#like still steaming fresh out the oven

[pookielious]

hi I am interested to hear a bit more about your restaurant au and I would especially love to hear what thoughts you have regarding Gene’s role :)

- magnoliasforyourmedic

OKAY SO GENES ROLE

I kind of thought this thru but basically I imagine him as like a host/ waiter like he's definitely the waiter that always gets the most tips at the end of the night but he'll occasionally fill in as a host if they need him to

He's really charming and he like makes sure you have a good meal and everything is find with it and just in general is one of those servers that like you'll fall inlove with my the end of the night, he'd like that good at his job

I also do believe he's one of the few that has another job outside of the restaurant like he's a part time/ volunteer EMT so alot of the boys do see him as their own doctor or medic of sorts because he's still in the medical field in this au he's most definitely the one always coming up with a hangover remadies for nix or whoever else had been drinking the night before their shift and regular customers, he's also very known for fixing everyone up from their minor scrapes and cuts they get on the job

Ty for the question !! I love replying to these so like if you have any other characters you'd wanna know abt : ))

[theladyofmanyfandomsfanfiction]

Imagine Sanji flirting with you and promptly getting caught…

Part 2 here

“I’ve finished plating. Come on, you’re slowing the line.” Sanji called out.

You squeezed between two cooks while holding a silver tray above your head to protect the desserts on it. They were fresh from the oven and still sending swirls of steam into the air. When you reached the blonde-cook, you heard him ‘tsk’ playfully.

“You’re getting sloppy.” He teased with a slight sing-song to his tone.

Rolling your eyes, you began setting your sweet dishes down. “Watch it, North Blue. You’re tempting me to tell Zeff about your midnight pantry raid last night.”

Sanji chuckled. He stepped back to give you space before leaning over your shoulder, his breath fanning by your ear. The tickle almost distracting your careful handling of the plates.

“Well, then maybe you’d also like to explain to the old man what you were doing in there with me?” He mused in a whisper.

A shiver ran down your spine from where the cook was gently pressed, reminding you of the night previous in the pantry where you swapped breathless kisses.

“Oi, you two!” Zeff’s loud voice boomed as he entered the room with a frown. The suddenness was enough to jolt Sanji a healthy distance away from you.

“‘Heart eyes’ and ‘mooning’ are not things we serve at this restaurant, got it?” The moustached man reminded.

“Yes, chef.” You nodded feeling your face heat up after being called out. Expecting Sanji to also repeat the words, you waited for a second. Glancing over at the young man, you frowned when he wasn’t making any effort and nudged him in the arm.

“Yes, chef.” Sanji grumbled.

Zeff nodded. “I think Y/n can finish the plating without you looming over their shoulder.”

The blonde-haired cook reluctantly stepped away from the bench and retreated to his station. You cleared your throat and resumed plating as you had been before things unfolded.

Zeff huffed and lowered his voice so the rest of the room couldn’t hear.

“Now, the Little Eggplant can be a bit of an idiot in love. But you should know better than to have secret a rendezvous in the pantry.” He said outright.

You stopped all movement and stared at him with wide eyes. Zeff knew?

“The whole crew here knows.” Zeff continued as if he could read your thoughts. “New rule, the kitchen is completely off limits to your little escapades. Understood?”

Throat dry, all you could manage was a single nod. It was sufficient and Zeff moved away, walking in Sanji’s direction most likely to give him the warning as well.

You’d have to catch up with Sanji after the lunch rush to get the details, right now - your desserts were getting cold.

A/n: I’m almost tempted to write Zeff’s convo with Sanji 😂

Part 2 here

Masterlist here (for more One Piece)

[nanamis-bigtie]

morning after ↬ nanami kento, higuruma hiromi, kusakabe atsuya & gender neutral reader

a/n: debuting post for the monday afterhours, yay! i'm really excited to start, especially with the topic that's been at the back of my head for a while. i love casual intimacy and i love giving touch starved men the oh moment of their life cw: suggestive themes, implied bottom reader word count: 2.3k

nanami

Nanami is not used to noise and smells in the kitchen so early in the morning. Such disruption of his routine would bother his mood under other circumstances—but now, with the soft sound of your bare feet at the other side of his apartment, it feels only right. Familiar, he would even say, despite the atmosphere of a special occasion lingering in the air.

When was the last time he made breakfast from scratch, he wonders when the door of his bathroom closes behind you. Normally, he would be still asleep at this hour; his alarm would go off in thirty minutes, he would take a necessarily short and cool shower, check emails in case of an emergency, and then head to the 7/11 on the corner, to eat a humble meal of a pre-made sandwich and a cup of coffee from the machine, maybe an onigiri too, if he felt particularly greedy. Today, he barely slept and rose with a crack of the dawn—yet he felt the most relaxed since what seems to be ages to him. He still had the taste of you lingering on his tongue after the night, and decided to savor it until the flavor of cooking he had to test on the way would eventually wash it away. Scratched marks on his shoulders and back stung when he leaned to check what he had in the fridge. His hips, unlearned of moves he had been using on you since you had devoured the takeaway dinner together, ached as he tiptoed to reach the rice cooker, left dusty on one of the highest shelves. His eyes kept the afterimage of your blissed out face over the selection of vegetables and spices he chose for this meal.

When was the last time he was so peaceful?

Nanami finishes cutting the fresh cucumber and tsukemono, pours water into mugs with instant miso soup inside, and finally checks on the rice. It's warm and fluffy, just waiting to be put into the bowls he prepared—the cutest he had, with a long-tailed tit pattern. He brought them from Hokkaido and didn't use them even once, until he spotted them today and decided you would love them.

Rice has to wait; he can't let it grow cold like the sheets you two left behind are undeniably growing. First, he checks on the piece of salmon—a luxury that waited for a day when he could cook again—getting ready in the oven, then cracks a few eggs and beats them well with a pinch of salt and pepper. His stomach growls when they hiss on the red-hot pan—and he can't help but wonder if you're as hungry as him. Things you had in your mouth through the night couldn't feed you, as your corny, vulgar jokes suggested. Nanami rarely smiles but the memory of them and the startled look you gave him as you worried if you hadn't been too much for him has him grinning for a short moment.

When was the last time he felt strain in the corners of his lips?

The omelet is ready in no time. Nanami knows how you like your eggs, but he can't remember how and when he learned about it. He's sipped many details like this from your lips, through the whole year of waiting for the day you crossed the threshold of his bedroom. He was feeding on crumbs for so long... Being full out of the sudden fills his heart with content and anxiety at the same time. He wants to savor this moment, afraid to stomp on the thin shell of happiness too strong, but he knows he's already too addicted to stop. Whatever happens, happens.

And the food can wait only as long. He can't feed you a cold meal.

The hum of the shower ceases shortly after he takes the salmon out of the oven. Nanami listens to the commotion in the bathroom while he finishes the last cuts. Bowls are filled with steaming rice, plates and mugs find their right place on the table. He hasn't cleaned the kitchen—but even if he could do it quickly before you join him, he can't bring himself to disturb this disarray. It looks—it feels—so good to have his place messy at least once, at least today, at least for the first hour you spend together after the night of passionate lovemaking.

His hands still remember the shape of your hips, he realizes when you appear at the entrance, fresh yet still sleepy—and smiling bright at the sight of him by the table.

Nanami doesn't want to ever forget it.

higuruma

Out of the first mornings Higuruma experienced, this one is not the most...extraordinary. But he definitely would place it somewhere at the top of the list.

Seated on the edge of the bathtub, head leaned down, he still feels drowsy. The night was deliciously long and so worth the lingering fatigue in his muscles. He hasn't worked that hard in a while—well, physically at least—and he's undeniably going to pay the price with the top soreness of the last decade. He's more than okay with it...as long as you're not going to ask him for the repetition within the next few days. He's crazy for you—but he's not twenty anymore, and his job squeezes much more energy from him than he would have sacrificed, if he had any choice in this matter. 

Speaking of squeezing—he barely managed to find time to bring you home, for dinner and a movie you didn't even start watching, hungry for something else than a story. And he did so only by nipping time off somewhere else—and by paying the carrying charge now, in his bathroom, awaiting the blind judgment of your skill...or the lack of it, to be honest. He has no idea if you've ever done a haircut before.

But you seem at least familiar with it enough to know how to hold and turn the hair clipper around. Higuruma watches you from the corner of his eye: you're right behind him, scrunching your nose as you're studying the shape of the device and options the various buttons provided. Bare-chested, wearing your pajama shorts only, you secure the towel wrapped around your head with the other hand. It's on the verge of falling apart, some of your hair already got out. He feels an urge to get up and help you tuck it where it should stay but just thinking about feeling it pushes blood where he really doesn't want it, if he wants to leave for work on time. He had his share of touch a few hours ago, stroking and playing with your locks as you had your sweet lips wrapped around his cock.

He's ruined the position when trying to take a better look, so you gently nudge him to lean fully again, a brush of your warm palm enough to have hair on his forearms standing. He had your hands all over him for hours, pulling him close, securing him next to you when you both finally collapsed into well-deserved sleep, so he could swear he's learned your touch enough. 

But now...it's different.

You run fingers through the hair at the back of his head, testing the line you want to cut—and Higuruma is melting. He has to clench hands on the edge of the bathtub to stay collected; the last thing he wants is to get scolded and deprived of your digits slowly threading through his locks. You mumble something about being jealous of how thick they are and something about how badly he needs this cut—but all he can think of is how your voice is so raspy after moaning out his name over and over again. He wonders how your mewls would sound with this tone but thoughts evaporate from his head as soon as they've appeared, this time with the steady buzz of the clipper.

So the sound can be ticklish, such a weird sensation...

You're quick and as precise as only you can be at six in the morning, scrunched over his back in a rather tight space. You cut his hair just enough to keep him somewhat tidy for the few days before he can see an actual hair stylist; there's no time for more and Higuruma doesn't want to make it too much of a struggle for you. Even if it was his own request, he immediately regrets it when you're finished with brushing the cut dust off his neck and shoulders. It's such a pity you have to abandon him and rush with your own preparations. If only you had more time...

Right as he's straightening his back, you touch him with both hands, fingertips scratching lightly at the freshly shaved part of his head, right at the point where it meets his neck. Warmth explodes in his chest—and Higuruma lets out a low, needy growl. It's good, so good, oh gods, just touch him more, just do it one more time, he hasn't had anything like this for so long...

Humming, you move towards the longer strands, then down the sides of his face until you're cradling it between your palms. You tilt his head back and pull him close, until he rests it against your exposed, warm belly. Dry sob shakes his whole body and tears prick at the corners of his eyes—but Higuruma can't bring himself to close them or at least to look away. He's begging for your attention like starved and he's not ashamed.

All he wants is for you to never let go of him.

kusakabe

Holy shit.

Kusakabe didn't get a wink of sleep through the whole night—and the fact that he doesn't have anything to do for the day to come doesn't help the case. He always had problems with falling asleep after sex, but he thought the long break since the last time and, well, the overall busy period in his life would crumble this irritating habit by sheer force of exhaustion. He's as good at taking an accurate measure when it comes to love as he is with dozing off, it seems.

You're sprawled by his side, lying face down and on his arm, butt-naked with the exception of the blanket loosely wrapped around your leg and covering half of your ass. You've taken his share of sleep since you collapsed as soon as he rolled to his side and reached for wipes to clean you both, much to his amusement—and horror once he realized he was sentenced to his thoughts alone for the hours to come. Your smell, soft, twangy breathing, and warmth is just helping them race now. Your weight, pressed tight from his wrist to shoulder, keeps him in place too, cutting any attempt of shameful retreat short. It's nothing he wouldn't be able to move, he's carried you around not once and not twice and it meant nothing to his strength, but he dreads to wake you up.

You deserve that rest after taking his pent up tension over and over again. And he really has no idea what to say to sound appropriate.

Good morning? Good job? Did you sleep well? I love you?

Kusakabe groans and does another trip around the room with his eyes only. The more light sips through the loosely drawn curtains, the more details he could pick up, and shame already pricks at his cheeks. He couldn't remember the last time he cleaned around properly but even if he had it squeaky clean for the night, the area just screamed: a confirmed bachelor. Well, at least there's no trash lying on the floor or furniture, but he could easily pick up the smell of cigarettes and a badly aired room. None of it mattered when you tussled in darkness, sucking sloppy kisses from each other's lips and peeling clothes off your bodies. But once you wake up and take a look around—Nope, he doesn't want to think about it. That's a problem for Kusakabe from in-a-few-hours-future.

He rolls head to the other side, ashamed to even look at your sound asleep body, and stares right at his shirt, casually thrown over the bed stand. He doesn't have to look at it to know it definitely has its best days behind it. He could at least wear something presentable when seeing you for that unplanned job, hasn't he learned anything from his past relationships? Maybe he did, but it was so long ago he wasn't sure anymore if his sloppiness was ever addressed. His chain-smoking, however, is a different story.

Holy shit, he really needs to smoke.

Kusakabe knows there's a spare cigarette and a small pack of matches hidden in the little pocket of his shirt, this very shirt within his reach. Carefully, he scoots to the side and reaches for it, fingers already brushing the sleeve, just an inch more, just a little...

You mumble his name and shift, sheets rustling around your legs. Kusakabe freezes, sure he's finally done it and woke you up, but you just adjust your position, face turned to him, and continue with your softest snores. You're all messy and exhausted, in need of a shower even more than his room is in need of tidying. With amused relief pushing his worries out of his mind, he reaches out and gently strokes your hair.

You repeat his name, with a mewl dangerously close to what you screamed into his ear a few hours ago.

Out of the sudden, the thought of smoking by your side has him disgusted. You're going to wake up to this mess, to crumbled sheets and clothes all over the place and dying plants and papers lying on the floor in piles—and he wants to add smoke right into your eyes? You deserve better than that. You deserve him to be better than that.

Hell, he's been thinking about it for a while anyway. Maybe if he remembers your face from now, so calm and smiling through your dreams, it will be easier for him to finally quit.

thank you so much for reading ❤ i'll be really happy, if you reblog it and/or leave some feedback! you can read more of my jjk fics here.

tag list: @lale-txt @mirkaaaluv @ohnococo @clumsyraccoon @honey-deku

[luvsfics]

DAYS LIKE THIS — stranger things

PAIRINGS: eddie munson x gf!reader

SUMMARY: after a long day of cuddling and sex, you decide to treat your man with dinner and even more attention.

WARNINGS: afab reader. mentions of sex. eddie not wanting to eat his vegetables.

WORD COUNT: 0.5k

The smell of baked chicken and fresh roasted green beans filled the trailer. You stirred the potatoes that were boiling in a pot of water as the sounds of your boyfriend, Eddie, strumming his guitar in his room filled your ears.

You were dressed in a long sleeve shirt of Eddie’s and a pair of thigh highs to keep your legs warm. The subtle sore feeling of your cunt made you think about earlier that morning when you and Eddie went round after round in his bed after Wayne left for work.

The oven timer rang, alerting you out of your thoughts to pull out the chicken from the oven. You grabbed a worn out oven mit from the drawer and grabbed the pan of chicken and placed it on the counter to rest, then you pulled out the steaming hot green beans, which were covered in garlic salt and pepper.

The potatoes were fork tender, you drained the water and doctored them up with milk and butter with some salt and pepper. You took your potato masher and mixed all the ingredients together to make some mashed potatoes.

After everything cooled, you plated up the food for the three of you. You covered Wayne’s plate with foil and stuck it in the microwave for him to have when he got home.

“Eddie!” You shouted down the hall as you brought him his plate.

“Yeah baby?” He called back. You opened his door to see him strumming his guitar shirtless with a pair of sweats on, his tattoo on display for you to see.

You smiled at your handsome boyfriend as you sat on his bed next to him.

“I made you dinner,”

“aw, baby…thank you…I’m starving!” He laughed.

You scooped up some potatoes on the fork and held it up to his mouth for him to eat. He willing ate them off the fork and groaned at the taste of the creamy mash.

“Fuck baby, you make the best mashed potatoes..” you giggled at his compliment.

He laid his guitar on his torso and opened his mouth for another bite of food. You playfully rolled your eyes and cut up the seasoned chicken breast and fed him a piece.

“You’re so beautiful.” He said with a smile as he chewed his food. You pressed a soft kiss to him lips, not caring if he was still chewing.

You picked up a few green beans with the fork and held it up to him again. He grimaced at the sight of the vegetable, “yeah, no.”

“Eat your damn vegetables, Munson.” You shoved the green beans into his mouth, he unwillingly ate the vegetable with a pained expression.

“The things I do for you..” he swallowed.

“I rocked your world this morning so you should do this for me.”

“I rocked your world, honey.” He sassed.

You rolled your eyes and shoved some mashed potatoes into his annoying mouth. He laughed as he swallowed them.

“I love you, baby girl.” His words brought a smile back to your face.

“I love you too, picky boy.” You placed a hand on his cheek and a soft kiss on his lips. Nothing felt better than this.

[blissfullyecho]

some spring deep cleaning ideas for your apartment 🤍

today i’m focusing on deep cleaning my apartment because i completely forgot spring started on monday lol. my advice: always give your space a good deep clean at least 2-4x a month (or more, who cares) and always deep clean every season.

clean blinds

clean windows

sweep balconies

clean mirrors

organize under the sink (kitchen + bathroom)

clean inside drawers

move furniture and sweep/vacuum/mop underneath

strip wash your pillows

repaint over scratched walls + patch up holes

organize closet

mop inside the closet

laundry + fold and put away

change ac filter

change water filter (refrigerator)

pest control (i have it included in my rent but because i live in a semi-tropical environment, i do have crawlies come in sometimes so i buy my own pest control and make sure i place it inside and outside)

deep clean litter box

disinfect doorknobs and handles

clean makeup brushes

clean garbage cans and trash cans

wash bedding

dust ceiling fans

clean base of plant pots

wash/clean your sneakers

put your backpack in the laundry

throw away expired food

organize important papers

get rid of wasp nests outside

dishes

oven cleaning

clean garbage disposal

new air fresheners

fresh air from keeping windows open (turn cleaning fans on so the air can circulate)

wipe off computer, phone, tablet, and tv screens

scrub toilets and bathtubs/showers

put things back where they belong

spray and wipe off washer and dryer

sweep floors, then vacuum (i have hardwood all over my apartment and i still vacuum because it’s easier), then i mop (pine sol is amazing— i love the scent).

put in maintenance requests if needed

clean dryer vents

wash sofa cushions and pillow cases (even on throw pillows)

wash mildew off shower liner

get hair unclogged from drain

clean out your car

refill anything like pens, water bottles, etc.

steam clean carpets

have a professional come and clean rugs

clean welcome mat

replace lightbulbs if needed

toss, donate, and keep clothes in your closet and dressers

happy spring

[thegreenthepeacetheorange]

I decided to write this little Everlark piece, based on this post of mine yesterday:

It happens suddenly. First the thunder, then the rain. It shatters against the roof and the windows, drowning out all other sounds. Peeta grips the back of his chair and his eyes take on that distant look that tells me he’s been transported back to the darker times, back to the Capitol. I sit still, unsure of what to do, staring at his bowl of lamb stew that now sits on our wooden table untouched as little tremors take over his body. What can I do? I want to go over, to wrap my arms around him, but he’s said before that sometimes he just needs time to himself – so I don’t. After half an hour, I’m about to stand up and go around the table to him when he gets up shakily and says he needs some time to himself. He walks away, mumbling something about water and Johanna and screams.

I sit tense in my seat, my own bowl gone cold, and stare at the rain clattering against the window. Peeta had opened the window earlier in the day, to let in some fresh air. Because I’d refused to go out today. Because it had been too difficult to even get out of bed. Until Peeta had scooped me up in his arms and carried me downstairs half an hour ago, despite my weak protests. He said he’d not gone out of his way to get this lamb stew for it to be wasted. Now the rain drips in through the top opening in the window and pools on the ledge. I’m reminded of the rain dripping in through the cave in the first Games. Huddling against Peeta in the sleeping bag, trying to absorb his own warmth into myself as the cave grew colder around us. My inept attempts at flirting with the good-natured boy with those blue eyes that settled and unsettled me. Those kisses that twisted my insides with something warm.

Before I know it, I’m up and moving. Pushing the chairs away from the table, putting our bowls into the little oven to reheat. I muster up all the strength I can to push the table closer to the sofa that sits a few metres away. Once it’s close enough, I grab the blanket off the sofa, draping it over the back of the sofa and the table, creating a sort of canopy, like the one Peeta made to protect me from the rain in the cave. Peeta’s art books prove to be sturdy enough to weigh down the blanket corners on the table to keep it from slipping off. I then strip the sofa of its cushions and carefully place them under the canopy and the table, creating a soft floor we can sit on. More blankets thrown in on top. The lamps from the kitchen counter and outside in the hallway then make their way into my den, casting a soft glow inside.

I’ve just retrieved the bowls from the oven and placed them inside my little makeshift cave when Peeta comes back into the room. He looks weary, tired. Once he sees me bent down under the blanket, the bowls of steaming lamb stew, his face takes on a quizzical look. “What—” “I thought maybe we needed to… escape to our cave for a little while,” I hold out my hand, inviting him to join me. He raises his eyebrows at me, ruffles his hand through his wavy blonde hair before he crouches down and follows me under the canopy. I snuggle in closer to him, throwing one of the blankets over us, and then another one to make sure Peeta’s legs are covered. I carefully place our bowls on our laps.

“Eat up,” I say, looking up into his tired eyes. He gives me a soft smile, the kind that always melts my insides with its warmth, before he picks up his spoon. We eat quietly, listening to the rain pouring down outside. Periodically, Peeta scoops some of the dried plums out of his own bowl and adds them into mine. I accept them with a smile, realising just how hungry I’ve been after a day of staying huddled in my own bed. After we’ve fully emptied our bowls, Peeta reaches up outside our den to place them onto the table above. He settles back inside, stretching out to lie down, his head propped up by cushions. I instinctively lie down next to him, draping my leg over his and resting my head against his chest, feeling its steady rise and fall. His arms tighten around me and I can feel his breath tickling the top of my head as he bends his head down into my hair. “So… how about that kiss?’ I laugh before I make myself rise up enough to see his grinning face, look into those blue eyes that have come back from the distant place to seek out my face. I feel his lips smile against my own as I lean down to kiss him.

[rintaroll]

❝ INSIDE THE LINES. ❞

— during matsukawa's time babysitting your niece, more than a couple realizations occur to you.

⊱┊pairing. matsukawa issei x gn!reader ⊱┊tags. fluff, established relationship, reader has a 6 year old niece and works at the bakery, food mention, mattsun has a sleeve tattoo :], unedited ⊱┊wc. 1.3k ⊱┊note. cleaning out my drafts hehe this was back when i had my mattsun brain rot (OH btw while writing this he works as a tattoo artist in my mind but i didnt mention it anywhere)

© RINTAROLL

"issei, i'm so sorry-"

"it's fine," matsukawa waves his hand dismissively. his eyes flicker to the clock on the wall. "when are you coming home?"

"soon. i just have to frost the cupcakes and wait for the customer to pick them up." you pan your phone to the chocolate cupcakes, fresh out of the oven and still steaming hot.

"those look really good, babe." matsukawa muses.

you hear a small voice squealing from behind the camera. "i wanna see!"

your boyfriend chuckles, eyes trained on your niece, himeko, whose ears have perked up at the word 'cupcakes'. the six-year-old scrambles onto the sofa, comfortably nestling herself into matsukawa's side. her eyes widen when she finally sees the cupcakes in all their chocolatey goodness. "yummy..." she says, eyes boring into matsukawa's phone screen, unblinking and shiny.

you pan your phone back to your face. "they're not for you!" you remind her.

"i know!" himeko sighs dramatically, strands of hair falling onto her face. mattsun effortlessly brushes it back. "i have to wait for tomorrow so we can make them together."

"yes, that's right." you nod in approval.

"why can't it be tomorrow already?" she pouts. mattsun doesn't realize, but your eyes are trained on him while he stares at your niece while adorning an amused smile.

"hm," you ponder. "maybe if you sleep early tonight, then tomorrow will come earlier?" a sly grin forms on your lips.

himeko narrows her eyes at you. "that's not gonna work on me!"

you shrug. "worth a try."

matsukawa snickers at your failed attempt to trick her. "smart girl," he praises her before raising one of his hands, which is met with a high five from himeko. your niece then proceeds to stick her tongue out at you.

you shake your head, but there's a smile on your lips despite you doing so. she might as well steal your boyfriend at this point, you think to yourself.

you can almost remember the good times—when himeko was four and hiding behind your legs, while matsukawa was crouching in front of you. she was terrified, little hands gripping onto your pants. she told you he looked like a gangster, with all the tattoos covering the entirety of his right arm. "what if he kidnaps me?" she wailed once he leaves, to which you comfort her by saying that he won't. from her skeptic expression and her glassy eyes, it was safe to say that she was far from convinced.

and yet now here you are. with your boyfriend and your niece in cahoots, conspiring together to overthrow you someday.

"anyways, i was calling because she wanted me to tell you she finished her coloring book, isn't that right, hime?"

halfway through his words, himeko lets out an 'oh!' and jumps up from the couch. she picks up her coloring book off the floor, where it was surrounded by an assortment of colored pencils and markers in disarray. flipping to the last page, she proudly shows off her latest piece of work. "look!"

you gasp, genuinely admiring the effort she's put into coloring in the drawing of a fish. considering how she's just turned six, she's done a wonderful job in coloring inside the lines. "that looks so nice! did you do that all by yourself?"

"yep!" she chirps, nodding excitedly before stopping to ponder for a moment. "hm... i guess, uncle mattsun did help me color the amenomies..."

"anemones," matsukawa stage whispers.

"right, amenemones."

you and matsukawa bite back your laughs. "it looks really good, himeko," you comment, still smiling.

himeko nods absentmindedly. it becomes obvious to both you and matsukawa that her attention is not on either of you anymore. she goes out of frame as she continues to flip through her coloring book and zeroes in on her work, leaving matsukawa the only one left in view of the camera.

your eyes flit to the top of your phone screen, clicking your tongue when you read the time. "alright, i better go and start frosting. the customer will be here soon. bye, himeko! bye, baby."

matsukawa's heart flutters helplessly. he will never get tired of you calling him that. "see you," your boyfriend beams. although still engrossed by her coloring book, you hear your niece mumble a soft 'bye' right before the call ends.

pocketing his phone, matsukawa turns his focus back on himeko only to find her tiny lips curled into a frown. "something wrong, sweets?"

she looks up, with her brows all scrunched up. matsukawa feels his heart melt at the sight. "i'm out of pages. what will i color now?"

"i'll buy you another one tomorrow, okay?" he pokes her nose.

with a giggle, she scrunches her nose in effect. "okay."

an idea spontaneously strikes matsukawa. it might be one of the best ideas he's had in a while—the realization that himeko brings out his creative side more often than not quickly becomes an afterthought.

"actually, hime..."

her ears perk up, big eyes staring up at him. those big, doe eyes he has not learned how to say no to.

"i know something else you can color."

matsukawa was sure he saw himeko visibly light up when he offers his tattooed arm. he doesn't need to tell her twice. she expeditiously collects her markers off the ground—she's big enough to know that pencil colors won't be able to color in your skin!—and spreads them out on the sofa next to where both of them sit.

snuggled into his side, matsukawa has his tattooed arm around her as himeko starts to color in the tattoos from the ones on his forearm. "i'll make sure your arm looks extra pretty!" she exclaims excitedly.

"can you make it look as pretty as you are?"

himeko tilts her head to the side as she thinks of an answer. "hm... maybe. i'll try." the earnestness in her answer makes matsukawa chuckle.

as himeko continues, her inquiries about his sleeve don't stop. did it hurt? (just a little bit.) what's the meaning behind this one? (there's no meaning to that one. this one, however...) are you gonna get a tattoo of y/n? (i already did.) can i get one too? (matsukawa laughs awkwardly when he hears the last question, immediately changing the topic by asking her what her favorite color is. he doesn't want to get into trouble.)

the conversations tone down when himeko makes it halfway through matsukawa's forearm. he knows himeko turns quiet once she's focused. it's only when matsukawa feels her marker slip that he realizes that she has nodded off. making as little movement as possible, he closes the cap on the red marker that she was holding and puts it aside.

half an hour later, you tip-toe into your living room with the intention to surprise your boyfriend and your niece at heart. as you get closer, suspicions start to arise when you realize that it's awfully quiet.

wait, are they-

oh.

they are.

your heart blooms at the precious sight of matsukawa and himeko fast asleep on the couch. matsukawa's head is lolled back on the back of the sofa, his arms around himeko as she is curled up into his side. they look so comfortable and peaceful, soft snores coming out of the both of them with hideko's head rising up and down along with matsukawa's chest with every breath that he takes.

you just finished snapping a quick picture when realization sets in.

and no, it's not about how matsukawa has successfully won her over for good—that realization has set in a long time ago.

but it's realizing that you want to spend the rest of your life coming home to this sight. him dozing off on the sofa, waiting for you to come home, and maybe a child, or two, of your own curled up next to him.

vocabulary !

himeko is written like so: 姫子 in kanji. 姫 (hime) means princess, while 子 (ko) means child. mattsun's nickname for her is hime, which essentially means he calls her 'princess'.

[gudfornuthin]

Hi I was just wondering of you can make a Bernard x reader and maybe just a little lime or smut please thank you so much ❤❤❤

Sugar and Spice

Bernard the Elf x reader

Working as a baker at the North Pole was no easy task. Especially when the overbearing head elf is breathing down your neck. When true feelings are brought to light, how will you deal with them?

Thank you for the request! It’s not really smut as I’ve never written that before so it’s not intense but I’ve mixed this fic with an idea I already had. I kinda went off the rails lol. Hope you enjoy❤️

( gif credit to @corrodedcoffins )

It was an as always cold, winter morning at the North Pole. Elves scrambling around, making sure everything was complete and ready for Christmas. Less than two months to go and they were falling behind. Santa had only checked the naughty and nice list once, the workshop needed major renovations and three of the reindeer have fallen ill. Safe to say that everyone was on edge. Especially head elf, Bernard.

Striding across the grounds, his expression was anything but happy. Having a less than pleasant conversation with Curtis, he needed time away from the chaos, just for a moment. Bernard hated to admit, but he didn’t do well with stress. The constant pressure put on his shoulders, always feeling like if anything goes wrong, it’s all on him. It’s tough. And he needs some time to relax.

Making it to the front doors of the bakery, he walks through, immediately hit with the smell of fresh cookies and gingerbread. Bernard continues through to the main area, dodging elves holding steaming trays. He arrives by the ovens where he finally sees you. Messy hair, flour down your apron, and what appears to be sprinkles stuck to the sleeves of your shirt. Raw dough scatters the once clean tabletop and Bernard rolls his eyes at it. Mess was never good.

You turn around and spot the head elf, smiling wide. “Oh hey Bernard! Wasn’t expecting to see you this early.”

“Y/N,” he replies in a less than cheerful tone. “Working hard I see?”

“Well I was decorating some of the gingerbread houses and realised there was some icing left over from the cookies, so I had an idea,” the young elf’s eyes light up. “Rather than wasting time and making more red icing, I’ll just use the remaining green icing I already have for the gingerbread houses and have it all matching!” You breath out and spread your arms, happy with your work. Bernard, less so happy.

His eye begins to twitch and his teeth clench. He didn’t want to lose his temper, but the day had already set him on that track. “You can’t do that. You have to follow the recipe exactly as it’s written. You can’t change it without consulting the others otherwise the other bakers won’t make it like you have.”

You blink, taken back by his blunt response. “Sorry, I didn’t realise it would be a big deal. It’s changing one colour and better yet, saving ingredients. Which I thought you’d be all for.”

Bernard knows you’re right, but he can’t seem to drop the sudden grudge he’s holding against you. He grabs for the icing. “No, there’s not enough time to change things so just stick to what you’re supposed to do.”

Sadly, you were equally as stubborn. Furrowing your brow, you snatch the icing away. “Who put coal in your stocking?” You jest, but the metaphorical question still stands. You’d been in a pretty good mood until Bernard showed up, seemingly ready to put up a fight with anyone who got in his way.

He reaches for the icing once more, but you pull back. This continues on, both of you acting like a young child unwilling to share their new toy. The other elves in the room have stopped to watch the display you’re both apart of.

“Y/N this isn’t funny either give me the icing or I’ll have to ask you to leave the bakery for today.” “Make me.”

You both glare at each other. Bernard pulls one last time on the bag and you squeeze, the icing pouring out fast and covering both of you in the sugary treat. The elves gasp. You both stand there in shock.

“Bernard I’m so sorry I didn’t meant to-” you’re unable to finish the sentence before the head elf turns and walks away, leaving through the back doors, slamming them in the process. You stand alone, feeling defeated and childish. You didn’t meant to go off on him. It all just seemed to blow out of proportion. Grabbing a kitchen towel and trying to wipe off the icing, you dash after Bernard.

———

You find Bernard in his office, using a worn rag to rid himself of the mess caused, muttering over and over again. You knock on the door and he looks up. His face turns blank. He huffs out and nods, you taking that as your sign to enter. The place is filled with tension, unsure who should break the silence first. You take the leap.

“You ran out of there quick. Didn’t give me any time to apologise.”

“It’s fine, just needed to clean myself up.” Bernard scrubs his top vigorously, the icing unwilling to leave. You make your way further into the room, arriving in front of him with your towel. “Here, you’re just making it worse.”

Bernard admits defeat and allows you to swab at the remaining sugar. He avoids eye contact, looking anywhere but you. Whether it was because of the scene you both caused, or the current close proximity, you didn’t know.

“I didn’t mean to snap at you,” Bernard whispers, still looking off into the distance, “your idea was really smart, helpful. It’s just been a rough few days.”

“It seems to me that you only ever have rough days,” you stop what you’re doing and look up at him, “you can talk about it you know. Never bottle these things up.”

There’s a silence for a while, the only sound heard from the towel rubbing the icing off a shirt which definitely needed a proper wash.

“I sometimes wonder if I’m good enough to be head elf.”

His response shocks you. Sure the last few months seemed to have Bernard on edge, but he’d always been able to handle it in the past. Hearing him question his abilities made you feel sick, wondering how long he’d felt this way.

“Bernard, you are an incredible head elf. We’d all be in shambles without you!” He shakes his head but you continue on. “Everyone looks up to you; you make sure deadlines are met and the elves are at ease. Santa wouldn’t be able to do this job without your help.”

You take his hands and he finally looks at you, a slight blush covering his already rosey cheeks. “Bernard, you don’t need to do this by yourself. You can’t put all this pressure on you when things fall slightly behind. And you certainly can’t quit as head elf. We all need you,” you take a deep breath, “I need you.”

Bernard’s eyes grow wide, as do yours, shocked by what you just said. Sudden thoughts rush through your head. You’d always known there was something there when it came to the head elf. You found him attractive, and blushed anytime he was near. But saying it out loud now felt strange. You felt vulnerable. You felt stupid. Coughing awkwardly you step back.

“That was out of line, I’m really sorry if that’s made things awkward I didn’t-” before you can muster up a lame excuse, Bernard steps forward, grabbing you by the waist and pulling you in for a kiss. It takes you a moment to understand what’s happening, but soon after you place your hands on the sides of his face and kiss back. He pulls you closer, the movement forcing you to stand in between his legs while he leans back against the desk. You hate how cliche it all feels, but sparks were truly flying. One of your hands moves up into Bernard’s hair, slightly pulling at the curls, eliciting a moan from his mouth. He turns you both around, now with your back against the desk, as he lifts one of your legs to wrap around his waist. It was intense. It was surprising. It was definitely long over due. Who knew slightly switching up a recipe would result in this?

Bernard moves his kissing down your neck, biting hard and more than likely leaving a mark. You pull harder on his hair and tilt your head, giving him more access.

“God, you’re amazing,” he says in your ear with a slight husk. “I could stay in here with you forever.”

Sadly he doesn’t, as there’s a sudden knock on the door, throwing you back into reality. A small voice is heard from outside the room. “Bernard, you’re needed down in workshop.”

He pulls away from your hold, turning to the door and clearing his throat. “I’ll be right down, thank you.” There’s a slight wobble in his voice and you smirk, knowing it’s because of you’re previous activities. He looks back at you, reaching for your hand and smiling timidly. You smile back and shuffle your feet, a sense of awkwardness setting. Bernard doesn’t know what to say, but thankfully you beat him to it.

“It’s okay, we’re okay. We can talk about this later tonight,” you move closer, winding your arms around his neck and playing with the shorter hairs at the back of his head. “Go be the best head elf the North Poles ever seen.”

His smile widens, and he leans in for one last kiss. After a few moments, you both let go and he strides out the door with a spring in his step, feeling a lot better than he did earlier. You can still feel his lips on your neck and his hands on your waist. It was definitely a good way to start the morning.

[kiatheinsomniac]

hiii i see you're taking requests for black butler so i'd like to submit one, hope it's alright 😊 could you write a sebastian x female reader wherein reader is ciel's older sister (she knows seb is a demon and also his contract with ciel) and seb has a soft spot for her and is always gentle towards her because she looks exactly like his former lover who was also a demon and the only one he ever loved. then reader got sick one day and ciel ordered him to attend to her needs and not leave her side (he intends to do so without ciel ordering him), reader is touched but also confused by seb's caring actions towards her so she asks him why he's like this to her and he answers "you look exactly like her" then tells her the whole story, reader doesn't know why but she kinda feels deja vu bcs of that. then few days later when reader has recovered she goes to seb to thank him and kisses him (bonus: ciel and the others caught them in 4k 😆) i understand if you ignore this if the details are very specific. still, thank you 😊

──── 𝐅𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 ˊˎ -

☾ ⋆ﾟ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 / 𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: omg it's been years since I've written for Sebastian! Since my Wattpad days lol

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Sebastian x Ciel's sister! Reader

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 1.8k

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: none

You groaned at the light pouring in from the doorway as it opened, hiding under your duvet instead so that the light wouldn’t worsen your headache. The sound of the door clicking shut was followed by the wheels of a trolley and footsteps, but you didn’t need those details to know who had entered the room. Sebastian had been looking after you while you fought your way through this illness. Your little brother had ordered him to do so but you knew that, order or not, he would have done so anyway. 

You let out a sigh and pulled the duvet away from your face, the room now dark once more with only the pale moonlight filtering in through the curtains: enough to allow you to see but not enough to intensify your headache. 

“Dinner, my Lady.” The dark-haired butler spoke quietly, mindful of your pounding head, as you shifted upwards, making your cat Daisy at the end of the bed stir awake to check up on you through one open eye before closing them once again. Ciel had been so against you getting a cat but you were his soft spot, the big sister that had brightened up his childhood, always taking him on days out and playing with him in the garden, teaching him the strategies of chess and skipping dance classes with him to get the snacks from the higher shelf in the kitchen that he couldn’t reach. He was the man of the house now with your father being gone and so he just couldn’t say no when you looked so happy with the feline (you have rules to keep her away from Ciel though). Sebastian was almost happier than you were with the outcome. 

“Thank you, Sebastian.” You smiled softly as he removed the cover from the dish to reveal a mushroom soup with buttered bread. Your mouth watered at the sight of the still steaming, sliced loaf and how the butter had melted over it with it being so fresh from the oven. A tray was set on your lap and you quickly tucked in, tearing the warm bread apart and dipping it into the steaming soup, blowing gently on it to assure it wouldn’t burn your tongue. 

Sebastian poured you some tea and set the cup and saucer on your nightstand, pulling at the fingertips of one glove to remove it. The back of his palm pressed to your forehead while you ate, checking your temperature and giving a little hum. You still had a cold sweat to you but you weren’t alarmingly burning up like you had been doing yesterday. It seemed you had powered through the worst of it. Sebastian removed his other glove and set it down on the trolley before picking up Daisy to scratch under her chin and play with her paws, admiring her toe beans and the way her claws would come out when pressed on. Daisy liked Sebastian a lot, arguably more than she liked you and you had to admit that it made you a little jealous in moments like these. As long as she was happy though, you weren’t too bothered. 

The two of you sat in comfortable silence other than short little lines about how cute Daisy was or how you were feeling until Sebastian took your empty bowl from you and replaced it with a generous slice of red velvet cake. 

“You spoil me.” You quipped as the dessert was revealed to you, placed on the tray upon your lap. 

“As the only Lady of the house, it is only fitting that you receive the proper treatment, is all.” He replied, making you smile warmly. It was true that you liked the attention from your brother and the staff as the only Lady of the Phantomhive family, you were rarely left wanting for anything. 

“You say that and yet I know that you defy the Lord of the house when you take me on particular outings into the city or sneak me desserts well past the appropriate time like this.” You replied as you cut off a mouthful of cake with the edge of the fork, humming in delight at how spongey it was paired with the smooth filling. He gave a soft laugh at having been caught out. 

“Then perhaps, yes, I do spoil you, my Lady.” 

“Oh, I never will get you to call me by my name, will I? I don’t care for formalities within my own home as Ciel does, you know this.” You truly had insisted on Sebastian calling you by your name as opposed to your title – you had successfully convinced the rest of the staff to do so and yet Sebastian seemed stubborn. You let out a sigh that Sebastian playfully rolled his crimson eyes at. You adored those eyes: unique and inhuman. You knew how your brother returned from being ‘lost’ those few years ago, you knew all about his deal with a devil and the true nature of the butler who diligently served the last remaining members of the Phantomhive family every day. “Come on, just say it: Y/n. Y-n.” You drew out the sounds of your name. He simply shook his head and resumed petting Daisy. 

“And if I order you to call me by my name?” 

“I would have no choice but to comply.” 

“Because you’re one hell of a butler, right?” You teased. 

“Precisely, my Lady.” You narrowed your eyes, knowing he was just pushing you to order him. 

“Then I order you to call me by my name, Sebastian.” You said before taking another bite of cake. 

“Very well. If that is what you wish, Y/n.” You beamed a triumphant smile at him. You stayed silent for a while as you finished your cake, happy with your win before breaking the silence. 

“You care for me without Ciel needing to tell you to do so, you spoil me rotten and yet you keep a distance. Why? Dare I suggest you seem afraid of something, Sebastian?” You asked quietly, shuffling forwards and reaching out to pet Daisy with him, finding that this conversation would go easier if lacking eye contact. 

“It takes a lot to scare someone like me, Y/n.” You liked how your name sounded on his tongue. 

“So, what is it then?”

“Nostalgia, perhaps? Longing? A restraint for fairness?” 

“You know how I so hate riddles, Sebastian.” You replied simply, feeling Daisy headbut your hand and yet it was a stroke from your butler that got her purring. 

“You look just like her…” You knew he was looking at you now and yet it took you a moment to gather enough courage to look in his crimson eyes. You daren’t interrupt him. 

“Who?” You prompted quietly when he went silent for a while. 

“I had a lover once, she was a demon such as myself.” His lips pulled into a tight smile, “The sort that is unsavoury for a lady’s ears.” Ah, a succubus. You knew that Sebastian wasn’t above seduction when out gathering information for your little brother – had he learned from this lover of his? “She was so very dear to me and while us demons are very resilient, we are not indestructible.” He was interrupted by a mew from Daisy. 

“I’m sorry for your loss.” You piped up after a while of quiet that quickly grew uncomfortable. 

“Thank you…” Was all Sebastian said in reply, “However, I have a new Lady to concern myself with and so I must insist you rest more.” He tucked you back into your bed and tenderly brushed the hair from your forehead, gazing upon you for a moment too long before wishing well for your health and promising to check up on you later. 

“Sebastian?” You called when he was at the door, wincing at how it made your head hurt, “Could you bring me tea and another slice of cake when you come to check up on me?” He smiled at the hopeful glimmer in your eyes, knowing he would cave to bringing you something sweet so late in the night. 

“Of course, Y/n.” He replied with a wink and a finger to his lips for you to stay quiet about him breaking this rule for you. 

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧*:･ﾟ✧ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧

You beamed a smile when you stirred awake to the sound of the door opening, Sebastian coming in with that familiar trolley and setting a tray on your lap while you sat up excitedly. Daisy was happy to know she’d be fussed again too, getting up and stretching her legs while your tea was poured for you. 

“It’s a shame that we can’t share this.” You mused. 

“Wouldn’t that mean there would be less for you?”

“Well yes, but I think that the act of sharing something you enjoy with someone dear to you is even better than having it all to yourself, wouldn’t you agree?” You were as unlike your brother in as many ways as you were like him and it was amusing to the demon. 

“In some cases, I suppose.” He replied as he set your tea on the nightstand and then sat on the edge of your bed, watching you eat the sweet cake. His hands were combing through Daisy’s fur and yet his eyes were on you: more specifically the cream cheese frosting at the corner of your mouth that you hadn’t seemed to notice was there. Your attention was caught by his little laugh, muffled behind a hand before you furrowed your brows at him. 

“What?” You asked, his smile infecting your own lips. 

“You have a little something…” He reached forwards to wipe it away with his hand but you captured his wrists and set them in your lap instead, leaning forwards. 

“Where?” You asked with faux innocence. 

“Vixen.” He replied and yet he leaned in all the same. 

“Well?” You hummed once he was close enough that his breath was fanning over your lips, “What are you waiting for?” Your body seemed to tense up and completely melt at once as his lips met yours. They were cool and soft against your skin, still slightly hot from your recovering fever and you shuddered pleasantly at the small flick of his tongue against the corner of your mouth. Sebastian’s eyes seemed to glow in the dim light of the room as he gazed upon you for a moment before closing them once more and leaning in, only to freeze. Your lashes fluttered open, unsure as to the reason for his hesitation but he explained before you could open your mouth to ask. “The young Lord is calling for me.” You shared in his frustrated sigh before swooping in for another peck to his mouth. 

“Go and sort him out then come back to me, hm?” You asked softly, thumb swiping over his knuckles. 

“Of course, my Lady.” You pouted at him not using your name and he laughed gently, pressing a kiss to your pouty lips. “I’ll be back momentarily if I can help it, Y/n.” 

“Ok…” You felt in a daze as he got up from the bed and left the room. 

You hoped Ciel wouldn’t keep him for very long.

☾ ⋆ﾟlike my work? why not: 

∘ buy me a coffee? ∘ join my taglist ∘ consider following/reblogging

🏷️@kristinkkd @writing-noah @justanotherkpopstanlol @kingheinrey @danielle-marie @yourfamilyfriendsatan @firagirl

[sintiva]

HOUSEHUSBAND!NANAMI (hc’s and regular text format)

contents: established relationship, gn!reader, fem!bodied reader, nanami’s a baker essentially, oral sex (r!receiving), hair pulling….. i wrote this in like 15 minutes so bate with me 🥹 and i haven’t wrote for nanami in forever 😭

૮ • ﻌ - ა

and here we are…

househusband!nanami is the type of man who comes to rub your feet after you’ve been on them all day. he just got finished putting a homemade kneaded loaf of rosemary parm flour in the oven (it’s your absolute favorite). it’s friday and he makes sure he puts it in the oven at 3:45 pm on the dot. by the time it’s finished your pulling into the driveway and further stepping in through the garage door.

househusband!nanami greets you with a hug and warm kiss to the cheek. he can tell you had a rough day when you slouch and whine as you hang your jacket on the coat rack. “rough day?” he’ll ask with his hands cupping your waist, and a bit of flour of on his arms. “you could say that.” you sigh and get on your tippy toes to wrap your arms over his shoulders. he’d give you a loving kiss and hoist you up on his body. you wrap your legs around his waist and nestle your face into the crook of his neck

househusband!nanami walks you into the kitchen and places you on the island; in perfect view of the freshly baked bread. your eyes light up immediately, but it’s no suprise you’ve grown accustom to this routine, but it still makes your heart ache with love and admiration. “what did i do deserve you?” you hum in delight and dangle your feet as you watch him cut you a slice. it’s so fresh the steam floats up from the precise cut he made, he opens the fridge and pulls out his tub of homemade butter; parsely, garlic and gouda have all somehow been manipulated together to make the spread. he spreads it across the bread with a shiny butter knife and walks over to feed it to you.

househusband!nanami who views it as a ritual, he makes you do absolutely no work when you get home from doing work. you nearly moan at the way the bread and butter melt into your mouth, and you offer many words of praise to nanami’s baking skills. “it taste so good, babe. how do you manage to make it better and better each time.”

“you know if you had just proposed to me with bread i would’ve said yes.”

“i bet you would’ve.” he chuckles and feeds you another piece and you can’t grasp how it taste so good. your eyes roll back into your head, it’s almost — almost better than sex, and that quite happens to be another thing househusband!nanami is good at. when you finish eating every bit he’s given you, you plead for more. “just one more slice, ken, please.” and he’s smiling giving himself a mental pat on the back, “just one more, honey?”

househusband!nanami didn’t even need you to beg for more because he was gonna give it to you one way or the other. not only because it makes him feel good when you like his treats, but it’s a turn on. a massive one. your words of praise and how you enjoy the bread turn him on more than it should, and he’s instantly dropping to his knees as he guides your calves over his shoulders. you’re used to it honestly, whenever ken gets like this he’s persistent.

househusband!nanami loves the way you enjoy his bread so much that your moans and praises of approval towards it; gets his dick hard. so hard that he’s pulling you to the edge of the counter and positioning your hips to hang off the edge so he can pull your panties off with ease. he’s so greedy he doesn’t even pay mind to the way it hooks around your ankle. he has his eyes set on one thing, and he’ll get it.

househusband!nanami gets embarrassed so easily, and you think that’s why he decides on eating you out as much as possible. it hides the blush on his cheeks and he gets to slurp and lap at your pussy without being embarrassed about it. he holds onto you tight, basically hoisting his arms over your thighs so you can’t snap ‘em shut. he’d lick and lick until his jaw grew numb and locked. but feeling you tremble from his tongue pleased him.

househusband!nanami is such a pleaser that he doesn’t mind when you start to rock your hips against his face and tighten your fingers in the blonde strands of his hair; it just makes his dick incredibly harder. you can’t even be upset because househusband nanami is such a pleasure dom. he’ll do anything, and i mean anything in his power to see you happy, stress free and feeling good, and all he needs is you cumming all over his face.

househusband!nanami twirls and nips at your clit eith his tongue and mouth, and soon enough thr breads long forgotten, and it’s nanami who’s enjoying his home fed meal. feeling your cunt throb and gush around his tongue is elating, tasting how good you are is even better. he’ll lick and take as much as you give him, and sometimes he’ll use his fingers to get a little bit more on his tongue.

[couldsewyouastitchandsavenine]

All The Kings [Joel Miller] 01

pairing: joel miller x fem!reader

a/n: my first Joel Miller fic. It was never my intention to write it, but the other day, I just sat down and started writing, and voila, this came out. this is also the first part of two. please, read and enjoy, and feedback is very welcome in every shape and form. cheers! the title and inspiration for the story comes from one of my favorite songs All The Kings by Editors. big thanks to @avastrasposts for inspiring me to post this.

wordcount: 4.5K

warnings: as it is mainly angst, there are some hints about readers mental health, memory repression, mentions of loneliness, death in family and isolation.

You don’t really remember much from those other, happier times, when the world around you was alive, vibrant and overflowing with promises that no longer were. The memories of those days have faded, turnimg into mere echoes, like bits and pieces of a dream slipping through your fingers upon waking up, leaving you lost in a sea of confusion. 

Yet, sometimes—if you focus hard enough, that is—some of the fragments of memories flutter back to life. 

Rays of sunlight filtering through the branches and casting patterns on the sidewalk in front of your family home. Fleeting images of friends laughing. Sneaking out through the window. Scraped knees. Trampled grass. Silly crushes, and kisses stolen when no one was watching. First taste of alcohol. 

There were family gatherings and family trips, soda cans, plastic bags and coffee cups, brimming and steaming. 

There was a smell of bread fresh from the oven, burnt mouths, brain-freezes and ice cream melting between your fingers—an universe that was stitched in a mosaic of flower-adorned dresses and white, scuffed sneakers. 

There was the warmth of your mother’s embrace, your brother’s beaten-up car, and his mock impatience as he waited to give you a lift to school.

A heavy sigh escaped your lips, and with your eyes still shut tight, you let your head fall forward, resting heavily on the unsteady surface of your old dining table. 

You didn’t like to think about those other, happier times, because going back meant more than reminiscing. It meant yearning. Wishing that things were different. Same as they used to be. It meant longing for a life when everything felt right. Life that was so unlike the one you lived now. 

Most of the time, you simply locked those thoughts away in your chest with a key you pretend to have lost, burying it deep within, hoping perhaps that out of sight would also mean out of mind. 

It rarely did, though—

A brisk rap at the door shattered the silence, echoing briefly before fading as swiftly as the curse you muttered under your breath. You straightened up, surprise and curiosity melding together and knitting your brows as you paused — a moment of hesitation visible in the slight scrunch of your nose.

For a brief second, you remained still, caught in the unexpected interruption. Then, with a fluid motion born of a mix of alarm and intrigue, you rose to your feet. The floorboards groaned, protesting the sudden movement as you navigated toward the door — confusion clouded your thoughts about who it might be.

Guests had become a rarity these days, becoming just an echo of a time when the outside world hadn't yet forgotten the path to your doorstep.

Oh.

Your reaction, a mix of surprise and inquiry, hung in the air as you faced the unexpected visitor—a man whose presence seemed almost surreal against the backdrop of your isolated existence. As he took a hesitant step up to your porch, your gaze involuntarily dropped to the frayed doormat beneath your feet.

The irony of having a doormat in the first place was laughable, considering everything. But once one’s life gets stripped bare of comfort, every sad attempt at homeliness makes a difference. 

“Hi!” Tommy started, his voice threaded with a note of uncertainty as he absentmindedly fiddled with his moustache. His other hand was buried in the pocket of his sherpa jacket, seemingly searching for the right words.

You observed him for a brief moment — the silence weaving its weight around you both.

Tommy Miller was a known figure in town, yet not someone you knew intimately. An influential presence, always at the forefront of community meetings and patrols — his voice resonating with a confidence that had long since ebbed from your own life.

“Can I help you with something?" your question finally broke through, tinged with doubt.

Tommy nodded, his gaze briefly shifting away before locking back onto yours. 

“Yes,” he began, pausing as if to collect his thoughts. Then, with a half-smile that wove together threads of embarrassment and sincerity, he dove straight into his request. “I was hoping you’d consider cooking for a small get-together we’re having.” He cleared his throat awkwardly, adding, “Maria’s hands are full with the baby, and she didn’t want to cancel the plans. We both remembered how amazing that meatloaf you made for the town meeting was, back when you first moved here.”

His words, earnest and slightly rushed, seemed to hang in the air between you, taking you aback. As you stood there, blinking in surprise, memories of that time—a chapter from what now felt like another life—began to resurface.

Jackson was supposed to be a beacon of hope, a place to start anew, filled with the promise of stability after a life spent drifting. It was supposed to be your slice of normalcy, a dare to dream of piecing together a life from the remnants of what once was. 

However, dreams—and people—are fragile, easily shattered in a world that often leaves very little room for them. 

That’s why you had found it so hard to try and fit into the Jackson community — a place so different from any you’d known before. And despite throwing yourself wholeheartedly into trying to meld with the locals, the sense of belonging you so deeply had craved had remained perpetually beyond your grasp.

Polite smiles and courteous small talk had come in abundance, but the deeper, more genuine relationships—the feeling of truly being part of something—always slipped through your fingers. And as friendships and social circles solidified without you, you found yourself on the periphery, like a shadow lingering just beyond the light, always observing but never participating.

So, eventually, you stopped trying, settling into a solitary existence that was often too heavy to carry, yet oddly comforting in its own way.

Tommy’s earnest appeal snapped you back to the moment. “It would mean a lot to us if you could help out. We can’t offer much, but you’re welcome to use whatever supplies we have.” 

As his words settled in the air, you paused, blinking away the remnants of a daydream before responding, “Sorry, but you want me to cook… for your gathering?” There was no sharpness in your voice, only a hint of bemusement mixed with a trace of optimism, long buried under layers of solitude. “I wasn’t sure anyone even remembered that I used to bring food.”

“I can’t speak for everyone, but I definitely haven’t forgotten,” Tommy said, his laughter tinged with a self-deprecating note, as if he were recalling culinary attempts that were perhaps better left in the past. “That meatloaf of yours—every time I try my hand at cooking, it comes to mind. And your carrot cake? I still can’t figure out how you—”

His rant was abruptly sliced by a sharp voice, one that hadn't been part of the conversation until now.

"—Tommy, you done yet?"

The sudden interruption made you realise Tommy hadn't come alone. Your gaze shifted, trailing past him to land on an imposing figure leaned against Tommy’s truck, parked against the curb. 

Arms crossed over a broad chest, stretching the fabric of his jacket, stood Joel Miller—another face you recognized but didn’t really know. A man as intimidating as he was enigmatic.

With a resigned sigh, Tommy glanced back, his voice carrying a mix of irritation and patience. "Just a minute, Joel!" he exclaimed, louder than before, before turning back to you with an apologetic smile. "Sorry 'bout that. You know how Joel can be," he said, his grin sheepish as he acknowledged Joel's stubbornness.

You responded with a shake of your head, your tone laced with a playful curiosity. "Can't say that I do, but I'll take your word for it." 

Your words seemed to ignite a spark of realisation in Tommy, his expression shifting as if a new awareness had dawned on him. He paused, his gaze lingering on you a moment longer than expected, perhaps reconsidering the extent of your interactions with the townsfolk. And then, as if your exchange had unveiled something previously unseen, Tommy turned around to face his brother.

"Joel, get over here," he urged, his command softened by a newfound understanding. "Come say hello, don’t be rude." 

You smiled a small and tentative smile, but it didn’t reach your eyes. It was a mask worn too often, a shield against the realization of your own isolation, now reflected in Tommy’s eyes.

Joel Miller’s approach was measured, his posture shifting from the one of guarded stance to a more relaxed one as his arms fell to his sides. Crossing the distance, he cut an imposing figure that effortlessly dominated the space around him with his mere presence. As he neared, you managed only to offer him a muted greeting — your eyes having difficulties to hold his gaze. 

Still, he responded with a nod that was brief and somewhat brusque, offering a slight hint of recognition but little in the way of warmth. Stopping just short of the porch stairs, he tucked his hands in the pockets of his jeans before looking around.

You observed, almost in spite of yourself, as Joel’s attention methodically surveyed your surroundings, taking in details: from the neighboring houses shadowed in the dimming light to the promise of growth in your greenhouse, where the early shoots of peppers and tomatoes promised a future harvest. His scrutiny paused there, a silent acknowledgment of the small life burgeoning under your care, before shifting to the pile of wood designated for chopping, a chore left in anticipation of winter's departure.

When his eyes met yours again, they were piercing, unsettling in their intensity, almost as if he could see through the facade everyone else seemed to accept. This moment of connection, fleeting as it was, coupled with the fact that Joel Miller was undeniably an attractive man, sent an involuntary shiver through you. 

Thus, you quickly looked away, striving for composure— Joel’s eyes still locked onto you.

"Seems a bit chilly out here for standin' around, don't it? She’s probably cold, Tommy.” Joel's voice cut through the quiet, his statement more an observation than a question.

"Just a bit," you answered, your arms instinctively wrapping around yourself in a vain attempt to ward off the cold. “But it’s alright,” you quickly added, offering a dismissive half-smile to downplay your discomfort.

Joel then turned his attention to Tommy, his tone suggesting a mild impatience. “Think it’s about time you wrapped this up?” 

Tommy seemed caught off guard, his gaze flitting from Joel to you, as if weighing his next move. “I ain’t quite done here, Joel,” he responded after a brief pause, his attention momentarily shifting to a folded piece of paper he pulled from his jacket, scanning what appeared to be a list or some hastily jotted notes.

The air was growing heavier with silence; the kind that filled the gaps of unfinished conversation, and before you could stop yourself or second-guess your decisions, you ventured, “Why don’t you come in for a bit then? It’s warmer inside.”

Tommy seemed to be very eager to agree — his legs already moving forward in agreement, but Joel paused, a clear reluctance written across his features. He then opened his mouth, perhaps to voice his objections, but the look Tommy gave him—a mix of brotherly insistence and mild warning—cut him off. 

Despite his imposing stature, Joel navigated the threshold with a grace that seemed at odds with his size, deftly avoiding the door frame with a practiced ease.His shoulders came perilously close to the frame, yet he avoided it without seeming to try. There was a deliberate, almost respectful manner in the way he occupied the space, a silent recognition of his own bulk in the small, crammed interior.

Feeling a need to anchor yourself in the sudden closeness of the room, you rolled your shoulders, gently closing the door behind them. With a gesture towards the kitchen table, you offered a wordless invitation for them to sit, and Tommy, with a nod of thanks, took the seat you’d vacated as you pulled a chair next to him.

Joel, however, hesitated. Stood there for a moment, taking in the room with a thoughtful look, as if assessing its every corner and crevice. “I reckon I’ll stand, if you don’t mind,” he voiced when you shot him with a questioning look, his tone carrying a tone of politeness. “Don’t feel right settlin’ in when we won’t be staying long.” 

The moment he declined your offer to sit, Joel's attention wandered through the room — his focus soon zeroing in on a kitchen cabinet, its door slightly askew, betraying a battle with gravity and time. With a careful approach, he scrutinized the misaligned hinge, his touch deliberate yet tender, as if to reassure the inanimate object of his intention to do no further damage. 

Amidst this, you found yourself caught between two points of focus. Next to you, Tommy was speaking while going over the list, scribbled on sepia-toned paper, yet you couldn’t help but be drawn to Joel. His interaction with your lived-in kitchen space added a layer of warmth to its familiarity, making the room feel even more enclosed, more personal. 

Tommy, catching the shift in your attention, sighed—a sound tinged with resignation—and resettled in his seat, the wooden frame protesting with a creak.

"Joel, with your knee acting up, maybe you could lend a hand with these hinges instead of walking the beat?" Tommy suddenly suggested, glancing between you and Joel, a half-smile forming. “Seems like a fair exchange for a good meal, don’t you think?”

Your reaction was instinctive, fueled by a blend of pride and a deeply ingrained sense of independence. "Oh, that's not necessary at all," you found yourself saying quickly, the words laced with the kind of stubborn reluctance born from a long-held reluctance to depend on others.

Joel, a man whose economy of words often spoke volumes, didn't pause in his inspection of the cabinet. "I suppose I could swing by next week,” he responded gruffly. He didn't frame it as a question, but rather as a quiet declaration of intent, a commitment made without waiting for your consent. Turning to look back at you, his brown eyes searched for yours. "If you're up for it, that is."

You didn’t reply, just nodded, your gaze drifting back to the paper.

—

In the days after Joel and Tommy Miller's visit, time seemed to meld together, distinguishable only by the gentle shift from dawn to dusk and the routine movement of a red plastic marker across the grid of your wall calendar.

However, despite the blur of days, you found a way to push through, each task serving as a mere interlude to the anticipation of the weekend. And while Saturday had nothing particularly exciting to it, it was usually a day when you ventured out into town for supplies, this time not only for your own needs but also for Tommy’s get-together. 

Navigating the last icy patches on the sidewalks with a practiced ease, you turned onto your street where the familiar sight of Mrs. Clarke leaning against the fence her husband was mending greeted you. None of them was someone you interacted with, but you still offered a quick nod and a half-hearted smile, which Mr. Clarke returned with a courteous nod of his own, while Mrs. Clarke's eyes narrowed slightly in your direction as if you were a stranger. Which, in all fairness, you still were.

With your focus fixed ahead and the weight of the grocery bags shifting on your shoulder, you pressed on—only to come to an abrupt halt at the unexpected sight of Joel Miller in front of your home. Busy with an axe, he was rhythmically cutting the firewood you diligently ignored — the sizable, well-organized pile beside him signalling that he had been at it for quite some time before you arrived.

"Joel?" you called out, your voice a mixture of surprise and a faint nervousness. "Wasn't expecting you today."

Or at all, to be entirely honest.

He stopped his work, placing the axe against the ground as he turned to you. There was a moment of awkwardness flickering in his posture at your evident surprise, but he covered it up with a clear of his throat. 

"Yeah, well, was just passin' through," he replied, his voice a deep, familiar rumble, softened slightly by that southern lilt that seemed to ease the harshness of his appearance. "Thought I'd check on those kitchen cabinets for you."

His offer, made a week ago, had seemed inconsequential at the time. Yet, seeing him there, ready to help, only reinforced the idea that Joel was a man more of action than words.

Approaching him, the bags suddenly felt heavier, anchoring you to the ground. "You really didn't have to do this," you admitted, your voice revealing the turmoil within. "I had planned to deal with it later today, actually."

Joel leaned back against the axe handle, his gaze locking with yours. "Don't worry 'bout it," he offered. “Ain't no trouble at all, and I like stayin' busy. It’ll give you time to focus on other things."

You swallowed, momentarily at a loss for words, and it was only when Joel returned the axe to its resting place against the log pile and straightened up that you blinked back to reality, motioning for him to follow you. As he ascended the few steps to your porch and trailed after you inside, his shadow stretched over you, and for a second you found yourself wondering about just how tall and broad was he, really?

Once inside, you went straight to the kitchen table, setting the bags atop of it—eyes widening at the sight of a mess of blankets, pillows, and clutter around the room that had accumulated over the few days — an inevitable result of your habit of living most of your life in one room to conserve wood.

The panic rose inside of you, and you quickly moved in front of the small couch you called your bed, as if your frame itself would cover the chaos of your existence. 

Luckily, Joel didn’t seem to notice any of it. Or at least, he was gentleman enough to ignore it.

"Where do you need me to start?" He broke the silence easily as you nervously scratched your forehead before pointing to the cabinets hanging slightly askew, the wood swollen from years of neglect and moisture.

"Those have been giving me trouble the most. At some point I should probably tear everything down, but for now, it’s as good as it gets.”

Joel nodded, setting his tool bag down with a clunk, before beginning to inspect the cabinets — his fingers tracing along the wood, assessing each hinge and panel.

Folding your bedding, you walked to a small storage chest to Joel's left, setting it inside before closing it gently with a glance towards Joel.

"Would you like some coffee?" You asked, hoping to dispel the growing silence, but much to your disappointment, there was no answer.

Joel had already zeroed in on the cabinet, his focus entirely on the stubborn hinge.

Despite the lingering, unanswered offer and the faint echo of rejection, ringing inside your head, you went ahead with brewing the coffee, despite often preferring tea.

You didn’t dislike coffee, but you knew how scarce and difficult it was to source it.

Soon enough, the rich, comforting scent filled the kitchen, and without much effort, you poured the steaming dark brew into two mugs before walking over and quietly setting one of the mugs next to him. There was a second where you simply hovered around, like a fly on wall, observing as his gaze shifted with a momentary glance towards the warm beverage before his attention was pulled back to the cabinet. Though he didn’t say a word, the brief pause and a barely noticeable nod served as his silent gratitude.

Not wanting to dwell too much on his silence, you turned your attention to the groceries — the clicking of cans and jars, creating a rhythmic backdrop to the occasional squeak of hinges being expertly tended to.

Then, out of the blue, Joel’s gruff voice cut through the silence, causing you to startle slightly.

“So, what's it gonna be?” he asked, still not looking at you—face contorted in concentration as he tightened a screw with practiced precision.

“Huh?”

“Tommy’s and Maria’s party. What are you cookin’ up?” he clarified as he opened and closed the cabinet door, testing his work.

“Oh,” you breathed out, rolling your shoulders in a nervous gesture. “Supplies aren’t too plentiful, what with winter and all. I’m thinking a stew and nice bread would do,” you replied, then added with a hint of uncertainty and a quick glance towards him. “Still not sure about the dessert though.”

For a moment or two, you hoped that he would say something, give his input, but when he didn’t, you nodded to yourself, finding a loose piece of yarn on your pullover before wrapping it around your index finger.

Joel worked for another few minutes before straightening up and stepping back to inspect his handwork, wiping his hands on his jeans — a look of satisfaction briefly crossing his features.

Clearing your throat, you decided to break the silence, yet again, “Looks like you´ve fixed it. Thank you.”

“No problem at all,” he replied smoothly. “Just need a bit of tweakin’, is all.”

Before you could stop yourself, you spoke again. “Care for a refill?” you asked, lifting the pot with a somewhat trembling hand, not expecting to see Joel nod. Filling up his mug, you hesitated for a moment before speaking again, “Perhaps you’d like to sit down for a bit?”

Joel’s silent agreement and decision to sit down took you by surprise. His long legs stretched out slightly, relaxed in their posture as he got comfortable. You, on the other hand, was all but relaxed—posture ever so rigid, cradling your coffee mug on your lap so tight that you thought you’d break it.

An awkward silence filled the space between you as you scolded yourself mentally. You had invited him to sit, yet now, faced with his quiet presence, you were at a loss for words.

The quiet stretched to the point that it felt like it was the third person, sitting between you, until Joel shooed it away with a question, “You live alone?”

His gaze was steady as he watched you over the rim of his mug, taking a sip.

“Yeah,” you replied, feeling slightly exposed under his straightforward question.

“Any family?” he prodded gently.

You hesitated, feeling the bitterness lace your tongue before the words even left your mouth. “Had a mother and an older brother. They both passed away, ten years ago.”

“I’m sorry, darlin’,” he responded, his voice softening, infused with empathy.

It wasn’t solely the memory of your family that stirred emotions within you, but also the unexpected warmth in his words. Attempting to stifle this feeling, you shrugged, uncertain how to accept his condolences or the surprising familiarity of his tone.

So, you kept sipping your coffee, your mind struggling to find the right words, but only for a while because Joel suddenly continued.

“Life's been full of tough turns. Lost my folks young, too, around the time everything changed… you know, with the outbreak and all.” As he spoke, his gaze seemed to drift to a place far away, and you suddenly remembered the fleeting stories you’ve heard in passing, some weeks after Joel made his appearance in Jackson.

“At least we’re here and still alive.”

Joel hummed in agreement. “And what did you say, how long have you been in Jackson?”

The question hung in the air as you looked at him, both of you aware that you hadn’t mentioned it before, but his curiosity seemed genuine. So, with a glance at the calendar next to the door, you did a quick mental maths. “It was four years last week,” you responded.

“Four years?” Joel echoed, his voice tinged with a hint of disbelief. “Somehow, I don’t remember seeing you around much before.”

“If I were you, I wouldn’t remember seeing me either, so it's okay," you replied—lips curling into a faint smile before continuing, “I tend to keep to myself,” you admitted quietly, not quite ready to venture into the reasons behind that decision.

Joel nodded slowly. “Guess that makes two of us then,” he said with a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and you couldn’t help but wonder if he was aware of how handsome he was when he was smiling.

His appearance, much like his demeanor, was rugged and weathered but there was a certain kind of comfort in it. His eyes, a soft brown, held a depth that suggested that he was someone who had seen much and lost more.

Startled and ever so ashamed by your own wandering thoughts, you looked away as you placed your mug on the table, instead reaching for a torn kitchen towel before proceeding to fold it in your lap.

And it was only when you felt a weight in the air shift subtly that you looked up only to find his eyes on you.

He was observing you—gaze intense and searching, as if trying to read you, and you couldn’t help but feel a wave of nervousness wash over you.

The intensity of his gaze was unnerving, yet there was gentleness there; a quiet understanding that seemed to reach out to you. His broad shoulders, the result of years of physical labor and survival only added to his imposing presence.

Suddenly feeling self-conscious under his gaze, you shifted in your seat — the kitchen towel in your hands now a convenient excuse to look away.

“Is something wrong?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, betraying the unease his attention had sparked in you.

“No, nothin’s wrong,” he answered in a reassuring tone — the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly, softening his rugged features. “Just thinkin’, is all.”

The nervousness that was building up on the inside, suddenly resurfaced, pushing you to your feet in an abrupt, restless motion that seemed to bring Joel back from his thoughts—his eyes tracking your movements as you began to fuss over a spotless table with your kitchen towel.

Without much ado, he also rose from his chair—the action effortless despite his solid build that quickly filled the small kitchen. “Well, I think I should be headin’ off,” he said in a low, even tone.

You nodded briskly, following after him as he made his way to the door — the floorboards creaking under your steps.

"Thanks again, for the wood chopping and fixing the cabinet," you said, once Joel stepped out on the dimly lit porch.

He gave you a nonchalant wave, dismissing the thanks with an ease. "It was nothin'," he assured you. Then, after a short pause, he added, "Might want to keep warm inside. Nights are still cold."

His concern, lightly voiced but sincere, brought a small, involuntary smile to your face. You nodded, feeling a warmth that had little to do with the temperature. "Will do. Take care, Joel.".

He acknowledged your words with a quiet nod and turned away, disappearing into the evening shadows. You lingered for a moment, watching his retreating figure before stepping back into the warmth of your home, closing the door gently behind you.

[rippleclan]

RippleClan: Moon 41

Oilstripe and Weedfoot have whitecough. Oilstripe lets Fennelspot share his troubles with her, hoping he’ll feel better afterward.

[Image ID: Fennelspot and Oilstripe talk while Weedfoot rests behind them. Under both Weedfoot and Oilstripe, it says + CONDITION: WHITECOUGH. Under Fennelspot, it says + GUIDANCE FROM STARCLAN: THE STORM PROPHECY.]

Whitecough was never fun, but under a skilled paw like Fennelspot’s, it was easy enough to manage. Having both the deputy and one of the Clan’s few historians sick would cause some issues in routine, but Rustshade silently stepped up to fill Weedfoot’s paws as she rested, so the Clan wouldn’t fall apart. Despite the ample resources available to care for Weedfoot and Oilstripe, Fennelspot still had a few worries pulling on his pelt. 

One of the main complications was the half-conscious loner sleeping in the back of the den. Ever since Shadowdrop and Burdockcreek brought her to camp, she had been in and out while Fennelspot assessed her injuries. The horse had broken her back, Fennelspot could feel it, but when he nipped at the loner’s tail and back feet, she flinched. There was hope for the stranger, she just needed to wake up.

The other issue, however…

Fennelspot focused on preparing black cherry bark tea for Weedfoot and Oilstripe. He watched as the water in his small pot boiled and the bark danced inside. He had a leather wrap in his mouth and a leather apron wrapped around his neck and covering his chest; Rattlepelt had managed to reverse engineer SlugClan’s mouth covers many moons prior, bringing an end to pot burns and all the other issues that plagued caretakers and clerics at the oven just two years prior. 

As the tea reached its peak flavor, Fennelspot grabbed the pot’s tall handle and lifted it off the grillstone. The hot flat side of the pot rested against his apron. He carefully poured the hot tea over his special medicinal filter and into a fresh bowl. He put away the apron and cover and picked up the tea bowl. Walking slowly but surely, Fennelspot headed for the quarantine den.

RippleClan had Palepaw to thank for discovering the quarantine den. She had been going about her business in the dirt place when she saw a slim opening in the back of the shipwreck. That opening led into a part of the ship that Fennelspot and Downstar thought was forever locked to the Clan. Perhaps it opened due to the passage of time, or perhaps it had always gone unnoticed with its proximity to the dirt place. Regardless, Fennelspot and RippleClan’s future clerics could safely care for their contagious patients without infecting anyone else.

Weedfoot and Oilstripe slept on soft nests surrounded by the softest pelts Rattlepelt could craft. Both mollies wheezed slightly as they slept. As the steam of the black cherry tea filled the den, Oilstripe stirred from her dreams, sniffling.

“More tea?” she sighed.

“Drink as much as you can,” Fennelspot said, placing the pot between her and Weedfoot.

“Are you sure it’s working?” Oilstripe groaned, throwing a paw over her muzzle. “My throat’s on fire.”

“You’re just sensitive to the symptoms,” Fennelspot said. “They’ll be better once you drink this.”

“Where’s Troutkit? We were comparing our claws…”

“She helped put the bark in the tea. She wanted to make sure her mother was alright.”

“She’s a good kit…”

“That she is.” Fennelspot ran his tail over Oilstripe’s shoulder. With the tea ready for the sick mollies, he turned to leave.

“Wait.” Oilstripe sat up, clearing her throat. “Something’s wrong with you.”

“What do you mean?” Fennelspot asked, trying to keep his pelt relaxed.

“Duskkit was in here,” Oilstripe chuckled awkwardly. “Not in a ‘guide us to StarClan’ way, she was just wandering. She said my whitecough was ‘making it hard for Fennelspot to think’. Think about what?”

“You shouldn’t worry about it,” Fennelspot sighed, shaking his head. “It’s cleric’s business.”

“I have an ear to that world,” Oilstripe reminded him. “I don’t have anything else to do right now. If you need to work through it, I can offer some advice.” Fennelspot hesitated. Was it appropriate to discuss what he knew with a historian? He supposed Duskkit wouldn’t have said anything if he wasn’t meant to discuss it.

“I went to the half-moon meeting last night,” Fennelspot said, sitting with his back to the exit, “and Locustseeker spoke to me. They gave me a prophecy.” Oilstripe’s eyes sparkled. “A storm within a storm gives the dark a chance to shine. Look to the sky for the call to action. I can’t tell if the dark is good or bad.”

“This is the first prophecy you’ve gotten since we founded RippleClan, isn’t it?” Oilstripe muttered. “Whatever it means, it sounds important. You told me that prophecies come from the All-Seeing, right? So any of the StarClan cats I see around camp likely won’t know too much.”

“Keep an eye on strange weather patterns,” Fennelspot said. “If we see something in the clouds, that likely means this ‘storm within a storm’ is happening.”

“One of the storms is likely not a real storm,” Oilstripe said. “It could be emotional? I don’t know who would lose it in a thunderstorm, but the details of prophecies are historically blurry until they unfold. Did that help?”

“It did,” Fennelspot sighed. He placed his paw over Oilstripe’s. “Thank you, Oilstripe. I’m not sure what I’d do without you.”

“I feel the same,” Oilstripe promised him. “Now let’s see whether you’re poisoning me with this tea.” Fennelspot couldn’t help but laugh as Oilstripe trudged to the tea bowl and drank her medicine.

(Fennelspot: 98, male, cleric, insecure, trusted advisor, incredible runner)

(Oilstripe: 45, female, historian, charismatic, ghost speaker)

Fennelspot doesn’t notice the injured loner waking up.

[Image ID: Fennelspot faces away from the brown molly. Underneath the brown molly, it says LEVEL UP! ??? -> SPIKE.]

---

Fennelspot returned to the medicine den once Weedfoot woke up and drank some of the tea. Both she and Oilstripe would recover quickly, although neither could hunt until their whitecough was all gone. Fennelspot wasn’t the sort to feel confident in his skills, but he trusted that those two would be fine.

The stranger was still asleep when Fennelspot got back. A fresh basket of late autumn herbs sat in the middle of the den. Clammask must have collected some medicine for Fennelspot while he was caring for his patients! That would save him some time. 

He dragged the basket to his stores and began to sort. It was good to have someone else pondering the prophecy with him. Hopefully one of the kits in the nursery would want to be a cleric when they reached apprenticeship. Troutkit seemed interested in herbs. Perhaps—

A sharp growl rippled through the den. Fennelspot jumped, knocking over his basket. The stranger was awake! Fennelspot had placed her in a simple brace to keep her spine straight, but the loner shifted and groaned under the uncomfortable pressure of the stick on her back.

“You need to stay still,” Fennelspot stammered. He snatched a bundle of pain-killing herbs and set them at the stranger’s side. “My name is Fennelspot. You’re in RippleClan’s camp. You were trampled by a horse, do you remember?”

“It hurts,” the stranger whined.

“I’m sure it does,” Fennelspot said. “The horse broke your back. Our Clanmates brought you here. These herbs should help with the pain.”

“My back?” the stranger groaned.

“Yes, your back. Can you feel your tail? Your back legs?”

“That’s all I feel!”

“Please, eat this. I’m here to help you. You can trust me.” Fennelspot nudged the painkillers closer. The stranger moaned, but licked the plants up. “Don’t sit up. I’ve positioned you in a way that should ease pressure off your back and help your spine heal. You should be able to walk again, but it will be a while.” 

The stranger took deep, shaky breaths. She turned her head away from Fennelspot. The ginger cleric carefully scanned the stranger’s brace. He adjusted the soft leather straps keeping the stick in place.

“I’m sure this is a lot to take in, and I want to give you time to get balanced,” Fennelspot eventually said, “but it would be good to know your name.”

“Spike,” the stranger muttered. 

“Spike,” Fennelspot sighed. “It’s a good name. Let me know if your pain doesn’t settle. There’s a lot I can do to help you. And when you want to learn more about this place…” When Fennelspot looked back down, Spike’s eyes were shut. It wasn’t clear if the molly had actually fallen asleep again or if she was trying to ignore Fennelspot. He understood either way. 

“Rest well,” he sighed. With his patient settled, Fennelspot ran off to inform his leader of the newcomer’s name.

(Fennelspot: 98, male, cleric, insecure, trusted advisor, incredible runner)

(Spike: 16, female, loner, wise, good speaker, lore keeper)

[theinheriteddutchess]

First Christmas

Summary: A perfect Christmas dinner needs planning

Pairings: dark!Steve Kemp x female reader

Warnings: 18+, implied non-con, implied cannibalism, implied abduction, overal if you don't like creepy things stay away, but it doesn't get graphic anywhere.

(notes: this is something that came to me this morning, and while I know it's not for everyone, I hope some can still enjoy it. Un-beta'd, still figuring Tumblr out, also haven't seen the movie😌)

🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️

He placed the star on the top of the tree and took a step back to look at the result.

Perfect.

He mentally went over the list he had made; washing the plaid he placed on the couch so it was fresh and soft, check.

His favorite cd in the cd-player, check.

The Christmas tree decorated, check.

He heard the ping of the oven, indicating the roast was ready. Perfect. On time, like he had expected. It still made him smile that he was correct in his planning.

There was only one thing missing though. The main guest of the evening.

His heart beat just a little faster thinking of her, while he walked to turn the oven off, and let the door of it slightly open to not let it cook further and overdo the meat. It smelled amazing. It looked amazing too. The roast browned but not burned, the potatoes next to it looking crispy and golden. And dessert…well, dessert would also be going to plan if he had a say in it. He was sure he could convince her.

He walked out of the room and towards hers. Knocking softly, calling out her name. He heard stumbling, but the door didn't open yet. So he opened it for her, maybe it was still difficult for her. He popped his head in.

“There you are. You ready for dinner?”

She didn't answer, barely looked at him, but he helped her get up off the bed and looked her up and down, smiling widely. “Look at you! You look beautiful. I knew that dress would fit you, but it's exceeding my expectations. Honey, it's going to be an amazing night.”

He kissed the top of her head, smelling her hair subtly, his favorite scent in his nose warming his chest. She was so beautiful. He was a lucky man.

He helped her get to her seat, slowly making progress because he couldn't help letting his hands wander over her hips and back. Not too much, food was waiting for them and he wanted her to enjoy it. He put a lot of effort in it!

She sat down carefully, fixing the skirt of her dress so it covered her knees.

He grinned down at her. “You're going to love this.”

He turned to get the roast out of the oven, the dish still steaming with heat and the smell mouth watering when it got to his senses. He placed it in the middle of the table and heard her let out a sob she was trying to surpress quickly.

“I hope you'll enjoy it, honey,” he looked at her with a warm smile. “First of many Christmasses to come. Here's to us!”

He handed her a flute of champagne and she took the tiniest sip. 

As he picked up the meatfork and knife, he watched the tears fall down her face as she silently cried, and looked at anything but what he was doing.

“You get the best part, of course, you deserve it,” he placed a portion of neatly sliced pieces on her plate and watched her. “Go on, try it.”

She shook her head and his face dropped for a second. “Now don't be difficult. We were going to have a great time. I am going to give you a beautiful gift afterwards, and all I ask is for you to eat the food I lovingly made for you.”

With trembling hand she lifted her fork and cut off a piece, the tears now falling in streams down her cheeks, as she put a tiny amount in her mouth and chewed. He saw her trying not to throw up and only barely succeeding. As she opened her mouth to show him it was empty, he smiled warmly at her again. Sitting down and filling his own plate, he put a much bigger piece of the roast in his mouth and chewed, humming appreciatively. “God, this tastes amazing.”

He ate further while she was picking her food. He didn't mind, she had tried, and he was proud of her. He knew things were hard for her now, it would take more time to get used to the situation. But she would. And it's not like she could run. It was hard to, with only one leg, after all.

As he finished his plate, he sat up straight, looking at her with eyes half-lidded, appreciating the pretty picture in front of him.

“So are you ready for dessert?”

She pursed her lips and spoke softly, hesitantly. “I thought you were going to give me a gift?”

He grinned. “And I will sweetheart. I thought we could combine it. Imagine our baby at this table next year.”

She froze and he got up to walk towards her. Placing a firm kiss on her trembling lips, he whispered softly: “Merry christmas, Darling!”

[vegeta-bananabluish]

@dbshipsweek, day 5 food/baking! Collab with @sonaevy who drew this ultracute GoChi and flustered Goku! Part of my ficlets of flustered DB men series, that you can find here.

When Goku was about to take a seat at the kitchen table, he paused, as his gaze, as if having a life of its own, was instinctively drawn to the sight of Chi Chi. He always thought she was a beautiful sight when fully absorbed in her cooking, stirring the large, steaming pots and pans on the stove. He took in the tied-up straps of her kitchen apron, which always accentuated her beautiful waist, and the aromas that emanated from her busy, yet organized, actions in the kitchen. He couldn't quite make out if his wife or the promise of good food was causing the saliva to pool in his mouth. It didn't help that he had been carrying a burning question with him all day. He didn't know why, but he wanted to ask this question only to Chi Chi. He swallowed down the beginnings of nervousness, as his attention zigzagged between the traditional fish soup simmering softly (of which he could smell that it was nearly ready) and the skillful hand movements with which Chi Chi finely chopped the fresh herbs. Unable to contain his bubbling curiosity any longer, he leaned with his back against the kitchen counter next to her. With one hand scratching the back of his head, and with a look filled with innocent wonderment, he asked, "Hey, Chi Chi... what do people do on TV when they press their lips together and move their tongues around and stuff?"

Chi Chi, slightly irritated by the seemingly indecent question, paused the mixing of the herb blend, which would soon form the foundation of her curry. Her brows furrowed slightly before shooting an exasperated look in her husband’s direction. "Goku, that's not an appropriate question to ask." She had just caught Goku's smile faltering slightly before she turned back to her herbs. She lamented that Goku knew very well that that 'look' was the most effective weapon against her. Guilt sank into her bones, like spilled red wine on a white carpet, as she tossed the herbs with flour and water into the pan to make the curry roux. Perhaps, there had been a few times when she had been curious about how she would feel if their tongues were to meet, to deepen their usual small but sweet pecks on the lips. After all, they were husband and wife, weren't they? She had read that kissing was often part of marriage. Chi Chi halted her knife mid-chop, realizing the annoyance she’d been feeling moments ago had melted away like snow on a spring morning. In spite of Chi Chi's reserved views, a mischievous smile began to curl on her lips.

In a sudden and surprising move, Chi Chi turned around. She swiftly grabbed Goku's head between her hands, flattening the upright hairs under her fingertips on his neck. With half-lidded eyes, she drew him in for a firm, passionate kiss on his lips. Goku's face turned beet red, his eyes widening in astonishment. When he gasped, Chi Chi experimentally pushed her tongue between his lips, where she boldly caressed it along his own. Time seemed to stand still for a few seconds, as they got used to the foreign, but exciting sensation. Goku had been temporarily frozen with shock, but quickly thawed, and responded hastily, eager to discover how Chi Chi's mouth felt from the inside. Chi Chi tasted sweet and of the herbs she’d just sampled, a richness of flavor that was quickly making him woozy. It was starting to liquify his insides into jello and he wanted more of it.

Suddenly remembering that the rice was cooking dry, Chi Chi breathlessly released Goku, immediately turning back to the sizzling pans, with a hint of a blush spreading across her cheeks. Goku just stood there, his face still flushed, unable to find the right words to express the sensations still whirling inside of his gut. With a mix of embarrassment and wonder, Goku muttered, "I... I think I understand now." He watched Chi Chi quickly slip on two oven mitts to remove the pan from the stove, as images of their nocturnal intimacies flashed through his mind, sending jolts straight down his spine. He made a mental note to initiate this ‘kissing thing’ later that night.

[crackedpumpkin]

|| ᴄᴀᴜɢʜᴛ ʀᴇᴅ ʜᴀɴᴅᴇᴅ ||

Hello everyone! Welcome to part one of my seven-part series featuring the one and only Neon Leon. I’m so excited to be sharing this with you all, and I hope you enjoy! Part two will be coming next week :)

|  next |  masterlist |

You stifle a yawn, rubbing your eyes as you sit back up from where you had fallen asleep in the kitchen. You stretch, feeling your spine pop. Your lips part for a solid yawn to escape, sleepily blinking a couple times.

You glance at the clock on the top of the archway that connects your kitchen to the storefront, realizing that your cookies are about to be burnt. You grab the oven mitts, avoiding the cloud of hot steam that escapes once you swing open the door to your oven.

You take out the tray, hissing when your finger barely touches the burning hot metal. You place it on the wooden counter, allowing the freshly baked cookies to cool. You hurry over to where you had set down another tray from the same batch of chocolate chip cookies you had made, still unbaked. You slide it into the oven, shutting the door with a relieved sigh. 

You look down at your crumpled dress, trying to brush out the creases but failing miserably. You shrug, deciding to take a quick shower. You change into a fresh set of clothes, slipping a recently-ironed cerulean dress onto your shoulders. You brush your tangled hair, brushing your teeth after. 

By the time you were done, the new batch had finished baking. You repeat your actions from earlier, but this time putting all the cookies straight into a basket lined with a red checked cloth. You lock the door behind you, heading out into the market.

Today was the day before the week-long festival celebrating the return of the long-lost princess. In the years she had been missing, the king and queen of the kingdom had hosted a small celebration of lights, calling it the Sun Festival in honour of their missing child in hopes that she would one day return. However, that had been last week, and now, they had extended it to celebrate her return.

You participated every year ever since moving to the kingdom five years ago. And every year, you repeated the same routine of giving away free samples of your pastries, and you gained recognition for having some of the best baked goods in town.

However, the reputation came with its downfalls. Every year without fail, a thief would steal at least five of each baked good you set out on display. You knew it was the same thief because they'd leave a tell-tale sign - an almost cocky way of letting you know they would never be caught. It came in the form of an italic capitalized '𝓛,' which was their initial, or so you suspected.

You knew almost everyone in the village, and every person whose name started with L had reassured you that they had never stolen a single item before. You believed them, especially since they were all decent people with alright reputations. 

As such, the search continued for five years, and the thief managed to escape the countless traps you set each time. It was absolutely infuriating.

You hand a cookie to Margaret, a girl only one year younger than you who helped to run her family's clothing store. They were your go-to for new clothes, and without fail, they'd always produce the most gorgeous dresses with subtle details that made them stand out. 

"Thanks, Y/n!" Margaret greets you with a smile, taking the cookie you hand to her. You chuckle at the messy bun she sports, helping to brush a few strands of her hair away from her eyes. She brings the cookie close to her face, inhaling deeply with a blissful sigh. 

"No worries, here's some for your parents, too, as thanks for the dress you made me." You hand her another two, and she takes them gratefully. 

"Aw, yes! They love your cookies! I had to convince them not to buy thirty like they did last year." Margaret groans at the memory of the entire bucketload of cookies her parents had brought back home. You giggle, remembering how excited her parents' faces were when buying a few loaves, croissants, and cookies.

"The dress looks great on you, though!" She looks you up and down, her eyes calculative as she views how the cerulean compliments your hair. 

"It's a little loose on the waist, but I think that's just the stress for this year's festival." 

"Oh, that can be fixed in a second! Hang on." She pulls out a few safety pins from her skirt pocket, approaching you and taking some of the material, fiddling with it. She takes a step back after a few moments, a satisfied smile on her face as you beam, the dress resting perfectly and allowing your corset to settle nicely on your skin.

"So, how's preparation to catch the thief going?" Margaret asks, putting the rest of the safety pins back in her pocket. You smirk. 

"Safe to say, that thief won't get away so easily this year." You hum, placing your hand on your hip with a smug smile. Hours of brainstorming for ways to catch them had proved fruitful, and you now had various plans in mind.

"That's good. Update me when you can! I gotta go off and finish another order." 

You wave goodbye to Margaret, who hurries off, watching her weave through the crowd and back into her shop. You continue to walk, handing out cookies to anyone in sight. 

The crowd of tourists almost made it impossible to squeeze through the public, and you had to hold your breath every now and then for some wiggle room. Your basket is practically empty, save for one last cookie. You were almost home, so that cookie would be saved as your late-night snack. 

"Ugh!"

You stumble, almost falling to the ground if not for a gloved hand holding your arm. You steady yourself, breathing a sigh of relief and glancing at the cookie in your basket. Thankfully, it was still in one piece. You look back up with a glare, the cloaked stranger in front of you taking a step back. 

A hood covers their face, casting it in shadow. You wait for an apology, but none comes. So you stand and wait silently. They're adorned in a simple brown cloak and about a head taller than you. 

"Well? Aren't you going to apologize to me?" 

Your brows furrow, taken aback by the stranger's question. His voice is deep, yet there is an underlying playfulness within it.

"Excuse me, you bumped into me." You point out incredulously, raising a brow. 

The stranger chuckles, shaking his head. "You were the one not looking where you were going. Oh well, I'll accept this as an apology." 

Before you can even blink, a gloved hand snatches the cookie from your basket, holding it up to his eyes. (Or where you believe their eyes were. It was hard to tell.)

"Hey!" You protest, "That's mine!" 

"What about all the other cookies you were handing out? Aren't they yours too?" 

You fall silent, fingers curling into fists as you rein in your temper. You can hear the conceit in his voice as he tucks the cookie into his pocket. So much for your supper that night. 

"Fine." You snap, feeling irritated by the man's presence. 

"So, you're a baker?" You can almost hear the smirk on his lips.

"Yeah, I am. So you'd better enjoy that cookie because there sure won't be any left tomorrow." You nod towards his pocket where your precious cookie rests, and he chuckles. You cross your arms, ready to end the conversation with the rude man in front of you.

"Is that so? Well, I'll be sure to stop by then." His words have an almost impish edge, and your frown only spurs him to take a single bite of the freshly baked good he had snatched from you earlier.

He hums, and your curiosity overrides your disdain for the man. You wait for his reaction, expecting nothing less than a sigh of bliss.

"Kinda salty."

"Salty?" You repeat, flabbergasted by his response. He shrugs nonchalantly, watching your shoulders slump. You run your fingers through your hair, a few strands falling across your eyes as you laugh in disbelief.

No. You shouldn't believe in the words of a stranger who bumps into you without so much of an apology, much less blaming it on you. 

You had better things to do, like catch a thief.

Besides, the thousands of people that flock to your store every year are more than enough to validate how good your baking is.

"Well," You address the stranger, and he shifts his weight to rest on one leg, "Thank you for your feedback, but I will not be changing the recipe to suit the taste buds of one man when many others enjoy my baking." You plaster a fake smile onto your lips, your words are emotionless, and your eyes regard him coldly. 

"Goodbye." You walk past him, brushing against his cloak and approaching your door. You can sense his gaze on you, and you almost fumble with the keys. You unlock the door, cooly making your exit and shutting it behind you before heaving a frustrated groan in the comforts of your own home.

You leave your basket on the counter, eyeing the empty shelves of the store. You quickly eat, preparing for the all-nighter ahead of you if you want to get those pastries out by the morning. You push all thoughts of the earlier encounter out of your mind, washing your hands and turning out batches of dough that had been resting.

You work into the rest of the night, restocking empty shelves until the rooster that usually wanders into the empty streets of the early morning crows loudly. You look up from the piles of washed and dried metal trays, wiping off the sweat on your brow. 

You glance around the store, a satisfied smile on your lips as you survey the shelves filled with loaves of bread of different varieties and, of course, your famous chocolate chips on a table in the centre of the store.

You head upstairs to your bedroom, quickly washing up in the bathroom before collapsing onto your bed in a tired heap. You nap for an hour, your clock soon ringing to wake you up. You drag yourself out of bed, putting on a new peach-coloured dress after a cold shower that wakes you up. 

Sliding on a pair of comfortable flats, you head back downstairs where a crowd of regulars that visit your store every festival await you. You wave hello through the glass windows, setting up the drawer where you store your coins for change after the customers make their payment. 

You take off the cloth covering all the shelves of baked goods, everyone outside becoming visibly excited. You fold them and put them away into a separate drawer, taking a deep breath before unlocking the door. 

Customers pour in, making a beeline for the products they want. The bell hooked up to the top of the door jingles every time it's open, and it was a constant sound with the stream of people flooding in.

You take your place behind the counter, calculating the right amount of change and bagging the baked goods in paper bags. 

"Hey, Mr. Smith, how's the missus?" You greet the tailor, who holds three loaves of rosemary and olive bread and two medium-sized bags of cookies. He hands you three crowns, and you open the drawer to give him the change.

"She's back home with Margaret, but she says hello, and to pass you this." He takes out a small handkerchief with your initials embroidered, and you gasp in delight. Cerulean lace surrounds the edges, the soft material like a cloud against your hand. 

"Thank you!" You gush, folding it gently and placing it in your pocket. "I love it." You hand him back the change, bagging up the loaves in the paper bags. You wave him off with a toothy smile, paying attention to the next customer in the queue. 

You take a break in the afternoon to have lunch, shutting the door much to the chagrins of others. You wave the tourists off, directing them to other stalls while you have lunch and prepare the first trap of many.

During the past few years, you had noticed that the thief always came around nightfall when everyone was distracted by the sunset. 

Not this time.

This time you had a plan and were confident it'd succeed.

You restock the shelves, making sure to leave the last bag of cookies sitting on the table. You grab some pepper, sprinkling some inside the bag. You grab a small jar on the counter, coating the bag's underside and making sure it isn't apparent to the thief.

It was a jar of finely ground rose petals, the pigmented powder a gift from Margaret as a lip stain for your lips. However, you were using it to set the trap instead. Hopefully, she'd understand.

You hum a cheerful tune under your breath, heading into the back and waiting for the familiar chime of the bell. You grab a tray of croissants, heading back into the storefront. You fill the empty shelf, ensuring the wax paper is lined properly so the pastries wouldn't touch the bare wood.

You turn, glancing over your shoulder at the cookie trap you set.

Or at least where the cookies were a minute ago.

The tray clatters to the floor as you stand still, stunned by how the thief had managed to slip in and out without so much as a sound. This was the first time this had happened. You had even locked all the windows as a precaution, so how had he managed to get in??

The door was firmly shut, and the bell hadn't made a single chime or jingle. 

The edge of the table has a faint dusting of red, and an italic '𝓛' is once again written in it. You grit your teeth, seething at the fact that the thief had not only managed to elude your sight yet again, but the cocky inscription of their initials was the tipping point.

"UGH!" You throw your hands up in frustration, your blood boiling as you storm back into the kitchen. You see yourself in the mirror, cheeks red and nostrils flared. Your eyes are filled with frustration.

You were so sure that it'd work!

You quickly march out the door to your store, eyes darting around as you try to spot the thief in the crowd. They had to be around somewhere.

You spot a flash of red, and you run, gently pushing past people and muttering, "excuse me!" in a rushed tone. You couldn't let them out of your side. They pause at a booth, and you finally catch up. "Got you now!" 

Your words die in your throat when you finally look up from where your hands are on your hips, panting heavily to catch your breath. A tall, muscular man looks at you with wide eyes, confused by your sudden accusation. 

You look down at his hands. You had seen red, hadn't you?

He holds a bouquet of roses, glancing down at it and back to you in a mildly unsettled manner. "Can I help you…?" He questions. He looks nervously at the owner of the booth you both are at, the owner shrugging helplessly. 

"I must have mistaken you for someone else," You stammer out, cheeks flushed from embarrassment, "Have a free cookie at my store as an apology." 

The man's face lights up, smiling broadly. "Gee, thanks!" 

You hear a faint chuckle, instantly looking up at the crowd and scanning it intently. You were sure that had to have been the thief. It had to be. 

You try to catch every face in the crowd, attempting to narrow down who it could have been. Unfortunately, it seemed that they had made yet another clean getaway. You practically deflate, almost tearing up out of frustration. 

"You all good?" The man you accused earlier asks, and you respond with a simple nod, wiping your eyes roughly with the back of your hand. 

"Yeah." You trudge back to your store with a forlorn look on your face. You clean the dust off the table along with the initial and restock the bags of cookies before opening for the evening crowd.

You focus on handling the customers, finally closing when the clock strikes midnight. You slide the lock shut on the front door, the now empty shelves a stark contrast to the early morning. You count the profit you made from the first day, sorting it into a small coin pouch and leaving the rest to use as change for the next day.

You wash up and head to bed, your body on autopilot. Your mind races with thoughts as you lay in your bed and stare blankly at the ceiling.

Today, the trap had failed.

That was what Plan B was for. It was only the first day, and there were still 6 more.

A spark of indignation is all it takes to get you fired up for the next day, and you drift off to sleep with a newly steeled resolve to catch that thief, even if it takes you countless plans from A through Z.

The following day, you wake up bright and early, changing into a rosemary-coloured dress, planning to upsell your herbed loaves of bread. You descend the stairs in your flats, brushing your hair back into a low ponytail. 

You restock the shelves again, welcoming yet another crowd into the store. The day passes, and you're so caught up in promoting and selling your products that you almost forget to take a break for dinner. 

Your hair is slightly dishevelled, locks framing your face as you wipe away the sweat with a damp cloth in the kitchen. You sit down, grab some baked potatoes and load them up with cream, sliced spring onions, and pickles. You set the plate down on the table, preparing the next trap.

You set down five loaves of bread where the cookies used to be(they had all sold out in the morning), securing a small bell to the last one and leaving a small hidden loop on the floor. It was a standard rabbit trap. 

When the thief inevitably steals the loaves of bread, they'd pull on the last loaf, which would trigger the bell and the rope attached to it, causing their foot which would land in the small loop, to be trapped in the tightened rope, leaving them dangling and helpless.

Was it too much for Plan B?

Yes.

Would it stop you from using it?

Absolutely not.

So you stay in the back, choosing to sit so that you are close enough to the storefront and can rush out immediately. You eat your baked potato slowly, catching your breath from the hectic morning and taking the time to recharge for the evening crowd. 

Minutes pass, and you begin to think the thief will never come.

The bell jingles.

You can hear muffled grunting, grabbing a solid frying pan on your stove, and slowly approaching the front. You peek out from behind the arch wall dividing the store's front and back, seeing a cloaked figure dangling by their green foot from the ceiling.

Wait.

Green?

Your brows furrow in confusion, walking towards them.

You recognize the cloak. It was the stranger you had bumped into the other day. The one who had said your cookie was too salty. 

"Juuust great." His sarcastic comment makes you frown. He hadn't noticed you yet. You suck in a sharp and audible inhale through your teeth, and his body visibly stiffens, turning around. 

His hood still shrouds his face in shadow, though you were pretty sure the rest of him was green too. His hands are holding down his cloak from exposing more than just his legs, and he gasps.

"Uh, rude?? You can't just stare at people like that, pervert."  

Your face heats up at the lazy accusation he throws your way, eyes narrowing into a glare. You hold the frying pan defensively and turn it, so the handle is facing him instead. You poke his chest a few times.

"Ow." His deadpan voice makes you flinch, and you raise your brows. 

"Look, this is all just a misunderstanding. I came here to check out the cookies again, and your stupid trap thing," He gestures to the rope around his ankle, keeping him dangling from the ceiling, "is making me late to meet my brothers." When gesturing, he lets go of the cloak, and it falls towards the ground. He yelps, clumsily grabbing it and holding it back to hide his body. 

You catch a glimpse of two swords he has tucked away on his waist, along with more green skin. Your eyes study him until something catches your eye. You grab his hand, leaning in and looking at the bright red coating his fingertips.

"Ha!" You gasp as elation begins to rush through your body. 

You did it! You caught the thief!

The thief sighs, his hands going limp. "Okay, fine. You got me." He caves easily, and you rejoice with a victorious giggle. 

"I did it! I caught you! Ohhhhh, you've been such a pain in the side for five years. Five years! I've waited for this day. Now, pay up for all the stuff you took." You demand, lips pursed as you point the frying pan at him threateningly. You lean back smugly, your head tilted. There was nowhere for him to run, much less escape. 

"So, about that…." You frown at his response, firmly pressing the frying pan's tip against his chest. "Wait! I don't have money. Can't you just put it on my tab, and we can settle this later. You can contact me through my lawyer!" He cries out. 

You were getting tired of talking to a shadowed face. You wanted to see the face of the man who had been an irritating source of loss for you over the years. You use the handle to flip back the hood.

Your eyes widen, looking down at the thief in front of you. 

Was he even human? 

His entire body was lime green, a blue bandanna around his face with holes carefully cut out for his eyes. The tails of his bandanna fall out of the hood, dangling upside down above his head. Red crescent-like stripes over his eyes add a pop of colour, and you're stunned by the creature in front of you.

Your grip loosens, the frying pan sliding out of your hand to meet the floor with a loud clang. You take a step back, almost stumbling back. 

"So... this is awkward." You flinch when he speaks, blinking rapidly as you process the sight. You don't know where to look, eyes darting from his face to his legs. He watches you with an almost amused smile, and you don't know whether to take that as offensive.

You’re a hundred percent sure you voice is shaky, scrambling to pick up your frying pan - your only weapon. Your legs give out, and you fall to the ground, pointing it at him with trembling hands. Your lips part.

"What are you?"

[wmarximoff]

skeleton in the closet | w. maximoff

|spooktober collection|

summary: life married to Wanda Maximoff is as simple as it gets, and everything is as it should be. but old skeletons in the closet comes to light in your hometown, where the two of you lived during your teenage years, when the body of Pietro Maximoff, Wanda's twin brother, is found after nearly twenty years of being missing.

warnings (18+): dark!reader, dark!Wanda, explicit description of stabbing, explicit description of blood, explicit description of dead body, manipulation, explicit description of physical violence, allusions to homophobia.

pairing: Wanda x fem!reader

word count: 8k

A/N: and we're finally on spooktober, guys! seriously, i'm really excited for the fics to come this month. so, to get a sense of what our vibe's gonna be like from now on, i think this story is a good starting point (but remember that if dark things aren't exactly your cup of tea, you don't need to read this)

|main masterlist| |spooktober masterlist|

༺ᱬ༻

The autumnal chills made the lapels of your coat rustle against your chest. The transition to the cold climate began to gradually slip through the daily life, and the dark nights came to establish their veil into the beautiful celestial vault dazzles. Leaves taking on earthy tones fell from the trees like sand spilled over desert dunes. The birds returned south in flocks. It was October, as so many others had been and so many more would be. Soon it would be time to pick pumpkins and try to find god knows where a cloak for Billy's sorcerer costume.

As you unlocked the hardwood door dyed a deep pearly white color, entering your small family capsule, cloistered in the depths of a quiet neighborhood, turning with your right wrist clockwise twice at a broken one hundred and eighty degree angle, you found your nose greeted by an enticing aroma of food fresh from the oven, which in response had your stomach churning like a wild buffalo inside your abdomen.

The long rainy morning and the even lengthier gray afternoon had worn you down as a member of the working class, it’s true – your spine leaning against the hard back of the swivel chair, blinking slowly with your bright, demanding eyes, intent on your own words, wondering about your work displayed on the thin monitor sprinkled in its frame by notes on small yellow pieces of paper. Acting as if the internet and blogging hadn't incited an unrestrained crash in your job market.

That typical office job worthy of a big-city journalist's career (articles, write articles for the Daily Bugle, thank J. Jonah Jameson so the mustachioed bastard gives you a raise) that at the end of the day goes back to their residential neighborhood that didn't feel like it should exist in the bowels of New York, to sit in a leather armchair and open a cold beer with a hard click. But at that time of year, beer could well be switched for a steaming mug of hot chocolate with marshmallows and cinnamon swimming in the thickly sweetened brew.

You, however, still within your archetypal office journalist, only craved for a few silent minutes in your wife's arms in search of some comfort in your soul, because your marriage was not bankrupt as your profession made it seem as it was. Wanda still loved you as much as she had almost two decades ago, and you could only breathe if your wife gave you permission to do so. Everything seemed to be as it always should be.

You then hung your keys right next to the door, rotating both your shoulders out of the dark linen coat Wanda had told you once made you look like a stern, sexy college professor, playing with the authority worthy of a title you didn't really hold; it was your wife who did it, after all, and she allowed you to steal that coat tucked on her hanger because she said it looked better on you anyway – even though you only knew that something frugally possessive about Wanda liked to see you in her clothes, exhaling the soft floral effluvia of her perfume as if to mark her territory on your body.

Your breath still gave indications of warm, full-bodied coffee, a trace of that busy afternoon that needed some sort of stimulant—a drink from a plastic cup with your name written on the side in black marker pen; this one that, earlier that day, had been placed next to a framed picture of your family on your desk, next to a “Best Mom Ever” mug in bold letters with a handful of colored pens inside just to your left, close to your elbow.

With placid strides deferred to the wooden floor, imbued with an unpretentiousness when within the walls of your own house, you then set off with your wife's coat folded over the length of your right forearm raised to the height of your ribs, pressed against the length of your abdomen, hanging there as if to emulate the pose of a waiter in a suit at a fancy restaurant.

Upon entering the living room, however, seated on a light cream fabric sofa, you were faced with only the tops of two small heads that lavished thick locks of dark brown hair – a pair of little boys glazed over in artificial colors, your twin sons born ten years and eleven months ago.

They didn't agree on much with each other very often, from time to time fighting over toys as the ontology of having a sibling demands, but they were always close to each other's shoulders at the end of the day, just like they did inside the womb they shared for a whole nine months. A few feet in front of you, a thin television, securely screwed to the wall, flashed some action cartoon you were not very familiar with.

And you smiled with quiet lips and walked to the back of the sofa, where you lowered your spine and, without a word, placed a warm kiss on top of each of the two vanilla-scented chestnut-colored heads, receiving in response a series of dull whining – the protestor of the day, however, as it had always been, was Tommy and not Billy.

“Well, hello to you too, little dude.”

“Mom!” grumbled the little boy with eyes the same color as yours, in a slurred tone that actually sounded annoyed, craning his neck as if you'd stuck gum in his hair, “C’mon, I'm too old for this!”

"Oh, I'm sorry Tom, I almost forgot you're a big boy now that you're ten. My mistake, really,” you crooned in an air of laughter before smiling at the grumpy young boy, who squinted his eyes at you and frowned with his sparse dark brows.

“I am! I don't need to be treated like a baby all the time anymore!”       

“‘Course you are, kid, I didn't say anything to the contrary. You're practically an adult now, what the heck.”

He had a fine chin and a gently upturned nose speckled with freckles like the stars spaced across the night sky. However, as boyish he was, his temper was just so solemnly contrary to his affable teddy bear with a bow tie appearance, an explosive den of undisputed bravery. Your gaze then decided to settle on the figure of Billy, always so much more serene and courteous when opposed to his energetic brother, who was offered a smart smile on your part, narrowing your eyes and raising both of your eyebrows towards him.

“And what about you, bud,” you questioned him without bothering to betray the mockery in your tone, “Are you too old to get a kiss on the head from your mom too?”

“I'm not,” he winked, scrunching a flash of skin over his little nose in a totally, genetically Wanda way, “I like it when you kiss me on the head, mom.”

“See, Tommy,” you turned your chin towards the other twin's freckles, “Billy is ten too and he still likes to get a kiss on the head. It doesn't hurt to like it, you know. You can be tough and still like your mom, just for a change.”

The other boy, in an embarrassed guinea pig squeak, traced the path between your face and Billy's before nurturing his twisted lips into a silly little pout; the stubborn Maximoff gene played out so much more in Tommy than it did in his brother, who hadn't gotten much more from your wife's family tree than the firm, sharp bone structure of his cheekbones and his soon to be smooth jawbone.

“Fine,” Thomas grumbled crookedly in a quick desistance, “You can still kiss me mom, geez.”

“Fine,” you said then, “Because I wasn't going to stop doing it anyway,” and Billy chuckled softly as it was that you turned your face to deposit a new, quick, wet little kiss on Tommy's rosy cheek, smacking your lips against his soft skin.

“Don't think you'll get rid of my kisses anytime soon, mister.”

Leaving the living room then with an impish smile well warped in the commission of your lips, you were directed by the smell of roast chicken that had covered the house like a sheet of flavors, and with slow steps, you let yourself walk across the matte floor in toward the kitchen, to the sacred source of the aroma of fresh-baked food.

You passed a spacious hallway with pale walls, whose faces, interspersed with casual, well-appointed furniture, held photographs of pivotal moments for that family of four (everyone sporting delightful, pearly-beautiful smiles with spasms of hearty glee, say cheese Tommy, look over here Billy, no Y/n, you can't take a picture grimacing for our Christmas card, a break for a round of lively laughter, stop it, Y/n!).

Wanda cherished them with all her heart, as for while she herself was just a lonely child, the walls of the house she lived in were all foreboding and empty, like an excruciating scream in a dark room.

There were no ugly itchy Christmas sweaters or big, fed up Thanksgiving dinners in the family album of Erik Lehnsherr, a high-profile political figure in a well-buttoned jacket and an golden watch screwed to his firm wrist, and Magda Maximoff, a dreary housewife soaked in wine and draped in expensive pearls, a couple married for sheer convenience — no pictures of their own set of twin children, none of the gritty boy or even the always so quiet little girl unwrapping some of their birthday presents by the fireplace, toys bought carelessly with unimportant cash deducted from an unlimited credit card.

But already in the life of an adult, married woman, a mother, that household you two formed together was like a being of its own, as alive as it could be.

A being of pipe bones, brick skin and a happy family heart, who breathed through impromptu Saturday breakfasts and old movie nights snuggled on the couch surrounded by buttered popcorn and cups of iced cinnamon apple tea. The kind of home that is familiar without any hesitation. A generally imposing house, but not enough to be challenging.

So, as you entered the airy white-walled kitchen, an cozy countenance expressed itself through the soberly relaxed muscles of your face, and you couldn't help but evoke a tender smile at what you saw before you – after all it was her, it would always be her.

Wanda had her back to you, her long fire-flaming hair falling over her porcelain shoulders and halfway up her spine like a high forest fire, ready to incinerate you too. It gave off a lovely scent of wild strawberries interspersed with glossy locks that you were fond of sticking your nose in and sniffing that eclectic scent every night before bed.

“Yes, I…I understand. I do, I swear I do.”

It wasn't until the sound of her low voice, in a watery tone that pretends she's not about to burst into tears, that you realized that Wanda's phone was being pressed against the shell of her right ear, a distant green gaze scrutinizing the wet dark of the sink drain. A curious brow of yours rose to your forehead as she faced the raw words in an uncharacteristically Wanda tone, afforded with her deck of cards congruent with dreary answers fitting only in very unfortunate situations.

“I'll try to get there as soon as possible. I'll– I'll talk to Y/n. We'll be there early in the morning. Tomorrow, yes, tomorrow,” Wanda turned on her heel, shimmering with emerald eyes at you, who was caught in her sight like a deer in the bright headlights of a car on the dark road – she frowned, her rosy lips curled intemperately.

Ah, there you are, Wanda said with her eyes in a dull green like the slime that grows on a tiny rock in front of a profuse lake. Something happened and I need you here with me.

“No, I– I know this is a priority,” she sighed a breath of warm air, deflating her chest from under a fresh-blood-colored cashmere cardigan, “I know. I do. I'll be there as soon as possible, father. Don't worry.”

Silence engulfed all four walls of the kitchen as the call then came to an end, though neither of the two parties has properly bid farewell to the other. It was an emergency, your startled senses heightened. Erik would never call if it wasn't an emergency.

A tremor along the length of your spine from the back of your neck alerted you that something was wrong. Saliva choked in Wanda's throat, and she lowered her smartphone to then laid it facedown against the stone kitchen island. She looked at you. You looked at her.

The blood flowing through your veins cooled down at the incognito facet that expressed itself through the dull face of your so gorgeous wife, who had her brown eyebrows curled in a calliginous way and an opaque veil clouding her jade-colored gaze, gauging pale shades of awestruck green to her hollow irises – terror climbing the length of your esophagus, her hands fluttering through the auburn length of her long hair before initiating the fidget act with her own pale fingertips, the two of you sharing a brooding pose, which exhaled a scent of anguish through the kitchen environment.

“Wanda,” there was an exchange of apprehensive looks between you and her, “Wanda, honey, what's wrong? What’s going on? Did... did something happen...? Erik... is your father all right?”

“Y/n...”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out and so Wanda tried to collapse her peach lips again, to swallow the lump tied to her vocal cords. One look was enough for you to know that in Wanda's chest was an atrocious disease known as dread.

And your first instinct in the face of your wife's frightened figure was to slash through the kitchen like lightning, to shelter her haggard body against your own welcoming torso when her muscles chose to disassemble, like an ancient millenary structure that comes to the ground. It was like catching a rag doll in a free fall.

“Hey, hey, it's alright, sweetheart,” you whispered against her red hair, “Alright, alright, I'm here. I’m here with you, Wanda,” and then, a long kiss was bestowed on the pale skin of her right temple, near the last strand of a dark eyebrow.

“Y/n, they found it,” she sobbed in a whimpering murmur against the warm skin of your neck, her hands crawling like a pair of spiders up the fabric on the back of your blouse, “T-they, they found it...”

“They found what, Wanda?” you asked her mutely against her earlobe, “Who found what, baby? What’s going on?”

“A hiker in the woods,” your wife mussed in a thread of a pleading voice, “The police, they… they found Pietro's body... they found him... they found him...”

There was something eerie about Wanda's choked speech – something ominous, not of this world. And something in you flickered – your jawbone knocked, your sharp gaze blazing a stubborn roar of hopeless fear as your stomach dropped. Pietro, of course. Pietro’s body.

Pietro Maximoff, the prodigy athlete, the golden boy on the football team, the apple of his father's eye. The better twin. The missing twin, now earning the title of the twin found underground, the dead twin, the murdered twin.

The glow that always, always so unjustly overshadowed Wanda's charms. The boy this bitter couple had planned to have, the only child they could brag about, while Wanda had slipped out of the womb clinging to Pietro's neck, a particularly uninvited outsider to Erik who never stopped being more than that; more than the thing who came clinging to the boy he wanted to have, a nasty bonus.

Both your palms were sweaty against the back of her cardigan when you held Wanda tighter, the soft clothing leaving a feeling as rough as sandpaper against the tips of your so cautious fingers. You had to be there for her. You had to pull yourself together at that moment. Even if that shouldn't happen. Even if that's not how things were supposed to be.

“I–it's gonna be okay,” your voice no longer sounded like your own, it curled in an irresolute tone, your throat wavering in haste – and you masticated at your lower lip, your heart thudding against your ribcage in distress and the shrillest sensation of fear.

“It's gonna be okay, honey. It's gonna be okay. I’m here. Everything's gonna be okay.”

You kissed her strawberry head cork, your lips dry and your back sweating inside your thick blouse. Your skin turned cold against the warm of Wanda's hot tears. This wasn’t supposed to happen, not seventeen years later. Within that profuse forest, deep in the woods that surrounded the small town frame, no one should ever find anything in that unfathomable grave that you covered with pounds of soft earth when you were just eighteen years old.

ᗢ

“Why do we have to visit grandpa anyways?” whimpered Tommy, in that typical slurred intonation of a tantrum child who is frustrated at being annoyed, “It's not even Christmas yet!”

You were speechless for a few seconds, cluttering with the crimped bone of your jaw, holding up a tightly folded red shirt that you intended to stuff into Billy's blue backpack, through the open zipper like a hungry mouth for changes of clean clothes, so he could get dressed for the weekend.

It was a second taken to think of a wide range of explanations that there was no elucidation to be said in a way that a childish cognition could fully digest, understanding all the nuances carried in its broad meanings.

A second passed, almost taking up the shape of full minutes, until you turned your gaze towards the scowling little boy that was Tommy, who, with an observant ember sparking through the intrinsic color of his clever, harmless irises, stared at you in expectant anticipation for the resolution of his sly doubt.

He, after all, was your son, one of them. A boy to whom you owed explanations of the greatest mysteries that made up the universe just because a few years ago you and Wanda both wanted him to exist.

“Well, honey, you see, it's...” but the words, the correct ones, didn't come out of your mouth, which was left open like a big black hole lacking light, “It's... it's very important to your mama that we're going there tomorrow, Tommy. She needs it.”

“But why?” as his brother lulled him, however, it was Billy's turn to express the doubts that were hovering in his little head, who was in charge of the mission of folding a handful of pants and shirts.

“Yeah mom, why?” claimed Tommy one more time.

“Grandpa's house is weird,” Billy sustained, “It’s so big and smells like a dentist's office and old people. I don't like it there.”

“Well,” you made an unnatural sound that was a mockery of laughter, like a low battery toy, “Your grandpa is old, isn't he…? Don't ever tell him I said that.”

It was the extremes of the moderate hour of eight-thirty at night when you, with your twin children dressed in pajamas at your heels, found yourself in the softness of the boys' shared room – because they, always so united as in a only entity, would never be able to fall asleep in separate rooms, alone and dispersed in two dark corners, which was why there were then two empty guest rooms gathering dust within your house.

Clothed in their cotton pajamas strewn with tiny prints of colorful dinosaurs (red, green and blue too), the pair of little boys were by your side while you took care to pack their bags, willingly volunteering to do so when in front of Wanda's swollen, exhausted eyes, who had retreated to the master bedroom after a lifeless dinner that had surely troubled the two children's spirits.

Two pairs of little eyes then flickered towards your damp face. Just two curious children (your curious children) looking for an answer to their question before Wanda's only relative of whom they had empirical knowledge, the only one alive and yet so far away, whom they had not seen for a certain period of time, but that had sent them new toys the month before this one, on their birthday. You came out on a lame sigh, the coming headache brushing hot on a hard muscle at the back of your neck.

“Look, guys, I'm gonna be honest with you,” you uttered, tucking your knees into your comfy cotton sweatpants to sit on the edge of Billy's bed, putting the folded shirt aside.

“I know it can be a little… um, uncomfortable… to go to grandpa's house sometimes. Trust me, I... I really do. But we need to go there because... well, something serious has happened, and that's why grandpa needs mama there. You guys remember what I told you about mama's brother, right? Her twin brother, just like you two are.”

“Uncle P?” Tommy took the lead in the round of questions, taking a comfortable seat right next to your right elbow, “He left when you and mama were in high school. She said he’s far away from here. That makes her sad sometimes.”

“Yes, he… he's gone,” you bowed your head in a mechanical, hard motion, the words rancid against the face of your tongue, “Your uncle was… he was indeed far away from here, you know? But it turns out... that he was found recently. The cops found him, but… it wasn't in a good way, boys.”

“What happened to him, mom?”

Billy's eyes pointed upward towards your gloomy face, as a complement to his doubt; the little dark brow furrowed in demand for a congruent resolution to his brooding inquiry. You turned your chin at an angle towards your left collarbone to answer him.

“Well, Bill, your uncle, he…” there was a pause on your part, a long silence held in your throat, “He's not alive anymore, kid. Do you understand what that means? He... he's not coming back. Pietro will never come back.”

The boys looked at each other and, with a rehearsed action, cast a sorrowful glare on you – a look that didn't quite understand the real implications of what you'd said to them, but did it well enough to get the idea that it was something bad, something sad enough to mobilize the adults who always seemed to be in control of everything. To make mama cry even when she was the one who nursed them on blue days, brushing the tears away from their cheeks with her thumbs.

“And mama,” Billy said in a tiny voice, so befitting his sad little eyes, “Is she sad?”

“She is,” you cordially splayed your left hand on the small expanse of his knee, where your fingers began a series of affable, unconscious caresses.

“She's very sad, Bill. So we need to do this for her. We need to stand by her side in this moment of sadness and take good care of her when she needs us to. Because now she has to say goodbye to him. For real this time. And goodbyes are big, sad feelings that are very difficult to deal with, even if it's someone as strong as mama. Even more a goodbye like that. Can you do this for her, boys? She’ll be so much happier if you guys do this for her.”

“We can,” Tommy stated, ever so sure of his own words, “We can do this for mama.”

“Yes,” Billy supported his brother, “We gonna do it, mom.”

“Right,” you smiled small, just lifting the corner of your lips, “Thanks, guys, really. This will mean a lot to her. Now come here, come here,” when you offered each boy an arm, the two soon tried to snuggle against your chest, their ears brushing against both of your collarbones.

“It's gonna be okay, did you hear me? We'll get through this. We’ll get through this as a family, as we always do.”

At least, that's what you hoped would happen. As if everything wasn't absolutely out of control. As if you weren't an asshole for lying to your own kids.

ᗢ

Had flown across the sky only a few sluggish minutes since the dawn of the opaque day, enveloping the longitudinal expanses of the outskirts of Westview, then, in a vague aura of homely appearance – thus offering, to the parochial naked eye, a shifting nuance between pastel shades of salmon colors that were soon taken over by the autumnal gray of the heavy clouds, which served as the prelude to a frosty October morning (the first signs of a coming cold temperature already settling, like a disease, through the crooked bowels of the ominous city). Wanda made sure Billy and Tommy were dressed up in thick coats in the backseat.

The sun was clumsy in the midst of the gloomy sky, like a silvery child hiding behind its mother's skirt, and at the foundation of the sky's vault, a long magenta band of sun spread to the horizon, hoisting towards the day, even though it was a particularly gloomy morning.

You had just left New York State behind, and so the reddish-hued family car found itself wandering through the conglomeration of roads that made up New Jersey, just a handful of miles from the nondescript town of Westview.

“Are we there yet? I’m hungry,” asked Tommy from the backseat, his voice coming over your shoulder.

“We're almost there, baby,” Wanda replied in a slightly dry voice, her gaze always looking straight ahead, at the road that unfolded in front of the fender of the car, “Just hang in there a little longer, okay?”

“Okay…”

You looked at her sideways for half a second of bottled oxygen in your throat. Your right hand then wandered over the derailleur that stood between the two seats at the front of the car, to give a cordial squeeze on your wife's left thigh, which was tucked into dark jeans. In grim silence, Wanda held your fingers extensions between her palms – her wedding band felt cool against your skin.

Out of the corner of your sharp eye, your left hand screwed into the outline of the steering wheel, you captured the smudged image of a rudimentary green-painted board made from logs; population 3,892, “WELCOME TO WESTVIEW – HOME: IS WHERE YOU MAKE IT”. You once spray-painted that sign because you were a stupid teenager who had a stupid idea. Nobody ever knew that you did it.

Little Westview was still the same as before, always so classic and timeless. But there was something there, like an ominous specter lurking around corners and behind the fogged up windows, that had made your heart crumple inside your anxious chest and your body curl up like a tortoise does in its shell, unconsciously going further into the faux leather seat.

It was as if every component structure of the city looked into the moving car, as if everything there knew what you had done. How guilty you were; your sin leaking from your pores, bristling your veins.

As the concrete and pylons of the gray, wet asphalt citadel burst before your eyes, magically trapped in an eternal vortex of the sixties, with its empty houses and dismal colonial-style shops surrounded by leafy trees of essence green taking on shades of orange, damp and dark, and its old-fashioned cinema that in its facade of red and blue in bright neon, announced the rerun of a horror movie in black and white.

The Halloween decorations began to appear more and more as the vehicle approached the center of town – a wicked witch in a purple dress flying on top of a broom, a bedsheet made into a ghost with two open holes for the eyes and one for the mouth, a handful of pumpkins with carved pointy teeth.

You clenched your jaw, a streak of sunlight barely crossing your forearm raised to brush a strand of hair out of your eye. It didn't take more than minutes for you to park your car in front of Wanda's old childhood home – the town was tiny, and the house stood triumphantly wider and larger than the other residences.

The cream-colored little house just around the corner caught your eye like a beacon in the dark, however; before your parents moved out of the country after you finished college, this is where you had lived with your family – the window of your old room always facing the street outside.

It was about a ten-minute drive straight down Ellis Avenue (Tommy already fidgeting to get out of the car, Billy saying he was sleepy, Wanda holding back so she wouldn't explode, you just wishing you'd get there soon). Still so early in the morning, the figure of Erik Lehnsherr, once the mayor of Westview, could already be found on his front porch – gray-striped jacket and cropped white hair, bordering on the pearly tone of old age. You turned off the car ignition.

“It's gonna be okay, Wands,” was a whisper on your part into a pair of dark green eyes that weren't quite staring at you, “I'm here with you. I’ll always be here for you, honey.”

“I know,” she sighed back, before taking her right hand to the doorknob and then opening the car door, “I know, baby. Thank you.”

Erik tucked both of his hands into the pockets of his linen pants, piercing eyes burning into your silhouette beneath a pair of bushy dark brows as you helped Billy to get out of the vehicle through the left door that opened like a long red wing towards the street. Sapphire irises, the grandfather of your children.

Clean, wealthy and downright cruel. A frown stripped away from his thin dead lips, which made him looked like a comic book villain – a puff of cocky unpleasantness. Bitter aroma of pompous whiskey on the lapels of his jacket. Your wife crossed the sidewalk, that green, well-trimmed lawn that carpeted the entrance to the house, and approached her own father with her head down.

“Good morning, father,” Wanda greeted him then in a tiny voice, a grim air leaking from her mouth, and she had been bringing Tommy's hand along with hers. With Billy you followed after them, stopping behind her right shoulder encircled by her dark coat.

“Wanda,” said the man in a scolding tone, always so sharp, which prompted a jolt of muscle memory from your wife, who shivered like a shy bunny inside her coat, “Boys.”

“H-hello, grandpa,” Billy tried first, his grip pressing hard against your hand that he held.

“Hi, grandpa,” came Tommy's voice then, though Erik's blue gaze wasn't aimed at the boy; but it did towards you. You swallowed the saliva behind your tongue in a long, sullen blink.

“G-good morning, Mr. Lehnsherr,” you whispered in a strained voice, performing a vaguely welcoming act, “How are you, sir?”

A second of icy silence pierced the front porch of the house, your coat rustling over your body. You brought Billy closer to your hip, his temple pressing against your ribcage in an attempt to warm the boy in front of the zephyrs that traversed the porch of the house stained in icy white paint. A car passed on the street. A dog started barking. The older man just turned his back on you, without offering you any syllables at all.

“Come in,” said Erik then, in a tone that in no way emulated a host, already walking his body back inside the open door, ever so used to giving orders and not receiving them, “It's cold out here.”

 It took you a long time to find any answers to the inhospitalities uttered by the father of your beloved redhaired wife. Wanda realized that there had been more than one (or even two) attempts on your part to speak out over the course of a few long, drawn-out seconds. Your eyes then migrated to the troubled look of the silent woman standing beside you, who nodded in agreement with the slightest movement of her head. Silently, always behind Wanda, you only entered the residence after your wife did.

ᗢ

The hallways of Westview High School were still the same ones you remembered in your memory, seeming preserved in time since the last time you set foot on that comfortable linoleum floor, in a teenage memory cloistered within the walls of your own cranium.

But you were an adult now, a self-assured, stable woman with a solid career and an established family. You wouldn't allow a pompous boy who exuded arrogance, that same troglodyte who always bumped his strong shoulder against yours, to trouble your spirits again.

The gym’s basketball court (a rectangular floor with baskets at each end) had been willingly granted by Monica Rambeau, the then-current principal of the school, always so efficient as she did since she was a young girl, to play a crucial role in the location where Pietro Maximoff’s memorial would be held – as in a ritual religious, a cult of an numinous god, as if one were about to light a candle and sacrifice a chicken on an altar to bring him back to the realm of the living beings.

He was still there, more alive now than dead than he had ever been before. It was like your own augur spirit slithering behind your shoulders, a past always ready to haunt you, to rip your soul out of your eyes if need be. Little by little, the small town seemed inclined to accept the unpalatable fact that the golden boy had indeed died, even though almost two decades had passed and the youth of today didn't even care about the name of the late teenage athlete who studied with their parents so many years ago.

It was easy to bring back the time that had been spent there, and everything you had ever experienced in that environment – the tin lockers were still bluish and you still remembered your own combination of numbers off the top of your head (turn to the side once, turn to the other twice, then turn to the other three times and the door magically opens, but needs a slam to open it fully).

Wanda had memorized that combination when you two started dating only to sneak there cute little notes in between classes.

Near a small stage set up in front of the sloping seats of the polished wooden bleachers, with a platform at its center as in a presidential campaign, was a huge glossy photograph of a young Pietro smiling sideways, forever preserved at that stage in his life, a broken chuckle at the corner of his fifties Hollywood heartthrob's lips, a cheap performance by a small-town James Dean, just another naughty bad boy.

It was, that photograph, taken just before he disappeared, because the boy had dyed his brown hair a platinum blonde just a month before he disappeared for good. The sight of him there depressed you to the extreme, even though the tight lump in the nerve endings of your stomach further pointed to the bitter taste of fear rising in your gut; it had been a while since that boy had stopped bothering you altogether, and bringing that guilt-ridden nervousness back was not doing your health any good.

You'd abandoned your demons and didn't want to worry about them, even though Pietro's sapphire-colored irises looked like two security cameras following you around the room, his lips seeming to twitch in horror-movie words only you could hear: I'll tell them, Y/n. I'll tell them all what you did to me. The autumn air felt heavyweight and dense when enclosed in such a spacious environment, and an icy thread was rising in your throat.

Groups swarmed the walls of the gym like a flock of flies, former classmates of yours, faces dizzyingly familiar, the entire battalion of retired teachers who used to hang out with you in your everyday life at that school, and half a dozen other of Erik's stuck-up acquaintances al dresses in wealthy coats so similar to his own. You shook a few hands and offered some unsympathetic smiles – always the same questions and always the same answers, after all, you were now part of the victim's family.

“Yes, yeah, I married Wanda”, “Yeah, his twin sister”, “Wanda is sad but we're doing our best to make it okay”, “No, I wasn't that close to him back then”, “He was a great guy, wasn't he?”. No, he wasn't.

Citizens in their late forties, all expressing sad faces, as if they were rehearsing for a play; the main role would win whoever convinced everybody that they were sadder than the others at the death of a boy that everyone pretended to like at the time because his father was the mayor. You watched it all so secluded, so far away, that play worthy of social etiquette to tragedy unfolding right under your eyelashes, while Wanda was with Erik and more people talking on the platform. Black always looked good on her.

You kept your eyes on the twin boys circling near the coffee table, a donut dusted with an icing sugar crust to each, just to keep their childish palates entertained, avoiding Pietro's gaze in that photo, preferring to pounce like a cat and sneaking between people's ankles, letting yourself fall into abandon, as long as you didn't see anyone and no one else could see you either.

“Man, that's really sad,” a voice had said over your right shoulder, and Darcy Lewis, a former classmate of you, always with long dark hair and round glasses, came to meet you carrying a disposable cup of warm coffee in her right hand.

She was always full of ghastly puns and some occasional movie reference exchanged between the times you paired up in sophomore chemistry class.

“Yeah, it's really sad,” you muttered in an artificial tone, “It's sad as fuck.”

“I mean, I always thought that the guy was a fucking idiot. He was an asshole, everybody knew he was an asshole,” she continued, just after taking a long swig from the steaming cup of coffee that she held at her jaw height.

“At the time I was even glad he was gone, I'm not gonna do like these hypocritical suckers here and pretend that I liked him because I truly didn’t. But I don't know, after all this time... he was just a kid, you know?”

The walls of your stomach clenched and ached in an icy brush. He was just a boy, really. In the end, he was just a boy. Something you discarded for the earth to digest and take away, but which in a run of bad luck, just came back to haunt you so many years later.

“I just… I thought he had run off with some girl when he realized he had no chance of getting into college or whatever. He looked like the kind of guy who would try his hand at life in L.A and then come back home old and crying. But damn, being actually murdered? What the fuck. That’s sick.”

She used a tone of indignant surprise to accentuate the last word you couldn't quite digest in your stomach, acrimony bile and distressing dread climbing up the muscles of your slimy mucus-covered throat. Nothing in you was intent on looking at the woman in the thick coat standing beside you, but your gaze even less yearned for Pietro's piercing irises.

“Just… this isn't one of those TV shows that always has a small-town mystery or some shit like that. This is real life, man. These things are not supposed to happen around here.”

You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to swallow a gulp of icy air. Crossing the crowd, next to her big-handed father in expensive pants, Wanda's earnest gaze sought you out. And you didn't notice something opaque distorting the green of her irises, as far away as she was from you. But your former classmate noticed the exchange of glances with your wife, and another sip of coffee came for her to speak again.

“Damn, sorry,” Darcy mussed then, “You married his sister, didn't you? Shit, I completely forgot about that, Y/n. I'm sorry. I know this must be a difficult time for your family. For you, even.”

“It’s okay,” you shrugged into your own coat, “He and I weren't very close in high school, anyway,” and then, you finally looked at her, “But I know it’s just sad that he’s gone. I’m trying to keep it together for Wanda and our boys, but… it’s tough. Everything in this situation just sucks.”

“Right?” she scrutinized at you with her piercing, pale blue eyes under her glasses frame, looking at you with pity in her gaze, as if you weren’t just a guilty liar.

“He was an asshole, sure, but he... he was just a kid. I realize this now that I’ve grown up. It’s not fair, man, it’s not fair to him that it was like this. I wonder how scared he was at the end. Nobody… nobody deserves to die like this.”

It was like the last shovel of dirt in your own coffin. It was too much, just being there was too much for you. Your stomach dropped as you vomited a sweaty smile out of your lips. So you accepted, you just did – a pompous boy who exuded airs of arrogance still troubled your spirit, after all.

Because what you had done to him (your hands stained with still-warm blood and wet earth, your skin itching against the dewy tall grass in the middle of the night, the smell of iron and musky trees in the air) had scarred your carcass for the rest of your life. The latent guiltiness would never let your bones rest again in your life.

ᗢ

You hugged your thick coat made of black fabric to your body, even though you didn't feel the autumn chill at all. But you only knew that you had done it so that you could hide from the morbid eyes of the trees in the cemetery. The atmosphere of that place was horrible. The white headstone was beautiful, and that was just despondent. There was something sadistic about the fact that a funeral was such a beautiful thing – even more so when you were the reason that corpse lost its heartbeat.

Everything in a cemetery was miserable, of course, the stench of human putrefaction was intrinsic in the still life of that sacred ground; just a bunch of dead people and memories buried to the bottom, but the fact that this tombstone was so expensive and so exceedingly beautiful was the most distressing part of it all.

It meant that Erik wanted to give the best treatment to this thing that would be a memorial to his beloved son even in death. Your cloudy irises descended to that cluster of flowers placed on top of the closed casket of dark varnished wood, whose interior held only a handful of bones worn down by exposure to time and the animals of the forest. They were burying a bag of bones because of you.

Amidst a sea of bowed heads, hazy faces tucked into dark garments, all with shoulders pressed together like a wall founded in mourning, the deceased's father was the one who spoke the parting words, while Wanda stood beside you, each of you holding the hand of one of the twin boys the two of you had had. When she noticed the stress simmering up inside you, almost leaking out of your mouth, your brow furrowed, a hand of hers soon tried to reach for your fingers.

“Pietro was a good boy,” the heartbroken father had said then, “He really was. And someday he would be a great man, I know he would. I... I'm glad my beloved Magda isn't here to witness this. She wouldn't deserve to see our boy like that. See what they did to him.”

You thought you were going to throw up as memories began to pour through the blood coursing through your pallid veins, a den of unsettling affliction teasing you into a frenzy of unease. Between bushes and rocks, into the beech woods of the forest, swallowed up by the enormities of the shadows of the scrupulous pines, placed in wide profligate rows, you set out carrying those bones that were still wrapped in a capsule of flesh, veins, muscles and sinews.

The twigs on the forest floor twisted the flesh at her ankles and calves, but the vibrating epinephrine in your veins inhibited the burning sensation of a handful of tiny cuts slashing open in your skin. But still, you groaned in pain. But the pain you felt had not come from the abrasions and fissures denoted here or there in your epidermis – it had been the broken heart, which had begun to weaken you, chilling your bones and viscera.

Flowing reality flooded your bronchial tubes; there was fear emanating from the tears dispersed down the length of your face. Fear of losing your beloved Wanda Maximoff. Wanda, your support, your muse, your martyrdom, your passion. Lyrical, but somewhat tragic, like a Homeric tale. A famine that was supplied to you; an abstruse epic romance born of the core of two girls devoid of a primordial love. What would you do without her, and what wouldn't you do for her? Heaven and hell weren't extreme thresholds that would keep you from searching for the girl you were dating.

You dug a grave, the deepest of them, a hell hole. You dropped Pietro's inert body into that eternal darkness. And then you threw dirt on him until you couldn't see his platinum hair anymore. Your yelps echoing off trees, rocks, and tall grass. The sky was overcast and the weather tasted of blood and bitterness. And when you let go of the shovel you turned back to the young Wanda standing right behind you, her eyes empty, her clothes still smeared with the blood that spurted from her own twin's jugular.

“It's gonna be okay, baby,” you reassured her, your girlfriend, your future wife, the future mother of your kids, “It's gonna be okay, Wands. I'm here with you. No one will know. They’ll never know.”

“Promise me, Y/n?” she hummed through the trees, a shy, measured voice. Dark hair curled with streaks of heavy blood starting to clot at the ends. Your dirt-smeared right thumb stroked the sharp of her cheekbone.

“I promise, Wanda. I'll always protect you, okay? No one will ever know what you did, honey. Never.”

“I love you, Y/n," she confessed, eyes shining in a sparkle that shouldn't have been there, “I want you to be by my side my whole life. I want you to keep this secret with me. Just you and me. We'll be together forever, and no one will ever know what we did.”

“No one will ever know,” you huffed back, leaning in to kiss her in front of her brother's makeshift grave.

No one would ever know that Pietro came home one night when Erik was out and found you and Wanda exchanging some teenage kisses on the kitchen counter – her sitting there, you standing between her legs, your finger going south, almost touching what hadn't been touched yet.

Or how he looked a lot like a rabid animal when he knocked you to the ground, making you hit the back of your head with a hard thud. As on the floor, slumped like a rag doll, you turned your hips dorsally so that you were facing your attacker – your own legs unusable once he had sat on them with his full weight. The boy's stiff hands bound your wrists just above your head, his hot breath brushing your hairline, just to the top of your forehead.

His psychotic dim face was thin and rampant, shades of blue flickering across his homicidal irises, his animalistic mouth hooded by strands of an oncoming dark beard that would someday show on his firm chin. And then masculine fingers, experienced, strong from gripping heavy basketballs every day, pressed against the throbbing muscle in your throat.

“You,” Pietro yawned, but, on the whole, didn't seem to be full of his mental faculties to the point that he could speak without being haunted by occasional tantrums of shaking, “You’re fucking my sister?! You fucking weirdo! I’ll fucking kill you!”

You squinted your eyes, your vision slowly dimming as your brain was deprived of oxygen. And then a cavernous growl resounded through the gray walls of the amorphous kitchen, followed by a heavy thud. You opened your eyes. With both his legs tangled up in your own, Pietro was slumped to the left, oozing from an open wound in his neck, a pool of warm blood that only grew. Like a mouse, he agonized over rambling words, before being lulled by the coldness of death.

His strong chin was soaked in the thick reddish blood seeping out of his nostrils, out of his mouth, and out of that gaping gash in the skin, from within an artery, thick and dark, almost the color of wine. Blood that trickled down the boy's viripotent chin, then dripped in a sinuous red line across your puffy face beneath him. The collar of your shirt was soaked in the color of tomato sauce.

The sound of metal hitting the floor reached your ears. Wanda dropped the knife she had stuck inside her twin brother's neck. She fell to her knees, bare by the little black dress she wore. And, pushing Pietro's body off you, you just crawled up to her like a bloody animal after a violent slaughter. And you held her against your body. You just held her.

“Y/n,” she whispered under her breath, “Y/n... I... I'm... I'm scared, Y/n... I'm scared...”

Blood all over the kitchen floor, showing and where it shouldn't be – on the sleeves of your shirt and in Wanda's long dark hair, “No one will know,” you uttered against the shell of her ear, “Don't worry, honey, no one will ever know. I won't lose you, Wanda. No one will ever tear us apart.”

You might have thought differently in the years that followed if you had seen the smile she hid against your collarbone. If you only knew how much she disliked having her ankle chained to Pietro's glory even though she always passed for the sweet passive twin (after all, what kid would even want to be second choice?). If you only knew she hadn't just forgotten that her brother was coming home earlier that night.

If you only knew that years later, when you were finally there giving a dignified funeral for the body you two buried together, Wanda smiled the same way she did that night. After all, you were her wife now. You were the mother of her children. And you were the keeper of the biggest secret in her life, the only person who knew about the skeleton in her closet. It wouldn't make any difference to get rid of Pietro if she got you for life.

“I love you, I love you so, so much,” Wanda whispered in your ear then, that night when you slept in her father's guestroom, “And I'll never lose you, Y/n. Never. Thanks for making sure of that for me, baby.”