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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 1 year ago

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Stuck On You

Pairing: Michael Gavey (Saltburn) x f!reader Warnings: Dark themes, slut shaming, obsessive behaviour, smut.

Word count: ~6k

Summary: When her email is hacked and racy photos she'd sent to her boyfriend find their way onto Myspace, she becomes the social pariah of Oxford University. She turns to the only person she believes is intelligent enough to be able to help; Michael Gavey. Could uncovering the truth of the situation make things worse than they already are?

Author's note: Written to celebrate one year of my blog existing. Sorry for the delay. Crumbageddon beat the shit out of me. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

“Using a painting of that former duchess as a conversation piece, he describes what he saw as her unfaithfulness, frivolity, and stubbornness, and implies that he prefers her as a painting rather than as a…as a living woman,” her voice shakes, stumbling over her words, watching as her essay papers slip from her hands, fluttering towards the rug of the study.

“Sh-shit…I’m sorry,” she stammers, leaning down to snatch them back up, feeling her skin heat up with embarrassment as she attempts to rustle them back into order.

“Everything alright?” Professor Ware asks, shifting in his seat and clasping his hands in his lap.

“Distracted by her own portrait, I should imagine,” snarks Farleigh, cutting her off before she has a chance to reply.

He smirks up at her, before returning his focus to the screen of his Macbook, fingers tapping quickly across the keys as he sits on the floor with it in his lap, leaning back against the armchair she currently sits in, his legs crossed at the ankle.

Of course he’d left it until the last minute to do his essay. Lazy prick.

“Stop it,” she hisses, knocking his shoulder with her knee.

“Why? It’s up again already anyway,” he retorts with a casual shrug, not bothering to look at her this time.

Her blood runs ice cold, dread gnawing a pit in her stomach. That would be the fourth time this week.

“Where?!” She demands, leaning down to snatch Farleigh’s Macbook from him, ignoring his protestation of “hey!” as she clicks on the minimised Internet Explorer window to see her Myspace profile already open.

Just as he’d said, there she is. Her profile picture depicts her in a lacy two piece lingerie set, laying on her bed, her cleavage, stomach and thighs on full display. She’d thought the angle flattering when she’d first held the digital camera above herself and snapped the picture, but now it’s splashed all over the internet for everyone to see. It makes her feel sick.

“I have to go,” she says hurriedly, shoving Farleigh’s Macbook back into his lap and stuffing her essay papers into her bag.

She almost trips over Farleigh’s long legs in her rush to escape the tutorial room, the air suddenly feeling too thick and difficult to breathe, as her heart hammers in her chest. Her feet carry her down the hallway in quick strides, no particular direction in mind, just eager to get away.

It had all seemed like innocent fun at first. She had felt excited on the second day of Fresher’s Week when a group of girls from the floor of her accommodation had invited her to go shopping with them

They had wrinkled their noses as she had beelined for the Ann Summers in Westgate Shopping Centre, lured by the big, red sale banner in the window.

“Oh darling,” India had cooed, “don’t buy that rubbish. We’ll get the train into London and take you to Rigby and Peller in Mayfair, if it’s lingerie you’re after.”

She had balked inwardly at the thought of how expensive that would be, but had simply smiled politely, stating “this is fine”, more than happy with the matching black lace set she’d picked from the sale rail.

Back in her room, she’d tried it on, loving the way the material hugged her curves and felt against her skin. Excitedly, she’d dug out her digital camera, contorting herself into various poses that she felt best displayed her assets, until she was satisfied she had several that looked good.

She hadn’t seen her boyfriend, Jake, since she had left for Oxford and he had gone to Brighton. Their reading weeks didn’t align, which meant they’d have to wait until the term came to an end to see each other at Christmas.

Emailing him the photos had felt like a nice way for them to maintain some sort of intimacy, despite the distance, and he’d certainly appreciated it, as a couple of hours later she’d gotten a text from him which simply said “wow!”

The high from that had left her with a smile on her face for days, until she’d stepped out of a tutorial a few days later to see a missed call and a text from him.

“What the fuck are you playing at?!” It had read.

She’d called him back straight away, the urge to vomit growing acrid in her throat as he’d told her what he’d seen, holding the phone to her ear with her shoulder, she’d scrambled with shaking hands to free her laptop from her bag, to confirm what Jake was saying.

There it was. Her Myspace profile picture had been changed to one of the lingerie photos she’d sent to him. This one was a full length photo she’d taken, aiming the camera at the mirror in her room.

The hot prickle of tears had burned beneath her eyelids, as she’d drawn in a shaky breath. “Wh-why would you do that?” She’d whispered tearfully into the phone.

“It wasn’t me!” Jake had snapped angrily. “Perhaps if you hadn't taken those bloody photos in the first place then this wouldn’t have happened.”

“Are you seriously blaming me?!”

“It just looks bad. I think maybe we should cool things for a bit, I can’t with be someone that—”

Tears had rolled down her cheeks as she’d pulled the phone away from her ear, seeing the call had cut off. She’d run out of credit. In a way, she was grateful; she didn’t want to listen to Jake ending their relationship, to continue to blame her for something that wasn’t her fault.

She had taken the photo down, changed her profile picture back to what it was before, and changed the password for both Myspace and her email. However, the damage was done, the whispers of “slut” as she walked to lectures had already started.

Another two days later she had entered the IT lab to print out her essay, and saw a group huddled around a computer, laughing together. They had turned, immediately quietening down, their voices hushed whispers as they looked at her.

She had pushed them apart, already knowing what it was they were all looking at, but wanting to confirm it. Just as she’d suspected, her Myspace profile was open. This time her photo had been changed to an over the shoulder shot. The side of her face and her buttocks visible as she’d arched her back.

Running back to her room, tears of humiliation blurring her vision, she’d taken the photo down again and changed all her passwords. But once again, it was too little, too late. A print out of the photo slipped beneath her door that same day, with the word “whore” scrawled across it.

Her friends were already starting to pull away, the invites to the pub had dried up into nothing. When another photo had been uploaded, Felix had pulled her to one side.

“Look, I think it’s incredibly daring of you to be doing what you’re doing, and I respect the fuck out of you for it, really I do,” he’d said, eyes filled with sympathy as he’d looked down at her. “But a few of us really aren’t comfortable with how you’re going about…getting attention, so I just think it’s for the best if we take some space until you’ve figured out whatever this is.”

She had been stunned by his words, her eyes going wide as her mouth had dropped open. “You think I’m doing this to myself?!”

“Well, what else are we supposed to think? We’re worried about you. There are better…healthier ways to make yourself stand out. Just come clean and all of this can stop.”

Turning away in disgust, anger and betrayal flaring white hot in her chest, she’d walked away. This was happening to her, she wasn’t complicit in it, and yet people continued to act like it was her fault. She had started to wonder if she really was to blame. Had she tempted fate by taking those photos in the first place?

Today was the fourth time a photo had been uploaded and having fled from the tutorial with Professor Ware and Farleigh, she finds herself in the Bodleian Library, having walked on instinct.

It serves as a quiet refuge for her in moments when she feels overwhelmed, hiding among the shelves, admiring tomes that are older than she is. She’d come here on her first day, when the influx of new people, sights and sounds had become too much, and she had crouched between the stacks the first time one of her photos had been leaked. The smell of old books and the peace and quiet feels safe.

Walking silently between the study tables she spots him, alone, as he always is; Michael Gavey. He is hunched over a notebook, scribbling furious notes, stopping occasionally to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his index finger.

She had thoroughly embarrassed herself the first time she’d met him, the only time she had ever spoken to him. It had been the night of the fresher’s welcome dinner. She’d heard his outburst in the dining hall, heard how he had answered the subsequent multiplication sum flawlessly and been bowled over by how effortlessly brilliant he was. It was intimidating.

Yet, later that evening fuelled by the courage of five tropical watermelon flavoured Bacardi Breezers, she’d stumbled over to him in the rec room, ignoring how he’d recoiled slightly at her advancing towards him.

She’d wrapped an arm around his neck, taking no notice of the way he’d stiffened beneath her touch.

“Wha’s nine hundred and ninety nine divided by thirteen?” She’d slurred into his ear.

He had bristled slightly, before answering quietly. “Seventy six point eight five.”

She had giggled, patting his cheek, knocking his glasses askew. “Don’t even know how to check that, but I’ll take your word for it, genius.”

Kissing his cheek, she’d stumbled away, leaving him to wipe away the sticky residue her lips had left behind, while Felix and Farleigh had fallen about themselves, laughing, finding it far funnier than she’d intended for it to be. She had ended up making him a laughing stock without even meaning to.

The memory fills her with shame. She really did find him impressive. He was precisely the type of person she had wanted to rub shoulders with when she arrived at Oxford, yet she had made a fool of herself instead.

She smiled at him whenever she caught his eye on the rare occasions they crossed paths, but he’d either look away or stare at her expressionless.

Perhaps now was her opportunity to make amends. She has no friends now anyway, so it’s not as though she has anything to lose.

Walking over to his table, before she has a chance to talk herself out of it, she sits down heavily in the seat next to him, depositing her bag onto the tabletop.

Michael’s pen pauses its movements, and slowly his head turns to the side, narrowing his eyes at her in silent question.

She suddenly has the urge to run, realising this was a terrible idea. She feels enormous discomfort beneath the scrutiny of his gaze yet, determined to push through it, she offers him a bright smile.

“You’re Michael, aren’t you?” She says, attempting to sound more cheerful than she feels.

“Yes,” he replies simply, placing his pen down and straightening in his seat.

“Thought so. I’m–”

“I know who you are,” he cuts her off. “What do you want?”

“Oh,” she swallows, shifting awkwardly in her seat. She hadn’t anticipated him being quite so blunt. “Well, I wanted to apologise for how I behaved on the first night. I thought maybe we could be friends?”

He scoffs, the corners of his mouth turning up into the faintest of smirks. “As if I’d be friends with someone who’s reading literature. Why pay all that money in tuition fees for a glorified book club?”

For a moment she doesn’t know what to say. Shock, offense and hurt swirl in a hot mixture in her chest. She fights the embarrassing urge to burst into tears. Her voice is small and weak when she finally asks “How do you know what I’m studying?”

Michael nods towards the desk. “There’s a book of Robert Browning poetry sticking out of your bag.”

“Right, yeah…” She feels her skin heat up, turning to slowly tuck the book further down inside, still able to feel his eyes upon her. It’s disconcerting to be observed so closely.

“Where’s that group of losers you usually hang around with anyway?”

The question takes her by surprise, and she laughs softly, though there is no real humour to it. “I don’t think they want to hang around with me anymore.”

“So you’re a Norman no mates too then?”

His expression has softened, a slight playfulness brightens his blue eyes as she looks back at him, and she can’t help but smile. “Yeah, I suppose I am.”

He leans forward, resting his elbow on the table and propping his chin up on his hand. “Hmmm. So they got bored of you then?”

“No…I–”

She sighs exasperatedly, running a hand through her hair, before digging through her bag to pull out her laptop. “It’s probably easier if I show you.”

Setting the laptop down on the table, she loads her Myspace page, the same picture she’d seen on Farleigh’s Macbook earlier still set as her profile photo. “Someone keeps changing my profile picture to this. I sent my boyfriend…ex-boyfriend…some photos and now someone has them and keeps doing this every time I change it back.”

Michael’s expression is impassive as he stares at the screen. “Have you changed your passwords?”

“Yes,” she sighs.

“So, you’ve been hacked.”

“Looks that way…I don’t suppose you know anything about computers? Maybe you could help me figure out who’s doing this?”

“Ah,” he clicks his tongue, staring intently at her, “so there it is, pretending to befriend the college nerd because you need computer help. Do you not think it’s a bit of a tired stereotype to assume that because I’m reading maths I’d be able to help you with your IT issues?”

“No, it’s not like that!” She protests, her eyes welling up with tears. She turns away, defeated, deciding this is a lost cause and closes her laptop. “I’m sorry, I’ll leave you alone.”

He sighs. “Well, there’s no need to cry about it. I can help you, just not right now. Are you free later this evening?”

She sniffles, her eyes going wide as she looks at him in surprise. “Really?”

He nods, closing his notebook and slipping his pen into his breast pocket. “I’ve got a tutorial in twenty minutes, but I can help trace the IP of whoever’s hacked you. I’m on the first floor of the Brasenose, second room left of the staircase. I’ll be back around five.”

Nodding, she immediately feels lighter, the possibility that this may finally come to an end instantly lifting her spirits. A chance to get her life back. “That’s perfect, I’ll see you then. Thank you so much.”

He rises, his gaze remaining fixed upon her. “See you later.”

The way he addresses her, first and last name, sends a shiver down her spine as she watches him turn away and walk slowly out of the library. She wonders what she has gotten herself into, but with no friends and no other options there is little else to be done.

She is filled with restless energy for the rest of the day, unable to sit still or concentrate during the only other lecture she has that afternoon, until eventually she finds herself standing outside of Michael’s room at quarter past five, the hours leading up to that feeling as though they’ve lasted an eternity.

Where there is the faint sound of music or talking coming from the doors she’s passed already on her way here, she is struck by the eerie silence she is met with from his, and wonders for a moment if he’s even home.

Nervous excitement crackles like electricity through her body and her knock is louder than she intends for it to be. She hears shuffling from the other side, until the door swings slowly open. Michael stands poker straight on the threshold, staring down at her.

“Did you bring your laptop?” He asks.

Yet again she is taken aback by how forthright he is, but she nods, stepping in as he moves to the side to let her pass.

Looking around the room, she takes in the plainness of his bedspread, the shelves of mathematics and physics textbooks, the desk set up in the corner that has his laptop open on it. There is nothing that gives even the slightest indication as to who he is as a person.

The sound of him clearing his throat startles her attention back to him, and she turns with an apologetic smile to face him. “Sorry, always weird being in someone else’s room…”

“Right,” he replies, his gaze unwavering as he looks at her. “Laptop?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” embarrassment heats up her skin, as she rummages in her bag, taking it out and handing it to him.

He settles it next to his own on the desk, before taking a seat.

She stands awkwardly in the middle of the room, looking around, not quite knowing what to do with herself. “Um…where should I…?”

“Anywhere,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand, not looking at her.

She settles on the edge of the bed, running her hands over the soft cotton of the duvet cover. It’s an odd sensation to sit so casually in the space that she knows he sleeps. It feels too familiar, too intimate.

Glancing to the side, she notices the shimmer of gold and purple in the bin. She smiles to herself, having learned something about him in spite of the lack of personal effects in his room. He has a sweet tooth, evidenced by the Crunchie bar wrappers in the bin.

“Password?” He asks, and her head snaps up towards him.

“Hmm?”

He turns in his chair, resting his arm on the back of it, glaring at her over his shoulder. “The password for your laptop, what is it?”

“Oh!” She exclaims. “Is it safe for me to tell you that?”

“It is if you want me to help you,” he sighs.

She squirms uncomfortably. He has the innate ability to make her feel small, foolish, but what’s most disconcerting is that she doesn’t dislike it, there is something about him that draws her to his condescension.

“It’s Shakespeare,” she tells him sheepishly, “with a four in place of the first A.”

“What about the passwords for your email and Myspace accounts?”

“The same.”

“The same?!”

“I’ve changed the passwords each time a new photo has been posted, but it’s just easier to have the same one for everything.”

He groans, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “No wonder you’ve been hacked, typical fucking liberal arts student.”

She lowers her gaze, fingers plucking nervously at the bedspread. “Different passwords for every account, got it.”

“Well, that’s a start, yes,” he tells her, turning back to the screens. “Has anyone but you had access to your computer?”

“No, it stays in my bag when I’m not using it.”

She sits watching him tap away at the keyboards of both laptops alternately for a few moments before she speaks again. “I’m not stupid, you know,” she tells him, her voice sounding meeker than she means for it to. “English Language and Literature is no less of a respectable course than Mathematics. I wrote an essay on the Robert Browning poem, My Last Duchess, recently. It’s a fascinating piece, focusing on the Duke of Ferrara using a painting of his former wife as a conversation topic. The Duke speaks about his former wife's perceived inadequacies to a representative of the family of his bride-to-be, revealing his obsession with controlling others in the process. Browning uses this compelling psychological portrait of a despicable character to critique the objectification of women and abuses of power. It’s a compelling commentary on social status and elitism.”

“What would you know about either of those things?” He asks, continuing to type.

“More than I’d like to,” she says quietly, “I don’t fit in here, not really. I earned my place with a scholarship.”

He pauses, stiffening, glancing over his shoulder at her with a “hmm”.

“I’ve managed to get into the access logs for both your email and Myspace accounts,” he tells her. “There are two sets of IPs that have accessed both accounts in the last week, but both are eduroam IP addresses.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that whoever is uploading those photos is doing so from the university.”

The revelation hits her like a punch to the gut, she feels paralysed, unable to speak as his words sink in. A part of her had wanted to believe it was Jake. To think there is someone at the university who is doing this to her makes her feel nauseated. Her mind races with the possibilities of who it could be. Felix? India? Farleigh? What reason could any of them possibly have to want to do that to her?

“What should I do?” She asks worriedly, staring at Michael with her brows pinched together. “Do you think reporting it would help?”

He swivels his chair fully around to face her and shakes his head. “Not if you intend to keep your scholarship. Rocking the boat over leaked nudes won’t look good to the university board, they’ll take issue with the fact that you even took those photos in the first place.”

“So I just have to let this keep happening?” She feels her throat tighten, wetness rims her eyes.

“Change your passwords,” he says matter of factly. “A different one for every account.”

She nods, expelling a shaky breath, before standing. “I should probably get going. Thank you…for everything.”

Before she goes to bed that night, she changes her passwords - a different one for every account she owns, and deletes the newest uploaded photo, returning her profile picture to its original state.

As far as she is concerned, that should be the end of it. However, her breath hitches, icy cold fingers of fear gripping her heart when she logs on the following morning. Not only has her profile picture been changed to another photo from the set she’d taken for Jake, but the “about me” section now reads “vapid cunt”.

On autopilot, she dresses, taking her laptop and walking the six minutes from Christ Church Halls to Brasenose College.

As soon as Michael’s door opens, she flings her arms around his neck, sobbing into his chest. He stiffens, not returning the gesture, until she finally pulls away.

He straighens, adjusting his glasses. His hair is rumpled from sleep, clad in a t-shirt and plaid pyjama bottoms.

“God, I’m so sorry, I woke you up,” she says tearfully, “I should go. I didn’t think, I just–”

“It’s fine,” he says flatly, ushering her in.

She sits down on the bed. It’s unmade, still warm from where he’s been sleeping in it. The feeling sends a shiver down her spine, despite her emotional distress.

Gingerly he sits next to her, keeping a respectable distance as she removes her laptop from her bag and opens it. “It’s happened again. I did everything you said to do, but it’s happened again, and it’s worse this time. Look–”

Handing him the laptop she shuffles closer to him, her thigh pressed against his. She can feel the warmth of him through her leggings. It causes butterflies to flutter in her belly, it’s been so long since she’s been this close to anyone.

Michael doesn’t stiffen at her touch this time, whether it’s because he doesn’t mind it or is too distracted by what he sees on the screen, she’s unsure, but it’s progress.

“Hmm. And you’re sure you changed your passwords?”

“Yes, all of them. I don’t know what else to do. If I report it, I risk my scholarship, but if this carries on I’ll lose it anyway, because how can I concentrate when this keeps happening?”

He says nothing, closing her laptop and passing it back to her.

“I’ve worked my arse off to get here, to earn my place, this can’t be what ends it,” she says miserably, tucking her computer back into her bag.

“I’d suggest focusing on your studies and less on your peers,” Michael says matter of factly. “You haven’t made the best choice of friends since arriving here.”

“They’re not my friends,” she whispers, her hands fidgeting in her lap. “At least not anymore. Do you think it’s one of them doing this?”

“I wouldn’t put it past them,” he replies bitterly, “stay away from them. I’ve got a lecture this morning, but maybe when I’ve got some downtime, I can do a deeper dive, perhaps see if I can track the logins to a device type.”

“You’d do that for me?” She whispers, looking at him with eyes full of appreciation.

“That’s what mates are for, right?”

“Thank you…just…thank you,” she tells him with sincerity, holding his gaze.

She reaches for his hand and gives it a gentle squeeze, desperate to kiss his cheek as a gesture of her gratitude, but remembers the first time she’d done it and cringes inwardly. Though Michael’s hand doesn’t clutch back, he doesn’t move it away and, after a few moments, she realises they’re simply sitting holding hands, looking into each other's eyes.

He is beautiful in his own way. His stare, though intimidating, is piercingly blue, and his lips are soft and plump. She swallows, lashes fluttering in embarrassment when she realises she’s staring at his mouth.

Chancing her luck, she leans in, planting a lingering kiss to the corner of his lips. “I’ll be back at lunchtime, okay?” She whispers, before standing and moving towards the door.

He simply nods, fingers raising to brush over the spot where she’d kissed him. The sight puts a spring in her step for the rest of the morning, almost enough to forget about her being hacked. Almost.

She stops at a vending machine in the rec room on her way back to Brasenose at midday, deciding to buy Michael a Crunchie, an additional thank you for him going out of his way to help her.

As awful as having her privacy violated has been, she is grateful that it has brought her and Michael closer together. She had started the term wanting nothing more than to be his friend, and had royally fucked it up.

Now it seems they have mended their rift, and the prospect of being more than just friends is on the cards. Admittedly, he isn’t her usual type, but there is something about him that excites her. She hopes that once this is all over, this can be a fresh start for her at Oxford; her and Michael, just the caliber of intelligence she had wanted to associate with when she’d first applied.

She knocks at his door, hesitating when he doesn’t open it.

“Michael?” She calls out, brow furrowing in concern when he doesn’t answer.

They’d agreed upon lunchtime to meet, where was he? She tries the door handle and it’s unlocked, gingerly she pushes it open, peering slowly inside. He’s not there, but if he’d left it unlocked then he’d surely be back soon and wouldn’t mind her waiting inside for him.

She steps into the room, finding it much the same as before, only this time the bed is made. Walking over to the window by the desk, she stops to admire the view of the church, startling slightly when her bag knocks the computer chair, disturbing the mouse and taking Michael’s laptop out of sleep.

As she is about to turn back to the window, she notices her Myspace profile is open in edit mode in his browser. She frowns, a feeling of unease washing over her, as she steps towards the desk, her hand trembling as she reaches for the mouse.

She minimises Internet Explorer, gasping when she sees a folder open on his desktop, filled with the photos she had sent to Jake, all of them, even the ones that hadn’t yet been set as her profile picture.

Her heart pounds as she selects all of them, deleting them before clicking on the recycling bin to empty it.

“You didn’t think I’d be stupid enough to not create back ups, did you?”

Turning, she sees that Michael has returned, so quietly she hadn’t noticed. His fingers clutch at the USB stick that’s clipped to his cargo shorts, lips turned up into an expression of smugness.

Tears prickle her eyes, as her heart lurches, the only word that escapes her is “why?” as she looks at him with arched brows, her face pinched into an expression of emotional hurt.

“Why?” He repeats, cocking his head, advancing towards her as she shrinks back into the corner. “Because someone needed to take you down a peg or two.”

“You’ve ruined my life!” She cries, tears slipping down her cheeks, looking at him in disbelief.

This has to be a dream, it is too surreal. Any moment now, she’ll wake up and all of this will have been a terrible dream.

Only it’s not, it’s real, real as the heat of his breath that fans across her face as he looms over her, having backed her fully into the corner between the desk and the window.

“What life? Pretending to play a part with people that don’t really like you? Using your pretentious choice in reading material to make yourself seem intelligent?”

“You don’t know anything about me!” She says defiantly.

“Oh, I know all about you. Hiding your scholarship from those vapid cunts, so they won’t sniff out your working class background and drop you. The variations of John Browning as your password - adding a different number to each variation doesn’t make it a different password, stupid girl.”

“I was nice to you…” She offers feebly, almost pleading with him.

He smirks, taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger, gripping harshly, forcing her to look at him. “You felt sorry for me. But it’s not me that needs pity, is it? It’s you. Poor little scholarship slut. You love that My Last Duchess poem so much because you see yourself in it, don’t you? Think you’re being objectified, treated unfairly. Well, let me tell you something, you are like that poem, but in the sense that you’re better in pictures than you are in real life.”

“Stop it,” she whispers, trying to pull away from him.

“Truth hurt, does it?” He asks, his grip on her face remaining tight. “That’s a pity. I enjoyed those pictures, really enjoyed them. It’s a shame the real life version is so whiny and pathetic.”

“I’ll report you,” she says quietly.

“Oh, I don’t think you will, somehow. You love the attention,” he tells her, dropping his hand from her chin to her shoulder, turning her and backing her up towards the bed. “I’ve seen how you look at me. If I wanted to fuck you right now, you’d let me.”

“I–I wouldn’t!” She stammers, feeling her face grow warm.

With a gentle shove from him, she topples back against the mattress, and he is quick to move over her, caging her in. “Liar,” he whispers in her ear.

She shudders at the sensation, despising the way her body betrays her, as heat pools between her legs. She shouldn’t be turned on by this, yet she can’t deny the way he sets her pulse racing.

“I haven’t ruined your life, but I could and you’d let me, wouldn’t you?” He hisses.

The weight of him on top of her, his warm breath fanning against her neck, it’s dizzying. She wants to tell him to get off of her, to push him away, yet she cannot find it in herself to do so. There is a part of her that’s curious to see how far he’ll push this.

When she doesn’t say anything, he carries on, nimble fingers moving to the waistband of her leggings, tugging them down. “I’m going to treat you like the desperate, little slut that you are, and you’re going to let me, aren’t you?”

She whines, lifting her hips as he rids her of the bottom half of her clothing.

“That’s what I thought,” he smirks.

His gaze falls between her legs, tentative fingers reaching out to brush through the wetness that has gathered there. She sees a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes and wonders if he has ever done this before.

She knows his moment of hesitation would be enough for her to push him away, grab her clothes and report him, yet she feels compelled to stay. If this is his first time, then she wants it to be her. She enjoys the dynamic of the power he has over her, while simultaneously being able to take something from him.

Wanting to bolster his confidence, urge him to continue, she sits up, eager hands unfastening his belt and unzipping his shorts. It flips a switch inside him, and he’s surging forward once more, pinning her beneath him as he pushes his boxers down just enough to free his cock.

“Tell me you want this,” he rasps against the shell of her ear.

“I want this,” she mewls desperately, feeling the head of him resting at her entrance.

“You’re going to keep letting me do this to you, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll wear that tarty underwear from your photos for me, won’t you?”

“...yes.”

He presses forward and is met with resistance, not having fully prepared her. He draws back and pushes against her again, repeating the motion until he’s fully sheathed inside of her. It’s exquisite torture, a pleasurable hurt to be split apart by him, to feel so full.

Breathing heavily through his nose, he stills and she can feel his inexperience in the way that he tenses, but isn’t prepared to give up when they’ve already come this far. She rolls her hips against his, a breathy sigh escaping her as she feels her sweet spot rub up against the head of him.

He screws his eyes shut, jaw going slack, before beginning to move his own hips, pulling back to slam forward once more, quickly finding a rhythm that suits him. This isn’t careful, considered lovemaking, they rut against each other like animals, both of them allowing instinct to guide them as they seek out the movements that feel most pleasurable.

She clings tightly to him, meeting him thrust for thrust, their breaths coming in hot, shallow pants.

“Fucking knew this was all you needed,” he mutters, “someone to teach you a lesson, see you for what you really are.”

“Please,” she whimpers, her hands sliding down to his backside to push him in deeper, causing him to groan.

“F–fuck,” he stutters, picking up his pace when he feels her start to tighten around him. “Tell me you’re mine, you don’t need anyone else, just me.”

“‘M yours,” she gasps, pushing her hips against his, zeroing in on the precipice she is about to fall from.

A particularly harsh thrust is the final shove she needs, and white hot waves of euphoria wrack her body, as she cries out in ecstasy. Suddenly, Michael is withdrawing, leaving her to clench around nothing as he paints her inner thigh with sticky warmth.

He collapses beside her, and she stares into the lightly fogged lenses of his glasses, their noses bumping together.

“Are you still going to ruin my life?” She asks, hazy with pleasure.

For the first time, their lips meet, a messy clash of tongue and teeth, that’s sloppy and wet, their breaths still heavy and movements uncontrolled.

“You’re going to let me,” he whispers when they finally break for air, “because you’re mine.” Resistance is futile, she will let him. She wants this, needs this. After all, Michael Gavey is the type of person she came to Oxford to associate with in the first place, and she’s gotten exactly what she asked for.

Part two || Series masterlist

#michael gavey x reader #michael gavey smut #michael gavey imagine #michael gavey x you #michael gavey x y/n #ewan mitchell #michael gavey saltburn #satlburn michael gavey #saltburn #michael gavey fan fiction #michael gavey fanfiction #michael gavey fan fic #michael gavey fanfic #saltburn fanfiction #saltburn fanfic #satlburn fan fiction #satlburn fan fic

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camarocarfight · 1 year ago

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Alastor's Bloody Valentine

Human Alastor x Reader late Valentine's Day special

Rated very mature with sexual content, murder, blood, and gore. Set in the 1930s with human characters. I suppose you could look at this as being a little Alastor back story.

Maybe there'll be a part deux?

It's kinda edited, but I got lazy and lost interest, and I just wanted to finish it. I hope all of you dear readers enjoy!

New Orleans, 1932

There was a chill in the air, carried in on a breeze that whistled through the old willow trees, and rustled their long, spindle-like branches. The trill of grasshoppers and crickets and the occasional screech of a night owl were customary of the bayou. Only interrupted by the nightly steam train, whose whistle echoed for miles until it faded like a whisper. There was no moon - only an ebony sky accompanied by its thousands of starry hosts.

As serene as it all seemed, the bayou was one of the most dangerous places to be in 1932. Not just because of the alligators, snakes, and venomous spiders. The neighboring town was full of talk about the Louisiana serial killer, who lured their victims into the darkness of the bayou to slaughter them, leaving no trace or remains. People simply vanished, though it seemed to be mostly men of diverse age and status. Innocent and not so innocent. The most recent being a younger gentleman who had just gotten married. The papers did fail to mention that he'd nearly beaten his new wife within an inch of her life not long after the wedding, but news traveled fast. He was the thirteenth person to go missing.

With Valentine's Day came the fear of who the next victim would be. Mothers and wives kept tight leashes on their sons and husbands, and the police put in place a mandatory curfew. Temporary police sentinels were stationed on street corners, keeping watch over the streets day and night. Which subsequently made it more difficult to get to and from the only speakeasy in town. The police were happy - killing two birds with one stone.

“Yes, ladies and gentlemen, don't let this curfew get you down. Take your gal out on the town for some swing and make the most out of your Valentine's Day. Ladies, keep your gents close, and stay safe-”

“Y’see,” Mimzy turned the cathedral radio off with a huff and crossed her arms over her voluptuous chest. “This curfew is ruinin’ everything!”

You rolled your eyes and leaned your elbow on the bar and rested your cheek in the palm of your hand. Mimzy had been on a tangent for the last week for having to close the speakeasy. Being that it was in the basement of an old sugar mill, it was too risky to keep it running with the police snooping around. In one night, with the help of Husker, all of the liquor was moved under the cover of darkness to the crawl space of Alastor's hunting cabin deep in the bayou. The liquor would at least be safe if the police felt it necessary to search the sugar mill. The only thing they'd find would be an empty stage and bar.

With no speakeasy, the regular meet and greet for you and all of your friends was the cabin. It was a comfortable space, at least. Alastor had used the extra money he made from his radio show to install new, polished wood floors, a nice bar, and even a loft with a decent sized bed when he would stay for the first week of hunting. It also had a decent kitchen, which was Alastor's favorite feature. As for you, Alastor made sure to give you your own bit of space. In the corner of the main room was a stone fireplace with book shelves flanking either side. The shelves were filled to the brim with books of every genre. Hanging above the fireplace was Alastor’s prized Stag - previously occupied by Alastor’s portrait from when he was in the service. You never did tell him just how creepy you found the stuffed creature. Alastor loved the hunting sport, but you appreciated wildlife as just that; alive.

Mimzy sauntered over from the radio and sat herself on a rickety barstool, her brows pinched. “How am I gonna make money? Who knows how long this whole thing will go on for. And where's Alastor? His show ended an hour ago. His ass better not be dead too.”

You sighed and stood from your barstool to round the bar. There was a bottle of, ironic enough, Red Stag that was already open. It wasn't your first choice, but prohibition made everyone less picky. You poured yourself a generous glass, only for Mimzy to swipe it from you, and gulp it down in one swig. Your eye twitched in irritation as you glared at the woman through your lashes. The relationship between the two of you was decent enough, but as of late, she'd been grating your nerves and testing your patience. Mimzy's flamboyant personality didn’t jive well with your own in an enclosed space. You were more reserved, shy, and softly spoken. Not to mention that the cabin had always been an intimate space for you and Alastor. It didn't seem so intimate now - being that it was now shared space with Mimzy and Husker.

“Would you like another drink before I pour my own,” you asked, your voicing clipped.

Your head was pounding now, with a migraine blooming behind your eyes. The little grin that slid over Mimzy's lips told you that she knew exactly what she was doing.

“Actually, Doll, I would,” she flashed you a grin with her nose wrinkling as she did so. “You're such a good friend,” Mimzy cooed and thrust her empty glass in your face.

Your grip on the bottle of Red Stag was white knuckle, and you opened your mouth to give her a piece of your mind, but the words caught in your throat when the cabin door opened. Both you and Mimzy looked over to see Husker coming through the door with Alastor trailing behind him. Your shoulders visibly deflated when your gaze met Alastor's.

Mimzy put her glass down on the bar and threw her arms up in glee. “Alastor! I'm so glad to see you!”

“And I you,” Alastor grinned. “Thanks for holding down the fort and watching over my darling for me.”

“I don't need a babysitter,” you grumbled and nodded your head at Husker when he gave you a sympathetic smile. “Hey, Husk.”

“Cher,” Husk greeted in that deep, baritone voice.

Alastor laughed boisterously and leaned on the bar in front of you. Upon meeting his gaze, his chocolate brown pools started to melt away all of the tension in your body. It was so easy for you to get lost in his eyes.

“I jest, my dear. Husker here is going to drive Mimzy home, and we are going to celebrate!”

Mimzy quirked a brow and made a sound akin to a high-pitched scoff. “I ain't ready to leave yet. I want to celebrate too! We could have a round of drinks!”

Husk had noticed that you and Alastor had yet to tear apart your gazes and were seeming lost in each other. Alastor flashed you a dazzling smile and leaned over the bar to press a chaste kiss to your lips. That was enough for your cheeks to flush and become a brilliant crimson.

“C'mon,” Husk grabbed Mimzy's fur coat off the coat rack and all but threw it into the woman's face. “Before I drag your ass to the car.”

Mimzy put her coat on in a huff, then fussed over her hair, throwing insults at Husker as she did so.

“Thank you,” you mouthed to Alastor and waved to Mimzy as she was all but pushed out the door by Husker. You could hear her nagging as she walked all the way to the door. “Poor Husker.”

“He'll live,” Alastor hummed and gave you a wink. “Mimzy, however,” he chuckled.

“That would be too good to be true,” you mumbled and grabbed the bottle of Red Stag to pour yourself that long awaited glass. “How was work?”

Alastor set about removing his suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his white dress. Your gaze was drawn to the newly exposed, tan flesh of his forearms. “Same as always, my dear. I'm sure you were listening?”

“Until Mimzy turned the radio off,” You walked into the main sitting area and sat in your favorite rocking chair.

In your left hand was your glass of bourbon that you then took a sip of. From over the brim of the glass, you continued to study your partner as he made himself comfortable. Alastor's bowtie was now untied, and the top button of his dress shirt undone, exposing a delicious expanse of his neck. Being that it was Valentine's Day, you hoped that it meant that Alastor wouldn't mind taking everything farther than usual. The man would tease you here and there, whispering dirty things in your ear, because he knew it riled you up. The act of sex, however, just didn't fit his idealism. Any affection from Alastor would include kissing and touching, maybe heavy petting, but the two of you had only had penetrative sex a handful of times. Each time it happened was mind-blowing, leaving you craving more and waiting on bated breath to feel him the same way again. You could feel yourself beginning to flush just thinking about it - the heat slowly building up in your chest and rising until your cheeks were crimson. At least you could blame it on the bourbon, which you quickly threw back and tore your gaze away from Alastor.

“So,” Alastor sat down on the couch and crossed his legs, and draped his left arm over the back of the couch. “Quiet evening with a shared drink, my darling?”

Honestly, the man was entirely too distracting. It didn't help either that the bourbon was affecting you far sooner than you anticipated. Your mind blanked, seeing Alastor sitting there - sleeves rolled up, bowtie undone, the red vest that matched his trousers that fit him entirely too well. Alastor was your perfect definition of a sex-god that had a distaste for the very thing that you craved. His smoldering gaze and satisfied, closed-mouth grin told you that he knew exactly what kind of effect he had on you.

“Are you alright,” he cocked his head to the side. “You look bothered.”

“You're a tease,” you swallowed.

Alastor’s brows rose in surprise. “Me? I'm just sitting here,” he laughed and beckoned you over with his finger. “Come here, my darling.”

A bolt of red-hot arousal shot right up your spine, and your body moved automatically, seemingly out of your control and under Alastor’s. Alastor moved to uncross his legs and seized you by the hips with his strong hands. You now stood in between his spread thighs, looking down into his brown eyes as he gazed up at you. His lips quirked in a crooked grin, making him look like the cat who got the cream.

“Tell me how I'm a tease,” Alastor whispered huskily.

You brought your hands up to cup his face and ran your left thumb along his bottom lip. “You know what you do to me, Alastor.”

Alastor grinned and wrapped his arms around your waist. “Oh, I'm well aware,” the man's pupils were now blown with his own need. “Would you like me to do something about that?”

Relief flooded you, and you nodded eagerly. By now, the bourbon was really beginning to have an effect on you and how much you needed the man before you. “I've been waiting so long, Alastor.”

“The wait makes it worthwhile,” he growled.

Before your tipsy mind could even comprehend what was happening, Alastor stood, effortlessly hoisting you up by the hips, and bounded towards the spiral staircase of the loft Your arms wrapped around his neck and your legs around his slim waist. Alastor’s arousal was very noticeable against your own pelvis. The heat from his girth radiated through his slacks. When his lips met yours in a fevered kiss, your mind blanked with arousal. Your senses quickly became overwhelmed by his touch, his scent, and his taste as his tongue coaxed your own in a scorching kiss. Alastor eagerly devoured your mouth and every subsequent moan he drew from you. He broke the kiss, nipping at your bottom lip as he did so. His lips then trailed down to the column of your neck where he sank his teeth into the supple flesh. You hissed from the pain and carded your fingers through his brunette hair until you had a handful and tugged, earning a groan from him.

“Fuck it,” Alastor growled and sat you on the steps of the spiral staircase.

Alastor’s hands snaked up your dress to pull your panties down your legs, leaving the silk garment dangling from your left ankle. You gasped when he cupped your dripping sex in his left hand and breathed against the side of your neck.

“I’ll have you right here,” he growled and claimed your mouth once again.

You moaned wontanly into his mouth when he penetrated you with two fingers and curled them against your g-spot. Even though sex was a rare occasion, Alastor had memorized your body from the inside out. Knowing every sensitive spot to kiss, lick, or bite. Alastor groaned and pulled your bottom lip between his teeth and tugged, ripping the most delicious moans from your throat. Each and every sound you made went straight to his cock that was now straining uncomfortably in his slacks. With a tweak of his fingers, Alastor had you coming with his name falling from your lips like the most beautiful prayer.

“Alastor,” you were breathless, chest heaving as you fought to catch your breath. “I need you inside me.”

Alastor’s eyes darkened, and he carefully withdrew his fingers from your quivering sex. “You’ll have me,” he whispered and kissed you chastly.

The sound of Alastor’s belt buckle was like music to your ears, as your body was finally getting the attention that it so badly craved. With your left hand, you reached between you and Alastor and took his now freed, sizeable length in your hand. You bit your lip and looked up at Alastor through your eyelashes. Alastor held your gaze as he guided himself into your tight heat, slowly splitting you open and seating himself inside you. Both of you panted, attempting to adjust to the almost foreign sensation. No, you weren’t a virgin, but Alastor had been your first, and since sex wasn’t a regular occurrence, it took both of you longer to adjust. You, more so than Alastor.

He was thankfully patient, waiting until the pained look on your face was no longer before slowly pulling out and thrusting back into the hilt. The man clenched his teeth painfully and screwed his eyes shut, completely drunk off of the feeling of you fitting around him so perfectly.

You held onto Alastor tightly, with your nails digging into the flesh of his back, even through his dress shirt. Alastor’s hands had your hips in a death grip, and you hoped that you would have bruises left in their place. You wanted Alastor to claim you - mark you - so that everyone knew you belonged to him.

“Come inside me, Alastor,” the words fell from your lips in a pathetic whimper before you even realised what you said.

The look Alastor gave you startled you, and his hips stuttered to a pause. You stared into each other’s eyes for what felt like an eternity, Alastor’s eyes searching your own as if looking for truth behind that request. You feared your moment of intimacy with Alastor was ruined until he started moving once more. This time, he moved slower, taking his time pulling all of the way out and sinking back into you. He continued to hold your gaze and leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead.

“Is that what you want,” Alastor asked, but it was barely above a whisper. “To be mine, forever?”

Of course it’s what you wanted. Alastor had been your first, and you wanted no one else. It was difficult for you to imagine your life any different. You would be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about starting a family with Alastor. You brought your hands up to Alastor’s face and looked into those chocolate pools.

“Make me yours, forever, Alastor.”

~~~

You awoke the next morning, nestled in the king-sized bed of the loft alone. Alastor was nowhere to be found, with his side of the bed neatly made. Between your legs was an ache and a stickiness in the inside of your thighs that served as a reminder of the previous night's activities. What little bourbon you had, had also left you with a slight headache that settled over your temples. Coffee would be a good fix, and you wondered why you hadn't smelled it perking if Alastor had already been up.

There was a fire going in the fireplace when you made your way down the staircase, confirming that Alastor was around, but nowhere to be seen. You thought nothing of it and went over to the kitchenette to get coffee perking and breakfast ready for whenever Alastor returned.

You sat down in your rocking chair by the fireplace when the coffee was ready to enjoy your cup. The chair rocked rhythmically on the hardwood floor, nearly lulling you to sleep until you heard a god awful noise coming from the crawlspace under the cabin. Your first thought was that a stranger or the police had found the liquor stash, and you bolted out of the chair to get the pistol hidden among your books.

The door to the crawlspace was in the kitchenette and was flung open, revealing a blood covered Alastor. The man looked up at you with blood splattered across his face and chest, staining his white dress shirt. There was enough blood that you couldn't tell if it was coming from Alastor or not.

You dropped the pistol that was in your hands and rushed over to him, and hooked your arms around his arm. “A-alastor, what the hell? Are you-”

“It's fine!” He laughed and looked down at you with a grin. “It's not mine.”

Your eyes widened, and you took a tentative step away from him and shook your head. “Then, whose is it?”

Alastor ignored your question and casually walked over to the pot of coffee on the stove. He poured himself a mug, all the while humming a song with that same grin on his face.

“Alastor,” you demanded. “You're scaring the hell out of me.”

“I'm sorry,” he put his coffee mug on the counter and turned back to you. “This,” he pointed to his stained shirt. “Is just the latest victim.”

“The latest…,” you paled, with the details finally coming together. “You're him.”

Alastor flashed you that dazzling grin and opened a drawer next to the stove. Without even looking, Alastor pulled a massive knife out and studied it.

“Did you know, my darling, that in order to inflict a fatal wound, you need at least fifteen inches of penetration?”

“Please put the knife do-”

You gasped. Before you could even react, Alastor lunged forward, plunging the knife deep in your abdomen. He stood in front of you, holding the blade in place with his smile never faltering. Pain blossomed throughout your body, and you began to choke on the blood that bubbled up through your throat. You coughed and watched the blood mixed sputum splatter across Alastor’s already stained shirt. Tears fell freely from your eyes, staining your cheeks, and your trembling hands grabbed onto Alastor’s arm that still held the knife inside you.

Blinking up at Alastor through your tears, you saw no remorse on his face. Just that twisted grin that you had fallen in love with so many years ago.

“You should know I'm too much like my father to have children,” Alastor said darkly. “That's a risk I cannot take.”

Alastor pulled the knife out of your abdomen and stepped back as you crumpled to the floor on your knees. The pain was white-hot, but it was nothing compared to that of your broken heart. Your body screamed for his closeness and wanted to hate him for everything. Even after the previous night, after telling you he would be with you forever. In an attempt to stop the bleeding, you held pressure on the wound, but you knew it was no use. You were dying. At the hands of your lover.

“It won't be long, my love,” Alastor got down on one knee and brushed your hair out of your face. “I'm sorry I had to do this.”

“F-fuck you,” you gasped and choked.

Your vision was beginning to fade in and out, along with your hearing. The weight of your body suddenly became too much and you fell to your side. Before your head hit the floor, Alastor had caught you and laid you down gently. The last sensation you felt, other than the pain, was Alastor kissing you. It was a passionate kiss, similar to that of the kiss you shared while making love. He didn't care about the blood that pooled from your mouth, but seemed to enjoy it more than anything. When he broke the kiss, you met his gaze, struggling to keep your eyes open.

“I'll see you in hell,” you spit, using every ounce of energy you had left before going still.

Alastor smiled down at your now lifeless body and ran his fingers through your hair. A single tear ran down his cheek, and his smile grew into a grin.

“It's a date.”

Part Two

#alastor x you #alastor x reader #human alastor #hazbin hotel #alastor #hazbin hotel x reader

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hellishjoel · 1 year ago

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he with the dark curls, you with the watercolor eyes

883 words / drabble main masterlist | notifications blog | ko-fi

summary: you've fallen in love with the man with the dark curls who makes your coastal life with him idyllic warnings/information: MA 18+ (minors DNI), food consumption, reader is has no physical description, brief smut, frankie fluff

a/n: I have no idea what this writing style is, but it was fun! banners by @cafekitsune <3

frankie has always been a man who 'doesn't need much' he tells you this every birthday, every christmas, every anniversary he's happy with what's in front of him that includes his cottage on the water, his big dogs, and, of course, you there's nothing more he needs than waking up with your warm body curled into his side your features softened with sleep, your arm outstretched along his tan torso wedding ring wrapped around your pretty finger

he'll lean over and kiss the crown of your head before blindly reaching to his side table where dirty coffee mugs and half-read books pile up your portrait eyes meet his own honeyed amber once the dogs join the fray, jumping onto the bed and loving licking your sleepy faces, you're both as awake as you'll ever be if it's not raining and not too cold, you'll both sit on the bench at the end of the pier, wrapped up in a slate gray wool blanket as you drink a coffee in a spirited mood, frankie will fish the moody water ripples upon the hook plopping into the cobalt water frankie tugs the bait along until he feels a subtle drag before you know it, you're fondly smiling as he reacts to catching a fish as if it's his first time leashed up and wiggling with excitement, you walk the dogs along the water their noses are glued to the ground, snorting and sniffing with curiosity your boots dig into the ground and slosh with each step the dirt is still loose and wet from the recent rain that's come through you make small talk and capture pictures of your life to send back to your family and friends leaving home was difficult at first, but your coastal life has been such a dream and with frankie, you've come to realize you've never needed much else for dinner, frankie cooks the fish he caught earlier in the day you're his sous chef, working in your quaint kitchen with fuzzy slippers on, candles lit and glowing the somber home to an orange, flickering haze the dogs lay tiredly on the rug, and watch with sleep-happy eyes the cast iron skillet sizzles upon frankie flipping the fish while you work on the sides of mashed potatoes and asparagus your kisses grow lazy and sweet by the end of the night the silver moon dances across the midnight water, lighting your bedroom in a pale pearly film frankie kicks the bedroom door closed with his boot blindly, his pretty mouth smirking he always touches you like a delicate petal at first, anyway he likes to feel your skin, his palm attaching to your hip under your shirt as he walks you backward toward bed you let out a silken moan as frankie's lips work their way down to the column of your throat his teeth graze the soft skin that grows goosebumps in his wake his stubble scratches and it's just yet another reminder of how perfect he feels without trying your body has become his home being his home has become your sanctuary his hips bracket between your pretty thighs he thrusts languidly in rhythm with your heartbeat the drag of his thick cock causes your back to arch he traps you with his thick arms, your hand clutching to his bicep blinded by pleasure, frankie moans sweet nothings in your ear he whispers how much he loves you how perfect you are how amazing you feel how dedicated he is to you how happy you make him how much he loves you, again your fingers weave into his nest of dark curls, loosening the hat hair from earlier in the day his actions cause sweat to glimmer across your skin bodies glittering like the waves under a full moon the coil in your stomach is close to snapping your pleas and moans for him to finish inside of you sweetly echo in his ears he groans, feeling so lucky to have someone to spill into someone to make his own and paint in his name you reach the edge of the universe together shaking, clenching, squeezing, crying, kissing

frankie brings you back with gentle kisses, breath lost in your lungs, now retrieved you can't help but smile as he presses his forehead against your own, pulling the bedsheets up to your chest he coasts his fingers along your body mindlessly memorizing the curves, slopes, and dips like a beautiful map to his favorite place lips meet, hands hold, noses nuzzle, I love you's exchanged more than once it's a sweet mantra at this point to tell someone you love them this much, yet the meaning only grows stronger despite sharing the same three words and eight letters over, over, and over again it only heightens the sentiment frankie is reminded that he doesn't need much what else could he ask for when this is his life? how much more perfect could this get? there was no waiting to win the lottery waiting for a big, well-deserved raise waiting for his life to feel complete

because at the end of it all when summers burn and the days are long he feels grateful to spend them with you he with the dark curls, you with the watercolor eyes

#frankie morales #frankie morales x you #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales smut #frankie morales x reader #fuck yeah frankie #francisco morales #catfish morales #triple frontier #triple frontier fanfiction #frankie catfish morales #francisco catfish morales #pedro pascal #frankie morales x f!reader #francisco morales smut #frankie morales fluff

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meatball-headache · 5 months ago

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Do I, though?

Oh. I can't wear it. What a surprise.

Hang on, let me check something real quick...

It's been more than five years and SE still can't figure out how to put hats on Viera. Not only that, but it's been five years and they're still making new hats that Viera can't wear. What is this? Laziness? Incompetence? Or is it just too technically difficult to make a hat that Viera can wea—

Oh, okay. Well, the Light-heavy hood I can at least wear, even though it deletes my ears. I guess there's some deep, inherent conflict that makes it impossible to have ears and a hat at the same ti—

Oh! Well, would you look at that. It's the Bozjan Hood of Fending, a hat that not only can Viera wear, but it has ears! So, clearly there's no technical limitation, it can be done. So why don't they?

Why fucking don't you, Yoshi?

This steams my onion on the daily. Viera have been out for five years and they still can't be bothered to make compatible hats for them. It's just laziness, because it's not like it's impossible, it's not like they can't figure it out, there are hats in-game that support ears! And, even better—there are mods that do it for ALL hats!

Yeah, two seconds on Google and I found like four mods that fixes ALL hats for Viera and Hrothgar. Something so impossible and technically challenging that SE hasn't been able to figure out how to do it in five years. The first versions of the mods were around 2021, two years after the races came out—so fans, who do this stuff in their free time, were able to figure out how to do it in two years, while SE, who's in the Guinness Book of World Records for the longest video game credits, can't hire a full-time staffer to take care of it in five years?

What's really unacceptable, however, is when they add new real-money outfits that come with hats that Viera can't wear. They make a brand new outfit, charge real money for it, and then have the absolute gall to say "Oh yeah, it doesn't display for you. Fantasia is only $10 though!"

(I also think every game should let you remodel your character completely for free whenever you want. But, since people want that, they monetize it, so the shareholders will be pleased. But that's another discussion.)

I'd get the mod, but I don't use any mods, and I kinda like being "pure," judge me however you want—but, no one else would see me the way I see me, so it's half pointless. I'd create a cool character and they'd see something half complete... it bothers me enough wondering what people think about me when I at least know my portrait looks the same. But every day I lean closer to saying, fuck it, I paid for this game, it's mine to do with as I please.

Is there a mod that changes emotes? I always wanted the Shiva one :p

</rant>

#ffxiv

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blackbirdi · 1 year ago

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One-Sided

Brief Description: The pains of being in love with your friend are bad, but the pains of said friend not liking you back are worse.

Point of View: 1st person

Word Count: 2155

Character: Sirius Black x Reader

House: Gryffindor

Year: Sixth Year

Prompt:

Sitting in the surprisingly empty common room, I stared at the textbook sitting on my lap. At one point it felt like I was going cross eyed from how long I was staring at the properties of whatever kind of ingredients for whatever kind of potion we were going to be making in class next week.

At this point in my studying I didn't even know what I was reading, just hoping that someone would appear out of thin air and save me from this painful reading.

"That was so incredibly stupid of you lot," a familiar voice growls from the portrait hole.

My eyes finally leave the textbook on my lap for the first time in what felt like days to see what Remus was talking about.

Remus, who was the one snapping at the rest of the Marauders walks over to me and collapses on the floor right in front of my feet. I watch as the other Marauders climb through the portrait hole - my eyes lingering a bit too long on one of the boys - before I glance back down at Remus.

"Why are you on the floor, Moony?" I ask inquisitively, shoving my textbook into my bookbag as my prayers for a distraction have finally been answered.

Remus looks up at me, giving me a lazy grin before he rolls onto his stomach and rests his head on his arms.

"Well, well, well, what have we here?" Sirius saunters over, smirking over at me. "What's a beautiful lady such as yourself sitting along in the common room for, L/n?"

"Studying, Black," I answer, grinning up at him. "I don't suppose you know what that means."

Sirius tosses his head back and laughs, playfully kicking my shin as he sits down next to me and throws his arm over my shoulder, bringing me close to his body. My face heats up at the contact, I can see Remus, James, and Peter smirking at me. They all know about my feelings for Sirius, apparently my feelings for Sirius can be spotted from a mile away, according to the other three Marauders.

"This is why I like you, Y/n," he announces, his words causing my heart to do backflips. "You have a witty response for everything."

"Mhm," I hum in response, glaring at the rest of the Marauders as they smirk knowingly over at Sirius and I.

"So can I ask what you lot were doing that had Remus calling you stupid?" I question, wriggling myself out of Sirius's grasp, knowing that my face would only get redder if he held me like that longer.

"I didn't say they were stupid," Remus corrects me, rolling his eyes as he crosses his arms over his chest, looking disapprovingly at the others. "I said what they did was stupid."

Around me, Peter, James, and Sirius snicker, clearly thinking about what they had done to get Remus so upset with them.

"Then what did they do?" I ask, exaggerating my annoyance with Remus correcting me.

Remus grins at your annoyance, pushing himself up from his position on the floor to sit up and say, "I think that's private information, Y/n. I'm afraid I'll have to keep that to myself."

I roll my eyes at Remus's secrecy, grumbling, "Dick," under my breath as I cross my arms and lean back against the couch.

In response to my obvious annoyance, Remus throws his head back and laughs; the others join in with their own chuckles. Sirius slings his arms over my shoulders again, pulling my body to press against his side.

"Ah, don't be like that, love," he mutters, her voice full of amusement. "Moony is just playing with you. No need to get all cranky."

Trying to stop the blush from rising to my cheeks and calling me out, I attempt to push myself out of Sirius's hold, mumbling, "Don't treat me like a child, Pads, I have a reputation to uphold."

Sirius just laughs at my resistance and words, his arms around me tightening and pulling me closer. "You're so cute, L/n, you know that?"

My resistance to Sirius's embrace falls as I hide my face against his chest so that none of the Marauders see just how red my cheeks are.

"Fuck you," I respond.

Sirius just laughs again, pressing a kiss to my hairline.

———————————

"L/n!" a voice calls my name as I study at one of the tables hidden in a corner in the library.

I lift my head, immediately rolling my eyes as I spot Sirius - and Madam Pince sending him a nasty glare.

"Keep quiet!" I demand with a hiss, moving over to make room from Sirius at the table. "Are you trying to get me kicked out of here or something?

Sirius plops down in the seat beside me, smirking over at me as I snap at him. He leans back in the chair, an arm thrown over the back of it as he gives me one of his sexy half-grins.

"I only came here for one thing, and one thing only, Y/n," he informs me.

Deciding to humour him (and set aside my book for the meantime) I ask, "And what's that, Black?"

Sirius throws a red piece of cloth on the table; I hadn't realized he was holding anything until now.

"What's that?" I ask, nodding my head towards the material.

"My jersey," Sirius answers, pride evident in his voice as he tilts his grin turns haughty.

One of my eyebrows raise in confusion, I look at Sirius in question. "Okay...?" I reply slowly, hoping he gives me more of an explanation for why he just tossed his Quidditch jersey onto the table in front of us.

"I need you to wear that on Saturday," Sirius informs me, pushing the jersey towards me.

My eyes widen at his request - or demand, however you take it - and an unwanted shade of red invades my cheeks.

"Wh-what? Why?" I ask, cursing myself internally as I stutter to ask him a simple question.

Whenever I have a girl wear my jersey to one of my Quidditch matches, I always play better," Sirius explains, nudging his jersey closer to me again. "I thought of you on the stands in every game I play - which I thank you for, love - and I thought 'Hey, why not get Y/n to wear your jersey?' ya know? I think it would be perfect." He pauses for a moment before adding with a cheeky wink, "And you'll look good while wearing it."

My cheeks heat up further to the point where I feel like I'm practically glowing red.

"Geez, Siri, I don't know," I mumble, looking down at the book I was reading to hide my red cheeks. "Don't you want one of your little girlfriends to wear it instead?" I retort, my voice showing just how obviously jealous I was of every girl that Sirius sleeps with.

If Sirius saw (or heard) my jealous, he didn't show that he did.

"Oh, come on, Y/n/n, I want you to wear it. Pleaseeeee?" he begs, giving me his best puppy dog eyes, which he knows I can't say no to.

I'm torn, genuinely torn. Do I wear Sirius's jersey, make him happy, and have my heart beat furiously against my chest for the whole match because I'm wearing Sirius's jersey? Or do I not wear it, disappoint Sirius, and watch him give it to some other girl and have jealousy pool in my stomach for the whole match?

I know that I'm leaning towards 'wear the jersey' but if I do I'm just feeding into my delusions that Sirius likes me back? Am I the first one he came to? Does he want me to wear it because he wants to see me wear his jersey? Or does he just want a girl to wear it and everyone else he asked said no?

Sighing, I finally answer him, "Okay. I'll wear it."

A large smile breaks across Sirius's face and he throws his arms around me, bringing me into an embrace.

Red blooms across my face, I'm thankful that my face is pressed against his shoulder so he can't see just how red I am just from him hugging me.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," he chants, bubbling with joy.

"Yeah, yeah," I reply, trying to downplay it, because truthfully, I don't understand why he's so excited for me to wear his jersey. "It's nothing, Sirius. It's just a jersey."

"But it's my jersey," Sirius replies, releasing me from his grasp. "And you're wearing it."

I roll my eyes playfully at him, unable to hide my grin as I do so. I grab the jersey form the table in front of me, holding it close to my chest as I look over at Sirius and ask, "Anything else you need, Black?"

With a smirk, Sirius answers, "No, I think I got everything. Thank you, love."

"Mhm," I hum, looking back down at my book. My hair falls in front of my face, hiding my red cheeks from Sirius. "See you around then."

"See you around," Sirius echos, standing up from the chair. He playfully ruffles my hair before walking away.

When he disappears around the corner I straighten my hair before I look down at the jersey in my arms, those same mixed emotions swirling in my chest.

———————————

"I don't know why I agreed to do this," I grumble, watching the figures of red and blue fly across the Quittich pitch.

"What are you talking about?" Remus asks at my side, looking away from the players and over to me. "You love Quidditch; you literally watch every game, even in Gryffindor isn't one of the teams competing."

I sigh, looking down at Sirius's jersey that envelopes my body.

"I meant wearing Sirius's jersey," I mumble, glancing over at Remus before looking back to the players.

Remus's attention is still on me, his eyes burn a hole in the side of my head as he stares at me. It kinda feels like he's trying to read my mind, to understand why I was so upset about wearing someone's jersey, especially if it's someone I like.

"And that's a bad things because...?"

"Because, Remus, it-it just makes me feel like-like he likes me," I admit, cringing at my own words. "And I know he doesn't like me, so I'm just feeding my own delusions that he wanted me to wear his jersey because he likes me."

Remus doesn't say anything, which I thank him for because I'm currently so goddamn embarrassed by my own admittance.

I try to refocus back on the game, but everything on my mind weighs down the joy of our eventual win against Ravenclaw.

"I think I'm gonna go back to my dorm," I inform Remus as the crowd stands up to cheer for Gryffindor. "I'm tired."

"Aren't you going to come to the party?" Remus asks me, the victorious smile on his face disappearing as he hears my words. Concern takes over his face, his eyebrows knitted together as he tries to dig deeper and find out if there's something more going on. "We always have a party when we win. Don't you want to celebrate with the rest of us?"

"Not tonight, Rem," I mumble, taking a few steps towards the stairs to get me down the stands. "I'm tired. I just want to go to sleep. Besides, there's parties every damn week in Gryffindor tower, I'll go next time. Tell James and Sirius 'congrats' for me, alright?"

"Yeah," Remus replies, looking down at the huddle of red on the field as they celebrate their win. "I will."

"Thanks, Rem. Have fun at the party."

----------------------

Sirius's POV

Looking up at the crowd that herds towards the team and I to congratulate us on our win, I look around for Y/n. I spot Remus, expecting Y/n to be right behind him, but when I don't see her my eyebrows furrow in confusion.

"Where's Y/n?" I ask him, when he gets close enough that I don't have to shout for him to hear me.

"She went back to her dorm," Remus answers. "Some bullshit excuse about being tired."

James walks over to the two of us, his own confusion showing on his face as hears Remus.

"Do you have any idea why she actually went back?" James questions.

Remus stares at James for a long moment, looking like he was trying to explain with his eyes but after a long moment just shrugs.

"I'm sure she'll be fine tomorrow morning," he says. "Let's just go enjoy the party, yeah?"

"Yeah, okay," I mutters, looking down at my feet in disappointment.

Usually after every game, whether we won or lost, Y/n would greet me with a smile and hug, and everything felt wrong without it.

part II up now!

#sirius black #sirius black x reader #sirius black x you #sirius black x y/n #marauders era #padfoot #one sided love #one sided crush #one sided feelings #sirius black fanfiction #sirius black imagine

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hellwantfuckme · 1 year ago

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warm it until it fades

summary: azriel makes you company while you're feeling lonely

author's note: I just wanted to write something, idc this is lazy or (and) short.

Your life was neither lonely nor sad. You had plenty of friends, all with generally lively personalities, generally fun. And you had a steady job, a stable home, something you were still getting used to having, generous income with which you even had enough to spend on books, dresses, creams, and the kind of expensive things you hadn't expected to put a finger on again.

But when you sat on the wide sofa in your apartment, you realized that even though logic, which was an important pillar in your life, claimed that you had a good life, you didn't feel that way. When you sat, with nothing else to do on a Saturday night but to read, you felt alone, and you felt sad.

And it was perhaps partly your fault.

You had a family. You had once had a family. One too complicated, one too hard. The image of the perfect family, the roses that decorated the edges of family portraits, it had drowned you. No. Rather, you had been drowned by the thorns of the roses, which had pierced your skin too deeply, which had made you bleed too much. Two very rich nobles of the Spring Court, powerful and influential, had been your parents. But your mother had lost her mind years ago, and your father struggled to stay afloat in a brutal society. And all that was your being and your power, your brightness and personality, had been subsumed thanks to your parents. What they had made of you. And you had been a rebellious teenager and had fought to keep what was yours by birth, what they were not supposed to take from you.

They still took it from your hands.

You had been friends with the High Lord of the Night Court long before you had even met the one who was now the High Lady of the Night Court, and both, at different times and situations, had offered you shelter here. If you ever felt brave enough, if you were ever in danger.

And as soon as you had the chance to escape, when you realized it was you or them, you chose yourself. And you chose your peace.

And you still preferred to be in your half-decorated, quiet and peaceful apartment, alone, than in a mansion full of screams and chaos, accompanied.

You had little else to do, other than to try to ignore the emptiness in your chest. An emptiness that ironically felt more than any emotion. A good book and a quiet afternoon usually did the trick of making you forget it. Although they never truly made you forget it, right? There was always a bitter taste in your mouth when you murmured the words you read, it was always there.

The huge balcony doors of the living room were wide open. There were no curtains covering the wonderful views or preventing a gentle fresh summer breeze, carrying the smell of sea salt and the sound of the happy streets of Velaris, from coming in. In the middle of summer, keeping them closed seemed suffocating to you.

You heard a flutter outside, getting closer and closer. You recognized it immediately, and unable to help it, the corners of your mouth curved upwards just slightly, foolishly. And your body sank deeper into the sofa as you looked away from your book, a warmth filling your chest.

You heard the clean landing of Ilyrio inside your home through the balcony. You still wondered how he did it so easily, smoothly. Every time you tried to see it happen, it happened too quickly to catch anything. You only knew that it was Azriel's favorite way to come in.

And you didn't think about closing them, in case he took that as a closed door. Although being his way of entering, it would indeed be a closed door.

You didn't look up from the book in your hands, although in reality your heart raced when you felt it rather than heard it, walk towards you. And stand right behind, powerful, looking over your shoulder at your book. He scanned the ink-written letters. His scent reached you, wrapping around you like a blanket. From now on you knew that his scent persisted when he was gone, you would pretend not to, but you loved it. As if you weren't really so alone.

"Nothing obscene this time?" Azriel asked, the gentle teasing in his tone very obvious, and you could feel him raising an eyebrow.

The last time, he caught you reading the most intense obscene work you had ever owned. And you blushed like an idiot and felt embarrassed. You wouldn't have normally, in fact, you wouldn't have minded anyone catching you reading such things. But it caught you off guard, because Azriel had read the whole chapter while standing behind you without you noticing, and it had been dirty. Very.

This time you did look at him, with a frown, and let him know that it wasn't funny.

Raising your head and stretching your neck to look at him, from your seated position.

Azriel's features softened, and you couldn't help but notice. The way the tension left him.

"So funny, Azriel," you murmured. He gave you a smirk that made you dizzy, as if to say "indeed."

He moved, walking over to sit next to you on the couch. His side of the couch. Which was already slightly sunken with his weight and the times and hours he had spent there.

He leaned in, taking the book from your hands and placing it on the coffee table. You frowned, ready to retort, when he grabbed your wrists and in a quick maneuver, placed you on his lap. Your knees on either side of his hips, and his face incredibly close to your own. His scarred hands held each of your wrists firmly, but carefully, in the same way he was careful when he touched you, incredibly aware of his scars.

Your heart pounded, and you felt the blood rush to your face very fast, intensely.

The corners of his lips curved up as his hazel eyes caught the red tint in your skin, those dangerously sensual lips that seemed to be having a lot of fun. You recognized the way his eyes sparkled and his features lit up, as always when he did one of these things. Cornering you against the kitchen counter, placing both hands on your waist to move you out of his way and keeping them there longer than would be a casual touch, leaning in to whisper something in your ear with a hand on your hip as if to keep you from moving away.

He had found out too quickly, as was to be expected considering he was the Spymaster of the Court for a reason, that the color only rose to your cheeks if he touched you, if he got too close. And you had thought that he would follow his usual pattern, because he was not exceptionally known for being very touchy.

He was more than willing to ignore the way he couldn't help thinking about how ugly his hands looked against your impeccable, smooth skin, to see that precious color in your cheeks. To see your brown eyes open in surprise.

His grip on your wrists tightened a little, to test the waters. Your heart hammered against your chest, as if it wanted to come out of its place.

His eyes made their way down, as if they could see where your heart was beating wildly.

"Nervous, troublemaker?"

If you had been in another situation, you would have rolled your eyes at the nickname. You just swallowed, and his hazel eyes followed the movement of your throat. They stopped on your tender skin for a moment, two. A longing glow appeared, and he leaned a little, just a little, as if he wanted to see how you reacted, if you moved away.

"No," you lied. Although it was damn obvious that it was.

Azriel licked his lips, his eyes met yours. He still held your wrists, still was very close. And he leaned in more.

You felt your breath catch in your throat as Azriel's face was damn close to your neck. You felt his lips sweep the skin there, and your head tilted a little, giving more space.

His lips pressed against your skin, soft and warm. Just above your pulse. You let out a breath, a sigh that you didn't know you had been holding. You felt him freeze for a second, but the next kiss he gave on your neck was firmer. Following the line of your pulse.

He pulled away, leaned back. You immediately missed the warmth on your skin, you wanted to feel it again, you wanted his lips again.

But it was his gaze that you found instead. A look that held an emotion, a promise.

And you believed it. You believed that promise that was nothing more than a silent understanding between you and him. You believed that he could make the hollow in your chest disappear. Warm it until it faded.

#acotar #acotar fanfic #azriel #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x reader #acotar fanfiction #azriel fluff #azriel x reader fluff #acotar x you #azriel x you #azriel x you fluff

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sadv1bez · 10 months ago

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Yippee! Here's my finished piece for @archie-sunshine KF contest!! This took so long, but I did it, my god. I had originally planned to make another smaller part where Optimus's face is shown staring up at the glass, but I fear I'm too lazy for that.

Here's two different alt versions too! One with lyrics from "What was I made for?" by Billie Eilish & another where we can see the glass better.

I really tried to focus on how Optimus is just a depressed dude. The stained glass is a younger portrait of him and on top of it, it was clearly modeled to make him seem "almighty." To seem powerful. But Optimus can only stare up at it in numbness because he never felt almighty, he never felt powerful, he can barely remember a time where he didn't constantly feel stressed. He's frustrated. He's frustrated that he's always stressed. He's frustrated he was given a role that he didn't want. He's frustrated that even after the war ending, he still stresses and he cares too much of the others around him. Such as giving Rodimus full control, he knows having the Matrix is a stressful job and struggles to give it up, not because he wants it. But he fears and worries how it would affect him. So it leaves him depressed, wandering away from the stained glass to sit at his desk and work away as he always does.

#transformers #knightformers #my art #optimus prime #kf fanart contest #kf fanart #maccadams #maccadam #i fear im really crazy about Optimus #i could write a whole fic on just this

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g1rlsp1ckins · 3 months ago

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🍵 + ☕️ + 🍹 for the shifting ask game !

𝓢HIFTING 𝓐SK ✶ 𝓖AME

gonna do this ask game for my modern marauders dr!!

🍵 strawberry matcha . . . what scents remind you of your relationship? maybe this is a perfume or cologne your lover wears, a candle scent that reminds you of the soothing energy you feel around them, or an essential oil you spritz on your pillow before shifting.

- for this question, it reminds me of amortentia, so I'm going to talk about what i believe their amortentia smells like

˗ˏˋ Regulus Black’s Amortentia is a portrait of quiet mystery, each note unveiling a piece of his soul. The cool, invigorating breath of eucalyptus speaks of his composed exterior, sharp and untouchable, while the dark, velvety sweetness of black currant lingers—a hidden ache, a secret fire. Sandalwood weaves through, warm and grounding, a timeless elegance steeped in tradition. Yet, beneath it all lies the faint, familiar trace of a worn Quidditch jersey, a whisper of youth, mischief, and fleeting freedom. It is a scent both sharp and tender, cloaked in shadows yet endlessly compelling, like the boy it belongs to. ˎˊ˗

˗ˏˋ James Potter’s Amortentia is a symphony of scents, each note a reflection of his soul. The crisp breath of fresh spring air carries the promise of freedom, entwined with the rich, grounding warmth of cedarwood and the soft, worn leather of his trusted Quidditch gloves. Clean cotton lingers, a quiet whisper of comfort and care, while the bright zest of citrus dances like sunlight through leaves, sharp and full of life. Beneath it all lies the faint, familiar tang of broom polish, a secret ode to endless skies and dreams of flight. It is a fragrance bold, untamed, and unforgettable—just like him. ˎˊ˗

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☕️ hot chocolate . . . what does the winter season look like for you two? are you two the type to stay cozy inside and order takeout, or would you rather go for a walk in the snow ? do you celebrate any holidays, birthdays, or anniversaries together during winter?

˗ˏˋ Winter for Florence, Regulus, and James was a season of contrast—equal parts chaotic adventure and quiet intimacy, depending on their mood and whose idea won out that day. The three had a rhythm, balancing James’s relentless energy, Florence’s need for comfort, and Regulus’s fondness for quieter, meaningful traditions.

---

Snowy Adventures and Quiet Nights In

James was always the first to insist on going outside, dragging Florence and Regulus into the snow for impromptu Quidditch matches, snowball fights, or midnight walks through frost-covered fields. He had a knack for making even the simplest outing feel magical. Florence would usually groan and protest, but she secretly loved the way James’s childlike enthusiasm made her forget the cold. Regulus, on the other hand, would roll his eyes at James’s insistence but still end up trudging along, a scarf wrapped neatly around his neck, muttering about how reckless it was to be out in the freezing weather. Inevitably, James would charm Regulus into a snowball fight or convince him to skate on a frozen lake, and Regulus, despite himself, would find moments of joy in the chaos.

On other days, when the cold felt too biting or James’s energy waned, they’d stay inside. Florence would throw on an oversized sweater and curl up with a guitar, softly strumming as Regulus read beside her, his feet tucked under a blanket. James, of course, couldn’t sit still for long—he’d be in the kitchen trying to make hot chocolate (and inevitably burning it), or sprawled across the floor attempting to beat Regulus at chess. They’d argue, Florence would laugh, and the night would end with the three of them tangled together on the sofa, sharing blankets and trading lazy stories.

---

Holidays and Anniversaries

Winter was also a season of celebration for the trio. They always made a point of spending Christmas together, even if it meant sneaking Regulus away from his family obligations. Their Christmases were messy and unconventional—Florence would drag them out to a Muggle tree farm to pick the most absurdly tall Christmas tree, James would insist on decorating it with magic, and Regulus, ever the perfectionist, would spend hours fixing their chaotic handiwork. They exchanged gifts that were equal parts thoughtful and ridiculous: Regulus would gift Florence rare, vintage records he’d tracked down in obscure shops, James would give Regulus enchanted Quidditch gear, and Florence would crochet them matching scarves in their respective house colors (even if James teased her for the uneven stitching).

New Year’s was another shared tradition. James and Florence would somehow convince Regulus to attend whatever wild party he and Sirius had planned, but when the clock struck midnight, it was always just the three of them—standing on a balcony or huddled by the fire, toasting with stolen champagne and laughing about the past year.

---

Winter for them was a mix of tradition and spontaneity—a season of snowflakes and scarves, laughter, and love. It wasn’t perfect, but it was theirs, full of memories they carried with them long after the snow melted.

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🍹 margarita . . . what do summers look like for you + your s/o? are you two the type to lounge in front of a pool, or do you prefer to be at the beach? would they play mermaids with you in the sea, or would they rather collect seashells with you as you walk along the shoreline? what would a “beach episode” in your lives look like?

˗ˏˋ Summers for Florence, Regulus, and James were filled with sunlit chaos, late-night adventures, and the kind of warmth that came from having found each other. Where winter brought moments of quiet reflection and cozy nights, summer was their time to let loose and live in the moment.

---

Road Trips and Escapes

Florence had an old, beat-up Muggle car that barely ran, but she insisted on driving it anyway, blasting music from the crackling radio. James would sit in the passenger seat, hanging out the window with his sunglasses on, shouting directions as Florence rolled her eyes and ignored him. Regulus, who’d never even been in a Muggle car before, would sit in the back seat, arms crossed and quietly judging the state of the vehicle. Despite his protests about the lack of air conditioning and how “this car is an absolute death trap,” he couldn’t help but enjoy the freedom it brought.

They’d take off with no particular destination in mind—stopping at tiny cafes in forgotten towns, swimming in secluded lakes, and staying up until sunrise, lying on blankets in open fields to stargaze. James would try to drag them into every ridiculous roadside attraction, while Regulus would find the charm in places that surprised even him. Florence was the glue, balancing their extremes, taking Polaroids of James posing like an idiot and Regulus looking unintentionally beautiful in the golden light.

---

Beach Days and Bonfires

On especially hot days, they’d escape to the coast. James would be the first in the water, cannonballing in and splashing Florence and Regulus until they finally joined him. Florence loved the ocean—she’d paddle out just far enough to feel the waves’ pull, hair damp and salty, laughing as James tried to pull off some ridiculous underwater stunt. Regulus, true to form, preferred to sit on the shore with a book, occasionally glancing up to make sure neither of them drowned. But even he couldn’t resist when Florence dragged him in, her hand clasping his wrist as she grinned and promised, “It’s not that bad, Reg.”

When the sun went down, they’d build bonfires on the sand. Florence would bring her guitar, strumming softly while James roasted marshmallows (and inevitably set them on fire). Regulus would sit close enough to feel the warmth, watching the flames dance and letting himself relax in a way he never could anywhere else. They’d trade stories, teasing each other endlessly, until the fire burned low and they dozed off under the stars.

---

Lazy Days and Small Moments

Not every day was an adventure. Some days were spent lounging in the Lupin family’s garden, Florence sprawled in the shade of an old tree while James tried (and failed) to teach Regulus how to throw a Muggle frisbee. Other afternoons, they’d sneak into Sirius’s flat, where James and Florence would make a mess of the kitchen trying to cook, and Regulus would sip iced tea and pretend not to be amused by their antics.

---

Celebrations and Milestones

Summers were also a time for birthdays and milestones. With Florence and Regulus's birthdays so close, the days in between often became a blend of shared moments. On June 23rd or 24th, they’d hold an unofficial “in-between day” celebration—a mix of Florence’s chaos and Regulus’s elegance. It usually involves something spontaneous, like a bonfire by the sea or a road trip to a little-known village. These in-between days were carefree and lighthearted, a way for them to bask in the simplicity of summer and the unique bond they shared.

In true James fashion, he’d often joke, “You two are so lucky to have me around to make these birthdays actually fun,” earning an eyeroll from Regulus and a playful shove from Florence. But deep down, all three of them knew these days—filled with laughter, love, and a little bit of chaos—were the best part of their summer.

For Regulus, who had spent so many summers alone in the cold halls of Grimmauld Place, these moments were everything. With Florence and James, summer became more than just a season—it was freedom, laughter, and love. The three of them, in all their messy, imperfect glory, built a summer they’d carry with them long after the days grew shorter. ˎˊ˗

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this was incredibly long and tedious, but I have lots to say on the topics because I love my boys😭

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made by @g1rlsp1ckins

#✿𝆬 𝅄 — @g1rlsp1ckins #desired reality #reality scripting #reality shifting #shiftblr #shifting #shifting blog #shifting community #shifting consciousness #shifting realities #reality shifter #realityshifting #reality shift #shifter #shifters #shifting motivation #shifting ask game #shifting asks #shifting antis dni

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alkalineapparition · 3 months ago

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König x Reader | Full Chapter

Part 18 – Fields of Elation

König thinks God has made a grave mistake.

You do not belong here, on this earth, spattered in death and reeking of war. He stares hard, trying to decide where you might have spirited your wings to.

He has never been so grateful to have such a careless God.

Gold kisses your lashes, dances along the windswept tresses of your hair, flows over the gentle the dips and planes of your body in a languid river of heat. You are swaddled in sunlight - never before has he seen something quite this lovely.

Stretched out across the grass, your legs sprawl lazily to your sides, arms thrown over your head and palms open to the sky. His eyes trace the silhouette of your body, flicking between you and the journal resting on his drawn-up knee.The pencil feels ridiculously small in his hand, so he focuses on not snapping it in half. Dappled light filters through rustling green leaves, a playful breeze tugging at his mask.

The tree roots beneath him are uncomfortable, so he shifts. The noise makes you crack one eye open, a lazy smile gracing your face.

His heart almost stops.

Though your face is bare, you sit just far enough that the details blur around the edges. With your head tilted upward, he catches only a hint of your side profile, mask pooled around your neck.

König studies you intensly, pencil tracing quick strokes over the page; crooked knees, curled fingers, locks of hair spilling like fine paint across the grass—

"You should not be lying on the ground, bitte."

You grunt, unimpressed by the gentle chide.

"There are bugs."

Both eyes snap open now, squinting in irritation. Grumbling, you yank your mask up and flop onto the quilt beside to him.

"You're a buzz kill, you know that?"

He laughs, pausing his sketching. "And who would be chasing you down, pulling the spiders from your hair, hm? I have a vested interest."

You eye him speculatively. "You wouldn't."

"Oh, ja, I certainly would, Schatz. I would have no choice but to pin you down and go through it with a fine-tooth comb," he says, gleeful at the face you pull.

You grimace even harder. He grins.

Muttering something he is certain he would love to hear you repeat, you sit up, peering at his journal. "Whatcha doin'?"

König hesitates, but after a beat, he tilts the book toward you.

Quietly, you study the page, eyes roving the portrait he has drawn of you. He worries you will be upset—you are more exposed in this captured moment that you have ever been. You had abandoned your jacket and shoes the moment you laid in the grass, wearing nothing but a tank top and cargo pants.

Finger tracing the sketch lightly, you glance up at him. Your expression is soft, not hard like he had feared. "You made these look pretty," you murmur, brushing along the scars mapping your arm and chest.

"They are." He does not know why he said it, how the thought slipped out unbidden. But he cannot regret it, he realizes, because it is true.

The entirety of what he can see on your right side is covered in scar tissue. Almost like hairline cracks in paper thin glass, lines bisect vast expanses of skin. In some places, healed burns overlay the web of fissured flesh.

They are beautiful. You are beautiful.

The sudden thought forms a lump in his throat, tightening until he cannot bear to speak another word. You stare at him, perhaps searching for even a hint of dishonesty. You will find none.

"...Thank you." The words are simple, but the tremble in your voice betrays you. König says nothing in reply, simply watching you watch him.

"Are you hungry?" The sudden shift in your demeanor would be startling, but König has learned this is something you do when you are feeling uncomfortable. Vulnerable, perhaps too seen.

"Ja, but I do not wish to go back yet." The first vestiges of spring have finally shown, and warm days like this have been nonexistent the past few months. He wants to linger as long as possible. Here, with you. You smile again.

"I know. I brought supplies!" You reach into your bag, producing two large sandwiches. As you unwrap them, the familiar smell drifts to König's nose. He cannot help himself as he says, voice higher with delight, "Bosna?"

For a reason he cannot fathom, your eyes cast downwards, almost as if you are embarrassed. "It sounded good when you told me about it last week. I figured you could tell me if I got it right?"

He blinks, a little stunned. Had you really remembered the off hand remark he made about missing this little piece of home? His chest fills with an unfamiliar warmth, seeping until it drenches him down to his very bones.

You clear your throat, snapping him out of his daze. As you hand him the sandwich, your fingers brush, just for a moment. König is startled by the desire that sweeps though him— the desire to not let go, to keep touching. But as soon as it happens you pull away, busying yourself with eating.

The Bosna is good, just like he remembers.

He watches you as you eat. You are clearly enjoying it—as you should, it is delicious— and you throw him another sweet little smile, evidenced by the slight crinkling of your eyes.

It still shocks him, when you smile like that. Smile at him. He is used to being feared, distrusted — but you are not afraid. You laugh at his jokes, lean into his touch. Like a little lamb, nuzzling against the maw of a jagged toothed beast.

"How is it?" König thought his grunt of pleasure when biting into the food had conveyed his approval, but you seek it still regardless.

"Es ist gut."

"You do know I don't speak german?" You are teasing him, but the reminder makes him feel a little guilty. Even after all these years, he finds himself slipping back into his mother tongue far too easily.

"I am sorry. I do not realize when I do it." Shrugging, you lean back one one hand. "I like it. The German, I mean."

Oh?

"You do? Why?" Most of his teammates are irritated by it, constantly snapping at him to speak in English. Taking a moment to finish chewing, you avoid his eyes when you answer.

"It sounds nice. You sound... I don't know, different?" A pause. "Less soft, more confident." You sigh. "I just wish I could understand. It's so impressive to know two languages, but I can never get past basic conversation in anything."

Were you not a Green Beret? Surely they have language requirements. He asks as much.

"Yeah, but like I said, just enough to be passable. That was the hardest thing, you know, about joining. Except for the physical training. I hated exercise." You laugh, and König finds himself laughing with you.

"I can teach you, if you like," he says. In fact, he is quite certain nothing could bring him greater joy than hearing you speak back to him in his native language.

He wonders how your mannerisms will change. König finds that, like himself, others demeanor changes based on which language they speak in. He feels more comfortable speaking German, and so is more assertive. Would you be more serious, less demure? Or would you be commanding, more sure of yourself? He thinks he would like to see that. A lot.

A gentle pressure on his hand interrupts his train of thought. You have reached over to give his free hand a quick, thankful squeeze. As soon as it started, it is over. "I'd like that," you murmur, eyes closing as you recline back again. Then, a bit impishly, you whisper a little "Danke, König."

He swears he does not know what comes over him. His breath hitches, and all he can hear is the breathy little whisper of his name. If he still had his pencil, it would be in pieces.

Something hot and frantic burns through him, twists and climbs over every limb until he is impossibly tangled, wrapped and quartered. He searches for the words to describe what now overtakes him. It is consuming, a slow dissection of his being. A want, a need—

Desire.

Oh.

Oh no.

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