with him.

“Thank you,” he whispered softly, the words barely audible, but he knew she heard them. He didn’t need to explain what he was thanking her for—she already knew, and she also knew that this was exactly where she wanted to be.

[thecapricunt1616]

Promptober Day 3 👻

𝐁𝐥𝐮𝐫𝐛 (𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐮𝐭) : “We aren’t gonna die, Syd. Can you fuckin find your head it’s startin’ t’freak me out that I’m the calm one so far” he said, turning the fog lights on as well.  “Can we please just stop somewhere like- like- a rest stop or something? Until this passes ahh! Oh my god!” Syd screeches as the car slides for a moment over black ice and grabs onto Carmys knee for comfort. He jumped at her scream, gripping tighter at the wheel “Syd there’s no rest stops we’re in the middle of the fucking Italian valley!” He said frustratedly and she awkwardly removed her hand from his thigh. Shit. She thought to herself, he was right.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: AAA Welcome to Promptober day 3 featuring our loves Syd and Carmy! No smut this time, but I haven't written them in a minute so I wanted to warm myself back up with some cute fluffy fluff! I hope you enjoy 😊 Reminder that you can view my schedule & masterlist for this celebration right 🦇here🦇! You can also view the same for my 2024 Kinktober celebration right 🎃here🎃! If you'd like to be added to the taglist, just comment on the according masterlist & I will add you going forward! 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.2K 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Fluffy fluff, only 1 bed trope, Swearing, Anxious Syd & Carmy haha 𝐃𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐬: @/𝐒𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐤𝐚-𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐬

“Jesus Christ this fuckin came outta nowhere” Carmy mutters. The windshield wipers on their rental car were going as fast as they could, but he was still having a hard time seeing the road. 

“Carmy I told you this was a bad idea! Were literally gonna spin out and die. I knew it was gonna snow!” Sydney huffs, turning down the radio more because she had anxiety that Carmy wasn’t seeing as well with that as a distraction. 

“We aren’t gonna die, Syd. Can you fuckin find your head it’s startin’ t’freak me out that I’m the calm one so far” he said, turning the fog lights on as well. 

“Can we please just stop somewhere like- like- a rest stop or something? Until this passes ahh! Oh my god!” Syd screeches as the car slides for a moment over black ice and grabs onto Carmys knee for comfort. 

He jumped at her scream, gripping tighter at the wheel “Syd there’s no rest stops we’re in the middle of the fucking Italian valley!” He said frustratedly and she awkwardly removed her hand from his thigh. Shit. She thought to herself, he was right. 

They had come to Italy for some new culinary inspiration, but also to put in a special order for a certain type of cheese that you couldn’t have shipped by the company so Carmy was going to vacuum seal it and buy a special bag for it to take it back with them. 

It wasn’t that that she thought was fucking crazy, it was going to a town that was famously known for its Skiing 2 weeks before thanksgiving. Meaning winter was just starting to pick up, and they’d likely get caught in a blizzard. 

As much as Carmy tried to convince her that per the weather app it was just going to be bitterly cold the week he had planned for them to go, Syd had a bad feeling that the weather would take a turn for the worse and they’d get caught in a blizzard, and per usual- Syd was right. Thankfully in the distance, they saw lights indicating a business of some kind. 

“Oh thank god. Were stopping.” She said more as a statement then a question, if she was honest with herself it sounded quite like a demand.

“Yes Syd, we’re stopping” Carmy sighed a bit. Not because he was upset with her, but because she proved him wrong - yet again. There was a light above the sign that read “Columbina Albergo” Carmy wasn’t too good at Italian, but he quickly understood the hotel to be called Little Dove Motel. 

It made his heart skip a beat, how romantic could a motel be. A dead one at that. There was only 2 other cars there, and the place wasn’t the most slightly- but it would do. “Alright I guess…uh. Yeah let’s go get a room I guess? I’m sure they uh have…double beds” Carmy said as he turned off the car and pulled up the hood of his white hoodie and opened the car door. 

The wind nearly stole Sydney’s blood orange and floral patterned scarf and she quickly grabbed it walking quicker as Carmy held the door open for her. 

“Buona Sera!” The woman at the counter chirps and Carmy nods politely. 

“Buona sera! Uhh… unaaaa…” he thinks for a moment trying to recall the bit of Italian he’d brushed up on before they came over “ah! Per favore, Una letto matrimoniale” He said and the woman nodded pointing to the sign that read it was €30 per night. He dug out his wallet and handed over 3 €10 notes and she put it in her register before grabbing the hanging set of keys with the room number and handing them over 

“Grazie, Buonanotte” she said and Carmy nodded, turning to Syd and handing her the keys 

“It’s room 11, I’ll bring your stuff just go warm up s’cold out there” he said, opening the door for her again. Even though it was freezing, she felt her cheeks flush with heat at how gentlemanly he was being. 

“Yeah send me into some random motel room where there could be a killer lying in wait?” She teased, heading down the row of rooms to find number 11. 

“You have a big mouth. Just scream an' I’ll come running don’t worry” Carmy mused, unlocking the rental car to gather the suitcases. By the time he got to the room, Syd was sitting on the single full sized bed with a teasing smirk. 

“You need to brush up on your Italian more, Chef” 

Carmys cheeks heat to a deep shade of pink, looking around the room to see that there was no  couch, just a small arm chair and he sighs deeply, rubbing over his face and tossing his pillow on the floor 

“You can have the bed” he muttered, tossing her her backpack and she giggled a bit

“What- scared I’m gonna touch you? We can put pillows between us if you want” she said and he raised his brows, looking at her in slight disbelief. 

“No- no m’not scared just…I dunno if you’re seein’ someone I wouldn’t want my girlfriend sleeping with her business partner” he said before he could think and he rubs his chin nervously as she started cracking up. 

“Yeah. No im not seeing anyone, but also don’t go saying you slept with me on this trip, I don’t want that rumor on my name” she teased as she opened her backpack, grabbing her pajamas “I’m gonna call the bathroom first, so…just call me when you’re changed I guess” she said and headed into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. 

Carmys heart was thumping, he could have sworn he had requested a room with a double bed, and the office hours listed on the door said they had made it just in time before she closed for the night - so no switching. 

He quickly tugged off his jeans and hoodie, putting on a white T-shirt and grey sweatpants, pulling the sheets back and getting the pillows situated. Carmy had a crush on Sydney since he’d met her, but of course, with his testy past with relationships - he was afraid that persuing someone he held so dearly to him would quickly end up in explosive flames. 

On the other side of the bathroom door, Sydney was in a similar panic, currently asking herself if she should keep her bra on, because it was like - respectful or whatever, or if she could be comfortable and take it off. She weighed it in her head for a good 5 minutes before hearing Carmy clear his throat and say 

“Uh- Syd n-not rushin’ you- jus’ wondering if you wanted to watch that movie still?” He called through the door. 

She quickly decided it would be better to just take it off so her back wouldn’t hurt in the morning and quickly puts on her old childish gambino shirt and a pair of sofee sleep shorts and opened the door “yeah- yeah” she swallows thickly when she saw that Carmy had a clear dick print in his grey sweats. 

“Okay- cmon” he patted the bed next to him, grabbing his laptop from his bag and resting it on his lap as he turns it on. 

She sits next to him, criss cross, her knee draped over his thigh because they were so close. Carmy felt as if his hands were shaking, Syd felt as if her heart was going to fly out of her chest at any moment.  It was going to be a long night.

Fin

Tag List: @carmenberzattosgf @daysofyellowroses @mouseymilkovich @gallaghersgal @carmybrainworms @l4long-winded @babyspiderling @southsideserendipity @djlnkaled