#that 1920s rumble feel

[jyoongim]

We don't talk enough about the fact that the petname "baby" became super popular around the 1910's-1920's (Alastor's time). He calls everyone "dear" and "my dear" in canon but can you imagine him just laying the flirt on THICK and addressing his darling as baby bc he sees it as THE smoothest thing ever.

It was Valentine's Day and Hell seemed to be busier than usual. Charlie had everyone participate in decorating the hotel and saying something nice to each other.

You had made cards and little Knick-knacks for everyone. A cat plush for Charlie.

A dagger for Vaggie.

Boots for Angel.

Rare liquor for Husk

A bug zapper for Niffty.

The only person who you hadn’t been able to to give a gift to was Alastor. You had found a old timey radio that was trimmed gold with chestnut wood. It was beautiful and you hoped he would like it.

You squeaked as you bumped into something, head craning to see just the person you were looking for.

”Oh Alastor! You were just who i was looking for” you smiled, taking a tiny step back to reveal your gift.

The tall, red demon tilted his head as he cracked a smile.

”What do i owe the pleasure my dear” He asked as you gently push the gift into his hands.

You blushed, feeling nervous as he fiddled with the radio ”W-Well its Valentine’s Day andCharliereallyinsistedthat everyone do something nice for those they c-care about a-and ijustthoughtyouwouldlikeit!” You rambled seeing him sit the radio down and wrap a arm around your waist, pulling you close to him.

A deep rumble vibrated throughout his chest at you buried your head in his chest in embarrassment 

“Oh darling I love it” he purred, lifting up your face by your chin to look at him.

His smile was  genuine, eyes full of playfulness “Oooh were you worried I wouldn’t like your gift baby?”

You blinked. Did he just-

“I got you a gift too baby” Your eyes lit up as  he pulled a tiny velvet gift box from his coat.

You let out a soft gasp, a pretty ruby necklace. “Oh Alastor…”

He motioned for you to lift your hair, securing the clasp and smoothing the jewelry on your neck. Taking the opportunity to nip at your neck

”Such a pretty doll you are baby”

Happy Valentine’s Day indeed

[himbocoups]

˗ˋˏ Red Horn ˎˊ˗ | 18+ Only

synopsis: devils are contract workers - simply offer them a payment that they can never refuse, and your problems would be taken care of. the only thing is, what could a mere human possibly offer to a devil?

pairing: devil!jeonghan x innocent!reader (gn afab)

genre: fantasy, supernatural | smut, pwp

tags: flirting, food mention, office | bondage, light choking, creampie, dirty talk, fingering, oral, pet names, pnv, praise, if there's a term for jeonghan fucking you with one of his devil horns please tell me, reader wears lingerie, reader's first time, multiple orgasms...

wc: 5.4k

message from nu: this took me super long to write, but this has to be one of my favorites. special thank you to xan @aceofvernons and june @junkissed for keeping me company while I worked on the fic. I hope you all enjoy reading - nu <3

In the distance, the elevator dings sharp and clear, its ring piercing through the reception lounge as its large plum-colored crystal doors open with a rumble. Even when you sit facing away from the reception desk, you can imagine the receptionist greeting the incomer with their monotonous voice, drawling out the same script they gave to you – jet black orbs staring at you judgmentally while you try to scribble your personal information on the forms as fast as you can.

A large Prometheus-type creature in the seat across from you whimpers when its name is called, head hunched and practically trembling with every stride toward the smiling attendant. Open space in front of you, you can see through the large glass windows the hundreds of skyscrapers and verdant greenery where feet touch the ground under the red sky. This place is but a stretch, an affected area of Hell – at least for those who are not native. Even this lounge, untouched coffee bar with expensive Keurig models, circa 1920s sleek leather Barcelonas, and low mid-century style coffee tables with old filled-in Highlights magazines as table decorations, is deceiving in its own way. Because, if it wasn’t clear enough, all of you are in Hell.

Sharp teeth chattering, long tails thumping in anxiety, and sheepish whimpers, the atmosphere in what could be a beautiful place is filled with layers of dread and fear. You sit in your chair, right hand brought to your lips, while slowly peeling the layers of chipped skin off your lips, the light sweater you wore in the morning feeling as heavy as a weighted blanket. Flicking away the loose pieces to the floor a few inches away from your fuzzy teddy bear slippers, you slink further into your seat with thoughts of what could possibly come next weighing you down.

You wanted it. Correction. You still want it, even when the soft jazz playing from the speakers barely masks the distant screams and screeches that echo throughout the many halls and floors in the building. So desperate to have your need fulfilled you would even beg a devil, the devil, for even an ounce of that fulfillment.

So, when a siren with beautiful wings adorned with brown speckled feathers calls your name, you answer with a squeak and scramble to meet them in the corridor of one of the halls where they wait patiently for you with a kind smile on their face. The creature’s feathers ruffle as it elegantly struts down the bright corridor, passing various framed artworks and accolades, a file folder nestled under the crook of its left wing. Too deep in your mind, nitpicking at your outfit choice and squeaky voice whenever you answer the siren’s small talk, you fail to even notice that it isn’t the usual demon who is walking you to their office.

And the office, matte black large double doors that seem to aggrandize the more you stare at it, seems to you the most daunting thing you’ve ever experienced, dreading what’s on the other side of the doors. The doors automatically swing open when the siren approaches, and a rich puff of aroma fills your senses – strongly smoked tea leaves, spices, and aged tannin from the great oak trees you spent your vacations under during summer camps. Immersive, sultry, powerful…frightening.

The creature beckons you to follow them inside, the doors slamming shut when you enter the threshold. If you were dreading the office's interior - perhaps a grotesque chamber too scary to imagine, then the reality only confuses you. Plush gray Persian rug you’re too scared to step on, mahogany desk sitting at the end of the room, a large fish tank built into one of the walls big enough to hold a shark. It would look like a standard luxury CEO office if it weren’t for the shelves of trinkets from collectible matchbooks to eyeless Sylvanian Family figures to mysterious chained and muffled floating orbs that stand behind the desk.

Taking a seat in front of the desk, you watch the siren slowly stalk behind the desk, perching itself in the leather executive chair to rifle through the files with its back turned towards you. Your hands find each other in your lap, folded together, the right thumb twiddling with the left. It is awfully quiet, and the atmosphere is just as bad as it was in the lounge. No part of you wants to spark a conversation, afraid that the slightest conversation error could send you on a one-way ticket into the depths of hell. Does their boss know they are sitting in their boss’ seat?

However, when the leather chair turns around, you see a man frowning at what you assume to be your file – your attendant long gone. He flicks away his remaining brown feathers, letting his disguise dissipate into thin air while craning his head to the left and right to stretch his neck. A tri-toned nameplate appears at the front of his messy desk, deep burgundy red with a black center dark enough that you could mistake it for a void. Written in gold is the name “Yoon Jeonghan,” and in a smaller font underneath is his official title.

The devil, as the plate reads, cocks an eyebrow at you through his long curtain bangs, causing you to take a craven stance – wincing and lowering your head so you don’t meet his eyes. Taking a page out of the file, he presses it against the desk and slides the page towards you, twisting it with his long nimble fingers in one smooth motion so the words face you upright.

“You summoned me via a crocheted sweater, a three-year-old three-wick seasonal autumnal candle that smells like pumpkin pie, and a tiny crushed packet of Prince Noodles you found at the back of your snack cabinet?” His voice is light and airy, but the terrifying smoothness and the seemingly innocuous nature of his tone only deceive the listener – he is a creature filled with malice and iniquity.

Slamming his palm against the table, he drags the page towards himself, creasing it with the strength and anger he exerts. The slapping sound causes you to flinch, and your eyes continue to stay trained on your lap, the shrill sound of the slap still ringing in your ears.

“Look at me,” he commands you in a low tone, a voice dipped in a thick vat of bubbling tar. “Summoning me with trash? Do I look like a joke to you?”

Scared you might combust into flames the moment you look at him, yet too scared to defy his command, you slowly lift your head to look at the man sitting across from you for the first time.

If his verbal command isn’t enough to evoke fear in the most draconian demons, perhaps his physical properties - his presence and his chiseled facial structure - command creatures differently. Dark brown eyes and thin-lipped, bottom lip slick and catching the light after he runs his tongue over it while scoffing at you, you have to admit the devil is strikingly handsome in his features. Pure sybarite from the decoration of his office to the decorations he wears, he outfits himself in leather garb. Fashionable thick leather blazer with a belt cinched around the waist, a silver chain dangles around his neck, sparkling in hues of red. And the horns that sit at the top of his head, dark crimson red with the shine of the waxy Red Delicious apples that stack in a pyramid under bright supermarket lights. Elephant tusk-like: thick, curved, and blunt. You wonder what it would feel like if he…

He appears before you in an instant, sitting at the edge of his desk, leaning over, and sandwiching you between his towering frame and the back of your chair. With an apparent smirk on his face, he enjoys watching you practically whimper underneath him, trembling in your seat. Irises expanding in size at exponential speeds is a clear tell, a giveaway of your need for him.

“You’re scared of me.” He points out with much effrontery while cocking his head, his face a mere few inches away from yours. He leans back with his arms crossed, planting himself firmly against his desk. “But you’re the one who summoned me, wanting to make a deal with me, right? So, no matter how scared you are of me, you’re still the boss and I’m your contract worker.”

“Contract worker?”

You can’t believe his words. He is agreeing to your stupid little request that you thought could never be fulfilled. Summoning a demon? Summoning the devil? It sounds like a quirky group activity to do at middle school sleepovers.

“You mean why did I agree to your request?”

You quickly nod your head in response.

“I’m a man with needs. And you’re a little angel who was brave enough to offer me a deal. It’s an obscene request that nobody of your kind has offered me for centuries - although, the last one perished with my touch…but you wouldn’t lie to me, right? Sweetheart?” He almost bats his long eyelashes with the pet name, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

The scene shifts almost theatrically – morphing from Jeonghan’s office to the tiny bedroom you were in about an hour ago. It seems real. All of it. The same putrid orange floorboards with dark knots that look like stains, hanging on the wall is a single bronze circular mirror your navy curtains slap against when the wind blows. You’re sitting in the middle of your bed, the old lumpy mattress you’ve been using since elementary school covered with the white checkered duvet set you found for free on some second-hand site. On the floor by the foot of the bed is a tiny space you made by pushing your jackets and plastic bags away, saved for summoning Jeonghan. Now, all that is left is soot, the Prince Noodles wrapper, and a now-stretched hand-made sweater.

Fucker. He is keeping the candle.

“It’s your first time so I can make you feel more comfortable – play on your turf. But the question is, can you take it? Can you take all of me? We can break it down into several sessions.” His suggestive tone is almost warmhearted. It almost makes you forget this is the first time you’ve met him. 

This situation would be laughable if it weren’t for the fact that you’re talking to the devil. You don’t know if he’s the type to laugh at bad jokes, but you weren’t going to test your hypothesis. 

“No,” you tell him. There’s only one thing on your mind. “One time.”

“You don’t realize what ‘all at once’ means, do you?”

Granted, if this were any other day with any other person, you would’ve faltered when this type of question kisses your ears. Doe-eyed, you watch him while sitting at the edge of your bed, a tiny nod in motion that makes him smile at you. The outer corners of his eyes crinkle, and he almost seems like a college boyfriend-esque type visiting your room for the first time - kind and patient, yet filled with corrupt thoughts.

He takes a seat next to you and proceeds to unbuckle the belt that cinches his waist. You’re too shy to stare at him while he undresses, but you can hear very clearly his garments hitting the floor one after another. The end of soft thuds and crinkles and a cool touch that turns your face to his, he holds your face in the palm of his right hand. So tender, yet his intentions are clearly laid out in the open.

“Why don’t you show me what pretty outfit you’re hiding underneath your sweater so I can show you what I mean?” his voice low, sending vibrations down to your core.

What you reveal underneath is a dainty two-piece. Thin lavender silk trim and clear organza with embroidered pastel flower details accentuate the cups that cover your breasts. The bottom matches the top, pulled high to your waistline. He hisses, forked tongue appearing for a split second before disappearing again.

“Contrary to what humans believe,” he mutters while holding one of your hands in his. “Angels don’t exist in this world. But at this moment…” He pushes a strand of hair away from your face, a subtle yet intimate gesture. He’s doing his best to prepare you for the worst without scaring you off, and you can’t help but to cling to him and seek refuge in his assuagement. “You’re the only Angel in front of me.”

Now you can see them more clearly. Dark brown eyes with bright specks of gold only a mere few inches away from yours. It makes you wonder how someone as beautiful as he can become the Devil. But he leaves no time for you to spare as he dips and plants his lips against yours. And you reciprocate with ardor, leaning back onto the bed as he changes his position so he is hovering, towering above you. His kisses are slow, focusing on making you feel good. Supple lips against your hot skin, he nips and licks at your flesh, leaving discolored hues of claret and magenta, him ravaging your untouched purity. And he takes the lead, grabbing your hands so they hug his neck so you can press him closer to you when you feel like it.

And you do. It excites you when learning how your body automatically reacts to him in need and lust: pulling him into your chest while feeling his soft skin rub against your lingerie, speeding up your kisses, and whining when you want more. He only smirks when he pulls away, looking at you from above and seeing your plump swollen lips and sexual frustration scintillating in your eyes. Your first hickeys on your neck and chest look like the beginnings of the first fallen leaves in the suburbs during Autumn. And you feel him grow against your core, a firm ball that waits to be unleashed with its owner’s command.

“Will my Angel be good for me?” He looks up at you while he traces the dainty straps that wrap around your skin, his pointer finger swirling around the yellow intricate embroidered flower that barely covers your nipple. The tip of the finger flicks against your rosy bud, and the feeling sends vibrations and shivers straight to your core. “Yes or no?”

“Yes,” you barely manage to whisper. “I’ll be good.”

“Then I’ll make you feel good.”

He bends down to kiss you again, this time with more fervor as if to mitigate any of your worries or concerns. But, strangely enough, you don’t. What is left behind in the trek to his office is replaced with new feelings of greed that you desperately want to have fulfilled during your nights alone. And the man who kisses down your body, pleasing you and praising you for reacting so well to his touch, seems multifarious enough to fulfill everything you dreamed about in secret.

When he reaches your core, it’s already uncomfortably wet. He seems to pay no mind as he pries away the lily embroidery that covers your cunt, cool finger briefly brushing against your skin to reveal your tender flesh that throbs underneath his gaze. Jeonghan starts slowly, prying your thighs apart with both of his hands. Firm grip on your skin, you whimper when he frowns at you for trying to shy away. Then you feel his lips planting pecks along your left inner thigh, making his way to your slick. 

If the way he kisses you is nothing but a lust-filled way of overcoming his workload, stress, and greed, then the way he eats you out is the complete opposite. Yoon Jeonghan doesn’t dive in head first after pushing you into the deep end; he holds your hand while guiding you into the pool, letting you adjust to the temperature of the water before swimming after him. Laps you up with the flat side of his tongue, long licks around your inner folds and swirls your core like a whirlwind, Jeonghan tsks when you start to close your thighs around his head without thinking. While telling you to behave, the low growl making you almost come on the spot, he pries your thighs apart. 

Firm grip and fingers digging into your skin, the Devil presses his tongue against the area you often frequented yourself at night, never thinking the day would come when someone else is able to visit. Forked tongue draws a heart down your slick, zigzags, paddles, and swims in your juices. It feels like two tongues are working you at once, and it makes you come twice as fast, your fingers gripping the bed sheets and your body jolting upwards. Supple lips close around where you feel the most sensitive, and he eats you out in a way that tells you that you would never be able to experience something like this in the future - not with him and definitely not with anybody else.

“Aah-ah fuck Jeonghan.” You squirm while he keeps his pace, wet sounds from beneath you filling your little room while he cleans up your aftermath. “Want more.”

“Aww my little Angel wants more?” He temporarily detaches his face from your cunt, red swollen lips glistening and glossed with your cum, to smirk at you. “Why don’t you look at me and beg for it?”

But he’s meticulous with continuously making you feel good. In the absence of his tongue, he replaces the emptiness with his fingers. Rubbing your nub in between his thumb and pointer finger, the Devil uses his other hand to rub himself - his hands prepping his long and pink organ. It takes a choked sob emitting from your mouth and your eyes rolling to the back of your head before you can even begin to think about looking him in the eye. And when you finally look him dead in the eye and trail to his raging member while letting out what he thinks are the prettiest and most deceivingly innocent whines, he finally understands your cupidity. 

So he thrusts his digits in your core, your panties now magically disappearing when he could’ve shrugged them off ages ago. Two long fingers fill your virgin hole, he scissors them while feeling your warm flesh contrast in reaction to his cold skin. Pointer fingers hook around your spongy G-spot, and he uses it as a sort of pulley, pulling him into you while your stomach tightens and squeezes with every quiver of his finger. You feel yourself soak his fingers, running down into his palms. He catches every drop with his tongue, licking his hands clean and then moving on to your cunt as he continues to finger you thoroughly.

He pulls his fingers apart, creating an opening to stick his tongue in you. Tonguing you, he savors your sweetness, sucking and thrusting his tongue deeper into you while he slides his fingers in and out of you. He fills you up until he runs out of room. You feel so corrupted, never expecting any person to make you feel so dirty, disgusting, yet so well-handled at the same time. You lust for more, to feel more as he smirks against your sex and reaches his open hand upwards to grab your breast. It feels plush and soft when he kneads it in between his fingers. Simply flicking his thumb over your sensitive nub sends shockwaves down to your core, and he surfaces with your cum dripping down his chin.

“How are you feeling?” he asks you, briefly leaning upwards to catch your lips in his mouth. “Can you take more? That was just to warm you up. Are you ready for me?” he mumbles against your lips.

The taste of yourself sits prominently in his mouth. You can taste yourself as you exchange another kiss with him, slowly winding down from your high.

“I- I want to try more.” You hear yourself openly admitting while he leaves tiny pecks along your collarbone. “It felt good.”

“Just good?” He looks up at you in feigned confusion. “Come on honey, I didn’t fuck you dumb just yet. I’m pretty sure you’re smart enough to come up with better adjectives. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I don’t know how to describe it.” You gasp when he moves away from your cover to latch his lips around your nipple. “I cam- I think I came several times, but I’m still horny.” The last part comes out in a sort of whisper as if you’re afraid you would be caught by somebody if you ever admitted to being horny out loud.

“Mmm.” He groans with your tit in his mouth. “Mmf. Nothing wrong with being horny. And you did come. Several times…but are you ready to come more?”

“Yes.” You’re feeling more confident. “I’m ready for more.”

“Even if I have to tie you down?” He pushes himself up so he kneels in front of you. “I’m afraid your human body can’t take what I’m about to give you.”

“I want to try,” you reply. “‘All at once,’ remember?”

“Okay Angel.” He smiles, leaning over to put his hand behind your head to bring you upright. “All at once.”

Your face is so close to his body that you can smell the muskiness of his sex. Right in front of you is his member. It’s your first time seeing one this closely, red and stiff, and a tiny bead of precum that rolls off the tip. You wonder how it would feel in the palm of your hands, how you would be able to fit all of it in your mouth.

“Take a good look at it, Angel. Touch it or suck it if you want,” his voice is gentle yet mischievous. “Don’t be scared. I can guide you. Take your chances before I spend the rest of our time disappearing in your cunt.”

Hesitantly, you bring your lips closer to his tip, opening your mouth wide enough so your lips close around the head. It’s smooth like a cool cherry-flavored popsicle on a hot summer day, yet there’s a certain softness to the organ. You stare up at him with his head in your mouth, and he simply nods, thrusting forward a little to tell you that you can continue. 

A tiny lick causes him to flinch and then gasp, his eyes fluttering as you lick him again more confidently. He breathes out a groan when you place a hand on his waist while the other grabs his length. Closing your eyes, you hollow your cheeks and guide him in and out of your mouth, sucking and licking as you go. 

And the raging and tantalizing ache in him can’t help but to grow and extend along his erection, growing hot in his stomach as he looks down at you trying your best to suck his dick. It makes him feral knowing that he’s your first - the first to corrupt you, to coat your thick and swollen lips with your saliva and his precum, and to watch you as you clench your thighs while sucking him off. Just thinking about your request and actually seeing you try to fit him in your mouth without gagging intoxicates him and makes his mind fuzzy. But before he can begin to process his dick hitting the cold air, he feels your mouth latch around one of his testicles, gently sucking while your hand kneads the other, and your other hand continues to pump him in your mouth’s absence. 

This time, he sees you wide-eyed and staring right at him. And when your eyes roll to the back of your head, he immediately snaps and spasms - shooting white liquid all over the bed sheets. 

“Lay back down,” he demands. 

Repositioning himself over your naked body, he wipes away a few splatter marks on your face and reapplies it to your open lips. It’s hard to concentrate on the new salty taste when the Devil is staring intently into your eyes while his hands roam your body, touching and flicking. 

He asks you about punishments for making him come without warning - something about how he should prolong your virginity, a concept that you wanted him to take away. 

…it’s just a social construct used to belittle others, the contract states. But if anybody is going to take it away, then it has to be the Devil himself. 

“This might hurt a little,” he tells you. 

Invisible ropes drag your hands above your head and tie your thighs to your bed. Making sure you’re secure Jeonghan quips, “In case you try to run away.”

You can barely see what he’s doing from your angle. His dick is slowly becoming hard again, so you think he’s going to eat you out in the meantime. But nothing can prepare you for what comes next. 

It feels cold and warm, a long tubular shape slowly digging and nudging itself into your cunt. Yet, you don’t feel the same wetness you felt when he stuck his tongue in your cunt. The figure pulls in and out, sliding and squelching with every thrust. Your mouth drops open, letting tiny soundless exhales fall out of your mouth. A burning sensation builds up at the bottom of your stomach, causing you to lurch and struggle against your binds. Jeonghan only chuckles from underneath you, his face shrouded by his hair. It’s only when he pushes deep, causing you to yell his name when you realize the object he pushes into you. 

What fucks your cunt in a steady rhythm is the same crimson red, elephant-tusk-like horn that sits on top of Jeonghan’s head. He slightly turns his head so the thick and curved object hits you in the right spot, causing you to struggle, moan, and breathe heavily. 

“What a twisted angel,” Jeonghan grunts. “You didn’t think I would be able to read your thoughts? You didn’t think the Devil would be able to listen in on every single dirty thought that came across that pretty little head of yours?”

“Fuck. P-please Jeonghan,” you whine through gritted teeth. “Want your dick.” 

“No.” His tone is flat. “I’m not horny yet. Hearing you whine and mewl about how good I make you feel ”

“N-No,” you manage to say. “Can’t wh-whine if you’re choking me.”

Your invitation causes him to immediately pull out of you, therefore causing you to lurch forward with a gasp and fall back down when you’re stopped by your binds. It’s a lot clearer now, his wet red horn and the hair matted down by your juices. Still, there is nothing that could make the man in front of you become an eyesore. 

He’s objectifyingly beautiful - now not as downright terrifying as you thought him to be. Your little push of confidence, although a bit passive, goes a long way as he bends down once again to catch you between his lips, kissing you feverishly as his left hand slowly works its way to loop around your neck. 

It’s a new feeling, feeling the pressure of his palm against your neck. The pressure is light - not how Jeonghan would’ve liked to choke you, but enough so the concept doesn’t scare you away. Gently squeezing the sides of your esophagus, Jeonghan removes his lips from yours so he can see you clearly. Chin lifted up and your eyes glossed over, you seem to him to be needier than ever. He watches you as your struggle against his invisible binds, hips thrusting in the air. 

“Please Jeonghan.” You struggle against his hand. “Please. I’m ready. I’ve been ready. Please-”

“Beg.”

“Fuck,” you breathe out. “I’m begging. Please.”

He adds a little more pressure around your esophagus, making you struggle and almost come on the spot. “More.”

“W-want t-to see your pre- ah fuck pretty face lose its beauty when you bend over me while fucking me hard. I want you to be mean to me and pull my hair so my back arches while you pound into me from behind. Make my thighs quiver and tremble as my knees go red. Use me until I’m left with nothing but tears.”

“I can make you cry.” He lets go of your throat, tsk-ing at the fading soft pink imprint left behind on your skin. “But not in the way you described…You’ll be leaking from somewhere else, Angel.”

You breathe his words in like an airy aphrodisiac, filling your lungs and clouding your brain with blissful jubilation. But the tears. The tears fall when he slowly pushes into you, cooing and soothing you while you cling onto him, fingernails digging red welts into his bare back while you struggle to adjust to his size. The stinging pain feels like no other, but fuck does it feel good to have him inside you. 

Wrapping your legs around his waist, he bends over you and whispers in your ear, “Keep tightly clenching around me before I can properly fuck you and you’ll never be able to leave Hell. Understand?”

“Yes,” you reply, hissing when he pulls back.

Then he starts pushing slowly back into you, savoring how your walls etch and hug his ridges, savoring how your eyes immediately roll to the back of your head in response to your pleasure. Another thrust, faster this time. He plagues you with need, making you practically fuck him yourself by angling your legs on the bed so you can push yourself into him over and over again. He pinches your nipple in anger, but it only sends a lewd string of pain straight to your core. You find it pleasurable, your nerves heightened to a new level. 

So he puts his hands around your waist and tells you his name again - because that’s the only thing you’ll remember after he’s done with you. 

He ruts into you over and over again, harshly and quickly. The only sounds filling your tiny bedroom are your hiccups that complement the sound of his skin slapping against yours. Your whole body jerks and rocks with every thrust, your bed no longer standing in the same place, now slightly askew. He doesn’t even give you time to recover when you cum on his cock, your belly tightening, releasing, and then tightening again in a matter of a few seconds. 

“Whore,” he sneers. “Look at you, all fucked out underneath me. You can’t help but come multiple times, can you?”

He rubs your clit while pounding into you, watching you writhe in pleasure underneath him, very well unable to respond to his rhetorical question. 

“And you want me to pound into you from behind?” He mockingly laughs out loud. “All that talk but you can’t even form a word. Form a word then. Try forming a word before I cum.” 

But another wave swells in your abdomen, causing you to jerk forward in reaction. Your body feels sweaty and sore, but the pleasure rolls in waves - building in you and ejecting out of you like a consistent ebb and flow. Every single bite, flick, and word that comes out of him only breaks you even more. And you topple like a house of cards, reduced to nothing but his personal fucktoy. 

He chases his own orgasm when he feels like it, pushing into you deeply and thrusting one last time by hitting your walls so he can slowly milk his seed as he rolls his hips. And when he pulls out, he watches his liquid slowly collect at your entrance, threatening to spill out. Your body still twitches in his absence, your aftershocks squeezing and making his seed drip and run out of you. 

Your eyes are blurry, body is sore with tiny cartoonish stars floating and rotating above your head. You can’t expect the Devil to stay. He had done enough for you, more than you could ever imagine. It takes everything in you to bring yourself to whisper his name one last time before you feel him leave your side. 

On the floor where you summoned him is an invitation to summon him again:

Whenever you’re ready. He writes. I’ll make you crawl. -YJH, The Devil

[lovemesomeeddiemunson]

The Proposal - Epilogue

Summary: When Steve Harrington is threatened with deportation, he blackmails his long suffering assistant, Eddie Munson, into marrying him. Steddie! The Proposal Au, Modern Au, Part 7 of 7. 1920 Words

Series Warnings: Blackmail. Food mentions. Mentions of unhealthy relationship with food. Cursing. Self harm (by means of tattooing.) Homophobia. Death of a parent. Abandonment by parents. Shitty parents. Homophobic parents. Parents with entitlement. Classism. Sexual situations (no actual smut!) Brief allusion to a panic attack.

Authors Note: Our love story is wrapping up now, dear readers. I hope you have enjoyed. ❤️

Steve just barely manages to contain his snickering from his position curled up on Eddie’s stomach.

He’s spent the last several minutes doing so, while also attempting to sort the disarray that the other man’s long hair had fallen into in their tryst, the brunette curls splayed out haphazardly on the pillow resting behind his head.

Eddie is letting him do both, laid out on his back beneath Steve with a hand thrown over him to cup his bare hip. He’s been poorly pretending for the same amount of time that Steve’s been fussing over him, that he’s not completely out of breath.

The longer that his efforts to be subtle go on, the more Steve’s snickering takes on life, rolling into something akin to actual laughter. He feels like since he’s let Eddie in, that he’s never stopped.

Eddie lets him enjoy it, even as he weakly tells him. “That’s no way to treat your husband after he just showed you a good time, sweetheart.”

Biting his lip in reply, Steve’s touch becomes even gentler as he kisses the slight pudge of Eddie’s belly which has made the world’s most inviting pillow for him. “You are absolutely right, vita mia.”

Eddie smiles fondly down at Steve, raising an eyebrow at the mild surprise of not being corrected, for once. “So…sweetheart’s okay, huh? I like it. Simple but effective.”

Steve rolls his eyes. Eddie’s belly rumbles beneath him with his laughter. “There he is.” Eddie reaches down with the hand not already wrapped around him in order to cradle his jaw. “God, you’re so pretty when you do that. How’d I get so lucky?” He asks.

Steve can’t truly hear what he’s saying - he’s speaking too low - but he can feel the words vibrating beneath his ear as he lays on Eddie…knows that they’re dripping with love.

And it hardly matters what words he offers, when Steve can clearly see in the low glow from the city outside their window when Eddie has mercy on him and signs for him, ‘I love you.’

Steve smiles, and mumbles back. “I love you too.” Warm all over.

And while the two of them had been going at different paces for sure in their efforts to learn ASL. (Robin’s suggestion out of consideration for Steve, who spoke English and Italian both perfectly well, but sometimes missed the answers said back to him.) It was still a happy fact of Steve’s life that the sweet sentiments that Eddie would offer with his hands were never lost to him.

Eddie hums softly then, glancing up as he thinks out loud. “I think I’ve loved you for a while. But I knew for sure when Wayne insisted I fight for us. I was so gone for you, and here you were, with the approval of the person whose opinion matters most. It all solidified for me then.”

Steve melts at his confession, peppering little kisses to Eddie’s tummy that make him giggle. His eyes rake over Steve - tantalizing muscle, little brown moles, and a smattering of freckles all on display but beyond that…There was evidence of Eddie’s love there in Steve’s tan skin. All marked up from his neck downwards, enthusiastic purple splotches where Eddie had taken his tongue and teeth and mapped out his claim on the man atop him, while he asked, “When did you realize?”

“I don’t want to say.” Steve replies, leaving one last little kiss, his tone indicative of his withholding something.

Eddie’s ears perk up at that, “Oh come on!” He teases. “It can’t be that bad. What was it? When you listened to the demo all the way through and realized I’m a bard in the most irresistible of forms?”

“No, not then. But you know I could wax poetic about the sounds you coax out of your guitar.” Steve teases him lightly.

Eddie huffs, “Fine. Not that then…So, what? Did you look at my ass when I bent over to put the little ‘sign here’ tabs on your papers? Couldn’t go another moment without me being yours?”

Steve shakes his head, asking “Do you really want to know?”

“Yes!” Eddie all-but shouts.

Steve purses his lips. Telling him mercilessly, “It was when you cried at the end of Free Willy.”

“No!” Eddie gasps, lamenting. “Say it isn’t so.”

“Sorry sweetheart, that’s my moment. I saw you tearing up, and I just knew.” Steve says sheepishly.

“I take it back. I don’t love you, you horrible horrible man. I despise you.” Eddie lies, so much love in his eyes as he says it that Steve almost can’t bear it.

“I despise you more.” Steve replies, as easily as he’d told him he loved him just moments before, the words not holding an ounce of truth, unlike his declaration of said love had.

Eddie snorts, gleefully reminding him. “Hah! Jokes on you. You married me.”

Steve groans loudly in reply, feigning horror as he gasps. “Is it too late to flee the country?”

Eddie makes every effort to sit up at that, wrestling Steve into the bed to tickle him senselessly, until both of them are dissolved in giggles, in full honeymoon bliss.

They had maintained it for a while now, with no signs of stopping.

Con behind them, they had awoken on their wedding day in separate beds as planned, before meeting for photographs, all dressed up for the occasion.

Steve in white, his suit well tailored and - admittedly - a little slutty. It had looked mostly unassuming from the front - with a deep cut that showed off Steve’s bare, hairy chest and an assortment of metal chains borrowed from Eddie and Robin, to Eddie’s utter delight…but then when he’d spun at Eddie’s encouraging wolf whistle and he’d seen the back of it.

Oh the back of it…With an intricate spine of fabric, there were details of climbing lace vines and blooms, skin showing intermittently throughout where the cut strategically showed off the tan planes of Steve’s back…The edge of the suit jacket stopping high enough that Eddie could see how well his pants hugged his ass…the man in white just on the wrong side of smug at how sexy it made him look.

Which, understandably, made Eddie feral.

Eddie, who had been himself swathed in black, in an admittedly simpler suit - but one that boasted a sewn in cape that had flowed behind Eddie like a veil draped across his back.

The black fabric was lined along where it rested on his shoulders, as well as all of its edges, continuing to be further split by that same lining down the middle in a dark, glittering embroidery of those same vines and blooms.

Eddie’s hair was fixed with little buds peeking out in a careful placement, and he wore no rings. Waiting anxiously for Steve to put one on him.

He made an elegant, dark compliment to the borderline sinfully angelic picture that his soon-to-be husband made.

Who, in himself, was not immune to the image - salivating over Eddie, his veins thrumming with his own barely contained lust, the pair of them only staying the course thanks to Johnathan.

Johnathan, the only one they trusted to take the photos for them ever again. Who mercifully dismissed them once they had their shots, only for them to arrive at the courthouse steps one - very handsy - cab ride later.

Flushed, giddy, and happy, they had gotten married from there in a simple ceremony largely outshined by their clothing, with the two required witnesses.

Robin, and Wayne (who Steve had flown in,) had both watched them exchange vows before a judge, and had oh so smugly signed to attest to so.

Steve proudly kept the marriage certificate close when it was done, emotional, while Eddie had found it unreasonably cute, and had kissed him about it.

After posing for a few more photos, taken on Robin’s phone at her insistence, the four of them had all gone out for drinks to celebrate.

In their formal attire and all, Robin and Eddie - or rather, Robin and Batman, played with Eddie’s cape while careening through the city streets like a couple of unhinged toddlers.

Unhinged toddlers whom Steve loved very much, but still. He had merely shaken his head at them and their revelry as Wayne walked with him, their arms linked together as they had been the night of Wayne’s birthday all those weeks ago, when he had paraded Steve proudly in just the same way.

In those moments, when no one could see or hear them, Steve thanked him. For his kindness, his acceptance - and the hand he’d had in making Eddie such a good man.

Wayne had bristled, unable to accept, only thanking Steve for loving his boy. For being brave enough to take that leap, and to have him in a way that linked them all as family from now on.

For better or worse it seemed, Steve was under his wing now - and consequently, so was Robin. A fact made clearer and funnier by the fact that Wayne used that influence to land Robin with the phone number of the prettiest girl in the bar later that night.

Go figure.

By the time the family of four had had their fill of drinks and conversation and had parted ways, Robin went back to her apartment where she would call Steve in the morning stressed about how soon was too soon to call a girl.

In turn the married folks headed off to Central Park West, having sent Uncle Wayne to his hotel…but only after a generous teasing from him, to which Eddie had been snarky in his playful reply.

“Hey, fuck you old man, I bagged Steve Harrington.” Eddie had laughed. Turning from where he was putting his uncle in his cab and shouting loudly. “You hear that world!?! I bagged Steve Harrington! Whoo!”

A random drunkard on the block also whooped, and an embarrassed Steve pulled Eddie along, more eager to get his husband home than he was to encroach on his joy.

Eddie readily obliged him, just as he always had.

The two had then gone home that night, falling into bed at the start of their lives together.

Lives that would look completely different in a few years to be sure, not just from where they had started, or from where they were now, but also from how the two of them had always pictured.

But life is funny that way. And with Eddie’s US tour, and Steve toting around the first of many little nuggets…While it wasn’t the life that they might have planned exactly…

Being together, with their family, their little one eventually seeing the world with them via tour buses (in which Eddie claimed the best seat, always.) And airplanes (where Steve got the window seat, always)…Or whatever mode that she and her eventual siblings would grow up traveling by, and making memories on…

The fact of it was always the same. Eddie and Steve together, two doting dads of a bunch of hellions. Who rapidly signed details about what they’d seen and how they’d been over dinner, whether it was laid out in those tour buses, on the planes, in fancy restaurants, or wherever else they found themselves…The details didn’t matter.

Because as it was, it was the best of both of their dreams. Everything that they had never dared to let themselves want during the years of paper-clips and pointless meetings that could have been emails.

And it was perfect.

— La fine. —

Series Masterlist

Previous Part: Part 6

[houjicha]

This is my little contribution to Baccanovember, for the prompt Isolation/Family. This is actually a WIP of the first chapter for a much longer fic that I've been working on for a while, but it also works as a short story~

December 1920

The Gandors' apartment

Firo was lying in a tiny bed, holding his hands over his mouth and struggling to keep his breath steady.

Breathe in, breathe out.

His eyes were starting to burn, and he found a crack in the wall to focus on. The shadow of it seemed to reach across the wall like an ugly, misshapen finger. The wall was ugly, too.

Everything was ugly. Home was even uglier, but at least it was home.

Except he might not be going home anymore.

Breathe in—  There was a hitch. Not a big one, but in the quiet room it was agonizingly loud.

Claire and Berga were arguing, and it didn’t sound like one of their silly fights that ended in a bonk on their heads and unrepentant laughter. They were angry, and it had sent a spike of fear through him. 

I’m old enough to take care of myself, Claire had said.

No kid brother of mine is gonna run away with a buncha clowns, Berga had retorted.

They said I’m good at it, Claire had said, and Pa Gandor ain’t around no more.

Goddammit, Claire, I’m just lookin’ out for ya!

Yeah, but you ain’t my dad, and you can’t tell me what to do! You’re only fifteen. I just turned ten, and that’s more’n old enough to have a job!

Firo was going to be nine. He’d never had a job. He didn’t work because Ma had said to stay in school, stay out of trouble, and let her work, and he did until he got too stupid to concentrate and too angry to keep from fighting with other boys. And now she couldn’t work anyway, and she was probably going to die, and it was like everything had become impossible overnight, and his world just continued to break and break and break.

Claire was leaving, and he was leaving because he was old enough to take care of himself, which meant Firo was going to be too but he didn’t want to, he didn’t want to because he was the youngest and the weakest and he needed to grow up like everybody else but instead all he wanted to do was lie here and cry like a little girl. 

“Doesn’t mean you gotta run off!” Berga was saying now. “Don’t you care at all about this family?”

“Yeah, stupid, that’s why I’m leavin’!”

“Who’re you callin’ stupid? C’mere, you little—!” Berga’s yell was cut off by a grunt of pain.

Firo listened for the fight to begin in earnest, but there was only silence.

A few moments later, Berga yelled, “Hey, we’re not finished!” just as the bedroom door suddenly banged open.

“Keith says to go pack so I’m goin’!!” Claire yelled before slamming the door shut again.

Firo waited for Berga to come barging in next, but instead he just heard the distinctive low notes of Keith’s voice rumbling through the walls, and then Berga’s heavy footsteps heading out the front door and down the stairs. Whatever he’d broken his silence to say, the fight was over for now.

Meanwhile, there was a scrape of a drawer and the rustle of Claire’s shirts and trousers hitting the floor. Firo squeezed his eyes shut, and a couple of drops slid down his cheeks. He tried to wipe them off with the back of his hand without making the motion too obvious, but his chest betrayed him with a sudden hiccup.

"Firo?" Claire’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Did I wake you up?”

Firo tried to stay very still. If he had to cry, he at least didn’t want to do it in front of Claire.

"Heeeey." There was a poke in his back. "You okay?"

Firo tried to will his throat to relax before he spoke. "...Yeah." It still came out raspy.

"Nuh-uh." Another poke. "Are you crying?"

"N—" The word cut off as he sensed another hitch in his breath coming. "No." 

"Liar." The mattress shook as Claire climbed onto it, and then there was a weight on his side. He could feel Claire's breath near his face. This time, there was another poke, this time on his cheek.

"Get off!" Firo almost yelled, flinging his arm up hard enough to roll the rest of his body over onto his back. 

As Claire stared back at him, Firo immediately felt his face heating up, and he rolled back over to face the wall again. "Just leave me alone."

Silence.

"Is it your ma?"

"I said leave me alone."

"This is my bed."

Firo crossed his arms, still lying on his side. "Well, maybe I'll sleep on the floor, then."

"Nuh-uh. It's my bed which means my rules which means—" A much heavier weight on his shoulder again, and then Claire's face, upside down. "You gotta feel better."

Firo didn't want to feel better; he wanted his mom to feel better and everyone to come home. He wanted everything to be better. And if the world had to be horrible, then he at least wanted to be sad about it where no one could see.

He rolled until Claire's face disappeared and the other boy's weight was across his back like a heavy blanket. "No," he mumbled into the mattress.

"Why don't you wanna feel better?" 

"...'Cause it won't fix anything." 

"Huh? Why?" 

"'Cause shut up and leave me alone!"

Firo regretted it the instant he said it, and the weight left his back. 

“...Sorry,” he mumbled. He turned his face to the side and looked up from the mattress guiltily.

Firo didn’t want to snap at Claire so much. But he kinda did, too, and he didn’t know why. Because he was stupid, probably. 

Claire sat back with his legs criss-cross and shoved his hands into the open space in the middle. “Nah.”

“No, you were being nice.” Firo sat up and crossed his ankles, too, mirroring Claire’s posture in a hunched sort of way. “...They said she’s gonna die. My ma. I dunno if I’m gonna see her again.”

It was the first time Firo had said that part out loud.

He knew the word “quarantine,” which was a fancy way of saying someone was going to die all alone, as far as he could tell. It made adults scared, and as soon as he said it to Keith, he’d been ushered inside for dinner. But Firo couldn’t eat, so he’d just tried to sleep instead, only to learn he was losing Claire, too. It was more than he could take.

"And Pa Gandor died last year and now you’re g-gonna leave—"

As the words spilled out, there was no stopping it now. His breath was shaky, his nose was all stuffy and gross, and he was making a big mess of everything. 

"And I'm just a crybaby—"

"No, you're not." Claire said, tilting his head. “You’re my friend.”

Firo raised his head slightly. “Wh-what’s that gotta do with it?” he protested, but he already knew he was going to lose this battle. Claire’s pale-brown eyes had that look in them they sometimes got. Like all he had to do was say something, and that made it true.

“You’re my friend,” Claire repeated, “so you're part of my world. That’s not gonna change.”

One time, when Firo was five, he had gone out to play in the snow, and one of the older, bigger kids in the neighborhood had stolen his scarf. Firo had played outside anyway, even taking off his gloves to make better snowballs. When he came home, his mother had taken one look at his bright red face and hands and rushed to heat some water. She’d kept the bath warm and not too hot, but on his frostbitten skin, it had burned.

Sometimes, the things Claire said made him feel like that.

“I am a crybaby, though.” Firo shook his head. “...I’m scared.”

“That means you’re brave,” Claire said. “I heard Pa Gandor say bein’ scared makes you brave, or somethin’.” He pouted a little and crossed his arms. “Then I asked him what if you’re never scared, and he said nobody’s never scared and I said well I am and then he said maybe I should be and then I’d stop jumping off the damn roof.”

Firo laughed a little, and a smile rose to his lips and then fell. “...I don't want you to leave,” he said quietly.

Claire pouted. “C’mon, you too? I told ya, I'm good at it—”

“I know you are,” Firo said with a hiccup. “You’re gonna be the best one in the whole circus. I bet you'll be so good at it you’ll n-never come back.”

Claire paused then. “Nah, I’m comin’ back. I’m gonna go lots of places, but I’m comin’ back.”

“How do you know—”

Claire grabbed his shoulders. “You think I don’t wanna see you again or somethin’? You’re my family.”

Firo swiped at his eyes. Just cause Claire wanted to come back didn’t mean he would. Ma wanted to come back. Pa Gandor probably would if he could, so—

"Argh, listen up!" Claire got to his feet on the mattress and pointed at Firo. "You know what I think? I think you're gonna be fine. You got me and Keith and Berga and Luck and me, and—"

"—You said 'me' twice—" 

"—and I say we’ll always be here for ya!"

With that, Claire crossed his arms and plopped back down onto the bed with enough finality to make the frame screech and scrape loudly across the floor. There was a muffled yell and a couple of loud thumps from below. 

A moment passed in silence.

"Well…what about when you die. You gotta die someday," Firo muttered, a bit petulantly. 

"Aw, c’mon! That’s not gonna be for a hundred years at least.” Claire tilted his head. “But then what happens to everybody else? Does my world just disappear?"

Firo almost started to argue—Claire had been talking a lot lately about dreams or something—but he didn’t want to, really. Right now, he couldn’t imagine the world without Claire, either.

So as Claire swayed from side to side like a wind-up toy in a shop window, Firo just twisted his fingers together in his lap. "You promise?”

Claire snapped out of his reverie. “Yeah! I wanna see all the flying cars and stuff.”

“What if you had a flying car, too?” Firo wondered. “Then you could go all over and come back, easy.”

“All the way to California! Or Italy! Or, um…the North Pole!”

Firo wrinkled his nose. “Santa’s not even real.”

”C’mon, what about the reindeer?”

“There’s no reindeer, either,” Firo retorted with authority. “’Cause the polar bears would eat ’em.”

“Nuh-uh! You’re makin’ that up!”

“No, I’m not! I heard it!”

“Yeah, well, you know what I heard?” Claire said, and hit him with a pillow.

Firo was stunned for a moment, but instead of grabbing a pillow of his own, he viciously yanked Claire’s out of his hands and tried to whack him on the head as hard as he could. It felt good. He wanted to hit him over and over. 

But of course, Claire wasn’t about to take that lying down—figuratively speaking. He leaned back and caught Firo’s hit with his foot, then rolled over to Luck’s bed and snatched up the pillow, and then the fight began in earnest.

With each hit dealt and received, Firo felt his emotions calming a little. Being mad at Claire felt better than being sad, but once he was done being mad, it felt like any other pillow fight with his best friend, and pillow fights were fun.

Finally, he pulled both hands back to just throw his weapon at Claire and call an end to it—but of course, Claire batted it out of the air just in time for the door to open.

And that was how Luck Gandor took a pillow to the face. 

Claire giggled, while Firo pressed his lips together to keep from smiling. “Sorry, Luck.”

Luck glared at Claire, then snatched the pillow off the floor and hurled it back at him. To Firo, he said, “Keith’s heating the soup again, Firo. He thinks if you’re gonna be awake, you should eat something.”

Firo met Luck’s eyes, and wondered how he felt about all this. He seemed to be okay, but Firo could never quite tell with Luck.

“Glad you’re feeling better,” was all Luck said, and Firo realized that he was feeling better, just a little. And Keith was right; he was getting hungry.

As Firo climbed out of bed, Claire did, too. “You think I can have more, too?”

“You have to ask him,” Luck said, “but probably.”

“Wait, Claire, don’t you gotta get ready?” Firo asked, just as Claire’s arm fell across his shoulders.

“Eh, later,” Claire said, already dragging Firo towards the door.

“Wait—”

Firo barely kept from tripping over the half-packed pile of clothes spilling out of Claire’s drawer, and the ghost of tomorrow brushed against the back of his mind. The knot in his stomach wasn’t gone, and neither was the ache in his chest.

But the weight of the arm around his shoulders was here, too, and Firo let it stay.

[annawayne]

Pinned post with guidelines for this blog

Hi!

My name is Anna, and I am a Ukrainian artist and writer who likes to focus on emotions and tell a story through details and composition, adding a specific vintage touch to all my works.

All social media & commission sheet you can find HERE

All my artworks can be found by #my art

Writing can be found by #my writing

╰─╮ My yellow light in your soft whispers ╭─╯ tags: AruAni, post-canon, married life, healing together, heavy angst with happy ending, background JeanPiku, past PokoPiku & EreMika, set 10 years after the Rumbling status: ongoing, multichapter All posts related to this fic you can find by #my yellow light in your soft whispers tag

╰──╮Bury me in the shadows of spring ╭──╯

tags: AruAni, 1920's AU, post WW1, healing together, artist & muse relationship, background JeanPiku & YumiHisu, past PokoPiku & EreMika, complicated ReiBert, set in 1920 in Eastern Europe status: ongoing, multichapter, on hiatus All posts related to this fic you can find by #bury me in the shadows of spring tag

╰──╮Neverland of (our) desires╭──╯

tags: Aruani, canon-compliant, boat scene/chapter 131, first kiss & first time, angst and smut and feels status: complete, oneshot

╰──╮Golden hour of our forever╭──╯ tags: Aruani, post-canon, married life, tooth-rotting fluff, light angst, background JeanPiku, set after ~8,5 years after the Rumbling status: complete, oneshot

╰╮What a Moonlit Night, So Full of Stars and You╭╯

tags: Aruani, post-canon, married life, tooth-rotting fluff, light angst, set after ~9-9,5 years after the Rumbling, Christmas vibes status: complete, oneshot

A gift for my dear best friend ;)

p.s. all info is regularly updated with all actual status :)

‧₊˚✦Thank you for your attention! ✦˖₊˚

[roguelov]

sorry to hear about your horny jail time dude! i hope you get busted out soon 😫 but in the meantime! i recently realized that a great gatsby au (since the great gatsby movie from 2014 is one of my fav guilty pleasures) where morpheus as gatsby and maybe reader as daisy would slap so hard?? morpheus would absolutely be the type to throw huge stupid lavish parties waiting for just ONE person to show up 😭 plus the 1920s new money aesthetic is something i would DIE to see on him tbh

You are speaking straight to my soul

Dream who spotted you in the Dreaming, and fell in love you in an instant. So, he started having all these lavish parties to get your attention

In an extravagant castle, music thrummed off in the distance. People cheered and sang in tune. Curious, you allowed yourself to be pulled in by the chaos. You swerved through corridors, listening as the music grew and grew.

It all lead to a double door. Your heart pumped feverishly along with the heavy beat of the music. You slowly pushed it opened to reveal a wild party. The doors opened atop of a grand staircase leading down to a sea of people singing, dancing, and laughing. Drinks flowed. Outfits twirled. People lived wholeheartedly in this moment, and completely let loose.

It was insane, magical, and absolutely captivating.

However, your eyes quickly locked to a lone man in the center of the chaos. His black hair slicked back, wearing a pristine black suit. A single ruby earring dangled from his ear catching in the sparkling light of a massive chandler above. His eyes instantly connected with yours. A smile ghosted over his lips.

Bashful, you tore your eyes away wanting to see everything. Such chaos, but you enjoyed it immensely. So many happy faces. When you glanced back, hoping to see the mysterious man, he was gone. You frowned slightly. Who was he?

“Welcome, my dear.”

Your heart lurched at the smooth rumble of a voice. You whipped your head to find the strange man directly next to you. You gasped. He was even more beautiful closer.

“Hi,” you breathed out. You were sucked into his dazzling blue eyes. They were oceans ready to swallow you up. You glanced away back to the crowd below. “What is all of this?”

“A party,” he hummed.

“I can see that,” you jokingly said.

“In your honor.”

You looked back at him wide eyed. “My honor? Why?”

He tilted his head as a smile graced over his lips. “Why not?”

You gawked at him, feeling your cheeks flush.

His eyes scanned over you. “A wondrous party for a wondrous person.”

“Oh.”

It was all you could say. It was all for you? It was unreal.

He extended out a hand, “Would you care to join me?”

Your eyes fell to his waiting palm, then back over to the sea of people. You locked eyes with him. He was silently pleading for you to accept, so why would you deny him? Especially if it was all for you.

Your hand slid into his. “Of course.”

[artmolonara]

Halloween Highroad - Writing Commission

My first ever writing commission on Ko-Fi (Check the end for a link)! Thank you again, @lyndexv!

***Please Enjoy***

The last day of October was a beckoning call to take the high roads of chance and find that spectral adventure that all sought. As it was, there was such a chance to be taken tonight.

A tall young man trotted up the gravel road, through dustings of fallen leaves, a backpack slung across his arm, ladened with perhaps more than he needed, but something felt special this evening, that perhaps, just maybe, the old stories would be true.

Nour was definitely the adventurous type, drawn to stories and tales of yesteryear. Pulp fictions, radio dramas, noir and western classics, all were so appealing to him and his particular interests.

And feeling that call of adventure, he had made it a Halloween goal to go on an excursion to someplace interesting. A search online had yielded a very interesting tale of urban exploration, of an old castle on the outskirts that was supposedly haunted. And not by some simple ghoul, but by what appeared to be an old timey car that seemed to drive around all by itself. Locals described it as a 1937 Citroën Traction 11B Cabriolet and had given it the charming nickname “Bernadette.”

This fascinated Nour a great deal indeed.

Only tonight he wasn’t Nour. The tradition of Hallow’s Eve was to embody another soul altogether, either a revulsion or a reflection. Nour had chosen the latter, for tonight, he was “Fajar, adventurer extraordinaire,” a character of his own creation.

And here he was, at the threshold now of a long abandoned ruin, overgrown with rot and decay. What wonders awaited inside? Hopefully, a table lay within, one which to host the tiny banquet he had brought within his pack; nothing too extravagant, just some cutlery, a nice meal, some wine, should he encounter some interesting company.

As luck would have it, he did.

Rounding the facade, looking for an entrance to the looming building, Nour was suddenly halted by the sound of slow and heavy rolling over gravel behind. Turning, he beheld a large shape in the dark, before his sight was temporarily blinded by two bright beams that flared to life.

A voice spoke out, as gravelly as the road he trod, while his vision slowly recalibrated from the light.

“This here is private property, you best be getting on now.”

It was an feminine voice, with an old type of speech pattern popular in 1920 talkies, and it sounded like it was being projected out of some speaker. Remotely, or…

His eyes now clear of purple smear, he could see clearly the vehicle before him. There it was, the old Cabriolet, as described in the forums. The body seemed well kept for the age, though it was missing a roof. The dark blue, almost black hued hull looked unblemished in the moon’s pale light.

Nour looked for the driver, but the glare obscured the interior from view. There was the possibility that this was simply a Halloween trick, a Scooby Doo spook just opting for scare tactics and nothing more. But even so, Nour embodied Fajar, unafraid and hopeful that there was truth to the legends, and knowing what to do.

He made a gentlemanly bow.

“Good evening, fair lady. Pardon me for possibly intruding, for I was heeding the nightly call to wayward wandering. My name is Fajar, and it is good fortune to be making your acquaintance.”

There was a moment of idling from the vehicle, then a soft beep and roll forward as a sign of intimidation.

“Now I do hate to be repeating myself,” came the lady’s voice again, slight annoyance with a twinge of walled fear, “but I will not be entertaining any more gentleman callers at this time of night, all looking to make a quick buck from stolen parts or take speakeasy joy rides around town. I won’t stand for it! So, again, I suggest you take your leave before I run you flatter than a buckwheat pancake… er, Please…”

But ever determined, Nour held his ground, looking up at the rumbling engine grill. 

“I hate to be so forward for asking this, but could you perhaps be Bernadette, the supposedly haunted car?”

The Cabriolet rolled back slightly as if in surprise, the mirrors suddenly moving this way and that at all angles, as if looking around.

The voice came out staticy and slightly panicked, “Are you one of them ghost hunters who’s been trying to leave cameras every- the nerve of- well you… good day-er night!” The car suddenly started to back up to leave. 

“Wait!” Nour called out, “I am no ghost hunter, madam, I just wanted to come visit you.” He reached into the pack and pulled out the aged wine, “I even brought dinner to share!”

At this, she stopped, flank now facing him as she had turned toward the gates. The side mirror spun to reflect him like an eye, angling to look him up and down. From this angle there was no mistaking now that the car was empty.

After a pause, a response floated out from within, “... goodness, how… hmm… now why…” There was a sound of clearing the fluster out of her throat, “What possessed you to… well, seek me out, specifically?”

Nour thought a moment, then responded with sincerity, “You must get lonely up here, all by yourself. I thought, on night of all nights, you might enjoy some company. If you’ll have me, that is.” The offer was extended, hanging in the air like the hallow moon.

Finally, a small chuckle came from the vehicle, “Well, you certainly are much more civil than any other gent that’s crossed my path… fine, sir, I suppose I can entertain the idea… so long as you behave yourself.”

Nodding his head, Nour put the wine back in his pack, “Of course, my lady. Is there someplace here we could sit and talk or…” He looked around at the ruinous steps of the castle, covered with moss and refuse, hardly a comfortable spot to rest.

“Oh no,” she responded, “Here is much too drab. I know a good spot down the road,” the passenger’s door swung open, “Hop in, I’ll take you there.”

Nour felt a slight hesitation. This was all happening so fast. A true living, seemingly haunted, car, and he was speaking to it, and now, it wished to drive him somewhere? Truly a tale off the pages of his favorite novels was coming to life around him. It was almost overwhelming, but the spirit of Fajar urged him on eagerly, to continue forward and see where the night led.

And so, he climbed in. There were thankfully seatbelts. Old cars like this tended not to have them, though this one seemed to have had some installed.

“By the way,” he asked, “Is it alright if I call you Bernadette. I know it’s what you’re known as, but if you go by another name…”

The radio in the dashboard crackled in response, showing the origin of the voice, “Bernadette is fine, I don’t know of any other name I’ve ever had besides it. And is it ok if I call you Mister Fajar?”

Nour smiled giddily, “Fajar is fine… I also go by Nour too. Whichever you prefer.

As they took off down the road, the steering wheel turning on its own with each curve they passed, Nour took the time to introduce himself more, explaining his hobbies, passions, life experiences, anything he thought may be of interest to her. And in return, Bernadette told him about her own life, as it was.

She didn’t recall being anything other than what she currently was, only that one day, a decade or so ago, she woke up under a sheet in a garage somewhere, gathering dust. Obviously a car that could talk and drive itself was all together strange to most, so she went into seclusion, only taking night drives to feel the wind about her. Folks still took notice, of course, and she had encountered a number of unsavory individuals over the years, which made her all the more glad that Nour, or as she continued to call him, Mister Fajar, was very respectable and treated her like a person.

They continued to talk as they came to a good spot overlooking the city. With luck, there was a picnic table nearby where Nour could have his late dinner and talk to Bernadette some more. When asked if she would perhaps like to get some oil or something, she explained that she’d never had the need to refuel at all, only sleep to make her gages go up. She hadn’t really questioned it, nor really felt the need to find out why. Nour didn’t pry further, and she was very appreciative of that.

The night wore on, and after a time, they decided to take a drive around and admire the festive lights and activities of Halloween, eventually finding a drive-in theater that Bernadette knew about. A double feature was enjoyed by both, Nour sharing facts of the films and Bernadette listening with great interest.

When pink haze began to creep over the horizon, and the excitement of a night that seemed to have gone by way too fast began to fade as exhaustion took hold, Nour, with great reluctance, decided to call it.

“Well, my dear Bernadette, I could talk to you for hours more, but unfortunately, the sandman is coming to spirit me away as we speak.” He finished with a yawn.

A giggle tingled though the system, “It would certainly seem so. Allow me to drive you home.”

After some directions, they arrived at his place, to which Nour saw himself out, bowing sleepily to the open car door. “It has been an enchanting evening, I thoroughly enjoyed your company.”

“I as well, Mister Fajar. You are truly the most upstanding and interesting young man I’ve ever met.”

Bashfulness colored Nour’s face, “May I call on you again sometime, fair lady?”

Bernadette chuckled, “Certainly. You know where to find me… and speaking of which, I should be getting back before I’m noticed by someone. Not everyone is as understanding as you, unfortunately.”

Nour nodded, “Safe travels then, I will visit you again soon.”

With a farewell, and a horn toot, the Citroën model car sped off into the rosy distance. Nour watched it go until it was no longer in sight, finally sighing, and heading inside his home. He would remember this magic night for always, and plan another night to visit his new companion soon.

He also would need to get his pack back, as in all the excitement the two shared, it had been forgotten on the seat.

~FIN~

Hope you liked it.

I still have slots open on my commission page, and I also do art if anyone else would like to have something done. Check out my Ko-Fi via the link.

BUY ME A KO-FI

[tiny-elf-of-doom]

A Man & His Car 🖤

Good Omens fanfiction

Crowley x The Bentley (yes, really)

Best if you listen to I’m In Love With My Car by Queen while reading!

Nsfw 🔞 MDNI: m@sturbation, dirty talk, descriptions of s€x, & a sassy 1926 Bentley.

Crowley lounged back against the upholstery. He loved the way his car purred when it was given the right attention. Using two, thin fingers, the demon lined the CD slot from left to right, slathering it in a cleaner he kept under the seat. The Bentley surged from his touch, flashing the front lights as darkness approached.

“You like it when I play with you, isn’t that right, love?”

Another roar and the steering wheel turned sharply to the left, cutting off a rather displeased driver. Steam gathered under the immortal wheels as the car sped into the distance, pushing through the heart of London to where the M-25 began its course. Crowley loved it when his Bentley pushed her limits on the speedometer, swerving from one lane to another with ninety years of demonic ease. The demon managed to see her reflection in one of the vehicles to his right- holy hell, what a looker. He admired her vintage curves which were made far shapelier by the black paint job.

The radio began to play, I see a line of cars and they’re all painted black.

Bentley’s design had been what drew him to her in the mid-1920s, but it was her attitude that made him stay. He tightened his grip on the wheel, clenching his jaw as she pushed ninety. A growth had begun to rise from behind the seam of Crowley’s trousers and his car took notice. The radio whizzed out of nowhere once more, searching the inserted CD for the perfect song. She finally found what she was searching for, eventually, and it was then that Crowley realized the Bentley still had a wicked sense of humor.

When I’m holding your wheel

All I hear is your gear.

The demon laughed as they passed a rather large bus traveling the highway. “You’re a naughty thing! Do you want me to have a wank while you drive?”

This time, the Bentley growled.

Crowley did have a feel for this automobile, especially when she was all fired up and ready for action. How could he have turned her down? Taking his time unbuckling his trousers, the demon finally pulled out his cock which had just started to turn a bright shade of red. The Bentley’s wheel suddenly steered on its own as Crowley laid along his front seat. He gave himself a few short strokes before tugging at himself more feverishly while the Bentley pushed a hundred. They went in their first circle when Crowley allowed his voice to carry through the car.

“I do fancy you, Bentley…” Crowley hiccupped through a rather loud moan. “You’re my car, I bought you from new, you will always get me where I need to go… such a beautiful thing you’ve turned out to be, love.”

He caressed her upholstery, taking in the detailed lines and that fresh car smell that had never went away. Like a bottle of perfume, it had become her signature scent and one of Crowley’s most familiar comforts.

“Now that we got the mushy shit out of the way, I want you drive like you mean it. I’ll take care of the rest.” Crowley whined when the engine revved. “Good girl.”

Suddenly, the M-25 became barren. Not a car could be seen besides the Bentley, which gave her plenty of room to drive. Crowley knew he had to watch when her wheels screamed against the pavement. He lifted himself up behind the wheel once again, staring as she made the streetlights connect in a flurry. His chest tightened with delight seeing her so excited; so free. Crowley sat back and allowed her to guide him as he pleasured himself. She rumbled from under his grip on the gear shift, playing her music higher and higher until it flooded the enclosed space.

Crowley’s cock wept, leaking from the head as the Bentley turned around the bend of the road. The pounding of her mechanic heart was unbearably sexual. Her tires shrieking as she hit a hundred and ten threw the demon’s head back in pure ecstasy.

“Yes, baby, keep going, drive until I come,” Crowley whined.

The car would not disappoint. It was nearing its second loop when Crowley’s movements became flustered. They neared the exit to Mayfield.

“Almost there, Bentley,” he assured while giving the gear shift a few accompanying strokes. The car was already losing itself to the demands of her driver, but didn’t wish to stop, not when he was this close. She turned rubber into dust as Crowley screamed at the top of his lungs, working his hand to the point of agony. “Yes, yes! Fuck yes, I love you, baby!”

The driver came in a full body wave of pleasure. His hips bucked into the wheel, bringing the vehicle to swerve slightly, left and right. There had been the exit and the Bentley rushed into the softly lit road ahead; one that hadn’t been doused in tire tracks. A snap from Crowley’s thin fingers brought the traffic back to the highway once they were far, far away from the bustle of Central London. Both the demon and his car were exhausted, but it was mainly his prized antique that needed the break.

“Stunning work,” Crowley patted the wheel, then took it into his hands. The car radio wobbled, which was the best way of putting it. “Sorry, baby, I know you’re still sensitive. Let me get us home.”

And they drove off into the night, satisfied with one another as a man and his car.

[rolandopujol]

Where’s the beef? That wasn’t always a slogan for Wendy’s around here. From 1945 to 1977, the site of this Wendy’s in Sunnyside, Queens, was home to the Sunnyside Garden Arena, where the beefs were between boxers, wrestlers and rolly derby players at the magnificently dingy, neon-bedecked arena that stood here, at 45th Street and Queens Boulevard. When it was demolished in December 1977, the plan was to build a Wendy’s once the tatters of the temple to the sweet science were carted away. The Wendy’s, 45 years later, still stands. The building has been updated a tad – the original was likely yellow, lacking a mansard roof and that 1980s sunroom – but otherwise, fast-food time has slowed here. The sign touting “old-fashioned hamburgers” survives, too, attracting motorists, pedestrians and straphangers rumbling above on the No. 7 train. Wendy’s has been selling burgers here much longer that punches were ever traded at the arena. Most who stop by likely have no idea what Sunnyside Garden Arena was, much less that it was built in the 1920s by the grandson of industrialist Jay Gould, for more genteel pursuits like tennis. They might think you are referring to the Lewis Mumford-approved pioneering garden-home community nearby, Sunnyside Gardens, not the pugilistic ancestor to their local Wendy’s. But since 2012, a monument on the front lawn has reminded us of those other beefs of yore. It reads in part: “This monument is in honor and dedicated to those men who fought in the amateurs and professional bouts.” It was placed here by Ring 8, a group that advocates for veterans of boxing — “boxers helping boxers,” as they say. And there’s more than sports and fast food history on display here. There’s politics – John F. Kennedy stood here while running for president in 1960. And there’s television – the Dumont network broadcast matches from here in the medium’s earliest days, a medium that lethally deprived local boxing arenas of their audiences. It goes to show you that wherever you go, there’s more than meets the eye. And when you realize that, it can feel like a punch in the gut. #retrologist *** Enjoy this? Sign up for my newsletter at the link in bio! https://www.instagram.com/p/CqCMa5fMh4f/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[harmonyhealinghub]

The Disappearing Room Shaina Tranquilino September 9, 2024

Daniel Mercer stood before the grandiose facade of Ashgrove Manor, his newly purchased estate. The towering spires and weathered stone walls exuded an air of mystery and history. It was an impulse buy, something that felt right the moment he saw it in a listing online. The price was suspiciously low, but Daniel, newly retired and seeking adventure, found the idea of owning a mansion irresistible.

The real estate agent, a thin man with an unsteady smile, had been eager to hand over the keys. “There’s just one thing, Mr. Mercer,” he had mentioned almost as an afterthought. “This house has a… peculiarity. A room that appears and disappears at will. No one knows when or where it’ll show up next.”

Daniel had laughed at what he assumed was an eccentric marketing ploy, but as he stood in the cavernous entrance hall, he wondered if there was some truth to it. The house was silent, the only sound the ticking of an ancient grandfather clock. Sunlight streamed through the dusty windows, casting long shadows across the polished wooden floors.

For the first few days, Daniel explored his new home. It was filled with forgotten rooms, each one more intriguing than the last. He found a library lined with books whose spines were cracked with age, a ballroom with a chandelier that sparkled with forgotten grandeur, and bedrooms filled with antique furniture. But there was no sign of the disappearing room.

On the fifth night, as a storm raged outside, Daniel was awakened by a low rumble. The house seemed to groan in response to the wind. As he climbed out of bed, he noticed a faint light seeping from beneath a door at the end of the hallway. A door that hadn’t been there before.

Heart pounding, Daniel approached the door. The handle was cold under his fingers, and as he turned it, the door swung open soundlessly. Inside was a small, dimly lit room that looked like it hadn’t been touched in decades. The walls were lined with old photographs, and in the center of the room stood a table with a single item on it: an old leather-bound journal.

Daniel stepped inside, feeling an inexplicable chill. He picked up the journal and opened it, revealing pages filled with neat handwriting. The entries were dated from the 1920s and told the story of a man named Edward Ashgrove, the original owner of the mansion.

Edward’s journal detailed his obsession with discovering the secret of the house. He wrote of a room that would appear without warning, containing clues to a mystery that had haunted his family for generations. The journal entries became increasingly frantic as Edward described following the room from one end of the house to the other, piecing together cryptic messages left within.

The final entry was particularly chilling: “The room holds the truth, but it comes with a price. I fear what I must do to uncover it.”

Daniel set the journal down, unease creeping into his thoughts. He looked around the room and noticed a photograph on the wall that hadn’t been there moments before. It was a portrait of Edward Ashgrove, standing with a woman and a young child. The woman’s face had been scratched out, but the child’s was clear. It was a boy, no more than six years old, with a striking resemblance to Daniel.

A sudden dizziness overtook him, and when he blinked, the room was gone. He was back in his bedroom, the journal clutched tightly in his hands. The storm outside had intensified, lightning flashing through the windows. Shaken, Daniel realized that the room wasn’t just a figment of his imagination. It was real, and it was playing with him.

Over the next few days, the room appeared and disappeared at random, each time in a different location. Each appearance brought with it new clues—fragments of letters, faded photographs, and strange symbols etched into the walls. The puzzle pieces began to fit together, revealing a dark secret about the Ashgrove family.

Daniel discovered that Edward Ashgrove had been trying to save his family from a curse, one that condemned the firstborn of every generation to a tragic fate. The curse was tied to the house, to the very room that now tormented Daniel. Edward had believed that solving the mystery of the room would break the curse, but he had disappeared before he could finish his work.

The final piece of the puzzle came one night when the room appeared at the very top of the house, in the attic. This time, the room was bare except for a single sheet of paper on the floor. Daniel picked it up and read the words scrawled hastily across it:

“To break the curse, the firstborn must make a choice: Sacrifice the room or themselves.”

Daniel’s blood ran cold. The resemblance between him and the boy in the photograph was no coincidence. He was a descendant of the Ashgroves, the firstborn of his generation. The curse had followed him to the mansion, and now the room was demanding his choice.

With a heavy heart, Daniel knew what he had to do. He couldn’t allow the curse to continue, to let another generation suffer as Edward had. He returned to the room one last time, the journal in hand. As he stepped inside, he felt a sense of finality.

The room seemed to pulse with anticipation as Daniel placed the journal on the table. He whispered a prayer and made his decision.

The next morning, Ashgrove Manor was empty. The neighbors would later claim that they had seen a flash of light from the attic that night, but no one dared investigate. Daniel Mercer was never seen again, and the mansion was left to decay.

Years later, when the estate was auctioned off, the new owner discovered a small, dusty room hidden in the attic. Inside was a single photograph of a man standing before the house, a man who looked strikingly familiar. Beside it was a leather-bound journal, its pages blank, as if waiting for the next chapter of the story to be written.

[dankusner]

DALLAS

Memorial will honor men killed in lynching City recognizes three and other victims of racial violence — at last

Adjacent to the Sixth Floor Museum and the grassy knoll sits another patch of sacred ground with its own historically consequential story.

It took Dallas decades to fully face President John F. Kennedy’s assassination.

It’s taken far longer to acknowledge the murders that occurred about 100 years earlier — just on the other side of where the Triple Underpass would eventually stand.

In 1860, three enslaved Black men — Patrick Jenkins, Cato Miller and the Rev. Samuel Smith — were lynched at this site, alongside the original path of the Trinity River.

They were hanged after specious accusations concerning their part in setting a downtown fire, and their deaths became part of an infamous reign of terror led by white businessmen during which enslaved individuals were rounded up and tortured.

At long last, Dallas will formally dedicate a sculpture on the site next Tuesday that honors these three men and all other local victims of lynching and racial violence between 1853 and 1920.

Shadow Lines, the sundial-inspired weathering steel sculpture, is the work of artists Shane Allbritton and Norman Lee.

At one end of its semicircular wall is a poem written by former Dallas resident and poet laureate of Virginia Tim Seibles about this spot and its brutal history.

In early 2018, in the midst of the debate over removal of Confederate statues, City Council members expressed interest in a memorial to victims of racial violence.

George Keaton Jr., founder of Remembering Black Dallas, persevered until his death in December 2022 to turn the idea into action.

The Dallas County Justice Initiative, with Ed Gray at the helm, and Remembering Black Dallas finished the job.

The sculpture sits in a pocket of city land known as Martyrs Park.

It’s not an ideal place for a contemplative green space, trapped between the Triple Underpass and the access ramp to Interstate 35E and deafened by highway traffic and the Trinity Railway Express rumbling overhead.

It’s no mystery why the dedication ceremony is taking place at the Sixth Floor Museum before the ribbon-cutting at the sculpture site.

Hearing the speeches would be impossible at Martyrs Park.

The right location

But Gray, like Keaton before him, is steadfast about this being the right location.

“To the people who ask, ‘Why did we build this here?’ This is where it occurred,” Gray told me. “We can’t change what’s there now, but it remains historic and sacred.”

I took my first close look at the sculpture Saturday and was pleasantly surprised to find a more welcoming feel at Martyrs Park, a raw space full of trash and tents on my several previous visits.

Accessibility remains a challenge.

Your best bet is to park in the Sixth Floor Museum area and walk along the Elm Street sidewalk and through the pedestrian tunnel.

Once you emerge, you are only steps from the park.

The most important upgrades have taken place in the tunnel.

Never before had I walked through this long dark corridor when it didn’t smell like a urinal — and looked even worse.

It’s now been repaired, painted, scrubbed and lighted.

On order is vandal-resistant permanent lighting.

The park department has cleaned out decades of trash, underbrush and scraggly bushes that once encircled much of Martyrs Park.

The lower limbs of the stately trees along the street and in the background have been trimmed to allow for better viewing.

A new sidewalk is in place, and lights illuminate the sculpture at night.

Let me be clear — the place didn’t look great.

Recent heavy rains had left deep puddles throughout the park and threatened to wash away newly planted grass.

The railroad-owned embankment remained unsightly.

A man laid tucked up against the sculpture’s front wall — his sleep only disturbed when I began reading the inscriptions aloud.

But if you squint a little, you actually see a park, not a dumping ground.

It’s a minimalist landscape that keeps the focus on the piece of stark public art, just as Keaton wanted.

Echoes of violence

Still to be added are two Texas Historical Commission markers, one honoring Jenkins, Miller and Smith and the other commemorating Jane Elkins, an enslaved woman hanged in 1853 after her conviction for killing her white owner as he attempted to rape her.

Elkins’ name is also inscribed on Shadow Lines.

With the dedication of the sculpture, Gray said, Martyrs Park provides a homecoming for all local victims of racial violence.

“It gives them a sense of all being put together in one spot and further sanctifying that ground.”

The Shadow Lines dedication will mark the last of three high-profile events in Dallas’ reckoning with the violence wrought by racism.

To secure the markers for two other victims, the Dallas County Justice Initiative worked for years to meet the requirements of the Equal Justice Initiative, whose National Memorial for Peace and Justice in Montgomery, Ala., is a shrine to the victims of lynching.

The marker for Allen Brooks, who was abducted, killed and hanged downtown in front of a large crowd in 1910, was dedicated at Pegasus Plaza in November 2021.

The marker for William Allen Taylor, lynched by vigilantes in 1884 near the Trinity River, was dedicated last November at Trinity Overlook Park.

The names of Brooks and Taylor are also among those on the Martyrs Park sculpture.

Gray had many kind words about how hard City Hall, especially the Equity and Inclusion, Arts and Culture, and Park and Recreation departments, has worked to get the commemorations done right.

He said it was important, in contrast, to note Mayor Eric Johnson has not attended any of the events.

“His reluctance to be a part of these is troublesome and disturbing,” Gray said.

Johnson’s chief of staff, Alheli Garza, told me the mayor “regrettably has a preexisting immovable conflict” with next Tuesday’s event.

She said his office is “coordinating a private visit for Mayor Johnson to view the installation and meet the artists on a future date.”

Most meaningful to me at the memorial site is Seibles’ poem, the words of which are punched into the sculpture’s steel wall.

It’s exactly what needed to be written for Dallas, where we’ve made a lot of progress but still prefer the reconciliation part of racial healing to the hard truth-telling.

Seibles’ words are no Kumbaya moment, but rather searing honesty.

Please take time to read the full text, which accompanies my column.

Revisiting history

Finally, thinking about the 50 or so tourists I passed on the grassy knoll Saturday as I walked to Martyrs Park — where I was the sole visitor, not counting the homeless guy — here’s a suggestion:

The last JFK information placard is only steps from the pedestrian tunnel.

Can a sign be added about the historically relevant events visitors can find on the other side of the bridge?

That’s history Dallas and its visitors also need to understand.

[creativenicocorner]

A Valentines to my Terpsichore readers! A ch13 Sneak Peek of that one 1920′s speakeasy scene I was goofing about a while back. 

Initially I wanted to try and have another spicy Avium and Apium chapter out for the 14th buuuuut that didn’t happen lol and I’m very excited to have reached past a section I was having a mild block on! 

So why not share! No? (I have no more self control dknlksnfg)

A soft reminder that this fic is rated Mature 

It isn’t lovey-dovey or anything, but it does hint at a few future plot-points that will be discussed more in ACT II (Especially regarding Nomura, and the shenanigans that unfold in the 20′s) 

Enjoy! （´・｀ ）♡

//

The tawny haired reedy fellow barked an order, some last ditch effort, and a gent in overalls started to fumble towards the bar. He slid away from Enoch’s grasp like a tiny vespa cutting in front of a double decker bus, and nearly tackled Stricklander - but instead slipped on a few peanut shells and landed face first into Krax’s fist.

“Pity.” went Stricklander, finishing his drink, “I’ll have another Leon, I fear this is going to be a rather long night.”

Another member of the tawny haired fellow’s group started to come Stricklander’s way. 

“I must say I’m disappointed.” said Stricklander, voice ringing a bit louder despite the obstruction of the pipe, “Coming into my establishment, with a promise made to follow certain house rules. I keep this place open for all, and this is my repayment?” he said, more for the humans in earshot.

Stricklander then sidestepped raised his arms and pushed the charging goon into the bar counter. A great racket and breaking of glass followed.

Johnson inched further away head sinking into his collar like a turtle into his shell, and Leon tutted at the mess.

Stricklander stepped forward with ease, picked up the goon by his hair, and feeling the eyes of the speakeasy on him he said, “This is a sacred place built on secrets and promises.”

The goon groaned, spitting through his teeth while trying desperately to get his bearings straight.  

“Consecrated ground. Sanctified by the very spirits you drink.” Stricklander then reached for his glass of whiskey, paused, and reached for a gin bottle instead - smashing  it over goon’s head.

The goon whimpered. Leon hissed even more, thinking of the clean-up he’d have to do later.

“And when those promises start to break,” continued Stricklander grabbing the goon’s bloody head, “what then?” Despite the calm of Stricklander’s voice, fury gripped him as he bashed the goon’s head against the bar counter again, and again.

“What?”

Bash

“Then??”

Bash

-BANG-

All was silent.

Stricklander’s ears were ringing. He let go of the goon, barely watching as he crumpled to the floor fractured skull and all.

The gun was still smoking as Stricklander dragged his eyes to and from the gun and the hole in the wall.

Stricklander frowned. With a disappointed drawl he pointed to the hole with his pipe, “You missed, mate.”

The tawny headed leader’s chest was heaving.

“Am I to believe you’re the mastermind behind this tomfoolery?” asked Stricklander.  

The tawny headed leader licked his lips and said, “I am.”

“Do names come with that honor?”

“It’s Jackson. Jack Mumford.”

And Stricklander’s smile stretched with a growing frost, “How do you do Jack Mumford. You have my attention,” he then gestured to the fellow patrons and changelings, “an audience, if you will.”

Mumford eyed Strickler’s coneys specifically, counting how many of his own men were either incapacitated or held. Licking his lips Mumford resembled a fox slowly realizing the chicken coop he was in wasn’t a chicken coop at all, but rather a den of wolves and lions.

“Well..” braved Mumford, “We’re- we’re here for your product.”

“The bar counter too much of a walk for you?” asked Stricklander dryly.

“We’re taking it.”

“Oh!” said Stricklander, shocked as drywall. “So it was the commerce factor that went over your head.”

“O-oh, Oh we know about commerce alright.” finger wagged Mumford, with a quick glance around to remind himself who was in arm’s reach of him. “We got your trade routes figured, and figured good. A-a-and unless you cooperate, we’re going to take em’, get the authorities-” Mumford paused and eyed some of the police that were in the speakeasy, and corrected himself with, “the right authorities, and once they’re notified we’re going to sell the product back with the cops none the wiser.”

A few changelings in the background shared looks, specifically how easily Mumford just explained his whole plan. Some wondered if this blatant display was hidden genius, or foolishness. Leon on the other hand, already started to clean up.

“Well” said Stricklander who held an impressed look a farmer would have with a plucked gourd they were about to carve, “aren’t you a regular Jonathan Wilde. Now is it possible you had your eye on any of my shipments today? Specifically the eastbound product that is technically about to head northwest via a transfer that had a specific amount of delays?”

“Well…um..”

“If so, you’ll be disappointed to know we managed to deal with those delays, which I can now confirm were caused by you and the rest of your,” Stricklander paused, not so much to search for the right word, but relish in the delay, “friends…no?”

Mumford gulped.

It was an affirmative answer as any to Stricklander, swishing his pipe like a cat’s tail before a pounce “I advise you to take a careful eye over the obituary column when you can, Mr Jack Mumford.”

Mumford’s eyes widened, his chest heaving as quickly as a trapped mouse. Again he gazed around to see how well encircled he was. It became clear to Mumford he wasn’t going to leave The House of Tutors without Stricklander’s permission.

“What you did today Mr. Jack Mumford was, well, not well advised to put it mildly, imbecilic to put it bluntly. You should probably think thrice the next time you want to enter an establishment of mine. You have and will face repercussions. It’ll be a hard lesson for you I’m sure.” nodded Stricklander, sympathetic as stone, “But most of life’s lessons are.”

Mumford stared. No one made a move forward towards him of any kind.

As if reading his thoughts Stricklander idly snapped his fingers, and the changelings holding onto Mumford’s men were released to stagger and or fall to the ground.

Mumford then gulped. “I..I can go? Me and my men?”

“Yes. Of course you may. But you will be followed.” Stricklander explained sensibly, then smiled as if the smile were an afterthought.

Stricklander then flung the knife at a table, which landed with a satisfying THWACK quickly followed by a shocked high pitched “Eep!”

Where did the knife come from? No one ever really knew with Stricklander - but he always had one somewhere, just when he needed it.

Stricklander pointed at the owner of the shocked mousey sound with a restrained snarl, “And you, little madam.”  He was speaking to Nomura, who sunk back into her skin after the electricity of the shock faded. “My office. Now.” he said with a generic thumbing behind him for good measure.

With nearly the entire speakeasy watching her, Nomura rolled her eyes with all the petulance of youth. Frustrated she had been caught sneaking back in despite having done so in the chaos of the previous brawl.

It was then that  Mumford had the misfortunate idea to try and use Nomura as a hostage.

Mumford sidestepped, pulled the knife from the table with one hand, and used the other hand to twist Nomura’s arm behind her back.

The speakeasy held their breath.

Stricklander blinked, seemingly unimpressed and uncaring of Nomura’s fate.

A gaze Nomura herself believed as she leaned her neck away from the knife’s edge. A gaze that wouldn’t have fooled Otto if he were there.

“You really are thick.” said Stricklander.

“You ain’t gonna follow me, and if you do - she’ll get it.”

Nomura searched Stricklander’s eyes for any sign he’d intervene, but only a lack of concern was her response.  

“Go on then. Get on with it.” sniffed Stricklander, eyeing his pipe casually before looking back at Mumford, and then Nomura specifically, “If you can manage, it’ll be quite the surprise for everyone. Hm?”

Nomura’s expression changed from frown to realization. This, before the changelings in the House of Tutors, was a chance to test her metal.

What Mumford believed as a dainty misfortunate flapper with an affinity towards warm purple colors, Stricklander saw something entirely else. After all this wasn’t the 1800s anymore.

Mumford furrowed his brows in disbelief, “What kind of cold hearted sonofabitch-?!?!”

Mumford was interrupted by a sharp heeled dig into his foot that made him yowl like a coyote, a backwards headbutt that nearly broke his nose, and although the knife nearly scratched Nomura it fell out of Mumford’s hands and was caught by Nomura just as swiftly. Ending her capture with a smooth release of her restrained arm, and allowing it to rotate behind the distracted and pained Mumford to grasp the back of his tawny hair and shove his head into the table, pinning him with a force so strong Mumford never would have guessed Nomura had.

With her nostrils flared and her adrenaline spiking Nomura twirled the knife in her fingers, and was about to dig the blade into the back of Mumford’s neck, but stopped as Stricklander cleared his throat and said, “Miss Nomura?”

At the last second the knife redirected and landed by Mumford’s face and dug into the table, slicing his ear and cheek in the process.

Stricklander gave a patronizing clap, “Mark me as surprised. Aren’t you surprised Mr. Jack Mumford?”

Mumford whined.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” said Stricklander before ordering, “Empty his pockets.”

Nomura’s frown deepened, and did as she was told.

From his pockets she rested on the table Mumford’s two scraps of leather of a wallet, and an old pocket watch that had a bit of fuzz and hair caught in it.

As Stricklander approached the table, leaning forward to poke at Mumford’s things.

From Mumford’s wallet he took two dollars cash from the three dollars Mumford had to his name. “As payment for the broken glass.” Stricklander explained in a sensible tone that made Mumford sick.

Mumford struggled under Nomura’s remarkably strong hold. “You’re a rotten piece of work, you know that?”

“A fair assessment.” said Stricklander as he idly fiddled with the pocket watch.

The pocket watch clicked open, and from inside, like confetti, sprang a lock of dark curly hair in velvet string, and a picture of a young lady.

The lady was posed exquisitely. Deep lipstick, large glasses, a headband perhaps in silver, dangling earrings, and although her dress exposed her shoulders her décolleté was covered in low hanging necklaces that had the length to wrap around her neck three times. Her hand delicately posed on her palm.

Mumford winced as Nomura leaned forward to get a better look at the picture. If Mumford wasn’t too worried about his life, and the life of his love, he would have heard Nomura catch her breath.

Her young heart fluttered with a feeling of awe, admiration, and…something else, Nomura couldn’t pin the word for it…but it was a something she had been feeling in secret from the order. A secret shared between herself, and the Trollhunter’s son.

Whoever this young lady was Nomura wouldn’t mind trying out kissing with her. She equally wondered where she could get such lipstick.

And while the fair Nomura saw hearts and stars, Stricklander didn’t share the same reaction. Sure this young lady was pretty, but his cold gaze saw only tactics and unforeseen benefits.  

“Does your sweetheart know where you are, sir?” asked Stricklander.

“N-Nancy? She ain’t got nothin to do with this! Nothin to do with this no how!”

Stricklander considered his words, nodding, as if appreciating poetry.

“Well…” he said with a well practiced smile as cold as a mirror’s surface, “I suggest you get back to your dear Nancy then. Hold her tight on this dark night. For if you continue on the course you are on now, well…” Stricklander took the time to savor re-igniting his pope, “It will be a very dark and cold night indeed. For you,” he waved off the flame of the ignited match, “and Nancy.”

Mumford struggled under Nomura’s hold, then finally relented. Making but a partial peace with his loss of face.

If he must swallow a dose of embarrassment to walk out alive, so be it. For his crew, for Nancy, he humbly lowered his head.

“Good.” chirped Stricklander. He pulled on his pipe with ease before exhaling a smokey, “Now off with yeh.”

Mumford and his friends scrambled out of the establishment in a hurry. Quickened feet, followed by swears echoed up the stairs. A few stumbles were also heard, especially by the ones carrying their friend with the fractured skull.

Stricklander’s eyes calmly followed them out, never leaving them as he leaned and whispered at Johnson, “Have them followed. And see what you can find out about Mumford and this, Nancy.”

Johnson nodded, and gestured to Leon to pass his bartending duties to the human employee and follow Johnson.

When Johnson and Leon left, the speakeasy’s ambiance felt as though the tension was easing. Conversation and drinking slowly returning with the sounds of clinking glass and pouring liquor.

Nomura looked around herself, no longer the subject of attention, and started to believe perhaps in all the confusion Stricklander might have forgotten whatever stern word he had planned for Nomura.

She started to side-step to the corners of the speakeasy, tip-toeing to a dark part of the speakeasy,  when Stricklander snapped his finger at her sharply, and just as sharply thumbed at his office.

Anger and disappointment prominent on his features. There was no getting out of trouble today, not even after her display of strength with Mumford.

Nomura deflated her chest, and dejectedly walked towards Stricklander’s office already feeling her ears hurt with the talking to she was about to be given.

This was Stricklander to Krax. As warm as steel and twice as sharp.

And now…well…Krax wasn’t so sure…

“NOW THE DREADNOUGHT’S A-HOWLIN’ DOWN THE WILD IRISH SEA~ HER PASSENGERS MERRY~ WITH HEARTS FULL OF GLEE~”

Strickler’s incessant singing cut through Krax’s memory like a spike in a railway. He had reached the threshold to Strickler’s containment with a grumble and a small slosh of his water bucket.

// 

Thank you for reading!

[little-diable]

Just A Dream - Prof!Damon Salvatore x fem!reader x Prof!Klaus Mikaelson (smut)

Oh boy, it's been a long time, it was time for another TVD threesome. Enjoy my loves. xxx

Summary: Maybe she shouldn't have told her friends about the things she'd like to experience with her two hot professors. But maybe it was time for her dream to become real

Warnings: 18+, smut, degrading, slight power play, unprotected sex, p in v, blowjob, threesome (no double penetration), prof x student (reader is legal)

Pairing: Prof!Damon Salvatore x fem!reader x Prof!Klaus Mikaelson (2k words)

“Professor?” Her voice broke through the calm atmosphere, she ripped Damon from his thoughts, forcing him to stop grading the essay he was working on. For a moment their eyes met, and in that very moment he saw his life flashing before his eyes. She was his trap, like the sun burning his skin, a nightmare he had been running from, a treat so sweet his teeth would begin to rot.

“(Y/n)? What are you doing here?” The professor’s words rumbled through the office, he could drown out the sounds of a tornado howling through the night with the strength of his voice.

“You’ve emailed me about my paper?” And with a silent ‘fuck’ spilling from his lips, the professor pushed the essay aside.

“Of course, I am sorry, it’s been a long day. Please, sit.” (Y/n) placed herself on the all too comfortable chair, she sank into the fabric, could forever stay there, with his eyes burning through her. It took him a few seconds to sort through his thoughts, trying to forget all about his wandering hands and the way he had murmured her name last night as he had fucked his hand.

“Professor Mikaelson should be here any moment now.” He was buying himself some time, and was still hung up on the thought of (y/n)’s naked body pressed against his. Slowly she began to pull out her notes and her laptop, too oblivious for her own good. Perhaps it was better that way, with her innocent self sitting in the chair he could easily use to balance his trembling body on, with her eyes focused on her writing and her teeth nibbling on her lower lip.

Fuck, the things he’d do to sink his teeth into her skin, to taste her sweet blood, the thick red substance that could easily turn him into the darkest version of himself.

“Good evening, excuse me, I was wrapping up my class.” Professor Mikaelson stepped into the office with his lips pulled into a smirk. Just a couple of nights ago, he and Damon had chatted about (y/n), and after a few glasses of bourbon pushed down their throats, both had given into the biting thoughts that kept following them around. (Y/n) was gorgeous, though feisty enough not to easily give in, she’d make them work for her body, and would force them to abide by her rules. But fuck, it was all worth it if their night could end with both their cocks ripping her walls apart.

(Y/n) waited for them to speak up, to start talking about her first draft of her paper, but both men kept silent. All they did was stare at her, men that have seen a ghost wandering through cold halls wouldn’t be this tense.

“Uhm,” she cleared her throat and with her eyes finding their way back to her notes, (y/n) started speaking. “I was wondering if I should put chapter three first and change six and  eight?”

Klaus kept his eyes focused on her, his hands undid his suit jacket and with a sigh spilling from his lips he sat down in the chair next to (y/n)’s. He barely spared Damon’s words a thought, and didn't care about the ideas that left the rambling professor like a forebringer of better times telling one about their fortune. All he could think about was (y/n), the way her skin would feel beneath his fingers, the way she’d moan his name as he’d take care of her every need. He hadn’t felt this burning sensation since the late 1920s, Klaus could barely remember being this intrigued by a woman.

“Professor Mikaelson?” Her timid voice ripped Klaus from his wandering thoughts, and with his eyes flickering down to his notes he added a few comments of his own. Perhaps they should keep their mouths shut and only focus on her paper, perhaps they should purely focus on her work, but neither Klaus nor Damon was strong enough to do so.

“Okay, perfect, thank you so much. I should be done with the second draft next week.” (Y/n) started to pack her bag, she didn’t notice the glances both men exchanged, and didn't pay any attention to the nodding of their heads. But as (y/n) rose from the chair and turned towards the door, she found herself unable to move.

The tension that engulfed them forced her to stand still, her body was playing a trick on her, toying with the trembling woman.

“You see, (y/n). I don’t think we are done just yet.” Professor Mikaelson’s voice was teasing her, she didn’t need to look at him to know that his smirk kept on growing, a trait she was all too used to by now. Her body grew tense, goosebumps rose on her skin as if she was well aware of the things both men were planning on doing to her.

Ever since meeting the two for the first time she had dreamt of their hands exploring her body, she’d make herself cum to the thought of pleasing the two with her hands and her mouth. But it had been a harmless dream, nothing more and nothing less.

“I don’t think I understand.” Slowly she turned towards the two men, neither of them had moved, comfortably seated in their chairs.

“I think you do, isn’t this what you were telling your friends? Didn’t you tell them how you were thinking about fucking us?” Now it was professor Salvatore’s turn to tease her. The man’s piercing eyes burned straight through her body, he rode the waves of heat that were flushing through her. With trembling knees and shaking hands, (y/n) tightened her grasp on her bag - a lifejacket she was now clinging to.

“I am so sorry, I shouldn’t have,” Damon raised his hand to shut her up. But her mind was still hooked up on the conversation she had shared with her friends. (Y/n) had rambled about her hot professors, had shared her wildest fantasy with them. She should have been more careful, and shouldn't have said those words aloud near their classroom.

Wordlessly Klaus rose from his seat, he walked to her with fast steps, ready to guide her body with his skilled fingers. He took (y/n)’s bag from her before he cupped her cheek with his warm hand, and for a moment all she felt was content, safe and protected, about to give her body to the men she kept dreaming of.

“There’s nothing to apologize for, love. Is this what you want? You can always say no and we’ll forget about this ever happening.” And with a whimper spilling from her lips, (y/n) leaned herself further into his touch. Before she could take another breath, Klaus had his lips pressed against hers, he kissed her with some kind of urgency laced in his touch, desperate to feel her warm body.

“Use your words.” (Y/n)’s eyes flickered to Damon, he was standing close to the two, about to start touching her.

“I want this, please.” It was all the two men needed to hear. Klaus' lips found hers once again as Damon pressed his front against her back, he nibbled on her neck, started to undo her blouse with his skilled fingers, it felt as if the two men had done this numerous times before, a well known routine they knew by heart. Her whimpers bled from her lips, they vibrated on Klaus’ like a storm shaking up the grounds, forcing him to find shelter in her embrace.

The two guided her to Damon’s table, she found herself pressed against the expensive wood and with Klaus placed behind her and Damon standing in front of her, her thoughts began to drown out, no longer confusing the student. Anticipation filled her, her body was preparing her for the upcoming moments, allowing her to lay her trust in her instincts rather than her racing thoughts.

“Bet you’re soaked for us, I can’t wait to bury my cock in your tight cunt.” Klaus’ words had their effect on (y/n), a moan clawed through her, so loud and powerful she found herself praying that they wouldn’t be disturbed by noisy bystanders. She didn’t pay any attention to Klaus’ wandering hands, didn’t even notice how he pulled her jeans and panties down her legs, all she could focus on was Damon, who was about to expose his twitching length to her glassy eyes.

(Y/n)’s hands reached for his belt loops, she pulled him closer to the table she found herself leaning on. Her and Klaus’ hands worked in sync, as she touched Damon’s cock, Klaus touched her dripping heat. Her folds were glistening, covered in her arousal, and all she could do was press herself further against the professor. Skilled fingers explored her warm skin, Klaus rubbed her clit, and took care of the ache that stretched itself through her.

“Can I?” She wanted to taste Damon, wanted to feel his cock resting on her tongue. She was perfect in every sense of the word, both men would cling to her like a promise that could save one's life. Claimed by the two, she was theirs, now and forever.

“Fuck, such an eager slut for her professors. Think you can suck me off while he fucks you?” Damon pointed his head towards Klaus, the grinning man undid his trousers with his arousal covered fingers, about to leave stains on the expensive fabric.

“Yes, please, let me taste you.” A moan bled from (y/n)’s lips as she felt Klaus brush the tip of his cock through her dripping slit, her body was already overstimulalted and she hadn’t even been fucked yet. The moment she parted her lips for Damon, Klaus pushed his cock into her tightness. All three of them moaned in unison, caught in their own fog of pleasure, ripped away by the sensations that clashed upon them like a war surprising mere soldiers on their trod through the uneasy land.

“Look at her, such a pretty girl, I wish I could take a picture of you with my cock in your mouth.” (Y/n) hummed around him, she couldn’t reply, and was already choking on Damon’s heavy girth. She clenched around Klaus, he fucked her sore, a man set on making his lover cry with his name burning on her lips.

“An eager little thing, I always knew she’d be perfect to share.” Klaus grinned at Damon, he had his hands placed on her waist, kept fucking her from behind, closer and closer to her high. The blowjob grew sloppy and (y/n) was sure that she’d cum before Damon could give in, but she didn’t want to disappoint her professors, she wanted them to be proud of her.

“She’s already clenching around my cock. Should I let you cum, what do you think, love?” Klaus was waiting for her to start begging, but all she did was hum around Damon’s cock. Her body was working without listening to her brain, words no longer had their meaning to her, all she could do was lay her trust in her instincts.

“What was that? I don’t think I heard you.” With his raspy chuckles bubbling out of him, Klaus tugged on her scalp. Damon’s cock left her mouth with a wet plop and while her hands were still working on him, (y/n) tried to sort through her thoughts.

“I, fuck, need to cum, please let me cum on your cock. ’Fucking me so good.” Klaus’ cock nudged against her sweet spot, he cut her off, robbed her of her last breath. Tears streamed down her hot cheeks, like salt forming on the warm ground they burnt themselves into her skin. “Been such a good girl for you.”

“Indeed you were, baby. Our pretty girl.” Damon’s moans overpowered Klaus' hum, she didn’t notice how the two kept exchanging glances, didn’t notice the approving chuckle spilling from Klaus’ lips. And with a high pitched moan rumbling through her, (y/n) came.

Damon gently pushed her hands off his cock, he started pumping himself, while Klaus fucked her through her high. She parted her lips and exposed her tongue to Damon, desperate to taste his release on her tongue. Both men followed shortly after, their moans echoed through the office and as Klaus filled her with his heat, Damon covered her tongue with his cum.

Greedy as one could be, (y/n) swallowed every drop, she moaned at the taste and kept her eyes focused on a grinning Damon. Both Klaus and Damon took care of her, slowly they started to clean her up, helped her back into her clothes and with their hands placed on her lower back they guided her to the door.

“I can’t wait to discuss your new draft next week.” Klaus squeezed her waist and with one last smile thrown her way, he watched her leave the office with quivering limbs.

Please like and reblog if you’ve enjoyed reading this, come talk to me about my writing, let’s spill some tea or thirst over our favorite people. xxx

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[imtryingmybeskar]

Drabble 20 - Catfish. This is going back to the original character concept for Fish, but in a 1920s setting. He is a PI staking out a house.

Warnings for PTSD from war and associated symptoms, mentions of death, corpses, problematic drinking and the trenches of WW1. Word count: 951

Pale bulb reflections from the flickering lamps outside the drab tenement block glowed like misplaced halos upon the tarmac of the poorly lit street. Freezing rain was pattering on his fedora, and he pulled his collar up and huddled deeper into his trench coat to avoid its icy reach down his neck. His hands were stuffed into his coat pockets, trying to retain a semblance of warmth within his fingers whilst also feeling the reassuring weight of his revolver against his hip.

Not that he imagined he would actually need to use it tonight. This was a pretty standard case, bread and butter for a private eye. A wife suspected of infidelity. A husband with cruelty in his eyes and a quaver in his voice that spoke both of too much liquor and a desire to maintain his reputation at all costs. A handsome reward in his near future if he could prove that she was unfaithful. A story Fish Morales had seen played out a hundred times, though admittedly it was more often the husband that he was tailing. It always ended badly. With divorce, families torn apart, or people railing miserably against cages that they had created for themselves, all the more stifling for the brief freedom they had tasted. Once or twice, he suspected his findings had even led to murder. Though he wasn't overly keen on examining that particular hunch.

Tonight he was lurking in the shadows of a run-down apartment block, observing its equally shabby mirror image on the other side of the street. He had chosen not to drive - the nature of this particular neighbourhood meant that not only would a car stand out like a sore thumb, but he would likely be a target for the thieves that were even deeper in the darkness than he himself currently was.

A not-so-distant rumble heralded that the rain would shortly become much worse. His fingers twitched, and he briefly itched for the soothing burn of cheap whiskey. He used to pass the time in these stakeouts in just such a way - the contents of a hipflask or three his only companion during the long, dull hours of mostly observing very little. After a while he came to realise that he was drinking more for a lesser effect, but even more concerning than that was when he made the near-fatal discovery one night that excess of alcohol made him both quicker to anger and slower to react. The woman had indeed been seeing someone, and that someone was most unhappy when he discovered Fish had made him. If the man's gun hadn't jammed at that moment, he would surely have been killed.

Fish shivered at the memory, glanced up at the window he was monitoring. It was dark, with no sign of anyone coming or going just yet. Only the rain, tinted orange from a trick of the artificial light moved - running in rivulets down those panes of glass that were still intact. He was afraid to die. No one who came back from those pestilence filled death runs in France could be anything but. You could sort of get used to the notion that you would be cut to bits by machine gunners, your bloated corpse displayed grotesquely upon the barbed wire. Day after relentless day of being faced with your comrades meeting that very end would force you to accept the possibility. But it didn't make the actual concept any less terrifying, nor do anything to stop the loosening of your bladder as you crested those trenches into No Man's land.

Only four of them had returned. Himself. Pope. Ironhead. Benny. Redfly had nearly made it too, but succumbed to the sepsis that had crept in when his leg had been blown off by a German booby trap. He didn't speak to them much any more. They had moved on with their lives. Met girls and gotten married, the disparity between the populations of men and women a boon to those who actually made it back. Fish had one deaf ear and an unceasing carousel of nightmare images when he closed his eyes and counted himself lucky for it. His work helped him. He could be methodical, precise, lose himself in the gathering of information and allow the routine to help him hold on to reality and maintain a sense of self.

The flash of lightning was unexpected, and lost as he was in the past, it and the clap of thunder that followed melded with Fish's recollections so that he slammed his eyes shut and dug his fingernails into his palm hard enough to draw blood. It was done. It was gone. He wasn't there. He didn't have to go over the top. No, no, never again, not anymore...

He released his held breath in a long whoosh through his gritted teeth, forced more oxygen into his lungs and repeated. Over. Over. Over. Until he could once again hear the rain pattering upon his hat, feel it now too, against his skin as he turned his face to the sky.

He sharp turned to the right, the old military precision never quite able to leave his muscle memory and began to stride along the sodden, black streets. He would come back tomorrow. Resume his observations when the weather was less inclement. But for now...for now that whiskey was calling him to drown himself, to push those mud and corpse covered memories back down from where the noise and the flashes and the rain had forced them up, floated them to the surface of his mind. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, and once more took comfort from the proximity of his gun.

[waitimcomingtoo]

Dummy

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

Synopsis: Peter is the only one of the Avengers who doesn’t tease you for being a little slow 

Masterlist

Now you weren’t exactly dumb.

You were just a little slow.

When you joined the Avengers last year, the team learned pretty quickly that your mind moved at a different pace than everyone else. It wasn’t necessarily a bad thing and it didn’t keep you from doing your job, it just meant you were the butt of most of the jokes. Every time one of your blunders happened, your intelligence would be mocked in some way. You knew it was all in good fun, but it hurt to it feelings every now and then. The only person who never poked fun at you was Peter. And for that reason, he was your favorite on the team.

“How are there 23 minutes left in this movie and I still don’t know any of the characters names?” Steve wondered as you all sat in the couch in Stark Towers, watching a movie on a particularly rainy afternoon.

“I think the main kids name is Phoenix. That’s all I got though.” Sam shook his head, just as confused as Steve.

“The dogs name is Benson.” Bucky mumbled quietly.

“Who names their kid Phoenix?” Peter wondered out loud as he shoveled popcorn into his mouth. The two of you were tucked into the corner of the couch, sharing a blanket and bowl of popcorn. You looked at him like he was crazy when you heard his question.

“Ummm, Joaquin Phoenix’s parents.” You scoffed and rolled your eyes. You turned your attention back to the movie as a silence settled in the room. You felt everyone’s eyes on you after a minute and looked around to see everyone staring at you with a dumbfounded expression.

“What?” You asked shyly, shrinking down a little in your seat in discomfort.

“That’s his last name.” Sam stated, chuckling a little under his breath. You realized your mistake and felt your face heat up.

“Oh.” You mumbled, your voice getting drowned out as the rest of the Avengers laughed at your expense.

“Did she really just say that?” Nat looked at the group with a playful smile. Everyone, excluding Peter, nodded as their laughter died down.

“Oh my God.” Steve chuckled. “That’s so stupid.”

There was that word again.

He didn’t mean it maliciously. Steve was the kinda of guy who ushered spiders into a magazine so he could let them outside. And yet, it still stung when he said that word.

Stupid.

You smiled sheepishly and tried to focus on the movie, snuggling closer to Peters side until it ended. You were fully aware that he was the only one who didn’t laugh, and you loved him that.

And maybe you loved him for a few other reasons too.

~

“Alright. Who has money for the subway?” Sam asked the group as he patted his empty pockets. You were on another late night trip to get cookies from a specific shop in Times Square, leaving without Tony’s knowledge. Everyones hands went to their pockets and collectively made a face.

“Not me.” Rhodey shrugged.

“I don’t have any.” Bruce added.

“I don’t even have pockets.” Nat realized.

“I have gum.” Peter proudly produced a silver wrapper from his pocket. “Oh wait, it’s just a wrapper.”

“You’re telling me we’re earth’s mightiest heroes and we’re broke?” Sam shook his head is disdain.

“I gave my last dollar to a guy in the subway for playing music.” Peter defended himself.

“What was he playing?” You asked him as you tiredly leaned against his arm.

“A mandolin.” Peter answered, making your face scrunch up.

“That’s a language.” You laughed at him slightly, feeling empowered by having the upper hand. Everyone looked at you and a few of them snorted.

“Mandarin is a language.” Bruce said gently, not wanting to embarrass you further. “Not mandolin.” 

“What?” You blinked in confusion and looked to Peter for answers.

“A mandolin is an instrument, dummy.” Sam chortled. You smiled tightly as the group laughed at your mistake, looking down to hide your blush.

“Oh. Sorry. My bad.” You laughed shyly as you tucked your hair behind your ear and pretending to read a nearby sign.

“That’s okay.” Peter spoke up in your defense. “They sound really similar. Plus like, French, French Horn. Who knows what’s going on?”

“Yeah.” Bucky said softly. “Or like, bra’s aren’t pointy anymore.”

Bruce nodded like it made perfect sense and Sam just shook his head as he texted.

“What?” You whispered to Peter, not knowing what he meant.

“He’s from the 1920s. He’s still adjusting.” Peter whispered to you out of the corner of his mouth before looking at Bucky. “That’s the spirit. Kind of.”

“FRIDAY is sending a car.” Sam informed the group. “This is never happening again. The cookies aren’t that good.”

“They’re pretty good.” Rhodey shrugged, but wanting the late Nate tradition to end. Sam looked at him for a moment before breaking into a smile.

“Hell yeah they are. Let’s do this again tomorrow.”

~

Bruce found you in the lab the next day with a pin between your teeth and a pencil behind your ear. Papers with drawings of suits were scattered around the table as you measured a piece of black fabric.

“What are you doing?” Bruce wondered as he took a seat across from you. You glanced up at him before marking a dot on the fabric.

“Mr. Stark asked me to help him with the new suits. I’m trying to make a fabric template for Nat’s gloves.” You told him as you smoothed the fabric out.

“Is it hard?” He asked, watching you intently as you worked.

“Not really.” You shrugged and took a step back to examine your work. “Okay. How many holes do we need? 1,2,3,4,5.” You counted your fingers. “Okay. Five holes.”

You sat back down and put five dots where her fingers would be to mark where you had to cut. You heard a slight chuckle from Bruce and looked up at him curiously.

“Did you just count your fingers?” He asked slowly, wanting to make sure he saw what he thought he had. “To know how many fingers Nat has?”

Your face burned when you realized how dumb you looked, in front of a scientific genius no less.

“Oh, Uh, yeah.” You stammered, feeling very insecure with him watching you now. You moved slower than before and second guessed moves you’d already made a hundred times. Bruce sensed your discomfort and got out of his seat, tapping the table twice as he thought.

“Have you ever heard the expression “the lights are on but nobody’s home’?” He asked you and you were grateful he changed the subject.

“Yeah, I think I have.” You smiled, proud of yourself for knowing something.

“It reminds me of you.” Bruce said so politely that you didn’t realize it was an insult at first. He left the lab to find Tony, leaving you feeling embarrassed and a little hurt. Everyone knew Bruce could hurt you ten times worse with his words than the Hulk could with his fists, you’d just never been his target before. You slumped down in your seat and continued making the gloves, your mood significantly dampened from before he came in the room.

~

You walked into the kitchen the next morning, sleepily rubbing your eyes. You pressed a chaste kiss on Peters shoulder as you passed him, also more affectionate to your best friend when you were half asleep. You smiled at Rhodey, who was seated at the bar and skimming through a newspaper.

“Did you eat yet?” You asked him through a yawn as you got out yogurt and fruit for yourself.

“No. I needed my coffee first.” He smiled sleepily at you and held up his mug.

“Oh, you mean your sugar with a spoonful of coffee?” You teased him. “Yeah, it’s good you got that out of the way.”

“I prefer it this way. The sugar wakes me up.” Peter defended his drink as he took a sip.

“That’s what the caffeine is supposed to do, mi amor.” You laughed as you ruffled his bed head ridden hair. He was about to make a comeback when his stomach rumbles loudly.

“Someone’s hungry.” You remarked. “Do you want eggs?”

“No thanks.” Peter shook his head. “I can’t eat eggs alone.”

“Well I’m here. And Rhodey’s right there, so you’re not alone.” You told him. “And I can grab Steve and Bucky. They’re just in the other room.”

Rhodey looked up from his newspaper with raised eyebrows and looked at Peter. Peter set his mug down and made a face at Rhodey that told him not to say anything. You looked between the two of them in confusion as you wondered what was going on.

“I meant alone as in without toast, sweetness.” Peter said gently, not wanting you to feel dumb for misunderstanding. “But I am glad you’re here.”

“Oh.” You faked a smile and shrugged like it was no big deal. Peter had handled the situation with ease and you didn’t feel as embarrassed as you normally would. That is until…

“You know, Y/n, it’s a good thing you’re pretty.” Rhodey nodded before going back to his newspaper. You froze with your spoonful of yogurt midway to your mouth and looked at him. He didn’t actually call you dumb, but it was implied. You looked at Peter to see if he was thinking the same thing, but his face had nothing but kindness on it.

“You are pretty.” He agreed with Rhodey. “But you’re a lot of other things too.”

You cracked a smile and rubbed his back for a moment in appreciation.

“Thanks Peter.” You said softly and went back to your breakfast. Not wanting to worry him, you ignored the way Rhodey’s comment made you feel and tried to push it from your mind. But no hard you tried to focus on other things, you had one thought prodding at the back of your head.

You were dumb.

~

A week went by without anyone poking fun at your intelligence. You had a sneaking suspicion Peter had something to do with the lack of comments, but you said nothing. It was nice to have a break from all the teasing and it made hanging out with the team more enjoyable. You all lingered around the kitchen one day, eating all different kinds of lunch when Tony came in the room.

“Eat up, funky bunch.” He clapped his hands. “We have a mission in Alaska to train for and I need all hands on deck. Cap, do you think you can teach Peter that spinny thingy you do?”

“I can try.” Steve looked at Peter and nodded.

“Great. I’m getting a manicure. I’ll be back around noon.” Tony informed you all.

“Wait, I thought you said all hands on deck.” You tilted your head at him.

“I did. Which I why I have to make sure my hands look the best.” Tony waved flirtatiously, wiggling his fingers around like a teenage girl. He smirked as his action was met with some eye rolls and a few chuckles before leaving the room.

“I can’t believe we’re going to Alaska.” Peter nudged you excitedly and you smiled with glee.

“Is Alaska the same as the North Pole? Or am I thinking of Antarctica?” Sam wondered out loud.

“No. The North Pole is all the way at the top. Alaska is below California. Like by Texas.” You said confidently, proud that you knew information that someone else didn’t. Your pride quickly dissipated when you saw the teams faces twist in amusement.

“Wait a minute.” Steve looked at you like you were joking. You shrugged, letting him know you weren’t. Sam burst out laughing and clapped his hands as the rest of the team began to laugh.

“Absolutely not.” Sam grinned as he wiped a tear from his eye.

“Yes it is.” You insisted. “Look at any US map. It’s on the bottom by Hawaii.”

You were getting angry now. You knew you were right this time and they were still teasing you.

“No.” Bucky shook his head is dismissal. “No.”

“Alaska is below California on every map I’ve ever seen. You’re telling me I’m wrong?” You our your hand on your hip and stared at them.

“100%. I am 100% telling you you’re wrong.” Sam said between his laughter. Peter came to your side and showed you a picture of a map on his phone.

“Alaska is US territory but it’s not connected to the rest of the states. They just put it below California on maps to show it’s a part of the US. Thats not actually where it’s located.” He said quietly. You looked at the map for a few seconds before you realized he was right. And if he was right…

You were wrong.

“Oh.” You smiled apologetically and averted your eyes. “Oops.”

You turned around and pretending to clean up the kitchen to hide your searing blush. Your fingers clenched around your sponge when you heard the teasing laughter from behind you.

“Sometimes I wonder how you made it out of high school.” Steve joked as he threw out the crusts of his sandwich. The comment stung you and you began to scrub the counter faster so you could leave the room sooner. Peter could see your shoulders tense and put a reassuring hand on your back. You gave him a tight lipped smiled before putting your dish in the sink.

“I’m still wondering how she made it out of first grade.” Nat teased you and she poked your side.

“I can’t believe she made it out of the womb in the first place with nobody telling her where to go.” Sam said, making everyone laugh loudly. You abruptly threw a dish in the sink, making everyone go silent. You tuned around slowly and faked a smile.

“Haha. Yeah.” You forced a laugh. “I’ll catch you guys later.”

You swiftly left the room before anyone could catch your tears. You felt stupid for even getting upset over it, but their words hurt. Feeling like you were always the dumbest person in the room was taking a toll on you, especially when you weren’t the only one who felt that way. Peter watched you leave with sympathetic eyes, feeling his own frustration bubble at the sound of the team laughing at you. He thought they had listened the first time he told them to stop making fun of you, but they clearly hadn’t. After seeing the pained look on your face, Peter made a decision.

It was never going to happen again.

~

“Ugh. I’m never gonna get this right.” Peter groaned as he messed up the move Steve was trying to teach him once again.

“You’re getting too much inside your head. Just let it happen naturally.” Steve instructed as he resumed his stance. Peter tried the move again, wiping out and landing on his side with a thud. You watched him out of the corner of your eye as you spared with Nat.

“I can’t.” Peter got up and rubbed his arm. “I can’t do it.”

Steve nodded, like he was accepting Peters defeat. You stopped sparing and looked at Peter.

“Yes you can. Come on, Peter.” You encouraged him. “Everyone told Van Gogh that he couldn’t be an artist because he only had one ear but he did it anyway.”

The room feel silent, as it often did when you spoke, and everyone looked down.

“Oh dear Lord.” Rhodey sighed and hung his head and he snickered. You could see everyone else fighting back laughter or cracking a smile, yet saying nothing.

“What?” You crossed your arms in annoyance, looming to Peter for help.

“He chopped his ear off after becoming an artist.” Peter said kindly. “He wasn’t born without one.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but Tony beat you to it.

“Speaking of ears, do you think of you shone a light in one of Y/n’s ears, it would come out the other ear?” Tony quipped, making everyone laugh. The tips of your ears burned as that feeling of stupidity sunk in again. You undid the Velcro on your boxing gloves and pretended to wipe sweat from your face as you rushed to the bin where the gloves went. You kept your back to the group and pretending to be putting your gloves away when you were really concealing your pained expression.

“Yes.” Nat jeered. “Yes I do.”

Your shoulders slumped with exhaustion as you turned around, making every effort to keep your face neutral. Your face didn’t give away any signs of sadness, but your knuckles turning white from how hard you were gripping the bin gave your true feelings away. Peter noticed this and felt his jaw clench. If you weren’t gonna tell them to stop, he was.

“Leave her alone, guys.” He commanded the crowd before looking at you. “Thanks for the encouragement, Y/n. I’m gonna keep trying.”

“It’s fine.” You nodded curtly. “I’m gonna hit the showers. I’ll see you guys at dinner.”

You walked out of the gym, pausing in place when you heard Sams voice.

“Hit the showers?” He laughed. “We just started.”

“Shhh. Don’t confuse the poor girl any further.” Bruce joked back. You looked back at the gym with your eyebrows knit together, taking a quiet step closer to hear what they were saying about you without you there.

“She’s probably like, ‘whats this magic closet that makes rain?’” Rhodey imitated your voice, making you sound as dense as possible.

“Knock it off guys. It’s not funny.” Peter snapped, but the teasing continued.

“Or like, ‘this shampoo says it adds volume, but I used it and I can’t hear any louder than before’.” Tony mocked you, skipping around a little like a child. Your face contorted in misery as they made fun of you. You knew who they really were, and they were good people. They didn’t intend to hurt your feelings, they were only joking around like they did with everyone. Steve was teased all the time for his old fashioned dialect and no one lets Tony live down the kimono incident. Still, all their insults and mockery cut you like a knife.

“Ahh, I love that girl.” Nat shook her head with a smile. “She’s so dumb.”

“She may be slow, but she’s entertaining as hell.” Sam nodded in agreement.

“I said knock it off.” Peter repeated, getting a reaction this time.

“Aw. Peters mad because we’re teasing his girlfriend.” Nat pouted and pinched Peters cheek. She quickly realized how wholesome she was being and punched Bucky in the face to maintain her lethal assassin persona.

“She’s not my girlfriend.” Peter grumbled. Now that you were out of the room, he was the next target.

“He’s right. Hey, maybe that’s why you guys haven’t gotten together yet.” Rhodey shrugged. “She’s too stupid to realize you’re in love with her.”

That was all you had to hear. You ran towards your with tears running down your face. Thanks to Peters advanced heating, he heard every heavy footstep.

“Okay. Maybe she is a little slow.” Peter shook his head in disdain at the team. “But you guys are idiots.”

~

You were quiet the entire way to Alaska, keeping to yourself and silently looking out the window. Peter attempted to talk to you once or twice, but he could tell you wanted to be alone. The Avengers completed the mission within a few hours with minor damage to the area. Peter focused on his job but found himself looking for you every now and then, being as you usually stayed together during missions. He didn’t see you anywhere and assumed you were doing your own thing on the other side of the field. He heart rest assured when he saw you boarding the jet, still looking reserved and aloof from the rest of the team. You took a seat by the window and rested your chin on your hand, looking out at the bleak landscape in front of you as the jet took off. Peter didn’t engage in small talk with the rest of the team and wistfully stared at you instead, silently willing you to cheer up.

“I think that went pretty well.” Rhodey nodded and the team agreed. “But where were you the whole time, Y/n? Picking daisies?”

Peter held his breath as you slowly turned around. You gave Rhodey a frigid smile and shook your head.

“We came during a blizzard so I used my powers to create a heated force field around the area we were in to prevent frostbite and give you guys and easier time seeing in the snow. We were also at a higher altitude than any of us are used to so I kept the air pressure to sea level standard.” You said simply. “And I assumed there would be smoke from the battle so I rounded up the nearby animals and made a separate for field around them to protect their lungs.”

The room went silent, something you were used to at this point. But instead of everyone falling silent because they were laughing at you, they were impressed.

“Oh.” Rhodey blinked in surprise, not expecting the answer he was given.

“I also picked this flower.” You smiled proudly as you produced a Forget Me Not from your lap. Peter couldn’t keep the grin from breaking through on his face. You were the center of attention once again, but in a good way this time. Everyone was pleasantly surprised with what you had done and it showed.

“I didn’t think about the altitude.” Nat realized.

“I had no idea there was a blizzard.” Steve added, looking dumbfounded.

“Because I kept you from knowing.” You shrugged. “I wanted you guys to focus on the mission.”

“I mean, I knew. I just didn’t tell you guys because I was so distracted by my buffed and polished nails.” Tony twiddled his fingers again, showing off his freshly manicured nails. You all laughed, breaking the tension in the jet.

“Well look at that.” Sam looked impressed. “Y/n knew something we didn’t.”

It was almost a compliment, but it still made you feel insecure. You didn’t want it to be this mind boggling every time you did something useful.

“Thanks, Y/n. That was really smart.” Peter said softly as he patted your knee. You put your hand over his and squeezed it. It was the first time someone called your smart, and it made you feel good.

“It was really smart.” Sam said skeptically. He stared at you for a moment before poking your side.

“What are you doing?” You swatted his hand away.

“Just making sure you’re still in there.” He eyed you suspiciously. Peter could sense the attention was making you uncomfortable and changed the subject.

“Are we almost home?” He asked Tony before peering out the window. The flight was a little over 7 hours on a normal plane, but the Stark jet was much quicker. The flight would only take a few hours, but Peter was not known for being patient.

“Yes, Peter. We are almost back at the tower. You can get your diaper changed and your bottle as soon as we get back.” Tony sassed him, making him shrink in his seat. Your body language had completely changed and your were now sitting straight, facing the group. Peter was glad you were feeling better and didn’t even mind Tony’s comment.

“Guys, let’s be civil. We’re all tired. We all want to get home.” You said calmly. “Let’s just focus on how pretty the sky looks tonight. Isn’t is pretty, Peter?”

He gazed at your profile as you looked out the window at the stars, admiring how pretty you looked from the side.

“Yeah. It’s beautiful.” He conceded without ever taking his eyes off you. You shot him a smile before looking straight ahead at the dashboard.

“Wow, the moon is huge!” You pointed time a large yellow crescent that could be seen through the window.

“That’s literally the reflection of my banana on the windshield.” Tony deadpanned. He may have been right, but it still looked pretty.

“Should we make a wish?” You asked Peter, ignoring Tony’s comment.

“On the banana?” He asked.

“Yes.” You nodded. “On the banana.”

“Why?” Rhodey asked. “It’s not like people wish on the moon.”

“It feels like we should.” You said with confidence.

“Yep. She’s still in there.” Sam chuckled. And just like that, your confidence receded.

“I hate it here.” Bucky sighed heavily and tuned out of the conversation.

“It must be so peaceful being you, Y/n.” Tony remarked.

“Why do you say that?” You wondered.

“Because instead of thinking about your problems and mistrials, you simply don’t think at all.” Tony said suavely. In only a better for minutes, you’d gone from being the hero to the laughing stock of the group. The sly comments and taunting laughter made you feel like you should stop opening your mouth entirely. You faked a smile and turned back towards the window, tuning out the rest of the way home. Peter chewed his lip as he stared at you, feeling useless to helping you out. The team just wouldn’t let up, no matter how many times he told them to stop. Knowing you weren’t in the mood to talk, he scooted closer to you and put a comforting hand on your back. You smiled warmly at him and rested your head on his shoulder, listening to him point out the constellations the whole way home.

~

The next day, you and Peter were sitting in the balcony, working on some new gadgets for Mr. Stark when Peter made a startling discovery.

“Where’s my right web shooter?” Peter stood up in a panic when he realized it was missing. “I left it right here.”

“Maybe a bird carried it off.” You shrugged as you twisted a tiny screw into Peters left web shooter.

“I’m being serious, Y/n.” Peter stated. “Mr. Stark is going to kill me and turn me into a decorative rug if I lost it.”

“I’m being serious too. We live in New York and I see birds around here all the time.” You told him as you continued your work. “And you know the pigeons here are feral. A bird probably stole it to pay for his child support.”

Peter usually entertained your antics and joined in with his own batch of sarcasm, but he wasn’t in the mood. His web shooter was missing and their were actual stakes involved. Without his web shooter, he couldn’t be Spiderman. And without Spider-Man, he couldn’t be an Avenger.

“Can you be serious for once?“ Peter whined, picking up everything on the table to look under it.

“I’m just saying it’s possible, Peter. You never know.” You insisted as you put your screw driver down to help him look. You began looking in the flower pots on the windowsill that you and Peter had planted. Peter stopped his search for a moment, growing angry with you for wasting time. He didn’t know if you were joking around or genuine believed his web shooter was in the flower pots, but it made him frustrated nonetheless. A combination of his lack of sleep and stress over losing the webshooter manifested into a moment of unchecked rage.

“No, it’s not possible.” He snapped. “A bird didn’t steal my web shooter. God, do you have to be so stupid?” 

 The word hung in the air for a moment, settling in to the both of you. Peters eyes immediately softened, feeling instant regret for what he had said. You stopped trifling through the plants and slowly turned around.

“What?” You asked quietly. Peter tightened his lips into a line and tried to justify what he had said.

“I try to defend you but you make it so hard. Can you help me out a little here and not be so…” He trailed off when he realized he had only made it worse. Your face hardened and you looked disappointed in Peter, which killed him. He would have preferred anger or even sadness, but the disappointment killed him.

“So what?” You shrugged. “Finish your sentence Peter.”

“I didn’t mean that.”

“No, really, go ahead.” You stated coldly. “You got this far. So what, Peter?”

He looked at you for a moment, getting that feeling of wishing you could turn back time just a few seconds to fix a mistake.

“So dumb all the time.” He finished his sentence with an unsteady voice. Your face scrunched up in a pained expression as you sucked in and let out a shaky breath.

“You were the only one who never called me that.” You whimpered before moving past him and going inside. Peter watched you through the open balcony doors as you disappeared into the hallway with a heavy heart. His mouth was open to apologize, but you were long gone. He’d seen you being ridiculed so many times already, and now he was the one doing it. All that talk about it never happening again, only for him to be the reason it happened. Peter couldn’t live with himself for another minute without you knowing how sorry he was. He took a step towards the doorway until he heard a pigeon land on the table. He watched it curiously for a moment as it pecked at the screwdriver you had been using before picking it up with its beak. It flew over to the edge and began to walk along the railing, still keeping the screwdriver in his mouth. Peter followed the pigeon, walking all the way down the balcony to find a large nest in the corner. He watched as it dropped the screwdriver into its nest, right next to his web shooter.

“Holy shit. A bird stole my web shooter.” Peter said in disbelief. Peter watched as baby pigeons poked out from inside the web shooter to greet the other pigeon.

“Holy shit. A bird stole my web shooter for his kids.” Peters eyes widened even more than they already were. Realized struck him and his shoulders slumped.

“She was right.” He mumbled, angry at himself more than ever. “I yelled at her and she was right.”

Peter wasted no time in rescuing his web shooter from the birds, offering them a nice biodegradable coffee cup in its place, and ran to the kitchen to make you a peace offering. He knocked softly on your door and didn’t wait for an answer before going in.

“I made you this cup of tea as an apology.” Peter stiffly held out a mug with an awkward smile on his face. You looked at Peter from your bed, eyes puffy like you had been crying. You stared at each other for a long time, you with a death glare and Peter with his awkward smile. Neither of you said a word as Peter continued to hold out the mug. After two full minute of silence, a bead of sweat ran down Peters face as he looked around nervously, never breaking his smile. You let out an angry sigh and decided to throw him a bone, crossing the room to accept his mug. You looked into the cup for a moment before looking back at Peter.

“This is empty.” You deadpanned.

“I don’t know how to make tea.” Peter whispered, never breaking eye contact.

“I’ve seen you make it.” You snapped.

“I forgot how to do it.” Peters eyes shifted nervously to the side.

“Bucky was in the kitchen, wasn’t he?”

“I know he hates me.” Peter talked over you as you groaned. “I know he does.”

“Just go away.” You tried to close the door but he kept it open.

“No.” Peter said firmly. “I came in here to apologize.”

“You see this?” You held up the mug for a Peter to see. “It’s my cup of care. And look at that” ,you dumped the cup over, “it’s empty.”

Peter stared at your demonstration with raised eyebrows, surprised that you were still able to be sarcastic when he hurt you. Peter took the mug from your hands and set it on the ground before slowly looking up at your face.

“You’re not stupid.” He said softly with all the sincerity his heart could give. You scoffed and folded your arms, looking to the side when you felt tears sting your eyes.

“Yes I am.” You said like you fully believed it, which was Peters worse fear. “Everyone says so. Even you.”

It hit Peter like a sheet of glass when you looked at him like that.

Like he was someone you didn’t want around.

“I didn’t mean to say that.” Peter apologized. “That is not how I feel. At all.”

“Don’t act like you’ve never thought about saying that before.” You laughed sadly. “Everyone on the team calls me dumb. It was only a matter of time before you did it too.”

“I didn’t mean it.” Peter repeated. “I don’t think you’re stupid.”

“Bullshit.” You snapped. “You’re so full of bullshit.”

“I’m not full of bullshit.” He whined like a child and gave you puppy dog eyes. “I’m full of regret.”

You chewed the inside of your cheek as he gave you his best pout, willing you to forgive him. Finally, you caved and cracked a smile.

“I hate you.” You stamped your foot and hung your head, frustrated with yourself for not being able to stay mad at him. Peter opened his arms and you walked into them, arms still folded angrily. You bumped your forehead against his shoulder before moving to rest your chin on it as he wrapped his arms around you. Peter nestled against your hair and sighed, happy that you had forgiven him but still saddened that he had hurt you in the first place. He could see the pile of used tissues on your bed and it killed him to know he made you cry.

“I didn’t mean to call you that. I really didn’t.” He said softly. “I’m the one who’s been trying to stop people from saying that.”

“But they still do it.” You sniffled. “Everyday I get called dumb or stupid or scalene.”

“I think it’s obtuse, not scalene.” Peter reluctantly corrected you. You pulled away and little and let Peter wipe the tears from your face.

“Maybe they’re right.” You shrugged and looked Peter in the eyes. “Maybe I am dumb.”

Peter kept your face between his hands, staring at you for a moment before sighing.

“I once sneezed so many times in a row that I peed my pants.” Peter deadpanned. “I was 17.”

“What?” You chuckled as you wiped your nose.

“I saw Bucky try to take a piece of toast out of the toaster with his metal arm and electrocute himself.” He continued. “And I constantly see Tony bumping into glass doors.”

“I don’t understand.” You squinted your eyes, but sure what point he was trying to make.

“Steve still picks up the phone and asks for the operator. Nat leaves her curling iron plugged in all the time. I do not think Sam knows the address of where we live and I’m pretty sure Rhodey can’t do laundry. He gets all his stuff dry cleaned, even his socks.”

“Why are you telling me all of this?” You asked.

“Because were all dumb.” Peter concluded. “We all do and say dumb things. You don’t know where Alaska is and no one in this tower can read analog clocks. If we’re all dumb, then maybe none of us are dumb. Or we all are. Who cares?” Peter shrugged, making you laugh. “And you were right. A bird did carry off my web shooter. So no, you’re no dumb. Or stupid. Or obtuse. You’re, uh, you- you…” Peter looked down at he fumbled over his words.

“I’m what?” You raised an eyebrow. You could finish his sentence last time, but this time you were lost.

“You’re…” Peter tampered off again, staring at your confused expression for a moment before pulling you into a kiss. Your hands clenched into a fist and slowly uncurled as you relaxed into the kiss. Peter pulled away too soon and let his eyes flutter open. They met yours and you shared a moment of hesitation, not knowing what happened rest next.

“I’m gonna be honest lovey, I didn’t really have an ending to that sentence.” Peter chris joes softly, his breath fanning your face. “That was mainly improv.”

“You’re pretty good at improv, Parker.” You cracked a smile and wrapped your arms around his neck.

“I did a little bit of theater in high school.” He shrugged smugly, making you giggle.

“Mmm. I severely don’t want to hear about that.” You teased before kissing him again.

“Oh, I think you do.” Peter remarked. “Because I once went to the bathroom during intermission with my mic still on and the entire audience heard me peeing.”

“Oh my God.” You laughed. “You’re so stupid.”

Tag List 🏷

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[an-obsessed-writer]

Mind Over Matter

Summary: Everyone knew the Baron Helmut Zemo, you’d have to be living under a rock to not recognize the name of the ridiculously wealthy royal attending your university. He was the school’s top bachelor, a sophisticated and confident man who obviously was wealthy. That was enough to make any woman at the university swoon, but he was always known to never keep a girl for long. What happens when (Y/N) finds herself meeting him at one of his parties?

(A/N): i think i’ll turn this into a series, but not sure yet! im a whore for zemo rn as everyone is, let me know if you’re interested in reading more <3

Word Count: 2.2k

“(Y/N)!” Wanda plops onto your bed after she runs into the dorm, and smiles sweetly up at you. “Wanna go to a party tonight? Word has it that Zemo is throwing a major bash for the new school year.”

Everyone knew the Baron Helmut Zemo, you’d have to be living under a rock to not recognize the name of the ridiculously wealthy royal attending your university. He was the school’s top bachelor, a sophisticated and confident man who obviously was wealthy. That was enough to make any woman at the university swoon, but he was always known to never keep a girl for long. Fortunately, you didn’t live under a rock, just too immersed in your studies to care much about him. You’ve seen him walking on campus before, with his fur coat and maroon mock turtleneck, and you could see why he was such a popular man. It’s known that Europeans always have the best sense of style.

“I’ve already got a major essay to finish for my philosophy class next week, maybe next time?” You frown at your roommate, feigning sadness that you wouldn’t be able to make it, but by the look of her face, she wasn’t going to let you get out of this one.

“You promised you’d attend a party this year! We’re juniors and you’ve been to only a handful. Besides, his parties are super classy, everyone gets all dressed up. It’ll be fun, I swear.” Wanda looks up at you with pleading eyes, and you couldn’t help but think about the opportunity presented.

It was true, you hadn’t been to many parties since college started. Your grades were stellar, your reputation even more so. Studying as a pre-med was no joke, resulting in your non-existent social life, but you honestly didn’t mind it much. You kept your head down because college was expensive enough as it is, you couldn’t afford to get distracted. Closing the laptop on your lap, a sigh escapes your mouth, and Wanda took it as a silent submission for what she had planned.

“Perfect! It’s tonight at his mansion. Who knows? Maybe you’ll be able to get him wrapped around your finger by the end of the night,” she winked and immediately began rummaging through her closet for the perfect outfit. “I heard the theme was the 20’s, I’ve always loved the flapper girl outfits.” A laugh escaped from Wanda’s lips, and a mischievous smile was displayed on her face. 

If there was anyone you trusted at this place, it’d be Wanda Maximoff. Her brother Pietro came as a close second, but she’d been your rock throughout your educational journey. Everyone loved her, everyone wanted her at their parties, but she chose to stay in with you to watch movies and talk about guys on more than one occasion. Coming from Sokovia, Wanda and Zemo talked often because of their love for the Sokovian language, but nothing romantic ever stemmed from their interactions with each other.

Truth be told, you were a pretty girl. This never went unnoticed by the guys around you, leading to a few regretful hookups. Your confidence oozed from your cheeky smile and subtly flirtatious comments when appropriate, but you were adamant on not entering a relationship until school was over. However, you were the realist out of this duo, and you knew for a fact you’d never be able to pull a guy like Helmut Zemo. With his looks and amount of money, he could get the most sought after movie star (which everyone was fairly sure he hooked up with Megan Fox at one point, but that was just a rumor).

“Do you still have your flapper girl costume from Halloween a while ago? I’ve got mine, and I don’t think we have enough time to shop before the party,” Wanda inquired.

“Of course I do, it’s my go to Halloween costume now if I ever go out again.” You smiled, reminiscing over the memories from last Halloween, and stumbled off your bed to find the outfit. 

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The music was blasting, and you couldn’t help but look in awe of your surroundings. A double curved staircase with red carpeting was in front of you and Wanda, with grand railings connected to the marble floor below. The home was obnoxiously large, you could talk and an echo would rumble through the room. 

Wanda gives you an encouraging look, and grabs your hand to lead you towards the party room upstairs. The silver tassels from your mini dress rubbed against your dress with every step you took, and you knew there was no turning back now. Besides, there was no way you could leave this beautiful home anytime soon, you simply wanted to drink in it’s beauty forever.

Once upstairs, a man in a suit smiled at the two of you, and asked for your invitations, which Wanda gladly handed over. With a nod, he opened the doors that were taller than any of you, and the sight immediately took your breath away.

White, translucent balloons hung from the ceiling. Art deco inspired tables with feathers and gold tassels lining over them containing copious amounts of alcohol were in the middle of the room. Intricate white and golden wallpaper covered the walls, which helped bring everything together, but the flashing disco lights allowed a modern feel to this 1920’s inspired party.

Not too long after entering the room, Vision strutted over to the two of you after catching sight of his girlfriend. “Hello (Y/N),” he flashed a quick smile to you and placed a kiss on Wanda’s cheek, “Care if I steal my girlfriend away for a dance?”

“No problem at all,” you waved your hand to dismiss the two of them, and Wanda went off to the dance floor with her love. 

This was normal, Wanda would be whisked away by Vision, and you typically found a guy to bring you attention for the night, but something felt different. Right now, all you wanted was a drink, and you found yourself making a beeline towards the tables full of alcohol. 

The bartender was dressed in one of the finest suits, and you couldn’t help but wonder “If his employees are dressed like this, what was the Baron wearing?”

“What would you like?” Your mind blanked trying to think of alcohol that you liked, it’s been too long.

“Surprise me, it’s been a while.” You smiled sheepishly, but your attention was caught by the feeling of another person behind you.

“That won’t do, you look like you need something strong.” A thick, European accent filled your ears, and you couldn’t help the way that your body tensed up. With a turn of your head, your eyesight took hold of the one and only, Helmut Zemo.

He looked even more delicious standing so close to you. As expected, Zemo didn’t mess around with his looks. A burgundy, pinstripe suit hugged his figure, and you couldn’t help but take note of the way his arms looked under the tight sleeves.

“Something strong would be nice,” you say holding your chin up, not wanting to embarrass yourself in front of the most well known man in the school. With a wave of his finger and a command in a language you didn’t know, two shots of clear liquid were slammed on the table, and Zemo picked one up with a cheeky smile.

You narrowed your eyes at him and nervously picked up the shot glass with shaky hands. Lifting it up to your nose, your face contorted into an expression of disgust at the smell of acetone. “What is this?”

With a rumbling chuckle from Zemo, your cheeks blushed slightly, silently scolding yourself for losing your composure. He raised his glass and with a tilt of his head, he responded “Rakija, essentially European moonshine. I’ll take a shot with you, it can be too strong for some Americans.”

Silently, you nodded and raised the shot glass, mimicking his actions. Once he swiftly threw back the liquid into his mouth, you followed, and immediately wanted to gag. It burned as it went down your throat, the taste of pure chemicals became overwhelming, and you managed to keep a straight face through it all. Zemo slammed his glass back onto the table and took a step towards you in order to be able to communicate over the loud music.

“I apologize for being such a rude host, but I don’t recognize you.” The smell of rich cologne flooded your nostrils, and you could’ve melted right there. His eyes peered down onto you, being that you were significantly shorter than the man towering over your body, and you licked your lips.

“I usually stay in my dorm, I’m pre-med.” You held your hand out politely, “(Y/N).”

Zemo’s rough hands took hold of your own, lowering his head to leave a kiss on the indents of your knuckles. Without standing up straight, he raises his eyes to look at you through his eyebrows, “It’s a pleasure to meet you (Y/N), I hope you’re enjoying the party.”

His voice was like smooth caramel and melted chocolate, just the right mix of salty and sweet. His thick accent burned into your head with the way he said your name, and your hand was tingling from where his lips met your knuckles. After hearing the stories of his charming ways, you wanted to call bullshit, but experiencing this first hand was completely different. There was some truth to the rumors of the mysterious Baron, and you couldn’t help but feel drawn to find out more. The man simply oozed sex appeal.

“I actually just got here with Wanda. She’s off somewhere with Vision.” You were proud of how you managed to keep your voice at a steady level, knowing that your mind was going crazy with how close the two of you were.

Zemo’s eyebrow perked up at the mention of Wanda’s name and held out his hand with the corners of his mouth turning up ever so slightly, “Any friend of Wanda’s is a friend of mine, care to dance (Y/N)?”

Every fiber of your being wanted you to run, knowing that if you went to dance with him, there was no turning back. Still, you couldn’t stop your hand from being placed into his, and he swiftly pulled you along towards the dance floor. 

Sweaty bodies surrounded the two of you, but you could only focus on his eyes engulfing the way the dress hugged your body in all the right spots. He placed his hand on the small of your back where the dress was open, the touch sending shivers down your spine. The Baron’s hands were warm, completely contrasting the iciness of your skin. 

With another hand on your waist and a smirk, he began moving his hips, which you soon followed. As the song went on, the distance between you got smaller and smaller, until your chest was practically smushed against his. You lifted your left hand to run through his chestnut brown hair, and it was as soft as you expected it to be.

“Of course it is,” you thought to yourself. “A Baron deserves only the most expensive products.”

“You’d think I would know everyone on campus, but your beauty caught me by surprise.” His breath felt hot against your ear, and you swallowed thickly.

“Not many people know me,” you countered.

“What a shame, isn’t it darling?” The use of pet names was enough to make your knees buckle, especially when paired with the Sokovian drawl, but you shook your head in defiance.

“He probably says that to all the girls.” Even so, you wished your mind would be quiet so you could appreciate this moment for what it is. The chance to dance with the bachelor everyone was pining for, but he was only paying attention to you.

You didn’t respond, only picking up the pace of your swaying hips, grinding against his thigh. Zemo exhaled a quick breath, and wasted no time to smash his lips onto yours. This action sent electricity through your body, the taste of the alcohol on his breath only made him more alluring, and your mouth copied his movements. Teeth clacked against one another, but neither of you cared. The only thing you could think about was the feeling of his fingers trailing down your back, and the way you fit with him like a lost puzzle piece.

Zemo grabbed at the nape of your neck, signaling to deepen the kiss with a tightening grip and a nip at your bottom lip, but you pulled away before you did something you regret.

With a confused look, Zemo licked his lips. “Care to go upstairs to my room?”

“Actually,” you say breathlessly, “I think it’s better if I head out.” Regretfully, you untangle your bodies and take a step back from the powerful man standing in front of you.

Without taking a second to think about what you’ve just done, you turn and make your way to the exit, but not without glancing at the Baron one last time. 

His eyes never left you, and he stood still as you walked through the doors.