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moonstruks · 29 days ago

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WALK THE PLANK | Part 1

Happy Mermay! 𓂃𓂁𓂃 ོ

— mershark!Simon Riley × fem!Reader — 18+ | Pirates of the Caribbean AU; magic; strangers to lovers; slowburn-ish; monsterfucking; possessive/territorial! Simon; breeding kink; time skips; loss of virginity; canon-typical violence; smut; fluff; dub-con (to be safe)

You have been drawn to the sea since your mother gave birth on a pirate ship.

Even though your father warned you to stay away from the Gems Cove many a times while growing up, told you to stop swimming there, stop feeding the fish, stop praying to Calypso, stop serenading the bloody sea at dusk when the last golden rays of sunlight disappear behind the horizon, because you cannot even comprehend what lingers in the depths of the reef, sweet lassie, you never listened, and when your father left one last time to follow after his Captain’s orders one last time, there was no one left to tell you to stop going there.

And with your dear father’s disappearance, your feet only carried you towards the cove with more purpose—and a lot more spite.

Raised and fed by kind townspeople who took pity on your situation, you continued to spend your teenhood at Gems Cove, glaring at the horizon and quietly cursing ever ship that sailed by and didn’t magically take you away.

A warm breeze sweeps through your hair, swirls around your bare legs as you stand there in your flowy white undergarments, dress and boots discarded in a haphazard heap in the shade of a rock, salt curling the strands and sticking to your dewy skin, sunrays dancing on the crystal-clear water, sparkling like a million gemstones.

“Perhaps I’ll become a bloody pirate like you, eh? How does that fucking sound, father?” you sneer again, angrily flicking another broken seashell over the glittering surface as you stand on the rotten boards of the old jetty, gentle waves lapping against the jagged rocks and wooden pillars supporting the planks.

It’s what you’ve been doing for the past decade, whenever you realize once again how incredibly meaningless and mundane your life has turned out to be, like a ruffled feather blowing in the wind—working as a hierling on fishing boats to get by, helping out as a seamstress and barmaid, selling self-made jewellery to drunken travellers, and avoiding the local brothel at all costs like Davy Jones avoids dry land.

Your father had always promised to take you with him—“when you’re old enough, sweet lassie”—though it was too late when you realized that he was simply staving you off. You would have never been old enough, always his little lassie, too soft for the ocean—a pebble with no edges, smoothed by the current.

“Perhaps... Perhaps I’ll have a child only to abandon it, too, huh? Or even better, I bloody snuff it givin’ birth to it like mother did!” You scoff, and the sound ricochets around the enclosing cliffs sharply, like the shot of a well-maintained pistol.

A murder of crows and a few scattered seagulls feeding on a large mutt’s cadaver at the beach nearby, are startled by the sound and take off flight; distracting you momentarily as you glance over your shoulder, squinting against the slowly setting sunlight.

You barely register the gentle sloshing of waves behind you. The mass that heaves itself out of the water to peek up at the jetty, and the quiet, steady dribble of fat drops dripping off sleek skin, back into the ocean.

When you turn around again, you let out a surprised yelp and nearly jump backwards at the sudden sight that greets you, stumbling on bare feet, almost slipping on slick algae.

He’s huge, and it’s barely half his torso that’s sticking out of the water.

Black, beady eyes—marbles containing the depths of the sea—staring at you, with a rather curious twinkle, from behind a mask crafted out of what you assume must be a cracked human skull, secured around his head with a frayed string of hemp rope, its upper row of teeth twinkling with a gold tooth. It exposes a crown of short brown hair sticking to his skull, the sharp curve of jawline and a plump, rosy bottom lip.

His skin is pale, with a silvery shimmer and faint grey stripes along his upper arms and ribs, depending how the light catches it. Paler than the white sand on the beach, like it has never been kissed by the afternoon sun.

Blessed with wide shoulders, a bulky chest, chiselled abs, and large arms with bulging muscles and protruding blue veins running along the inside of his forearms. Half a brown leather harness is secured around his upper torso, a short and tattered sheath attached to it, the blade’s ivory handle seemingly carved from some great fishbone.

You’ve never seen a man quite this large, not even on your father’s crew, but once you spot the row of gills on each side of his neck, you know that you’re not faced with a man, but a beast—and suddenly, all doubts you once held vanish.

As it turns out, your father didn’t lie in his bedtime stories, didn’t exaggerate when he warned you all those years ago: “There are things–beings–lingerin’ below the surface that might not make sense to us, but it don’t mean they’re not real. Aye? If ye feel like ye’re bein’ stalked by the water, chances are bloody high tha’ ye are, lassie.”

“Who–Who are you?” You shake your head, rubbing your eyes on wobbly legs to make sure you’re not dreaming again.

He doesn’t answer at first, only regards you with those dark, soulless eyes, head tilted like a puppy experiencing something new while his chest rises and falls with shallow breaths, until you find your footing again, slowly backing away from the edge of the jetty, holding your breath despite the salty air scratching in your lungs.

“Wait!” He calls out firmly with a voice like gravel coated in oil, barking like a captain yet pleading like a lost boy. You freeze, exhaling a shuddering breath while your sweaty skin pebbles with goosebumps.

The water parts as he glides through it with ease, closing distance while your eyes flicker to observe the large silhouette of his lower half moving below the surface, causing your eyes to widen in fear and disbelief—and curiosity as it begins to tickle you in the back of your mind.

You should grab your clothes and run far away, but you stay where you are, mesmerized by the creature who is now pulling himself out of the water, bracing his forearms on the edge of the first planks while they creak under his added weight.

For a moment, you’re distracted by his body and the sheer power emanating from him; his hands so brawny and veined, he looks like he could crack a coconut without any effort.

“My name,” he takes a deep breath as if it strains him to speak, “is Simon.”

“Simon,” you repeat, and something splashes sharply behind him, breaking the surface like he’s excited to hear you utter his name, and you wonder if your eyes have deceived you—or if you’ve truly just seen a shark tail.

There is a brief yet tense pause, then he speaks your name, loud and clear, and your heart throbs inside your chest. “Why are ya so angry again?” he asks casually, as if he’s talking to an old friend.

Simon belongs to the mythical merfolk.

Different than the mermaids and men you’ve heard of through legends and lore, and the heresy fishermen and pirates alike love to spread, the creatures who call the territory around Whitecap Bay and Isla Sirena their home, he’s a maverick, a lone sea ghoul.

Unlike them, he doesn’t belong to any pod. He’s been on his own for most of his life.

Mershark, they call themselves. “Aye, stronger than those pretty fish,” he tells you one day two, chortling when he adds, “smarter, too.”

He does look like a ruthless tiger shark, his lower half nearly twice as long as a human body, with tough skin, criss-crossed with battle and other scars. And when he catches how your gaze lingers on his unique body, a rare smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, nearly preening under your attention.

Simon lets you inspect and learn as you please, answers your questions about his tail, and why it doesn’t look like any of the merfolk drawings you’ve seen in books—his large caudal fin like a shark’s, undulating from side to side rather than up and down whenever he swims.

And you start spending more time at the cove and less at your hometown, ignoring your lack of money and possibilities in favour of being with him—your scarily handsome sea beast.

After five days, you bring what is necessary, along with a tattered pillow and thin blanket as you stay more nights at the beach, reading aloud old books to him as he can neither read nor write, and sleeping in the sand while Simon prowls his territory underwater, hunting at night.

You’ve never had a friend quite like him, if any at all, but neither ever did he, from what you can tell.

He gets terribly restless when you do end up leaving the cove a couple of hours a day, pacing while the big trademark fin of a shark swims circles in the bay until you return, and Simon ends up bringing you fish to cook over an open bonfire and fresh clams to slurp with lemon juice to keep you from having to leave him again; always making sure you’re fed while he lingers; sometimes sitting awkwardly in the shallows with you, when the tide is lowest, and the temperature burns too hot.

It’s peaceful, being with him.

“Everyone always told me to stay away from Gems Cove. Said it’s too dangerous and cursed,” you remark, kissing your teeth in snide as you gaze out on the calm water. “Nothin’ ever happened, and they stopped pestering me eventually, though.”

There is a pause after you tell him, and you wonder if he’s even listening to you, but then he opens his mouth to speak, and you realize that he’d been hesitating.

“I’ve watched over you whenever ya swam here. Nothin’ would’ve ever happened to you, because I never allowed it,” he admits sheepishly after barely ten days of knowing each other, as the late afternoon sun inches towards the horizon. He points a finger at the span of the cove. “F’all these years, y’know?”

Simon looks straight ahead as you gaze up at him, his skull mask resting in your lap after taking it off for him, and you use the moment to admire how the sunlight makes his dark blonde hair shine, the unruly strands now close-cropped, thanks to you, exposing the three deep claw marks at the side of his skull from a fight with a merman.

Then his jaw clenches and his cheek ticks as if he regrets telling you now, but your heart skips a beat at his admission, utterly touched by it.

“Why?” you croak, and your eyes sting with salty sea spray.

His head tips down at your hand now resting where his hip should be and where his body turns twisted, abnormal. Still, your thumb rubs soothing circles on his sleek looking yet rough skin, sharp like sand and fine glass shards.

Reaching out, he takes your right hand, turns it over to look at your palm, tracing the jagged scar in the middle of it, and huffing through his nose at the memories flooding his mind, before he speaks: “Because you saved me and almost bloody died doin’ it.”

You don’t remember it, but Simon recounts that you’d lost consciousness back then. He could never forget it—stuck and tangled up in a net, thin ropes biting into his skin while a fat hook was piercing his dorsal fin, his own blood attracting more sharks.

You’d jumped into the dark water without hesitation, the full moon the only light illuminating the restless waves, and you cut him free with a rusty pocketknife before pulling out the hook. And Simon remembers your sharp cry of pain, the one that made his heart drop heavy in his chest, then the sweet and copper scent of your blood as it dripped onto him and into the sea, when the hook went through your palm.

Barely a decade old the both of you, when he had to watch from afar how loud men hauled you out of the angry water, pressing down on your still flat chest with force until you sputtered and coughed gallons of salty water while death kept clinging to your complexion.

Simon still wishes he could’ve kissed you back then, protect you from drowning like that, but he was still a silly pup—oblivious to his own powers, because nobody close to him was still alive to teach him.

His shoulders slouch, dry skin pulling taut over his muscles after spending too much time out of the water.

“I never even got to say ‘thank you’ back then.”

The sourness of lemons from supper is still sticking to your lips as you lick them, the taste of seafood lingering in the back of your throat as you listen and watch, barely breathing while Simon paints a vivid picture in your head; lifting the fog of a sad, lonely childhood for a smidge to teach you how you got that nasty scar on your hand.

“You don’t have to thank me,” you reply, not moving your hand as he keeps cradling it in his. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

Then, your father’s words come to your mind: “Whenever the sea calls out to ye, ye walk the plank and take a jump, lassie.” He’d always laugh fondly. “One fearless minx, ye are. Every pirate cap’n would fear the lass who’d cheated Calypso of another innocent soul.”

It makes more sense now, but before you can think about it, Simon turns to you, his eyes dark pools of nothingness, swallowing up all the molten golden brown in his irises.

“That’s what I’m afraid of, love. Bloody reckless y'are.” There is no malice in his baritone voice, just a hint of exasperation and fatigue, as if he’s done with your bollocks after years of playing guardian angel and keeping himself hidden in a desperate attempt not to scare you away, but then there’s a faint smile lifting the scarred corner of his lip—a gnarly scar caused by another fisherman's hook, he’d told you.

A genuine smile graces your lips when you entwine your fingers with his, feeling the smooth, translucent webbing between his fingers, while his body tenses, nostrils flaring with a sharp inhale of breath.

“Wouldn’t have met ya if I was some prudent, Si.”

It’s still a foreign feeling for him to feel air burn in his lungs for so long, but Simon can’t help the way his breath stutters and hitches whenever you’re close to him—whenever you touch him so effortlessly, just as confidently as when you’d jumped into the water to save him from a cruel death.

And Simon is almost sure you don’t know, not yet anyway, but you’re doing things to him he’s never experienced before.

The naturally fearless mershark continues to crumble under your gaze, your voice, your every touch, like a delicate sandcastle blown over by the breeze. He’d endure the burn of air in his lungs, of sunrays on his sensitive skin, a thousand times over if it means he can spend another moment in your bright presence.

“Aye.” He returns your smile, squeezing your hand lightly as you hold his gaze. “Guess ye’r right.”

For the first time in his pathetic life, Simon doesn’t feel that cold and crippling kind of loneliness, and unbeknownst to him, you feel very much the same.

After two weeks, when the Caribbean sun burns too hot at noon, Simon steals you away from the Gems Cover, has he listened to you hiss and moan about your townspeople and the desire to leave the island one too many times in this short amount of time.

“Bring water,” he keeps calling out to you like a mother hen, bracing his arms on the jetty as he watches you fussing about in your makeshift camp at the beach. “Can’t have ya faintin’ on me,” he adds with a teasing lilt, and you roll your eyes, stuffing your flask into your old leather rucksack.

When you sit down at the edge of the jetty, bare legs swinging while the hem of your yellowed tunic flutters around your thighs, Simon feels a different kind of warmth stirring in his chest that spreads down to the tip of his tail, pooling and pulsating low in his gut.

His hands twitch below the surface, clenching into fists to keep himself from reaching out to feel your supple flesh give under his brawny hands, nose twitching as he gets a whiff of your scent—luscious sweat and salt coating your skin, a trace of coconut water on your hair, a whiff of your heavenly womanhood when you squirm on the rotten planks and your knees spread apart.

His mouth fills with saliva and the urge to shove his face between your thighs becomes unbearable as something wild claws and thrashes behind his ribs, razor sharp teeth tearing him apart from the inside while he tries to tame his instincts.

Simon exhales slowly through his nose, dark eyes flickering up to observe your gorgeous face from behind his skull mask as you secure your rucksack on your back, so unaware of this predator—lusting, wanting, adoring you so openly.

Sometimes he wonders if you know that you’re his salvation, and he hates himself for not bracing that surface sooner, for not taking that leap and show himself to you.

“Now c’mon, little legs.” He clears his throat and water splashes as he lifts his arms up, waiting for you to make the final jump. “I’m takin’ ya for a swim.”

Your pearly teeth flash with a grin and then you slip off the edge, right into his embrace before he cradles you close to his buff chest while a pleased rumble bubbles up in his throat at the weight of you finally in his arms, legs wrapping around his midriff where man meets shark.

“Fuckin’ hell, ye’r squishy,” Simon mutters under his breath, earning a glare as he snorts in amusement and slight embarrassment, pale cheeks flushing under the bone of his mask. “I–I mean... soft. In a–a good way.” He adjusts his grip on you, cupping the back of your thighs, squeezing involuntarily.

You squirm against his body, lashes fluttering against the spray and breeze whipping around your body, while your heart beats rapidly against your ribcage, overwhelmed by the closeness to him, not having expected nor ever experienced this effect from a anyone.

“Hold on tight now, aye?”

Adjusting your grip around his neck, you nod, and Simon eases himself into the water, floating on his back while he has you lay on his broad body, keeping you secured to his chest while he starts moving his tail underwater, gliding through the waves as he manoeuvres you both out of the familiar cove, past the colourful reef where the sheltered bay opens up into the vast ocean.

“Haven’t been out in open water in so long,” you start shakily, eyes darting around, but the sun’s reflection on the surface blinds you too badly. “What if someone sees us out here?”

Simon shrugs. “Don’t ya worry ‘bout that. I know these waters better than anyone,” he assures you, sounding proud while his chest puffs out.

“Sounds like you expect a pat on your head for that,” you quip as you play with the hair at his nape underwater, and there is a brief pause before his tail breaches to splash a cold wave of water on you.

You squeal and Simon smirks triumphantly at the sound you make, and he can’t stop his hands from roaming over the curve of your back, the thin fabric of your drenched tunic now clinging to your body like a second skin. His fingers twitch to rip it clean off and shed the barrier between you both, but again he pushes the urge far away into the darkest depths of his mind.

The secret he’s so determined to show you turns out to be a cave halfway around the island; unreachable from land, its entrance hidden behind large lumps of boulders covered in moss, seaweed and barnacles. An old smugglers hideout he had discovered in his years of calling this island his territory, though no one has returned here since the Royal Navy has been patrolling close to the island occasionally.

As Simon takes you farther inside, the pool of turquoise water ends in a U-shaped landmass of dark glimmering stone, surrounded by a solid rocky wall with large cracks at the ceiling where daylight spills inside and illuminates the cave. It smells sweet and clean, like a source of fresh water is nearby.

When he sets you down on a dryer spot of stone, you push yourself up slowly, your gaze wandering around the cave in awe, head tilted back, while Simon watches, eyes crinkling deep in the corners with a pleased smile at your reaction.

“You like it?” You nod eagerly, a breathless laugh erupting from your lungs. “Yes! This place is beautiful, Si!”

The water ripples around Simon’s midriff while his tail swishes below the surface, like a mongrel wagging its tail.

A few hours later, Simon is lounging on his back on a larger, flat rock in the middle of the pool while listens to the gentle padding of your bare feet echoing around the cave, enjoying the shade and warm, damp air, while you continue to explore each nook and corner curiously, letting him know whenever you find something worth mentioning. The sound so soothing to him, he nearly dozes off with one arm propped up behind his head.

You’ve found the pile of driftwood that he’d brought to the cave a few days ago, when he’d shoved them into place where the sun shines the brightest through the cracks in the ceiling to let them dry, and you’ve been trying to build and start a fire for a while before you call out his name suddenly.

Simon cracks one eye open, waiting. “Is this your home? Uhm, I mean... Is this where you stay when you’re not at the cove with me?” He lifts his head up and catches you standing at the edge of the pool, dipping your toes into the water tentatively.

“No,” he answers eventually, his tone curt. “I don’t have a home.” You are his home, but he can’t possibly tell you that now.

“So,” you start again, and Simon props himself up on his elbows as he notices how you suddenly avoid his eyes. “Why did you never,” you shrug, pulling your toes from the water, “y’know... try to find a–” You make a vague hand gesture in the air, and his stomach twists into a thousand tight knots.

Simon utters your name, though it comes out as a growl. “A what?”

Your pretty eyes snap up to meet his and you look so innocent, he can barely endure the sight. His chest heaves and his tail slashes briefly before he speaks: “A pod? A family? Come on, say it.”

You lick your dry lips as your cheek warm up. “A mate, Simon.”

His tail swishes, stirring the water. A muscle in his jaw ticks as he clenches his teeth tightly. This question alone nearly offends him, especially coming from you, and he doesn’t quite know what to say while the truth is already trying to claw itself through his gills and up his throat, burning in the back of his tongue as if he ate something rancid and rotten.

Then he huffs. “Why don’t you have one?” He doesn’t even want to know the answer, and fear clogs up his veins when he briefly imagines that you already have one, that you’re simply spending time with a lonely bastard like him out of pity and kindness.

You kick a tiny seashell into the water as you shrug, looking like a child that doesn’t know how to explain itself.

“Never liked anyone in my town. The men are all just–” You sigh, shrugging again, unaware that Simon is already seething at the mere mention that you’ve looked at males in the past.

But the truth is mundane—you feared you’d end up like your mother, with a man who loved his freedom and a life of piracy more than her, only to die scared, giving birth to her child during a storm on a pirate ship.

“Not bloody good enough for you.” He finishes your sentence with a frown on his face. They’re not the words you would’ve used, but deep down, you agree with him.

A dreary smile tugs at your lips as you finally look at him, regarding him lolling about in the rock, muscles stretching and flexing in a way that twists and turns your insides warm and your smile more bashful.

“Perhaps, aye,” you agree, and Simon perks up at that, heart fluttering with hope. “Perhaps that’s it.”

Yes, I planned this as a oneshot, but things got out of hand and I'm having way too much fun in this universe. 🙃 I hope you've enjoyed the first part! If so, I'd always appreaciate your feedback, likes & reblogs. Thank you so much! 🧜🏼‍♂️🩵

#i needed this

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moonstruks · 2 months ago

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ABSOFUCKINGLUTELY

*not my gif*

An Impossible Decision

Frank Castle x Reader

Summary: The death of Frank Castle was something you couldn’t get out of your head. It becomes completely unescapable after you find out you’re pregnant with his child several weeks after the explosion that took his life.

Content Warning: Language, Mentions of death (he’s not really dead, but you know), Mentions of blood and wounds, Pregnancy, Thoughts of abortion, Mentions of cheating, Mentions of abuse, Fingering, P in V sex, Unprotected sex (wrap it up plz), Frank does not pull out

Word Count: 3.3k

Author’s Note: THINGS IN BOLD ARE FLASHBACKS. NORMAL TEXT IS PRESENT DAY. This was my first time ever writing smut, and it was an interesting experience… I read it all day every day, but it felt so damn awkward to write! Anyway, I got through it. I’m thinking about maybe writing a part two/three to this where the outcomes are different based on the reader’s decision with how they would like to deal with the pregnancy.

It had been six weeks since the explosion at the pier. Six weeks since flames took the lives of dozens of people. Six weeks since you had seen Frank Castle.

He had died in the explosion, just like everyone else who had been onboard. That’s what the papers were saying. That’s what your friends were saying. It was hard for you to wrap your head around a man like Frank going out that way. You had always imagined the day he died was going to be at the hands of another man with a weapon; or from complications of the aftermath of said weapon. It was how you met after all, when all of this first started.

The night that he had dug meathooks into the backs of the Mexican Cartel was the night that he had taken up residence on your fire escape. He nearly scared you half to death when you opened the bedroom window to try and get better air circulation throughout the small room. The AC unit in your building had always been subpar at best.

When you first laid eyes on him he was bleeding profusely from a gash on the side of his head. Your initial shock of seeing a strange man stationed outside of your window had now been taken over with the oath that you had taken the day you had become licensed as a paramedic. The oath to preserve life. It was a principle that was ingrained into your brain, something you took with you everyday.

“Can I call anyone for you?” You asked him as you finished wiping the blood off of his face with a warm washcloth. He had mentioned he didn’t want any cops or to go to any hospitals, but he hadn’t mentioned anything about family. “Family? Friends?”

He shook his head. “No. I don’t got anyone, ma’am. Not anymore.”

You took a deep breath before placing the formerly white rag down on the wrought iron structure you knelt on. “Look… I don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into, but given the fact that you’ve got cuts and bruises all over I’m willing to bet it’s been going on for a while.”

You turned toward your still open window, halfway getting up to grab a piece of paper and pen out of the nightstand drawer inside.

“If this happens again you can come to me.” You scribbled quickly onto the paper and extended a hand out towards him.

He glanced down at the sheet and scanned its contents. You had written down your name and phone number along with the words ‘should you need me.’ He then pocketed the note before starting to stand. You followed his motion.

“Thank you.” He spoke quietly. It was a tone that felt uncomfortable; not for you, but for him. You couldn’t exactly put your finger on a reason. Before you could think of a possible one, he began to head down the fire escape.

“Wait!” You called out.

He stopped.

“I never got your name.”

He was silent for a moment. “It’s Frank.”

“Have a good night, Frank.”

And with that he was on his way.

Frank showed up again on the fire escape the next night. And the next… and the next… and the one after that…

It didn’t take you long to find out about the activities he was involved in, the ones that kept him coming back to your fire escape to be mended night after night. Nor did it take you long to find out why he went out every night and did what he did… How one unassuming day in the park changed his life forever. Your heart broke for him. You couldn’t imagine coming home from a war, and then immediately having everything you’ve ever loved taken from you.

You didn’t necessarily agree with how he chose to deal with the loss of his family, but you understood it.

“That’s why I do what I do.”

You were brought out of your thoughts when you felt a hand touch your shoulder.

“Are you alright?” Matt’s voice was coated with a hint of concern.

An awkward laugh escaped your lips before looking down at his hand. “Yeah, sorry. I kind of zoned out there.”

You had known Matt since the early days of his now defunct law firm. The two of you struck up a friendship after he questioned you to corroborate on the state of a client he had taken on for the trial. You found out about his nighttime activities around the same time Frank started to come around.

“Do you mind if I ask you something?” He removed his hand from your shoulder, placing it back by his side.

“No, what’s up?”

“How far along are you?”

Your brows furrowed in confusion. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”

“I hear two heartbeats.” He paused, focusing even more on the sound. “You’re pregnant.”

“Matt, I’m not pregnant.” You weren’t pregnant. You couldn’t be. There was absolutely no way. Right?

“I know what I hear… and what I hear is two heartbeats.”

“Maybe you’re wrong. Maybe you’re hearing something else.”

“I’m not wrong. It’s coming from your-“

You cut him off before he could finish his sentence. “This time you’re wrong.” Your voice was slightly raised and your frustration was evident. “I’m sorry… I have to go.” Suddenly none of what you and Matt had met up for was of any importance. A trip to the corner store on the block of your apartment building was now your highest priority.

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

Getting to the corner store and home was all one big blur. Your brain was racing with any and all possible outcomes of this predicament you were currently in. It was so loud inside of your head that you didn’t even flinch at the coldness of the tile as you sunk down onto the floor of your bathroom while you waited three minutes for the results.

The first thing that Frank noticed when he stepped into your apartment was your eyes. Their usual bright and wide state was replaced with wet streaks and puffiness.

“Did somebody hurt you?” His voice was low and rough as he scanned your body for injury.

A tear dropped from your eyes as you nodded your head yes. Frank started to reach for his gun, but the chuckle you gave when you saw his hand stopped his movements.

“Somebody hurt me, but not like that.”

Relief flooded over Frank after you ruled out the worst possible scenario that he thought of. His hand started to withdraw from the holster on his hip before taking in your tear stained face yet again. “You wanna talk about it?”

“I’ve just had a bad week. I got called to a scene where some really messed up stuff had happened to a couple of kids, and uh, it’s been stuck in my mind.” You sat down on your bed and let out a huff. “I kind of started seeing someone that I work with. All that I wanted tonight was to take refuge on his couch with a stupid comedy movie and a box of pizza. I guess he forgot that I was coming over because when I walked in he was banging Emma from HR.”

“Fuck.” He said as he inched closer to your bed. It was like he was waiting for permission to sit down. You granted it to him by gesturing to the spot next to you.

“Yeah.” You brought both hands up to your face to wipe away the residue that your tears had left. “I’m convinced there must be something wrong with me at this point.”

Frank’s eyes locked with yours before his head gave out a tiny nod. “Nah. Nothing wrong with you. That guy’s just an idiot.”

You weren’t sure what had possessed you to lean forward. Your movements were slow, coming to a halt when your face hovered centimeters away from his. Your right hand found its way to his chest. You had expected him to move backwards, but when he didn’t you continued to lean in further until the distance between you had been closed. His lips were soft. They didn’t move at first, but eventually they formed gentle movements as he tested this uncharted territory with you for the first time. One of his hands cupped the side of your face while the other rested on your waist.

Frank broke the union between your lips, but his hand still held onto the side of your face. “You sure you want this?”

“Yes, Frank. I want this. I want you.”

That was enough for him to bring his lips back to yours, pushing you down towards the bed in the process so that you were laying face to face with each other. His hand that was previously on your waist was now trailing lower towards the center of your pajama shorts you were wearing.

He took notice of the wet spot seeping through cloth. “Shit, sweetheart. You’re soaked.”

“Frank, I need you.”

“What do you need? Use your words.”

“Need your fingers inside of me. Now.”

He listened to your plea as if the world was ending and you only had a few minutes left alive. A hand immediately pulled down the tiny shorts you had on revealing your glistening dampened folds. His index finger drug down from the top of your pubic bone to your opening. A moan escaped from your lips as the tip of his finger brushed over your clit.

Frank spent a moment rubbing his fingers up and down your slit getting them covered in the juices that were dripping from it. When he was satisfied with the slickness he slowly pressed two of his thick digits inside of your walls.

Your back arched off of the bed, pushing your hips towards him in an attempt to feel him even deeper inside of you. This notion made him establish a consistency in which he plunged his middle and pointer fingers into you.

The tips of his fingers found the sensitive spot, making it hard for you to keep still. He placed his free hand on your lower belly to hold you down. This just intensified the pleasure you felt as his fingers curled against the spot.

“Fuck, Fr…Frank. I’m gonna—“ Your sentence trailed off when he lowered his forehead down to be flushed against yours.

“You gonna cum for me, pretty girl?” Knowing you were close, Frank picked up the pace of which his index and middle fingers infiltrated your opening. You took notice of this change of speed as a loud moan was forced out of your mouth, insides clenched tighter every time his fingers hit the soft spongy spot that made you squirm in delight.

Your eyes screwed shut, starting to mumble a string of expletives. Frank didn’t take too kindly to the sudden loss of eye contact. He wanted to see the look in your eyes as he made you come undone around his fingers for the first time.

“Look at me.” Frank whispered barely an inch or two away from your face. His forehead remained tightly pressed to yours.

You obeyed his orders and reestablished the contact between yourselves. His fingers continued their quick speed while his thumb ran circles over your clit, inching you closer and closer to the edge. Your hands reached up to grab his biceps as he took you through your release.

Your breath was heavy as Frank removed his fingers from inside of you. The loss of contact made you let out a small whine, but he planted a kiss onto your lips which hushed you temporarily.

He relinquished his position hovering on top of you and instead shifted to lay beside you once more. You could see the outline of his hardened member through his grey boxers. Instinctively, your hand moved to tug at the fabric. He let you as he too wished to get rid of the one thing separating you from seeing him in all of his entirety.

Frank Castle was a large man, and you’d be lying if you said you expected any less than that when it came to his manhood. Your assumptions were confirmed when you freed him of his boxers and admired what he was packing.

One of your hands reached down to grip him, barely able to wrap your small hand around him completely. He jutted his hips at the touch. Hands still wrapped around him, you pushed your body up to position your face to level with it, but a hand on your wrist stopped you.

“Nuh uh, baby girl.” Frank said as he continued to hold your wrist. “This is about you.”

You frowned at his statement, wanting to see how he tasted. “But I want to make you feel good.”

“I know you do. You will.” He removed his hand from your wrist and brought it up to grab your chin. He planted a kiss on your lips before whispering “Lay down, baby.”

You did as he told you to, releasing your grip on his length. He lazily started pumping his cock as he positioned himself in front of you, spreading your legs in the process. Your folds were still gloriously coated in the juices of your first orgasm, a tool that he used to prep himself by rubbing the head of his cock up and down your cunt.

“Frank, please.” You cried out.

“Please, what?”

“Please fuck me.”

With those words, he thrusted himself completely inside you. A groan left his lips as he started to become accustomed to your tightness surrounding him. While he was getting familiar with the feeling of being inside you, you were adjusting to how it felt to be filled by him. The feeling was like you were finally complete and utterly whole.

He didn’t move at first. His eyes gazed into yours searching for any signs of hesitation. When he didn’t find anything he started moving slowly. It had been so long since Frank had a moment of intimacy with anyone. The desperation and primal desire soon kicked in, trading in his slow pace for a more moderate one.

“So fuckin’ perfect.” He said as his eyes trailed over your body focusing in on your breasts that slowly bounced with each thrust.

You sucked your bottom lip in between your teeth as you looked up at him, and studied the look on his face. His lips were parted ever so slightly. Light grunts could be heard falling from them. It was a sight you wished you could see forever.

“Frankie, you feel so good.”

“Yeah? You like having your pussy filled by my cock?”

You opened your mouth to speak, but his hand once again made its way down to your clit. Rendering you only to be able to mewl a long drawn out sigh.

“So needy for me, you can’t even speak.” Frank’s thrusts started getting faster and harder. His hand was still rubbing circles on your sensitive bud as he pounded into you. He could feel you clenching around him, similarly to when you came on his fingers earlier. “You gonna cum for me again?”

You still couldn’t find your words, so you shook your head ‘yes’ fervently. Frank’s circles on your clit started becoming more rapid as he repeatedly uttered out how good you were taking him. The praise being the thing that pushed you over the edge to your second orgasm.

“Mmmm, Frank!”

“That’s it, baby. I’m right behind you.”

He continued his assault on your clit, causing you to clench even tighter around him. You could tell by the way his face scrunched that he was close to his high. You reached a hand up to touch the side of his face. He leaned into your hand while letting out a deep moan of his own. His thrusts got sloppy as he started to spill his seed inside of you, tapering off until he was at a standstill.

Frank pulled himself out of you, crashing on the side of you on the bed. Both of your chests were rising and falling fast, spent from events that had just occurred.

It was a line that neither of you ever intended to cross, but tonight you did. It was something you would never be able to come back from. You weren’t quite sure if it was for better or for worse.

He leaned over to press a kiss onto your forehead before pulling you in tightly and engulfing you in his arms.

The sound of the radial default alarm on your phone had brought you back to reality. You were terrified to look at the three little sticks that laid in a row on your counter, but sitting on the floor wouldn’t do anything to fix the situation so you pulled yourself up. The best case scenario was that Matt had heard wrong and you wasted $25 on a box of pregnancy tests that would all read negative. The worst case scenario was that he had heard right and all of the tests read…

Positive. Positive. Positive.

“Damn it, Frank.” You immediately sunk back down to the floor. The frigid temperature of the tile hitting you this time around.

Your first thoughts were that maybe this box was faulty. Maybe something had gone wrong and that led to it showing up as a false positive. Then you were faced with the likelihood of the entire box AND Matt’s weird super hearing both being wrong. It was then that everything had set in and the tears started rushing from your eyes.

This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. You weren’t even really sure you wanted a child. You were pretty confident that if Frank were still here he wouldn’t want one either. Not after everything he had been through. But you wouldn’t know what he would want because he wasn’t here. You were left to deal with it by yourself..

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

The days that passed after you had taken the test were some of the hardest days of your life. Your doctor had confirmed Matt’s suspicions and the two thin lines on the tests. You had never felt more alone than you had at this point in your life. You had been avoiding your friends, especially Matt, because you had no idea what you were going to say if you were asked who the father was. You could lie, but he would know. What were you to say? That you were carrying the offspring of the man who had made his life so troublesome some months ago?

He didn’t know the extent of your relationship with Frank, just that you had cared for him on some level.

Your inability to talk about the situation with your friends was what led you to the office of a psychologist that was listed on the board of flyers outside of the HR department at work.

“My doctor had told me congratulations after she did the ultrasound. I could’ve sworn I went deaf for a few minutes because I can’t remember hearing anything after that until I left the building.” Your head dropped down towards the floor as you waited for the woman you had just met 20 minutes ago and had spilled your guts to give a response.

She had a notepad and pen in her hand. “You don’t seem very happy with the news. Have you thought about what you’d like to do?”

“See, that’s the issue. You know I never really wanted kids. Being a mother just wasn’t something I was ever interested in.” You lifted your head back up slightly, but instead of looking at the floor your eyes shifted to your hands.

“But?”

You finally looked her in the eyes. “But the man that is the father is dead, and I can’t help but think about how this is the last part of him that’s left.”

“That is a lot. It sounds like you’re battling with two sides of yourself. Do you believe you have a responsibility to carry on the father’s legacy in the world?”

Was that what you were feeling? The need to carry on Frank’s legacy? It was a question that would continue to haunt you over the coming days.

#NEED NEED NEEEEED #i would’ve resurrected him and beat his ass istg #ya know

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moonstruks · 2 months ago

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LITERALLY A BLEACH AND TONE LIKE!?????

would you write something where Spencer finds reader's lost cat and brings it back to her then they keep in touch + they both develop a little crush on each other?

your writing is wonderful!! <3

-🪲

tags: fluff fluff fluff but there's making out (?) idk if that counts as anything; also lots of cursing lowkey; reader is lowk penelope garcia coded

w/c: 1.8k

a/n: tysm for the req that's an adorable idea unfortunately not such great execution from my part also I wrote this in like an hour I'm so exhausted I should go to sleep but whatever I also don't know if this what you meant anon I'm sorry if it's not 😭 yeah I hate this sorry idk what to say it sucks

MISSING CAT

orange, green eyed, really chubby cat, last seen at ~3:30pm on november 9th. he will answer to garfield or little fucker; most likely the latter, despite that not being his name. he's very clingy, he’ll probably come up to you and start rubbing on your leg like the little freak he is but he's actually just a baby who needs his mom (me) so please call this number if you find him.

reward: $10 and a kiss maybe if you’re nice enough

spencer chuckled when he reached the end of the text and saw the adorable picture of a ginger fat cat. he read over the number on the poster, making sure to keep it stored in a folder at the back of his head along with the image of garfield as he returned to his walk.

not even an hour later, when walking past a not-so-nice smelling trash can, he heard some loud purring coming from one of the boxes surrounding it.

if it were any other day, he would have ignored it, guessing it's just another stray cat, but he was still thinking about garfield and his seemingly interesting owner.

“garfield…?” spencer called out from afar. silence. he took a few steps closer, trying to peek over the box while keeping his distance so as to avoid getting jumped at and attacked. “little… fucker…?” he choked over the nickname.

immediately, the animal that had been in his mind since seeing his picture jumped out of the box, purring louder as he started rubbing on spencer’s legs. he chuckled despite being scared.

garfield wasn't nearly as well kept then as he was in the picture, due to the days he had been on the streets. still chubby, but dirty and with a few patches of dried blood in his fur. spencer tried to move away, seeing his pants getting smudged, but the cat just started following him.

spencer pulled out his phone and started dialing the number seen on the poster, still trying to avoid the animal. after a few rings, you picked up.

“hello?...”

“hi, is this garfield’s, uh… owner?”

“yeah, why? have you found him...?”

“i think i did, yeah.”

“oh my god, wait, actually? is he okay? are you serious?” you mumbled excitedly, sitting up from the position you were comfortably lying in, the show on your tv already forgotten.

“i am serious, yeah. i'm just out on a walk, and, uh… he was in a box near a trash can. he's all dirty and bloody, but he seems okay.”

“my poor baby” you said with a pout “where are you? wait– who are you? who do i owe my son’s life to? my savior, my hero?”

“oh, i’m just… just spencer, really.” he said with an awkward chuckle, giving in and leaning down to caress the cat, who immediately leans into his hands as if he's never been pet before, “spencer reid.”

“mm, cool. anyway, where are you? i’m going to pick him up. tell him mommy’s coming. actually maybe don't. don't refer to me as mommy, please.”

“uh, well, i wouldn't mind dropping him off at your place, if you want.”

“i thought you were on a walk? you're gonna walk all the way to my apartment with that fucker in your arms?”

“yeah, so… yeah, actually. does he… is he fine with being carried?”

“oh, totally, he loves uppies, but it's–”

“sorry, what? uppies??” he cut you off, confusion and disbelief clear in his voice.

“yeah…? uppies… like… when you carry an animal? in your arms?...” a bleach and tone, like???

“oh, okay…”

“yeah, so, he loves uppies. but it's just inconvenient, no? carrying him like that? where even are you, dude? is it not far?”

after you tell him your address, spencer decided it's close enough to walk there with an overweight cat in his arms. however, when he took forty minutes to show up at your door, panting and sweaty, you realized that probably wasn't a good idea.

“jesus, man, you could've just said you can't walk that long with this fucker.” you said as you opened the door, letting him in and taking the cat in your arms, talking to him in that tiny, baby voice. “oh my god, my baby, thank you so much. you poor thing. where were you, sweetheart? i missed you so so so much…”

spencer stood awkwardly in the doorway, wiping away the dirt that the animal left in his shirt, as you kept mumbling to him.

it must have been around another half hour before you set him down on the ground again, but when you did so, you looked at spencer and gasped, “oh, where are my manners? i'm so sorry, i forgot you were there. come in, jesus, come on in.”

he walked in, and after offering him a glass of water, you led him to sit on the couch. settling awkwardly beside you, he said “so, uh… is he alright? hurt..?”

“no, he's okay. i mean, as far as i can tell. not a vet, or anything. i don't think the blood is his… although that doesn't make it any less worrying. i'll give his vet a call. maybe stop by the clinic. yeah, i should probably stop by the clinic, shouldn't i?”

“yeah, probably. does he have all his vaccines?”

“of course.”

“still, there's a chance he would have caught a disease or eaten something that could have been infected. it's always good to make sure.”

“yeah, i know. i’ll give them a call, see if they can see us today.” you said, to which spencer replied with a nod, the two of you falling silent for a moment. “oh, right, the reward.”

you stood up and walked to the table, taking your wallet and a $10 bill from it. “there's no need, really… it's okay. don't worry about it” he argued, shaking his head when you offered him the money.

“no, oh my god, no, this is the least i can do. you walked so far, with that little heavy fucker. please, just take this. actually, you deserve more. i can barely handle to hold him for more than a few minutes, i'm not sure how you–” you look him up and down “–managed to walk with him for so long. just take the money.” you mumble, taking another bill from your wallet and handing it to him.

"no, no, really, it's fine, i swear."

"no, stop it. you're not leaving until you take this money."

he took it with a scoff, seeing how you won't take no for an answer.

“i should give you the other part of the reward, too.” you said with a chuckle as you sat back down beside him.

“what, the kiss?” he stammered, shaking his head as his face goes red and his eyes widened slightly.

“yeah, you want it?” he started stuttering when you said that, so before he got a proper word out, you added “nah, man, i'm just joking. i put that there to be funny, i'd never kiss a stranger like that.”

“oh, yeah, that… that makes sense.” he laughed shyly, nodding.

the cat showed up again, and you went back to talking about him, until spencer decided it's time to go home, which was only around a few hours later.

now, you're not sure when that turned into what it is now, but you're glad it did.

maybe it was the day after that, when you took garfield to the groomers, and sent spencer a picture of him when he got home, wearing the cute tie they always give him.

maybe it was when you started sending every picture you took of garfield to spencer.

or maybe it was when you started talking about things unrelated to the animal.

you're not sure. but now, spencer reid is at your place again, wearing a colorful hat and singing happy birthday to your cat.

of course, he's the only other person at the party. he's the only friend you were certain would show up. and that he did, after rambling about how the cat didn’t even know it was his birthday.

“woo hoo!! happy birthday, baby!” you exclaim when the song is over, taking the cat in your arms and giving him kisses.

“yay, happy birthday, garfield!” he says with a chuckle, petting him.

as soon as he starts getting fussy, though, you put him back down on the ground with a giggle, “yeah, yeah, off you go.”

“i did tell you he doesn't know the date he was born in.”

“well, yeah, but at least he's getting plenty of treats.” you shrug as you throw yourself on the sofa along with spencer, taking off the birthday hats and tossing them to the side. “he knows he's loved.”

“i'm sure he does” he mumbles, smiling at you softly.

“thanks, by the way” you mutter after a beat, turning to him and giving him a nod.

“for what?”

“finding him.”

“that was ages ago, you've thanked me 63 times since then.” he says with a laugh.

“it's not enough, though. he's a stupid little cat, i doubt he would have survived more time out there. you saved his life, probably.”

he nods, staying quiet for another moment.

“y'know, there is one way you could thank me.”

“yeah…?” you already know what he's talking about, he already knows that you already know. the blush in his cheeks that showed up as he said that, his fidgety fingers, the way he started avoiding your gaze.

“the, uhm… the other part of the reward…”

you'd tease him, make him actually say it, if it weren't for how anxious he looks. it physically hurts, how awkward he is.

so instead, you move your hands to his shoulders as you lean in to press your lips to his. for a second, you're scared this isn't what he was talking about. you're wondering if you've just screwed up a friendship, until he moves a shy hand up to your face.

he feels scared, at first. he holds your jaw, fingers gently tangling in your hair as he hesitantly kisses you. but when a moment goes by like that, and you move to sit on his lap, straddling his hips, it's like something within him changes.

he starts kissing you like you're the first and last thing he'll ever touch, his hands roaming down your body as he slides his tongue into your mouth. he bites and sucks at your bottom lip while his arms wrap around your waist, and your own arms go around his neck.

but a man can't live only off of his beloved’s lips. unfortunately, humans do need oxygen. so when he needs to pull away to breathe, he does so with a groan.

panting, you stare at each other with a smile, and pressing one quick peck to his lips, you whisper, “thank you.”

"no, thank you.”

#i loved it so much

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moonstruks · 3 months ago

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im ready.

My sweet Baby.

You took your long awaited four-day vacation, for which you had saved your money for two years. That you had almost no money would be an understatement. You just manage to get through your college with two part-time jobs (for which you get far too little money).So what happens when you meet the most successful CEO in the world in an unknowingly overpriced café?

Sugar Mommy!Natasha Romanoff x Sugar Baby!Reader

WARNINGS: 18+! MINORS DNI!, Age gap (natasha is 37 = reader ist 21), Smut, BDSM, Mommy kink, strap-on use, rough sex, Punishments, dirty talk, oral, mention/use of sex toys, edging, multiple orgasm, orgasm denial, overstimulation, praise, degradation, choking, fluff, angst?

A/N: Hello Guys! Hope you are well! The story just came in my Mind while watching the movie and now I am here. The story is a little inspired by fifty Shades of Grey, so there might be some similarities, yet it will have a completely different story line!

Parts:

part 1

part 2

part 3

part 4

Part 5

End

Drabbles

Christmas together (smut)

Natasha let reader drive her car (smut)

Natasha says verbally she loves the reader for the first timers

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moonstruks · 3 months ago

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─── ⋆ WOULD YOU STILL LOVE ME IF I WAS A SPIDER?

pairings. peter parker x fem!reader

cw. fluff, established relationship, reader is described as a ‘weird girl’ who has a huge obsession with insects and such.

author’s note: this is a part two of miss ladybug! so i suggest reading that first. i really like this pairing and i enjoy writing for them, my requests for peter are still open if you’d like to share some of your ideas 🙃🙃 special dedication to @ghostlyfleur btw <3

peter parker isn’t as mysterious as he thinks he is. to most peers, he’s just another nerd who runs the photography team like it’s an elite competition— and obviously, he is winning it. he has messy hair that eerily resembles a squirrel’s tail, glasses that seem a bit to big for him, a skateboard that he always carries, and a stupid smile that now melts you like ice cream.

not to mention his sweet dimples. sometimes you see him as a helpless little millipede on the side of the road after a stormy day, that captures peter’s entire essence very well to you.

and that’s exactly what he looks like in your eyes as of now— hair wet, glasses broken in his hand, he has lost his skateboard somehow, and he’s still smiling like an absolute dork outside of your door.

“hi, ladybug— could you let me in, please?” peter smiles, teeth shining.

you move to the side, gesturing him to step inside. his hair is covering most of his forehead but you can’t help but notice a sting of red near his left side. you sigh, “you know, you look like the tarantula i lost in eight grade.”

peter’s ears perk up, “a tarantula?”

you nod, “mhm. it’s cold here, my room’s warmer.”

indeed it was. the room was lit only by fairy lights and two tiffany lamps. it wasn’t dark— it’s cozy. books are scattered around your desk, there were multiple posters up of insect anatomy, framed beetles & butterflies, and a lot of patterned-blankets.

“are you okay?”

he nods. you don’t really buy that, “you should probably move your hair to the right side, you don’t want it touching the wound you have on your left side.”

peter stands still, “what? i don’t— i don’t have a wound..”

“peter, i can see the red under your hair. the blood’s running down your skull— it’s probably mixed with rain water now and you should get that cleaned like right now!”

you pout, “what did you do now? and don’t say it’s because of your skateboard again ‘cos you don’t even have it right now!”

he thinks for a second. “i’m sorry, ladybug. but, before i answer that question could i ask one first?”

“what are you—”

“would you still love me if i was a spider? maybe like your eight grade tarantula?” he shrugs,

“huh? yes? yes. i’d still love you if you were a spider, peter parker. even if you were my eight grade tarantula that i lost and mourned for. now, what does that have to do with anything?”

peter hesitates, “i need you to sit down,”

“you’re scaring me,”

“it’s not as scary as you think.”

“is that suppose to reassure me?”

he nods before exhaling quite dramatically, “ladybug, i’m spider-man. that’s why my skull is bleeding red, why my skateboard is gone, and why i show up with scars snd bruises. and that’s also why i ask for you to accompany me to get ice packs.”

you sigh, in relief.

“i knew it.”

“what?”

“i called it!” you giggle. peter looks at you in disbelief, or confusion, or both.

“how— do you just know everything?”

“that’s why you always freak out when i call you spider-man. and maybe that’s how you got your name in the first place, if so, i want credit for it. and also, it’s kinda obvious..”

peter furrows his brows.

“you’re always on delivered when spider-man is reported to be on patrol. the day after the computer lab i did research on my device as it just finished getting repaired, and i sort of found a lot—”

peter blinks, “so, you do know everything.”

“i have my ways.”

“what are you? miraculous the ladybug?”

“i guess you’re not the only one with a secret identity then.”

#toes r clenching #andrew!peter ;

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moonstruks · 3 months ago

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OH MY GOD

OHMYYGODDD

─── ⋆ MISS LADYBUG

pairings. peter parker x fem!reader

cw. fluff, cutesy first-meet type thing, reader is described as a 'weird girl' who has a huge obsession with insects and such, peter is quite clueless about his spider bite, he needs a real expert.

author's note: guess who disappeared and appeared again, me! my requests for peter are currently open though updates might be slow as i've been very busy. this isn't proofread btw so spare me please.

growing up you've preferred the nickname ladybug. it started off as a silly thing your peers gave you since you were somehow always near insects and bugs. they fascinated you, most of the ones you held close were harmless, just tiny beings that had their own little life. the feeling of them crawling on your skin, flying near your nose, or laying by your shoulder— it warms your heart dearly.

you never cared when your nickname got twisted into an insult by others, being called weird never felt like something bad to you. besides, why should you choose to be miserable when life is constantly happening around you? the sun is shining, the grass is green, flowers are flourishing, caterpillars are turning into butterflies— you've always picked to be your true self, careless of what the world has to think about you, life's too short for that.

and if you did change back then, you risked the chance of forgetting the amount of knowledge you had on these little creatures, which meant you would've never met peter the way you did today.

the computer lab at midtown science high school is usually empty. students now prefer to do their work in their own ways, whether that was on their laptop, notebook, or you know, nothing at all. i mean— the computer lab is dusty, makes you sneeze non-stop, and nobody hated themselves enough to willingly go there.

that's what people say. though, peter parker sort of agreed. but he doesn't have much of a choice, the computer at his house was wrecked because the keys were all scrambled. his phone wasn't advanced enough to handle multiple tabs of different websites, so he decided to put the computer lab to use.

that day you needed to get your paper done. you've had the file on the only good working computers in the lab. recently, tragedy struck as your device fell into a mud puddle on the way back from a rainy day. safe to say the frogs nearby were safe, though your device wasn't. so as soon as the bell rang, you ran to the computer lab.

but then, you see peter parker— slouching, typing away with his brows furrowed. his glasses were on the tip of his nose, and it looked as if he hadn't had much sleep last night. he sneezed before acknowledging you, unaware, you were peering over him like some creep.

"sorry, do you need anything?" he rubbed his nose, "yeah, well unfortunately you're using the only good computer here and i need to get my paper done."

"well, i saw a computer at the back that didn't have gum on it," he points, you knew the ones at the back never ran properly.

you shrug, "i have my file for my paper on the computer you're using. so i fear the rest wouldn't be much help."

he nods, but continues typing— "unless you can help me figure out what the hell bit me yesterday, i'd much appreciate it and maybe i'll give you my computer."

"it's the school's computer?"

"the bite on my neck is itching."

you peaked at his screen and caught a glimpse of multiple pictures, all picturing scars and wounds caused from insect bites. peter pushed his seat back so you could get a better look, it was obvious he was trying to identify what type of insect bit him.

"so, you got bit?"

"i think that's quite clear,"

"i'm trying to help."

he nodded, you continued, "where did you get bit? it might help if we know what environment you were at,"

"that's confidential,"

"that's not helping."

peter tried to describe the situation he was stuck in. to you, he seemed insane, but that's not the biggest problem here. who were you to judge anyways. from what you gathered, and observed from the back of his neck— it isn't like what you've normally seen. no red spots, rash, or blisters, whatever bit him didn't seem like it affected him much. maybe not physically, mentally sure.

"did you feel dizzy? or feel sick?"

peter shook his head, "no, not really. why is that bad?"

"no, that's good, silly! whatever bit you didn't seem venomous. or maybe, the venom seems to not work on you."

that was supposed to come off as a joke, but to peter that seemed like a statement.

"you should compress it with ice, just to make sure it doesn't become something major. and maybe, check it up to like the specialists so they can provide some pain-killers for you if it gets worse. right now, the bite shouldn't cause anything more, and does it sting if i--"

you press on it and peter winced quite hard, "ow!"

"okay, so ice is definitely needed."

"how do you know if it's not anything major?"

"i've seen spider bites, and many other insect-caused-bites. none of them match up to your scar, not even an ant. 'cos if you got your bite yesterday, the scar healed very quick, and you don't see that at all in these cases."

"okay, miss ladybug."

you smile, "what's your name, spider-man?"

"peter, peter parker. what's yours?"

you two talk for a long while. i think it's safe to say your paper wasn't done by the end of the day.

#andrew!peter ;#OhmyygGODDD #SOO CUTE

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moonstruks · 3 months ago

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is this a safe space? bc i kind of wanna talk about how i get a lot of recommended reader fics but then i see a visual like this and immediately get turned off.

and like this conversation about centering certain beauty standards with readers isn't new. it's been happening since forever. but i've noticed some uptick once i started looking for stuff in challengers.

the centering of whiteness with fanfiction in general is an issue that me and other non-white people had discussed at length for years. and part of me just wants to say that we should strive to be more inclusive. like there should be no reason for specifying non-white readers, especially black ones, and for us to have our own separate category because some writers can't fathom that non-white readers exist. hell, even in terms of body weight, ability, hair or no hair, GENDER.

i'm not innocent either. it's an easy trap to fall into if you're writing something x reader and you're using yourself as a stand in for the reader. and i'm not here to criticize or shame. i just wanna propose being more inclusive. and that starts with using less images of faceless white girls from pinterest.

maybe it's selfish of me to ask this. but i've been reading fanfiction on the internet for over 10 years. and i can definitely say as a non-white girl, fanfiction did contribute to my insecurities as a non-white person, in feeling insecure in my appearance. nothing has changed it seems.

#!!!#core core ;

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moonstruks · 3 months ago

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RASPBERRY GIRL / MASTERLIST

Simon Riley masterlist

(Captain) Simon Riley/female reader 18+ mdni, explicit sexual content, blurry lines of consent. Captain Riley in his forties. Heavy daddy kink. Age gap relationship. Reader is neurodivergent. Each part to have their own individual tags and warnings.

Raspberry sweet roll Lemon meringue pie Funfetti birthday cake

Raspberry Girl's recipes

Divider painting and credit

#dear god

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moonstruks · 3 months ago

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DEAR GGOD DEARGOODJEIEOEOOEOEODODKDKDKDK

─ FRIEND FROM COLLEGE, dad's best friend ! jackles

your welcome home party from college is joined by none other than the man your father based all of his warnings about boys around: his estranged best friend from college. little did he know that it wasn't the signs you needed to be warned away from, but the man himself.

warnings. ( 18+ ! ) pls for the love of god don't interact with this one if you're a minor. hefty age gap. unprotected p in v. semi - public sex (maybe?). choke kink. daddy kink (lite edition). spit kink? maybe? manhandling. creampie. romanticization of sneaking around. mentions of alc/hol & drinking. word count. 6.7k (SORRY.)

happy birthday to my bree bree, @titsout4jackles <3 thank u for forcing me back into writing smut with this one HAHAH.

OF COURSE YOU'D HEARD ABOUT JENSEN; an infamous character from your dad’s past, a faceless name that frequented in all of the stories that he ended with, don’t try that, or don’t repeat my mistakes. you’d heard infinite stories about your dad’s time in college involving that man, his name spoken around an exasperated sigh, so at adds with the story in mention. your father, wistfully telling you at the dinner table to not do any keg stands while you were away at school, because of the time jensen had done three in one night, somehow, and ended up in the emergency room.

it was just one of those things you accepted about your parents’ lives, before they met and made the family that was you: jensen was either a scapegoat character made up to teach you obscure life lessons, or those three keg stands in one night killed him, considering you'd never met him once in all of your twenty-something years. either way, those stories did have some sort of influence on you, because your years away at college went by without issue, or hospitalization from alcoholism.

you were so happy to be back home. your term was up for the year, landing you back in the summery sunset heat enveloping your parents’ home, coating everything in a thick sheen of inescapable warmth. your mothers rose bushes in the front yard were blooming flowers of beautiful shades of pink and red, loose petals scattered across the bright green of their front lawn, the floral-and-pollen smell a warm greeting as you walked up the front steps.

music drifted outside from the open windows, the navy blue shudders rattling against the creamy white clapboard siding on the house. you could see, just faintly, through the blinding white of the sun’s glare, the outlines of people in the sun-darkened interior.

were you supposed to knock? this was the house you grew up in. your heights over the years were etched into the doorframe of the closed off upstairs staircase, the graphite of the pencil faded with time but the grooves in the wood a permanent staple. the living room’s cream paint job was dulling, too, except for that one spot by the warm brown skirting board, where a littler you had just learned that crayons and markers worked as well on the paint as they did on the papers you colored, and your parents had to cover it up.

were you meant to knock on a door that held so many memories within its grasp? did it suddenly stop becoming your home just because you’d spread your wings and flown south for a little while?

the debate is interrupted when a hush falls over the chatter inside, even the volume of the music dropping to a low murmur. before you can even process that your presence had been noticed by someone, the front door pulls open, putting a final end on the internal debate racking through you and gnawing on the inner workings of your mind.

“honey!” your mom exclaims, her arms tossing around your neck, dragging you in for a tight hug. she smells like the solo cup she has in her hand around you: malibu rum, with a twinge of sweet pineapple juice. when she tugs back away from you, the cup in mention is offered to you. "finish this for me, will you? your father's cutting me off."

your lips tilt up in amusement, taking a little testing sip from it. expectedly, your mother's unmistakable heavy hand is evident in that one sip, the burn of alcohol slipping down your throat with the faintest trace of coconut on your tongue. "i wonder why."

"hey," your mother scolds teasingly, her arms folding across her chest in a way so similarly to how you do, it almost aches, "you can't scold your mother before you give her a proper hug." you remembered a time when you were as tall as her hip, and attached to it too. growing up was as much a blessing as it was a curse, the memories of the simpler days like wounds that didn't ever fully heal. you supposed it was something that got easier to manage when every year circled around again.

you laugh, reaching around her to set the cup down on the entrance table in the living space, right beside the bowl of keys filled halfway, before you properly hugged your mother. you'd known that they were throwing you a welcome home party, but this many people? you can't draw your eyes away from the bowl, trying to pick apart the ones you recognized.

your father's and your mother's, of course; you were pretty sure that was your aunt's, with the frilly pink puff on the key ring, and one of your dad's friends, your honorary uncle tom—

caught up in the impossible task of assigning names and faces to a bowl of keys, you miss your father's booming voice, echoing through the scattering of people in the living room, eyes locked in your direction like they were waiting for their turn to say something to you while you were caught up in the embrace of your mother. "there is my little girl!"

you were hardly little anymore, you were over halfway through your college experience by now, quickly approaching the final year. like you looked at this house and saw all the remnants of your youth, it seemed that your father didn't look at you without seeing the girl you used to be.

your mom releases you, and you wait with bated breath to be crushed into your father's chest— but he's interrupted, and you're stuck holding your breath for no reason, by a voice you don't recognize.

"so this is her?"

he has a beer bottle between big fingers, a smirk poking through the scruff of dark facial hair smattering across his cheeks and jawline, dusting across his upper lip. his eyes are a piercing tea green, framed by dark eyelashes that only prove to emphasize their paleness. his hair is slicked out of his face, a couple of loose straggling strands hung over his eyes.

your mouth runs completely dry. somehow, like a piece fitting into the gap in a puzzle, you know without being told that this is—

"jensen," his free hand shoots out in greeting, and stirring you away from the muddle of your thoughts and out of the silent stupor you'd gotten stuck in, "it's nice to put a face to the name i've been listenin' to this guy rave about for the last few hours."

it wasn't embarrassing, per se, but you found your face warming with it, anyways. had your father shown him the doorframe with your heights etched into it? did he see the baby pictures on the coffee table photo album, and the ridiculous number of times you'd had birthday cake smeared all over your face in it?

you manage to find your voice at the same time as you clasp his hand, but it feels awkward in your mouth, like none of the right words are coming forward to claim the sentence you try to force out. "it's— yes. it's nice to have a face."

his mouth twitches. this was not supposed to happen. jensen ackles was never supposed to be real, or, hell — alive. you'd come to terms with the fact that he was as imaginary as the tooth fairy, a figure for life lessons like smoky the bear or something. he wasn't supposed to be standing in front of you, letting you make a fool of yourself in front of the entirety of your family and friends.

jensen keeps his hand around yours for a few longer seconds, the bigger palm hugging yours sending a rush of chills up your arm. he was so warm. and tall. and real. wasn't that crazy? "yeah, it is nice to have a face, sweetheart." he shoots you a wink that takes a detour from your eyes to your chest, sending your heart racing in a frenzy. "you've got a real pretty one, too."

your dad's lips thin, prying jensen's fingers out of yours. "that's enough of that," he grumbles, stepping in jensen's place in front of you to tug you into his chest. "welcome home, baby."

it's a wonderful distraction from whatever that was, clawing at your ribcage and threatening to steal your stuttering heart along with it. you take a deep breath and sigh, eyes closing. it was nice to be home. "i see you guys started without me."

"your lovely mother got excited," your dad explains, shaking his head as he steps back and releases you, "you know how excited she gets about a party."

hence why she'd disappeared, inevitably looking for the digital camera to document this. this was why the photo album was splayed on the coffee table, and why you had a picture for every birthday, every swipe of frosting smeared around your hands and face. hopefully, there wasn't any cake this time around.

like a warm balm to the racing beat in your chest, you could feel jensen's gaze on you still. you refused to meet it head on, though, knowing innately that the entire world would tilt on its axis and never return to its natural state. like the butterfly effect; something so small was capable of changing the world.

you're saved by your father's hand on your shoulder, guiding you toward the glass screen doors that opened up to a fully decorated back patio. fairy lights strung between the trees and over the navy blue awning, a full fold-out table underneath the awning with a big bowl of icy punch, and a cooler sat next to the table with bottles of beer coated in ice water and sweat.

snacks of all kinds lined the opposite side of the table. bags of chips lined out by flavor, a cooking tray with barbecue and hamburgers laid out on it, condiments on the opposite side. the air smelled like charcoal and food, and beneath it all was an underlying scent of—

"oh no."

your dad laughs brightly, clapping you on the shoulder. "your mom insisted. you know she couldn't have a party without her little girl having a cake."

"is she expecting me to drop headfirst into it again?" you weren't planning on doing that anyways, hadn't since you were too little to know how utensils worked, but with jensen here? you were definitely not doing that in front of him. no way.

he shrugs, slipping around you to steal another bottle from the cooler. "doubtful. she will want a picture of you with it, though." he tips the neck of the bottle toward you in acknowledgement. "mom's got more alcohol inside, if you don't want whatever the hell they tossed in that punch bowl or beer. i'm gonna start bringin' the smores stuff out, if you want to get situated by the fire."

you wave your hand in a polite dismissal, stepping out of the way for your dad to disappear inside again. standing in front of the refreshments table, you bend to grab a beer for yourself, cracking it open as the sweat coated your palm. it was a welcome distraction from the sun blazing one last time before it clocked out and the moon took its place.

you were a few steps away from the bonfire pit in the center of your backyard, the patio chairs entangled in with metal foldouts in a circle around it, when you sensed him behind you. it was impossible to not know it was him; he was the only person here whos eyes you weren't familiar with how it felt to be watched from. across from the patio chair you chose, the grill still smoked with the last of the charcoal cooking away, and in the haze of that smoke, he dipped into focus.

under the golden light of the sunset, he looked even more devastating, somehow. a maroon button-up with the top two buttons undone, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. khaki shorts that hugged his thick thighs, leaving little to the imagination as he closed the final remnants of distance.

"already so quick to run away?"

your back straightens, as if the idea of slouching in front of him was something detrimental. your fingernail swirled patterns in the dripping sweat on the bottle, eyes locked on the motion to avoid looking at him. you still heard it, though, when jensen's weight collapsed into a chair across the fire from you, his legs spread wide as he makes himself comfortable in his own patio chair.

"for your information," you say, your eyes flicking up to meet his finally, and it's just as intense as you remember, "i was not running away. i got told to sit out here."

"okay, princess, stand down." his eyes are sinful, raking up and down the length of your body. he was so shameless about it, like he didn't feel an ounce of guilt at all about the fact that you were his best friend's daughter. sure, he'd never met you before, but didn't that thought enter his head at all? wasn't he clinging to that little reminder like you were?

your eyes dance over to the patio doors, split open and inviting, letting the breeze into the interior of the home, deep blue curtains flapping. it was comforting for you, in a way, just as much as it was suffocating, knowing at any moment, someone else could step outside.

the nylon of the patio chair creaks across from you, and you glance over at jensen again, just to see him shift forward with his elbows on his knees. "what are you so scared of, beautiful?"

you were not scared. where he got that assessment was beyond you, considering you were ramrod straight in your seat, unable to look at him at all, finding every blade of grass in the lawn much more enticing. see? definitely not scared. "maybe," you start, tilting your head to the side in mindless thought, "it's because you're a stranger, following me around."

"do you want to get to know me?" his smirk cuts a dimple into his cheek. he’s captivating, utterly captivating. there was something so enticing about him, about the forbidden nature that came with everything about him.

you arch an eyebrow at him. “what’s to learn?” your finger circles the mouth of your beer before you lift it to your mouth for a quick swig of it. his gaze is locked on the bob of your throat. “dad told me plenty of stories.”

“i thought i was a stranger.”

“i thought you were smoky the bear.”

jensen’s laugh is music, echoing in the growing dark of the night. the golden cast over his face was now a warm orange, casting a darker shadow of the deep dark of his gaze. "smoky the bear?"

"i thought he made you up," you were not biting back a smile. jensen was your dad's former best friend, something potentially had gotten revived, considering he was here. off-limits echoed in your head like a mantra, growing quieter with each passing moment you tried to pretend that he wasn't looking at you like that. "since i never got a face to the name of the guy who supposedly ate a worm for three dollars."

you expect him to deny it. his mouth curves in a crescent, his eyes glimmering in the deep amber light. "three dollars and seventy five cents."

"no."

"bought myself a gumball that day."

your head tips back in a laugh, the harmony of yours atop of his sending a chill up the arch of your spine. you open your mouth to say something, beer bottle tilted in his direction in a half-attempt at a cheers, but voices start to filter outside behind you.

whatever you planned to say is swallowed down, the intoxicating energy of your banter sucked up like a vacuum. your mom hooks a hand on your shoulder, tugging your head toward her to kiss your temple. "i see you've been getting to know jensen," she hums, taking the metal foldout chair next to you. "i hope he's not giving you too much trouble."

you don't look away from him as you shake your head. "nothing i can't handle."

"of course," she agrees, taking up one of the metal prongs and sliding a marshmallow on each of the ends. "you got that from me, you know. your father was unbearable back in the day, to everyone but me."

jensen's chiming in draws your eyes back to him. "it's true. she domesticated him."

you cock an eyebrow at him. "who's domesticating you then?"

his only answer is a wicked grin. your mom, thankfully, says nothing about it, her attention on the marshmallows warming over the lick of the flames, stretching and sticking to the heated prongs.

"m'gonna go get another drink," jensen sighs, palms patting the spread of his thighs as he rises. after a long term of simplicity, no time to even ponder the idea of doing three keg stands, or something disgusting for a couple of bucks, the leash that jensen had around your interest was tight. you couldn't look away as he walked up the wooden steps of your patio, disappearing through the fluttering curtains.

next to you, your mother has captured the marshmallows between two squares of graham crackers, a piece of chocolate melting into the sticky sugar. "want one?" she asks, offering one out to you through the light pinch of her two fingers.

you wave your hand before you can think any of this through. "actually, i'm gonna go run to the bathroom, i think."

"of course," she says with a little smile, and you almost feel bad for denying her, knowing she just wanted to spend time with you on your first night back home. there was plenty of time still in the night, the fire only having just started, and the night having only just now dipped from warm oranges and pinks to deep blue.

the stars winked at you, knowing exactly where you were heading as you stood and started toward the sliding glass doors. they'd keep your secret, whatever that secret turned out to be.

somehow, even after having heard him announce where he was going, you're surprised to see jensen at the mahogany countertop, a crystal tumbler between his fingers that nurses a finger of bourbon. outside, you can hear the cackle of your uncle tom, followed by the hollering laughter of your father. the rest of the guests had settled into the spread of chairs around the firepit.

it was you and jensen in the dim dark of the house, the natural light having disappeared behind the horizon, drenching the both of you in a pale light that danced in the open space between the curtains.

"naughty girl," jensen drawls, his voice low and guttural at the base of his throat. he hasn't turned his attention away from his drink, watching you out of the corner of his eye. "runnin' from the party in her name to hang out with the big, bad wolf."

your heartbeat stutters in place in your chest, but you aren't so easily deterred or riled. your head tilts up in an air of defiance that only makes the wolfish expression on his face widen. the dull point of his canine clamps on his bottom lip. "for your information," you echo from earlier, "i'm going to the bathroom."

"this ain't the bathroom," he muses, nodding back toward the hallway like you were the one who needed directions in your own home. "gone so long you're gettin' lost in your own home?"

"i think you wanted me to come in here with you." you don't know where the words bubble up from, but they're out of your mouth before you can swallow the soap of them back down. "you had beer earlier. you could have gotten another."

jensen laughs, the sound of it pooling like heat in your lower belly. "dictatin' what i drink now? that's bold, naughty girl. we just met."

you stutter on a response. "i'm just saying—"

"maybe i wanted somethin' richer," jensen rasps, turning to face you now, the base of his spine pressed back into the edge of the countertop, "to try n' get another flavor out of my imagination."

every rational thought leaves your head. anything you could have said dissipates into vapor, floating back up toward the sunless sky. the innuendo is clear, written in vibrant shades like words atop a birthday cake — or, for today's sake, a graduation cake.

you're speechless, neither of you breaking the intense eye contact you shared. maybe he was a big bad wolf, what with the way he eyed you, all of you, like he was looking for the treats you'd tucked away underneath your red cloak.

"i'm gonna go to the bathroom now," you manage to breathe out, the crack in the center of your sentence shifting like tectonic plates. the earthquake was bound to hit any moment.

his eyebrows raise in his own amusement. "use mine."

the illusion cracks. the earthquake doesn't yet hit. you're both on one side of the plates, waiting to see who stumbles into the other first. "what?"

"your dad is a helluva host," jensen hums, downing the rest of his bourbon in one fell swoop, "invites me to a party and offers to let me stay a couple of nights too, to catch up."

you still don't say anything, the realization like a knife. you were home for three months; jensen was here for a few days, rekindling an estranged friendship with your father, assumedly going to be over often. your mouth felt like cotton, like you'd swallowed a handful of cinnamon, choking on the dry sweetness.

"do you know what he said?"

the glass clinks on the countertop when jensen sets it down, his footsteps echoing heavily on the linoleum beneath his boots. "he said," he continues without your prompting, close enough that his breath ghosts over the shell of your ear, "he had a pretty daughter he wanted me to meet. thought i'd like her."

your voice is weak when you say, "he didn't say that."

"i took creative liberties."

your mouth opens, closes. nothing eradicates the dryness in your mouth, the plague of it starting to curl down your throat. finally, you manage to choke out in response, "what other creative liberties have you drawn about me?"

jensen smells spicy. cloves and musk and bourbon and cinnamon. you wonder, in a brief, fleeting thought, if he tastes like it, too. "little things," he finally breathes, "wonderin' if that mouth of yours sucks as good as it runs. how those legs would feel wrapped around me when i bury myself so deep in your—"

"there you are, jens," your dad's voice nearly makes you jump out of your skin, his head peeking through the open glass doors of the back entrance, "everything okay?"

jensen settles back on the heels of his shoes as if he wasn't all but tracing the shell of your ear with his tongue. "all good," he agrees, giving your father a smile that gave nothing away of how he'd been talking about burying himself in you. "we were talkin' about school. i held her up on goin' to the bathroom. that's my bad."

he lies so easily that you know it had to be a reason why he and your dad fell out. your dad hated liars, hated secrets. everything happening underneath his nose with this was soon enough going to break his heart when it came to light, but the thrill of that possibility sent electricity jolting down your spine.

"actually, i think i'mma head in for the night," jensen sighs, that smile of his becoming something lazier and more tired than what it'd been moments before. "thanks for invitin' me to stay the weekend again."

weekend. today was thursday. that meant...

you barely manage to move out of the way before jensen brushes past you, his fingertips ghosting along your ribs that were turned away from your father. the invitation was clear when you met his eyes for a final time. go to his bathroom.

"sorry about him," your dad says with a bemused shake of his head, "i've been invitin' him to come around again since we graduated, didn't expect him to actually show up today. hope he's not givin' you too much trouble."

your mother said the same thing. you wondered idly about what sort of trouble they must be referring to, and why it seemed to trail him. "he's fine. i was asking him about which of your stories were true."

he winks at you. "all of 'em."

"well, i learned that," you laugh, ducking your face in a useless attempt to hide the fact that he was more right than he knew. troublemaking womanizer from my time at college that once did three keg stands in one night, who spent his weekend in the hospital. nothing but trouble, doing anything for a dime or a laugh.

you nod behind you to the hallway. "i'll be out in a few, okay? i'm just gonna run to the bathroom and get a little snack first. i haven't eaten all day."

maybe you were doomed to fall out of your close relationship with your father, too, the easy way you lie to him.

he nods, patting the glass doorframe. "okay, sweetheart. mom's makin' enough smores to feed the town, so save some room."

over your shoulder, you smile warmly at your father. "okay, dad."

the house falls silent again. there's nothing but the thudding heartbeat in your chest, punctuating the decision you were dooming yourself to make.

all the bedrooms were upstairs. the guest room and its bathroom and your bedroom were on one side of the hallway, the main bathroom upstairs at the very end, and your parents' and the other guest room were on the other. you bypass your bedroom and hesitate in front of the cracked door of the guest bedroom.

anxiety ripples through you. bad decision, your head says again, one final time, before it vanishes completely, your subconscious giving up on trying to offer you the chance to back out.

you push the bedroom door open, and there was jensen ackles, the maroon button-up discarded, leaving the expanse of his abdomen on display in the reflection of the mirror he stood in front of. your eyes trace sinew and muscle in his back, how his shoulder blades shift beneath his skin as he stands a little straighter at the sight of you.

he doesn't say a word. doesn't move an inch. he can't be as bad as everyone says, you can't help but think, because he's letting you call the shots here. you could stand in this doorway and tell him goodnight, and he'd let you go.

you could do what you already were without realizing: step inside the bedroom and close the door behind you again.

again, he doesn't yet move from where he was, only turning around to fully face you. he was so broad, the muscles indenting his stomach sturdy and solid. he was shameless in how he eyed you up, so you didn't shy away from returning the favor now that you felt safe enough to do so.

there's a heated moment when nothing happens except the air in the room charges. heats and heats until it bursts through the wire coating and catches flame, burning everything in its path.

one moment, he's a couple of feet away, watching you like it was your turn to act on the chessboard. the next, his feet are carrying themselves over to you, his lips crashing against yours like a hurricane.

jensen kisses like he, too, knew that this was doomed. his palms slip under your thighs and hoist you into the air, and you break apart from him in a harsh intake of breath, your hands grasping at his shoulders for stability.

your back collides with a wooden door, and neither of you move for a split second. his tongue laps into your mouth, meeting yours stroke for stroke, his fingers squeezing handfuls of the skin of your thighs between them. he shifts after a moment, knees bending to reach better as he plants your ass on his forearm, his freed hand gripping tight on the doorknob and shoving you both through it.

two doors between you and someone who could catch you was better than one. this one, too, jensen locked behind him, before he slid you onto the marbled countertop of the sink.

there was no time for the simple luxuries of teasing. you were on a time crunch, and jensen seemed to guess such, too, as his big palms slide underneath the skirt of your dress and shove it upwards. the glossy marble is cold on your bare skin, but he doesn't give you any chance to adjust to it before he's shoving your legs open and stepping between them.

"i knew you were a naughty girl when i met you," he rasps into your throat, two fingers dipping into his mouth before he pops them free, a string of saliva following the motion. "show me how naughty you can be, baby girl. open up."

you would have on your own, but he pushes those two fingers between your lips and presses them against your tongue. his eyes are hooded, heavy and dark, as they take in the sight of your lips wrapped tightly around his fingers.

the thought enters your head on its own, like for once, your subconscious has decided to work in your favor tonight. wonderin' if that mouth of yours sucks as good as it runs.

your cheeks hollow as you suck on the digits, the taste of his saliva coating the inside of your mouth. it does taste spicy, the subtlest taste of bourbon burning as you swallow the mix of saliva down your throat.

jensen's head tips back in a groan, shoving his fingers farther into your mouth, enough to make you choke on a cough. his laugh is breathy, the sound of it intermixing with another sound, something metallic jingling.

his belt hits the floor and the sound stops. his fingers don't. "who would have guessed such a pretty little thing had such a filthy little mouth?" jensen muses, popping his fingers free from your mouth and thumbing away the tears that sprung in the corners of your eyes. "might just have to keep you. you'd like that, huh?"

his free hand shoves the dark, tight boxers hugging his legs down, and before your eyes can drift down to see what springs free, that hand comes up and holds your jaw between his thumb and index finger, making you nod in answer. "yeah, baby girl would like that."

you swallow thickly, your lips red and swollen from his kiss, parted to try and suck down a solid breath. you weren't sure you'd breathed since he kissed you, your chest aching with it.

the grip he has on your chin tilts it downwards, shaking it gently until your eyes drop his gaze and land on what you'd tried to get a look at before, and were denied. "might have to keep you regardless," he murmurs, tracing his thumb over your bottom lip, "'cause i don't think anyone else's gonna live up to me."

your lips twitch, some semblance of control reentering your system. "you're cocky."

his head dips downward, brushing his mouth over the swell of your bottom lip, the stubble of his facial hair tickling and electrifying the skin of your upper. "you don't know cock yet."

his two fingers, still wet with the mix of both of your saliva, are back under your dress, the cool wet of them tracing a line up your inner thigh. "say yes," he breathes, stopping just above where your panties cover the evidence of your arousal, "daddy wants to hear it."

you're not breathing again, at least not solidly. instead, your mouth opens and closes fruitlessly, a choke of a "yes" loosing from your throat. those two fingers curl underneath your panties and tug you closer to him by the hold on the fabric.

"good girl," he murmurs in his approval, and one more harsh yank draws a whimpering gasp from your lips, along with the sound of the thin fabric tearing.

the roughness is put on pause as jensen's hand grabs one of your thighs and hooks it around his waist. his two fingers stay between your legs, smearing your wetness along the slit of your folds, not dipping his fingers in like you wish he would.

you catch yourself watching his face again, like every microshift of his expression is something you want to witness. especially as you move your other leg for him, hooking your ankles behind the lower half of his bare back.

"i knew you were trouble," he says, nosing your chin up to take your bottom lip between his teeth. "stay quiet for me, yeah?"

it wasn't something you needed explained to you, but you don't argue with him. not when his fingers finally slip into the creamy folds of your pussy and drag upwards, lazily circling over the sensitive bud of your clit, and not when he captures your mouth in a proper kiss to swallow the squeak of a noise that breaks free from your throat, anyways.

jensen takes his cock into his hand and replaces the drag of his fingers with the sensitive tip of it, keeping up the slow circles with deliberate slowness. you're about to beg, your lips parting against his, when finally, with that same agonizing slowness, he pushes the tip inside of you.

and doesn't move.

when your eyes open, jensen is already staring at you, his pupils blown. "keep goin'?" he asks, as if this is something leisurely to him, as if you can't feel the throb of his hard cock just barely granting any sort of relief to either of you.

"don't be an ass," you breathe, your voice cracking on the words.

jensen's mouth quirks at the corners. "baby girl, asshole is my middle name."

there's no warning to the way his hips jut forward in one harsh movement, filling you completely. your back arches, pressing your chest into his, a choked gasp of a moan stuttering out of your mouth.

his pace is set and relentless, the obscene sound of his balls slapping against your skin as he ravishes you and forces you to stretch around his size. each thrust, your walls grant him more reprieve, the wet squelch of you squeezing around his cock joining the onslaught of obscene noises in the room.

jensen's eyes are laser focused on yours, watching the curve of your mouth to make sure nothing slips free. it's almost more intense like this, being fucked in silence than if he were making you scream and mewl.

you didn't doubt asshole was his middle name, either; not when his palms slip under your ass and squeeze handfuls of the flesh, lifting you off of the countertop. the shift in the position has you clawing at his shoulders for purchase, the only thing keeping you from stumbling to the ground being your legs around his waist and his guiding hands on your ass.

he held you like you weighed nothing, the muscles in his biceps flexing with ease, veins outlined beneath the skin. you were helpless to how he moved you around, using his grip on the supple flesh between his palms to bounce you up and down on the hard fullness of his cock.

the pace slows, just enough for him to maneuver your body down the entirety of his length, the tip of it buried in your cervix. it's almost enough to make you crack, your head pressing into his shoulder, but you bite it back. it was too detrimental to risk being caught just because he was right; he was ruining you for anyone else.

but jensen starts to move you again, starting that deep within you and guiding you back down to that spot, over and over again. you weren't going to be able to walk after this, didn't know how you planned to get back outside to enjoy your party, not with how you could feel the bruising pleasure of him splitting your puffy walls open and grinding into your cervix like this.

you can't even help it when the sharp moan falls out of your mouth, your lower stomach pooled with heat that only seemed to deepen each time he sheathed himself deep inside of you.

"shh," he rasps, the gravel in his voice an intoxicating mix with the strain of it, "don't make me make you quiet. don't want your family hearin', do we? wonderin' what their baby girl's doin' up in here with me?"

your whines are embedded with each harsh thrust of his hips into you. "can't help it," you try to answer, but you aren't sure at all if it came out in a coherent sentence.

his one hand stays cupped firmly over your ass, fingers denting the skin as they dig in. the other comes up to take your throat into his palm, thumb and index pressed hard enough to your pulse points to make you see stars.

"shh," he echoes, the same rasp to his tone as the last time, but much more gentle now, his voice only a whisper, "daddy's got you."

your eyes are wide when they lock onto his, every sound you want to make cut off with the grip he had over your skin. not hard enough to leave a mark, but enough to make your pulse beat harder beneath his touch. "y'wanna come, baby?" he watches your eyes, hissing in a breath when your nails bite into his shoulder again. "go on, baby girl, give daddy all y'got."

the heat builds and builds in your lower stomach, the pleasure roiling through you intensifying until you choke on a little sob, only barely heard over the pressure on your throat. everything explodes into clarity, every color in the golden-lit bathroom growing more vibrant, your body going slack in his grip. your legs tremble around his waist, each thrust past your orgasm making you soundlessly mewl and writhe against him.

jensen lets out a low groan, his head burying into the curve of your neck, his relentless pace stuttering to something slower inside of you, the warmth of his cum filling you and dribbling down the length of his cock, and your thighs. he doesn't fully stop, still driving into you, fucking every drop of cum back into you.

his nose traces across your cheekbone as he lifts his head from the smooth skin of your neck, his fingers loosening around your throat in the process. for a moment, he's gentle again, every trace of the man who defiled you for anyone else gone and replaced with a side you didn't have enough time to figure out.

his thumb brushes lightly over your pulse point, his gaze taking in the mess that he'd made you: flushed cheeks, swollen lips, fingerprint marks ever so slightly evident on the soft skin of your throat, the tears welled in your eyes.

"you should get back to your party, naughty girl," he whispers, wiping away a stray tear that'd slipped from your waterline, "they're probably wonderin' where the girl of the hour went."

all of the softness is clamped down again before you could catch a final glimpse of it. jensen, at the very least, helps to readjust your dress and clean you up, sweaty hair clinging to his forehead that he doesn't pay any mind to, a thin layer of sweat glistening on his skin. it's when you look presentable enough again, when you spin around to say something, anything, and his back is to you in the bathroom, closing the scene you'd both had without so much as a cut.

he doesn't meet your gaze in the mirror this time, either. you didn't think he was shutting you out for good — he couldn't, he was staying three more days — but you recoiled regardless. whatever he was going through, you weren't close enough with him to be a part of or know about.

you were just his former best friend's daughter, who he'd just thoroughly wrecked, in that friend's own home.

what had you done?

notes. IF THIS IS CRAZY I'M SORRY BUT NOT REALLY. pls let me know if u guys want part twos & threes & fours for this bc i have so much lore about dads best friend!jensen i cannOT BE FORCED TO KEEP IT IN. & IF U WANNA REQUEST STUFF FOR HIM PLS DO. HE'S TAKING ME OVER LIKE A DEMON. IF U READ THIS FAR GO SAY HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO BREE RN. ───ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤfeedback & reblogs appreciated <3 !!

tags. @deansbeer @figthoughts @ultravi0lence14 @whyyouegg @honeyryewhiskey @angelblqde @angels-silhouette @seven7lee @rositaslabyrinth @rubyvhs @theosaurous @beausling @soldiersgirl @mahi-wayy @unfortunate-brat @losers-clvb @jensenacklesballsack @chevroletdean @h8aaz @stereotypicalbarbie @sunsbaby @samslovebug @chiierful @cowboysandcigarettes @bejeweledinterludes @bluemerakis @briisbananass @fuckedupfate @losers-clvb @blossomingorchids @bitchykittenconnoisseur @faiszt @moonstruks @chiierful @collywobblvs

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moonstruks · 3 months ago

Text

sentinel species - i. canary

victorian, zombie apocalypse au, kyle garrick x fem!reader. read on ao3 here

You have a half-rotted candle, but you leave it in your bedroom so that you are unseen as you creep across the landing towards the stairs.

It is a week before the world ends; you sit on your parent’s stairs and listen to them reject your betrothal.

This is your third courting season, which has had more success than the first two so far. A few gentlemen have shown interest in you, and your mother has had her hands full managing expectations and courtships on your behalf.

One man shines far above the rest, a distant relative of the Duke, Mr Evans. Distant enough that you don’t think anyone else is aware of the relation, but your mother reminds you every tea time, as if to keep you aware of the benefits that lie down the road of this specific courtship.

This is not the man being discussed in the drawing room of your home, for once.

You recognise the voice in your living room, as he asks to formally court you, as he has every intention to be your husband.

Mr Kyle Garrick is the very picture of a gentleman. Kind and attentive, you remember when he had taken notice of you on your first courting season. Your mother had tried to catch the attention of some of the men, to get them to sign their name on your dance card, but there had been no biters. Left alone for a moment, the picture of pathetic, and Mr Garrick had been there. He led you in a waltz and complimented your dress, your hair, how sweetly you spoke. You had nervously pulled most of your hair out of its updo, but it felt rude to contradict his compliments.

He had been enlisted, you remember, and you hadn’t seen him since that first courting season. You did see his older sister sometimes. You remember asking about him a few times, feeling some kind of obligation towards the man who had been kind to you when he didn’t have to be.

And here he is, back in your living room, speaking with your parents about your nuptials.

You listen to him, outlining his intentions for you. He has saved up his money from his service, and he is prepared to buy a home for the two of you, and start a life together.

You cannot comprehend it, certain that he must have mistaken you for someone else. He must think that there is another girl up here. The hush of his voice, drifting up to meet you. You want to catch it in your palm, cradle it there like a newborn lamb.

He had been kind to you, but you didn’t know each other. Hadn’t seen each other in years at this point, not that you would know with how certain his voice sounds. Vowing to be a dutiful husband to you. Your name spilling out, thudding up the stairs to reach your ears. Any doubt has fled, but has left behind the certainty of insecurity in its wake.

You didn’t know when he had gotten back, some moonsick dream that he came straight here from the train. You shake it off, the thought just a little bit too fanciful.

You know that your mother is going to decline, moments before she starts to. You hear her excuse this given your attachment to the Duke’s cousin - your attachment being that he is taking you for a walk tomorrow - but you know this isn’t the real reason. Mr Garrick may be a decorated officer, a kind enough man. But he barely has any standing in society. His father was a boxer, and you know that his entire family fit into a small house despite the fact that they are not a small family.

Your mother has high sights set for you, and you do not think she has any intention of lowering them. Even if that requires not consulting you in the matter of your future and who you will be spending it with. Your father had passed a few years ago now, and you knew that your mother needed to match you with someone that could sustain the two of you. Your home wasn’t your own, legally owned by some cousin of your father’s, who hadn’t taken an interest, yet.

You shift on the stairs, bare feet on wood, as you listen to the beginning of a protest from Mr Garrick before he swallows it down and thanks your mother for her time.

It’s dark upstairs, you have only found your way to the steps with familiarity. You can see the door of the drawing room open further as Mr Garrick picks up his hat and makes to leave. At the front door, he turns his head, and you swear he can see you. He can’t, you know he can’t, it’s pitch black up here. Your candle is abandoned on your dresser, the white of your nightgown is drowned in the darkness of the landing.

He hesitates for a moment, gaze darting all around you as if to find you before he exhales and turns to leave.

A week later, you can see Mr Garrick on the opposite wall to you, and you think about the defeated slump of his shoulders that night. You think you may be flattering yourself, but you think it’s still there, hidden under the shoulder of his coat. It’s likely improper for him to initiate conversation with you, beyond the level of politeness if you were to bump into each other.

Your fingers twitch underneath your gloves, feel the stitching of the seam scratch against your skin. Mr Evans is somewhere around here, and you know that you will have to put a face on, spin around for a few dances with him. Ask him about his travels around Europe, even though you surely have heard all of the stories already.

For now, you are happy to lean against the far wall and flutter your fan as if to sweep everyone else away. Your mother is speaking with a few of the other mothers, so you only have a few moments to slouch before you are caught and reprimanded.

The band starts playing, and there is a spin of skirts as the first dance starts up. You’ll likely get in trouble for dodging Mr Evans, given he had you booked for the first dance. However, you could always plead that you had attempted to find him, and the two of you had always just missed each other.

You suppose there is nothing terrible about Mr Evans, he is a perfectly polite, even kind man. He is just not interesting, and your mother had to ask most of the questions once when he had come over for tea. Something that had gotten you into trouble later that night.

You can see the mop of blonde hair that could be Mr Evans and you stand up straight, starting an idle, if quick, stroll around the opposite side of the room. There’s a door to the patio off to the side, and you duck through the door and inhale a lungful of fresh air.

It’s quiet out here, the music following you out but it’s caught in the open space, drifting up into the sky, insignificant. It’s the late evening, and the sky burns red, the sun catching on the edge of the landscape, flaming the distant fields.

This is the Oakwood estate, and they usually host the best parties of the season. A large mansion, white and pristine, surrounded by flattened grass. Perfect for playing cricket on, if one wishes. And they often did.

You smooth your hand over the wood of the railing, white paint giving the effect of marble. On the underside, you chip away at it to expose the brown wood. Out of sight, a pathetic rebellion but you take what you can get.

You know that in a few minutes you will have to return to the dance, find Mr Evans and do your usual verbal dance. Apologise for missing him, let him take him for a dance. Perhaps ask him his day was, if he lets you get a word in. You know that this is your lot in life, the idea of truly rebelling and shaming your parents is enough to curtail you, just before you can get too many ideas.

Not that it doesn’t leave you bitter, but you’ve gotten used to chewing on your words. There is a sickly feeling at the back of your throat, and it has just gotten more poisonous over the years. You’re too young to be so bitter, so you resolve to give yourself another minute of fresh air before you return to reality.

At the forest line, you can see a man in a suit shifting, and you squint, trying to make out the shape of him. A dot, with arms and legs, sprinting from what must be a mile away. You stare, unsure of what you are seeing. Inappropriate, you think, to approach this party on foot rather than via carriage, but you couldn’t see who it was to surely throw any judgement.

A call of your name behind you has you spinning around. Mr Garrick stands in the doorway, slowly shutting the door behind him as he takes you in. “Hello,” he greets, bowing his head to you slightly.

“Mr Garrick,” you start, giving an aborted attempt at a curtsy. You falter, unsure as to whether to bring up the proposal that you saw the previous night. You decide not to, settling on something more polite. “How are you?”

Mr Garrick smiles at you, impossibly handsome. You are struck for a moment, about someone so beautiful, wondering for a moment if you have imagined the entire scene from the prior night had even happened at all. “I am well, thank you,” he replies, clasping his hands behind his back. He’s broad in the shoulders, a faint strain in the fabric of his coat that draws your eye for a moment. “Just wondering why you were out here instead of inside.”

You shuffle, unladylike, for a moment. You turn back to the railing, facing the open field again. Easier, you think, to speak directly to the sun if faced a little away from it. “I just needed a moment, it’s a little close in there.” You hadn’t spoken much, before he left, but at the burr of his voice, you slip into memory. Pulled forward before you stop yourself, remembering how easily he pulls conversation from you, a loose string that unravels.

He hums, steps to the railing himself. There is a gap of space between you, the amount that is appropriate, but you still glance behind you uneasily. He had left the door open behind him, the door slanted at an angle so the sounds inside are slightly muffled, but still present. It cuts through the space between you, the constant reminder of the rules of your lives behind you. “I understand the feeling, myself,” Mr Garrick confesses, forearms braced on the railing. His head is tilted towards you, eyes dark and pretty.

“Yes?” you ask, blinking at him in surprise. You hadn’t seen Mr Garrick at many dances like this, granted given he had been so recently away, but for a man whose back was so unbent, you didn’t imagine he was someone to be intimidated in a crowd.

Mr Garrick hums again, giving you a small smile. It’s affectionate, in a way that has you flushing. “Indeed. It’s strange, in France, my garrison had 3-score more men than there are in that ballroom, and yet it felt easier to move through.” He gives you a self-deprecating smile. “I must sound very silly.”

“Not at all,” you rush to say, rocking forward before reeling yourself back in. He watches you for a moment, an amused uptick on the corner of his mouth. Your fingers flex beneath the cotton of your gloves. Count the stitches that rub against your skin. “It’s nice to find companionship in an isolating feeling,” you add, shy at how forward your words sound.

He doesn’t move for a moment, eyes darting around your face. Your name comes out of his mouth, soft, like it’s still sitting on his tongue. You turn towards the field again, see the figure of that man in the distance. He’s closer now, more than a dot now, the faint image of a person.

“I should find my mother,” you say, wanting to hunch in yourself, but forcing yourself to turn back to the doors. Light filters out, caught in the dark of outside and disappearing, swallowed up.

Mr Garrick takes a step closer to you and you inhale, feel the catch of it on your ribcage. You forget how much taller he is than you, until he is this close. The light from inside catches on one side of his face, relieving it into clarity. There is the faintest scar in his eyebrow, a slight blemish in his otherwise perfect face. His hand, bare, slides across the railing, thumb where you think you have picked at the paint.

“Mr Garrick,” you start, eyes caught on his hand, before darting back to his face.

“I believe I asked you to call me Kyle, once,” he says, giving you an amused smile.

You don’t frown but it’s a close thing. “I don’t think that would be - appropriate,” you manage. The same response you had given him back then as well, you think.

He frowns instead, and you feel guilt curdle like lukewarm tea in your belly. You shuffle, taking note of how he leans back. You want him back in your space, want the heat of his attention.

“I’m sorry,” you add, desperate for him to not look sad again. You think about his face, searching in the dark of your stairway. It’s impossible to reconcile that he had proposed to spend his life with you. And you cannot even extend the kindness of his name towards him. “Kyle,” you add, before you can stop yourself.

His head turns back to your, full lips tilting in a soft smile. Your name exhales again, catches in the air around you and warms you. His hand flexes and he reaches up, a flicker of uncertainty on his face that lingers for a moment before it dissipates. His hand drops. You imagine how it would have felt against your skin. You’re certain that he boxes just like his father, you wonder if his hand would be calloused against your skin, or if it would be soft and deliberate.

Another voice calls out your name, and it ruptures through the slight breeze around you. Once again, you are reminded of the propriety of your situation, and you take a step back, even though you hadn’t been doing anything wrong. You recognise the voice, the uptilt at the end. Mr Evans, and you didn’t want to find out if he reported to your mother that he couldn’t find you.

“I should go,” you murmur, shuffling uncertainly for a moment before you turn around. Mr Garrick doesn’t try to stop you, which makes you feel rotten.

You turn your head just before you step back inside. A painting in candlelight that throws Mr Garrick’s face into real life, like he has stepped out of a painting. The furrow of his brow and the slightest downturn of his full mouth. The stranger out in the field, closer now, the swing of his arm as he runs. You bow your head and turn around.

Mr Evans is the dullest man that you have ever met. You try not to think too uncharitably about him, but as he spins you around again and reminisces about another business man who owes him some money, you wonder if it would be better if you were to fall and hit your head. Or maybe if he did. Nothing too serious, but enough blood to scare off any further attempt at conversation.

He isn’t terrible to look at, a strong jawline, his smooth blonde hair. Charming enough that your mother coos at everything he says. It didn’t have the same effect on you, unfortunately.

“Your mother is a very handsome lady,” Mr Evans informs you, something that has you blinking to focus. Your palm pressed against his as you step away and then step back into him. “She has graciously invited me over for afternoon tea with yourselves tomorrow.”

You give him a stiff smile. You had been there when it had been arranged. “Yes, our cook makes the best pastries, and my mother does enjoy letting people experience them.”

“I look forward to it,” Mr Evans tells you. You smile again and let him turn you.

The smooth slide of the violin soothes through the hall, catching on the floor and bouncing back up. You let it wash over you, until individual voices quieten, smoothing together into a mistakable blur that you cannot distinguish.

It is hot in here, a heat that catches in your throat, crawls like a bug over your skin. You imagine walking back out to the veranda, wondering if Mr Garrick is still out there. It’s cool out there, you are parched for the bite of wind in your lungs.

You decide to give yourself one more dance, and then you will go out there again. A reward, for doing your duty.

The bow of the violin screeches, a horrid twang that has you flinching, the entire room stuttering. There is a crash outside, something wooden snapping.

You turn, stumbling in your slippers as everyone looks towards the balcony. You cannot see at first, trying to peek over everyone’s shoulders. Pushing yourself onto your toes, very unladylike, before there is another smash and then someone is shrieking.

What once was a still crowd that you were a part of seems to turn on you, a tidal wave that breathes in before it suffocates you. Everyone scrambles, and you get shoved back, momentarily affronted before the screaming gets worse, more and more voices joining the chorus.

Your foot gets trampled on and you whimper, shoved back until your back hits a wall. Pulled along for a few moments, before the crowd starts to thin and you can see the moment of clarity by the large windows.

There is a man on the floor, Mr Casings, you think. It is like your mind cannot make sense of the scene before you. There is another man, knelt over Mr Casings, and there is the red of his guts over the floor, red caught in the broken doorway. Thick and malleable looking, you watch as a stranger rifles through the torso of another man and guides his hands to his mouth.

There is a catch in your mind, the click of a door stuck in a jam. The moment before you saw this and now, your mind is syrupy slow, half still trying to remember your next dance move. You cannot make sense of what you are seeing, so you feel stuck in the run up to it, half parsing through recent memory to try and decipher it.

There is the rumble of a keening noise and it takes a tickle in your throat for you to realise that it is coming from you. You lift a hand to your mouth, try to suffocate it.

The creature kneeling over Mr Casings must hear you, its head yanks up in your direction. You think it may have once been a man, but anything human must be gone from it, leaving behind pallid skin, gore in its mouth as it makes a groaning, snapping noise at you.

Quicker than you think it should, it darts up and starts to charge at you, leaving you crying out as you start to sob, scrambling as you try to get away.

You think about lying on the ground like Mr Casings, the useless silk of your dress ripped open until the warmth kept within you went cold in the open air.

You hear the snap of teeth and you scream, an animal sound tearing out of your throat before there is a grunt and another thud.

You’ve hit the wall again, and you can’t stop yourself from looking. Whatever was charging at you is pinned to the ground, and you sob as you watch Mr Garrick grab the creature by its head and smash it into the floor.

You flinch with each thud, unable to look away. Watch as it continues to buck and twitch until it finally stills, blood on the floor where its head used to be. Where before you had felt slow, five steps behind what was happening before you, now you feel stuck, finally caught up. Door no longer caught on a jam, now thrown open, hinges loose and rattling.

You can’t look away from the image of Mr Garrick, sitting on the back of this man-shaped creature that now had a blood splatter for a brain.

Your name comes out hushed, barely able to comprehend that Mr Garrick is crouched in front of you. “Can you hear me?” he asks, and you blink at him, uncomprehending. “We have to go, alrigh’?”

You don’t move, eyes still stuck over his shoulders, the gush of blood. You can see it seeping in through the gaps of the floorboards. Mr Garrick’s head lowers before he murmurs that he’s got you, and then you feel yourself getting lifted up.

Slung over his shoulder, you have enough presence of mind to cling to his back before he takes off. Sound filters through the front of the hall, screaming and yelling. Mr Garrick darts off to the left, towards the balcony with Mr Casings.

Mr Garrick neatly steps over the carnage, shoes grinding in the broken glass. You whimper as you catch sight of his empty eyes staring upwards. Mr Garrick shushes you, smooths a hand over the back of your thigh even as he doesn’t falter.

Outside now, the cool air hits your face. The sun is still setting, the sky red and you squeeze your eyes shut at the colour. The death that you’ve seen in the hall is closed off, and if you don’t breathe in too deeply, then you won’t taste the bitter tang of blood, and maybe it’s all gone.

Mr Garrick curses sharply and you get pulled forward until you're on your feet, and tugged into his chest. He yanks you into the wall and steps in front of you, shushing you again before you can make a sound. Not that you were going to, shaking and clinging to the lapels of his jacket. You peek over the broad of his shoulder, and see why you have both stopped.

Gravel is getting kicked up from under the feet of guests as they run out from the estate. Others are running towards them, across the field and you choke on your breath when they collide. It must be more of those creatures, some type of sickness. You didn’t understand, they had the silhouette of men, but you hear the yowling when they brought a woman down and tore into her.

“Christ,” Mr Garrick mutters, cradling you in his front. “Shit, we need to get a horse.”

The stables were around the front, even though you are several feet away, you imagine you could smell the blood being spilled from here. You whimper again, shaking. “My mother,” you manage, unable to find the words for what you really want to say. My mother must be with that group of people, and we can hear them all dying. There aren't words designed to sit in the mouth like that.

Mr Garrick considers you, mouth pressed in a tight line. “Alright, wait here, do not come out unless I come back, ok?” You nod, but when he steps away, you find your hands still fisted in the lapels of his coat, like you cannot let go. He steps back, smooths his hand over your wrist, just beneath your glove. You jolt at the feeling of his bare skin, some old propriety from a lifetime ago are enough to startle you into relinquishing your grip. “I’ll be right back, keep hidden,” he tells you, pushing you further into the slight alcove.

And then he’s gone. You stare out across the grass. They play cricket out here in the summer. You remember, suddenly, the man running out in the field, wondering if that was the man that killed Mr Casings. His blood stains the edge of your dress, guilty. You want to cry, feel like a sick animal out in this open air.

Your father had a hunting dog once, and you remember how it had looked when he put it down. Mad, he’d called it, saliva foaming in its jowls. Wild eyes that had looked around, uncomprehending and yet piercing. You inhale, shaking, wonder if you look the same.

You refuse to make a sound though, lean against the brick behind you. Shake as you listen to screaming and growling that travel through the open field to reach you. You fist your hands in the skirts of your dress, try to breathe steadily. You don’t know what you will do if Mr Garrick doesn’t come back. You hope he comes back with a carriage, your mother inside to pull you inside. What you wouldn’t give to be scolded for crying and ruining the delicate rouge that she had spent precious time delicately smoothing on your cheeks.

Time is elongated and unbearable until it returns to you with a crack at the sound of a horse. You peek out, and you make out Mr Garrick astride what must be a horse detached from a carriage. No saddle, but reins around its face.

It’s only Mr Garrick who thuds down in front of you, who gathers you up and ushers you towards the horse. “My mother, where is -” you start, pliant beneath the ushering of Mr Garricks hands.

“I couldn’t see her, there’s a chance she got away, like we have to, right now,” he tells you, his voice strained as he steadies the horse, looking over your shoulder.

“I don’t -” you say, but Mr Garrick has had enough talking, and lifts you onto the horse, side straddle, before smoothly pulling himself up behind you.

He kicks the horse into motion, and you set off, quick enough that you still don’t understand.

You feel half your mind is still back on the balcony, trying to decide if you were going to go back inside. You look over Mr Garrick’s shoulder, and imagine you can see her, staring out at you. Seeing you but not understanding.

The band between the two of you pulls until it snaps. You jolt, a wounded noise high in your throat, but hidden in Mr Garrick’s broad chest.

Your father had shot your sick dog, barrel of the gun against the back of its head. Mr Garrick’s hand on the back of your skull, fingers in your hair, holding you steady. Right there, the press of his last finger on the give at the start of your neck. Saliva pools in your mouth, but you swallow it down and choke on it.

#OH MY GOD

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