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viaviavie · 4 months ago

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OPERATION CINDERELLA-SABOTAGE [HEARTSLABYUL]

in which he rescues you from your very short-lived wedding.

SUMMARY: due to a massive misunderstanding, a prince from royal sword academy is set to wed you at sunset. thankfully, your un-princely crush is here to save the day and crash this lovely wedding.

PAIRINGS: everyone x fem reader (separately)

WARNINGS: they're being a bit dramatic, characters are 18+, makeout (cater)

NOTES: this is echoes the ghost bride event, but listening to this prompted me to write out this scenario instead. i made this for shits and giggles, so have fun with this!

There was no way you would be able to say 'no' now, not when there were hundreds of Royal Sword Academy students and even more members of a random royal family whose last names you cannot recall waiting outside that door. Aside from a completely oblivious Neige and Che'nya who was nowhere to be found, there was no one you could really ask for help to get you out of this mess.

You turn to your supposed betrothed with frantic eyes, shaking your head wildly. "I already told you, I'm not the one you danced with at the ball!" Your hisses fell on deaf ears. That damned prince from Royal Sword Academy was too busy making the 'goo-goo' eyes at you to even register what you were saying.

"I just happened to have the same shoe-size!"

Damn it, why did you have to agree to fitting some missing girl's shoe?!

Pierce Charmant, possibly the most delusional guy you have ever met in Twisted Wonderland, clung onto your calf with a stubborn expression. He had no intentions of letting you go, and neither did his five other guards that had blocked your way.

"You have to be her!"

"You don't even know my name!"

You were really counting on Grim to get someone, anyone, to stop this wedding. Yet, as you are walked down the aisle by the fair Neige, you are already planning out a divorce settlement plan. Based on the number of guests here, who had filled this entire venue from top to bottom, you would have guessed that this prince was rather rich. If it was to be an unhappy marriage, at least your wallet would be more than compensated.

You managed to convince this prince to send invitations to Night Raven College, but that didn't matter. He was so excited and in a hurry to marry, that your friends barely had any time to rescue you! There must have been so much traffic with the mirrors that they couldn't even use them! There was just no way that they'd make it in time now.

And so you consign yourself to readying some divorce papers within the next few weeks, and planning out how to avoid any more interactions with this guy while you were married.

You stood at the chapel's base, your expression exasperated than ever as you kept darting your gaze to the door. You've already tripped over the aisle a few times, fumbled the scripted vows, and even called for a bathroom break or two to stall.

And now comes the big moment that you were so desperately trying to avoid.

"Would you, Pierce Charmant, take the Ramshackle Dorm Prefect, as your lawfully wedded wife?"

The prince smiles so sickly sweet, and its the look of a man who won't change his mind.

"I do."

You grimace as the officiant faces you, just as blind to your annoyed expression.

"Would you, the Ramshackle Dorm Prefect, take Pierce Charmant as you lawfully wedded husband?" They didn't even use your name!

You pause, the image of your crush flashing before your eyes.

You would never see him again if you let yourself get married. Defiance returns to your face as you suck in a deep breath, ready to deal with the consequences of rejecting this delusional prince in front of hundreds of people.

"I—"

"I object!"

RIDDLE ROSEHEARTS

"Grim, please explain to me why I received an invitation to the Prefect's wedding... I am calm, Trey. I would just prefer to know the details before I go and fetch her myself... and may I ask one more thing? Yes, hoW IN THE WORLD DID THE PREFECT GET KIDNAPPED LIKE THIS?! DON'T YOU DARE TRY TO CALM ME DOWN, CATER. I AM PERFECTLY CALM."

Riddle calmly asked about your whereabouts, and it does not take him long to immediately get to work. As one of the better respected housewardens among the roster, it was easier to ask for a few favors that could get him to that damned cathedral fast. However, as the traffic did pile up to get to this accursed wedding, Riddle finds himself on horseback.

He does have this awful crush on you, but it never really crosses his mind. Even as he holds certain feelings for you, it's at the back of his mind. Riddle values your autonomy, and this marriage was a massive red flag. Surely, you cannot have possibly agreed to such a thing. It was just not in your nature. You would have protested, and the fact that you are not back in campus means that something is preventing you from speaking your mind. Riddle really respects you in this aspect!

Still, the idea of you marrying some prince who barely knew it was absolutely absurd. Riddle won't allow it, he absolutely won't!

The doors were flung open with a loud thud, revealing a red-head in a suit. Much to your surprise, Riddle isn't burning red with a fiery rage and threatening to have everyone's head off. He's stomping towards you and your supposed groom, fist clenched as he throws out an arm out of anger. He doesn't seem too angry, but determined.

"ENOUGH! SHE WILL BE COMING BACK TO NIGHT RAVEN COLLEGE WITH ME NOW."

Okay, maybe you were wrong about him not being angry.

His voice echoes throughout the entire cathedral, followed by several flinches at his sheer volume. Immediately, the crowd by the rows inch back a bit further as he continues to march forward, ignoring the guards that seemed to hesitate to approach him. Pierce raises a brow, almost annoyed rather than fearful of this disturbance.

"There seems to be a misunderstanding. You see, the Prefect is going to be married to me. You can sort out your affairs after the ceremony is over." Well, that didn't seem to help one bit, judging by how Riddle seemed to fume even further at this statement.

The housewarden comes to a halt, sucking in a sharp breath to calm his temper. The last thing he wanted to do right now was to frighten you.

He breathes out your name, sending a stutter through your heart.

"Do you truly want to marry this man?"

It almost makes you swoon, the way Riddle looks at you so earnestly as he asks for some affirmation. Had it been any other scenario, you would've taken your time to bore your eyes into his and study his expression. Instead, you shake your head wildly, racing down the aisle until you have hidden yourself behind him.

Riddle has the nerve to smirk at the shocked Prince. "And here, I thought princes had a code of conduct when it came to their ladies." He turned back to you with an assuring look. "I'll take you home, Prefect."

Truly, Riddle had no intentions of playing around. He had only one objective, to get you out of here. Just as he turns around to escort you out of the cathedral, a pair of guards had blocked the exit.

"No, I cannot let you leave!" Pierce cried out, ready to give chase. "Prefect, please! Give me a chance. You cannot possibly be ready to leave me for... this guy!"

Riddle's eye twitches as he cranes himself to look at the prince. "You have some nerve!" He clicks out, clenching his fists once more. Everyone feels the cathedral heat up, those closer to the aisles feeling beads of sweat form upon their temples. Even as you looked at Riddle so gently, a part of you was somewhat grateful that he was sticking up for you.

Just as his top was about to blow, you muster the will to tug on Riddle's sleeve. As quickly as his reddened face came, it disappears when he glances back at your soft expression. Huffing out a heavy sigh, Riddle clicks his tongue and marches towards the exit.

"Let's be on our way, Prefect. We shouldn't waste our precious time on these trifles."

Needless to say, no one really wanted to test the housewarden's patience as he escorted you out of that Cathedral. Riddle certainly doesn't waste time hoisting you onto his horse and galloping away, not giving the prince a second to try and retrieve you.

He grumbles about the entire ordeal, mostly questioning the absolute ridicule of the marriage. What kind of prince thinks he can get away with it? Riddle is certain to send a complain to Royal Sword Academy regarding their lessons on conduct if no one tries to stop him.

You could easily see Night Raven College from afar as you peeked from behind his tuft of red hair. Riddle is still rambling, a preferable alternative to losing his temper entirely. "That ruffian dares to marry you and has yet to learn your name! How uncouth!" He spat in absolute distaste, and he finds comfort in the way you giggle in agreement.

Riddle doesn't seem to take note of the way your arms are crossed around his middle, or maybe he does, and just chooses not to let his blush show. He cleared his throat, gripping the reigns a bit tighter. "You will find better suitors, Prefect. Just promise me that he wouldn't be so impulsive as that Prince."

TREY CLOVER

"Can you drive any faster, Deuce? No, I don't think we're late. Better safe than sorry! ... Suit, check. Speech, check. Myself, check. I've got everything in order, but... hah, I'd expect to do this type of thing a few years down the line, let alone object at a wedding at all. At least, it's the Prefect's wedding... That's such a weird thing to conceptualize at this point in time."

He really didn't have to be so dramatic about the entire thing, but Trey is really going all-out for this objection. Really, all he's done is seen movies where someone objects at a wedding and while he knows its entirely fictional, our boy here has to drive the point home; no one is marrying the Prefect today.

So that explains why he even bothered to dress up and rehearse a speech throughout the entire ride to the cathedral. He has Heartslabyul helping him out to secure an escape for you in case things went awry. Sure, Trey's Unique Magic won't come in handy but he's good with his words, and is relatively charismatic. He's earned that title of Vice Housewarden, after all.

All that preparation flies out the window when he sees you down the aisle, however.

"Trey?"

He's blinking profusely, almost flustered himself by how radiant you looked in that wedding dress. For a moment, Trey swears that he's had some sort of tunnel vision when all he seems to see is you. It strikes some envy in him when he reminds himself that this wasn't his wedding, and this wouldn't be yours either.

"Prefect..." Trey breathed out, struggling to recall the damn script he was supposed to follow. They are lost, just as he found himself lost in your sparkling gaze.

Screw the script, he was just going to have to wing this one.

He narrows his eyes onto the shocked prince, taking steps down that long carpet. "I've come to bring you back to Night Raven College."

Pierce raises a brow, glancing back at you and the intruder with suspicion. "On what grounds?" He questions snidely, uncertain of what to make of this new character. "If it is for anything trivial, then you may bother the Prefect later. You are obstructing a ceremony here, sir."

You recognize that dangerous glint behind Trey's eyes, and it only serves to make your heart race. Trey simply smirks, hiding away his hesitant exterior with a haughty farce. "I am afraid it cannot wait. I cannot allow the Prefect to be married without saying my piece."

He doesn't exactly know where all his bravado was coming from, but if he had to confess his feelings to you now, then so be it.

Trey looks at you, flashing a gentle yet sheepish smile. "Prefect, I fell for you. Hook, line, and sinker." You let out a dramatic gasp along with the onlookers, allowing a hand to fly to your parted lips. "I have harbored those feelings for a long time now, and I cannot bring myself to see you married without letting my heart be known."

Swallowing to himself, Trey's expression falters slightly, falling into one of softness. "Prefect, it is your happiness that I desire. No matter what happens, I will support your choice."

He didn't exactly have to tell you twice, not when you hurry yourself over to his side and latch onto his arm. You didn't have to feed his ego like that, but it isn't as if Trey had any room to complain.

Pierce is angered by the sight, glaring daggers at Trey with such envy and animosity. "Prefect, are you really leaving me on the altar?" As if to subtly annoy the prince even further, Trey hooks an arm around your waist and pivots you to turn. "It seems to be so, Prince Pierce. I fear that your beautiful bride will be stolen on this lovely afternoon."

You do not miss the way Trey smirks at your flustered expression. Just as he continues to walk you to the exit, you gritted your teeth at him. "Don't say such things!" You tell him as the heat rises to your cheeks. You hear him hum at your ear, followed by the slight press of his fingers on your hip.

"Why shouldn't I? You look beautiful in this dress," Trey murmurs in your ear, pushing the cathedral door open with his hand. "And I suppose that the prince hasn't coaxed this expression out of you. I almost feel sorry for him, that he never got the chance to see how lovely you are when you are putty in my hands."

Trey doesn't stop teasing you, even once you are back in Night Raven College. He wouldn't stop complimenting you either, aiming to have you as red as possible. He just can't help it. It's probably the high he got from confessing his feelings to you, or maybe it's the part where you're unsure if he was being sincere or not. Regardless, it was fun seeing you get all flustered because of him.

You are seated by the Heartslabyul's kitchen counter, snacking on some quick treats that Trey had prepared for you. He claims that it was a consolation for the fact you never got to taste your own wedding cake. Still clad in your grand wedding dress, you couldn't exactly care any less about the crumbs soiling the skirts. "You're no prince charming, Trey." You mentioned mid-bite, eyes glancing at the vice-housewarden who was seated across from you.

"What makes you say that?" He asks you with a slight smile, resting his chin on his palm as he shamelessly bored his gaze into yours.

You snort, rolling your eyes at his seemingly sweet disposition. "Prince Charmings don't tease the girls that they like until they're as red as Riddle." You huffed, digging your fork into the pastry. "You cruel man! You haven't stopped ever since you stole me from the prince!"

Trey chuckles, and you cannot keep yourself from gulping as he leaves his seat, sauntering towards you like a lion would his prey. "Oh? I suppose that I am no Prince Charming. I'm not a pure white knight either. If you think I am being cruel, I won't stop you, sweetheart."

Your heart stutters as he slides a finger underneath your chin, tilting your head so that your forced to look his way. Trey smiles at you, eyes twinkling with absolute mischief. "I highly doubt Prince Charmings steal kisses from their crushes either. For you, I will be kind. May I, sweetheart? I do not need your shoe size to know my feelings for you, at least."

CATER DIAMOND

"Gah, it just refreshed! They've just gotten past the walking part! Deuce, shortcut on your left! Sorry, I'm switching tabs between maps and the livestream! Prefect looks is such a cutie in that dress, it makes me so envious of the prince! Oh well, she really looks like she doesn't wanna be there anyways. I'm coming Prefect! I'll save you!"

There's just this image of Cater clinging onto Deuce on a blastcycle, raising his phone up for a signal as they attempt to maneuver their way through the streets. Everything just happened in such a rush, and Cater's scrambling to get to you. He isn't like Trey who bothers to prepare, but if anything, Cater will ramp up the dramatics to the maximum.

His real goal is just to get you out by any means necessary, and more preferably, without violence. So Cater will do what he does best; make a grand spectacle of the entire thing until the prince is forced to abdicate. Worst case scenario, he's going to drag you out the door and shove you onto the damn blastcycle.

If he has to play the part of your real paramour, then he hopes you'll forgive him. He's got the suit and the desperate look on his face ready to go!

Your jaw goes slack at the way Cater makes a dramatic run for the aisle, somewhat unused to that stricken expression on his face. You're almost concerned for him with the way he grips his knees, attempting to keep his balance as his eyes zone in onto yours.

"Prefect, you can't marry him!" It's too out of character of Cater, and you know better than to think he'd ever be this undone in public. "Is this what you really want?!" Before you could even reply, Pierce cuts in with a slight glare.

"And who are you to talk to my bride like that?" It is then when you catch wind of that mischievous glint in Cater's eye as he throws out his arm dramatically.

"I am the Prefect's sweetheart! Who are you to take my girlfriend like that?"

You have never heard the cathedral go so silent. You are utterly speechless, lips parted with absolute surprise. Clearly, judging by the way sweat had begun to form on the side of Cater's temple, you cannot help but think that this was all improv on his half.

Pierce turns to look at you, almost stricken by the ginger's declaration. "Prefect, is that true?" His voice trembles with fear. "Is that truly your... sweetheart?"

A part of you feels a bit sorry for what you were about to do, but you had to remind yourself that you had been dragged into a wedding on the same day you met this prince.

You are running now, sprinting to Cater's side as you clutch his hand in your own. Turning back to the scandalized prince, you nod firmly, playing along with the farce. "We've been dating for a long time now! And I'm in love with him!" You declare, sending gasps throughout the entire cathedral.

You glance up at Cater, mustering a smile across your features. "You came to save me!" He's almost surprised by the way you cling onto him even harder, but it only serves to sell the act even further. Cater smiles in return, holding you closely. "I'd never let you go, cutie. I love you too much to let you leap into the arms of another man."

Maybe the act is too good, too calculated. That is exactly what goes through your head as Pierce raises a brow in suspicion, narrowing his eyes onto the pair as if attempting to spot a mistake. "Is that so?" He murmurs until he crosses his arms, disbelief on his skeptical expression.

"Prove it."

Cater and you freeze up simultaneously, heads turning to glance at one another. He looked so caught off guard by Pierce's demand, and there's so many eyes on you both.

"You're both longtime sweethearts, right? I wouldn't want to split apart such a happy couple..."

Cater is staring at you, attempting to read your expression. It's difficult, especially when you look at him as your gaze gets even more glossy. He wouldn't want to do anything you didn't want to, and he's already readying himself to sprint out the door with you in tow.

"Prefect, you don't have to—mmph!"

You wasted no time in snaking your arms around his neck, pressing your lips against him with such boldness. He could feel you pour all your wants and longings into the kiss, the plush of your soft lips melding into his own. How could he not deny you his own affections, not as he cups your cheeks with his slender fingers and presses back against you.

He dares to go even further, pulling back for a slight gasp of air before diving back into you. Much to his delight, you aren't pulling away either, choosing to even entangle your fingers into his hair for leverage.

Then you hear a groan from the prince, followed by his pleas for you two to stop this display. It seems that he got the point now, at least.

Even as both of you exit the cathedral, Cater still maintains the image that he was your boyfriend. You don't exactly protest, and even then, it didn't seem to different to the way Cater had been treating you as a friend. He is still as clingy as ever, closing the physical proximities by having you hang onto his arm.

And you best believe he's snapping as much photos of you to commemorate the event. He's already updating his MagiCam account on his success, not to mention the pretty girl on his arm.

"Cater, what are you doing?" You asked, unable to hide the grin on your face as Cater sets up his camera against the tire of the blastcycle. You could see yourselves on the reflection of the device, followed by the grand beauty of the cathedral behind you both. He grins at you as he shifts at your side.

"What? It isn't everyday a cutie like you gets to look like a bride. We got the perfect backdrop!" He sings, sliding an arm around your waist as he strikes for a pose. You follow his lead, matching his energy with each shot.

"Careful! People are going to think we're dating for real!"

Cater smirks at you, leaning in closely to your ear with a sickeningly sweet tease. "Wanna make it official then, cutie? Can't have any random princes asking for your hand, not when you're dating me." He is not stranger to the way you blush, letting out a chuckle at the sight.

"Aw, cutie! Are you still thinking about the kiss? I didn't think you would be so bold about it." Pressing a quick peck on the cheek, he rests his chin on your head as he prepares for another pose. "Don't worry. CayCay's gonna initiate it next time!"

DEUCE SPADE

"Grim, which way?! I can't see the GPS! ... Don't I just have to go in there and yell 'I object'? It looks easy! I'll say it then drag Prefect out of there... Ha?! I need to prove that I have a good reason to get her out? Fine! I don't care, the Prefect needs me!"

Possibly the closest we will get to a legit Prince Charming. Perhaps Deuce is a bit on the rugged side, but he's possibly one of the most earnest and noble students from Night Raven College. He cares about you more than he cares about getting his feelings across, but that is not to say he won't be honest about it either in this confrontation.

He's not exactly sure on how to break up the ceremony. Grim and Ace are coaching him through what to say, and admittedly, the process seems too complicated. All he knows is that he has to run through those doors and convince the prince to not marry the Prefect by any means necessary.

"Deuce!"

He is the one to always come running at the sound of your name. Deuce had been someone you trusted during your stay here in Twisted Wonderland, and you never seemed to stop and think about just how attached that boy was to you. Sure, you held him closely as a friend and held affections for him, but the way he sprinted towards you was a testament to how much he cared.

"Prefect!" You are racing to meet him halfway, launching yourself into his chest. He catches you barreling into his suit, immediately wrapping his arms around you in a protective manner. Then he takes you by the soldiers, looking down at you with such concern and worry. "Are you hurt? Are you okay?" He fusses, earning a shy smile from you.

"I'm okay, Deuce. I'm okay."

"And what is the meaning of this?"

Catching sight of the infuriated prince, Deuce beckons you to stand behind him. Cerulean eyes narrow onto the groom with animosity, accompanied by the way his hands are itching towards his wand. "I can't let you marry her. The Prefect will be returning to Night Raven College with me." You can sense the nervousness in his tone, but Deuce remains firm in his words.

Pierce's eye twitches, and he scoffed in disbelief at Deuce's protective display. "I am afraid that cannot be possible. I am marrying the Prefect, and that is final." Clicking his tongue, Pierce rolls his eyes and holds out his hand for you to take. "Come, darling. I am not surprised that you have garnered the affections of an admirer, but I fancy you more than this one ever could."

Something in Deuce snaps as he lets out a cry.

"But I love her!"

You stiffen against his back, taken by surprise by Deuce's sudden confession. And the boy glares, and it almost so painful for Pierce to keep his stare, not when there was so much conviction and certainty behind Deuce's voice.

"I've loved her longer than you have, and known her much longer than that!" His voice cracks underneath the emotional turmoil bubbling within him. "Did you even stop to consider what she wants? Did you wonder if this wedding would make her happy in the first place?!"

You take note of how Deuce's fists are clenched pale, how his breaths had suddenly grown haggard. With a soft expression, you curl yourself onto his back, arms hugging him from behind in an attempt to placate him. His body stiffens against your hold, but he reaches to clasp your hands onto his own.

He is just thankful that you aren't seeing the way his eyes had begun to water at the thought of losing you entirely. "So please," He chokes out, expression twisted with a sort of agony.

"Please don't force her to marry you. She deserves so much more than that."

Thanks to the waterworks that Deuce had caused, the wedding was called off. There was just no way that the prince could marry you after Deuce poured his heart out to deter him from wedding you.

It's almost sweet, the way that Deuce lifts you onto the blastcycle and fixes the helmet onto your head. He encourages you to hold onto him tightly as he speeds away from the cathedral, all the more determined to settle you back into NRC.

By the time he's dropped you off at the Ramshackle Dorm, only then does he take the time to bask in how radiant you appeared in a wedding dress. Thinking about his crush in a wedding dress had never crossed Deuce's mind before, but this definitely gave him something to ponder about for the next couple of nights.

You are handing him the helmet, a shy smile surfacing across your features. "Thank you for saving me from that awful wedding." Deuce clears his throat, shifting his gaze as he takes the helmet from your grasp. "I didn't want you to do something you weren't willing to. It just isn't right."

He doesn't realize just how dry his throat as gotten when he cannot bring himself to keep his thoughts to himself. "I love you. I really do, and I wish I said it at a better time." He swallows to himself, letting the embarrassment burn into the back of his head as he recalls his declaration. It was only natural that 'like' would turn into 'love' after being your close confidant for this long, pining quietly during the months spent with you.

You cannot exactly blame him either, not when his feelings were entirely reciprocated. You shift on the balls of your heel, biting onto your lower lip.

And in a swift motion, you lean in to press a chaste kiss against Deuce's warm cheek. You pull away to bask upon the stunned expression on his face, only to give him a shy smile of your own.

"Would you be down to try confessing again tomorrow?"

ACE TRAPPOLA

"BAHAHAHAHA! THERE'S NO WAY THE PREFECT IS GETTING MARRIED. WHO WOULD EVER WANNA MARRY THE PREFECT? PFFFFT, GRIM, YOU'RE SERIOUSLY PULLING MY LEG HERE. YOU EVEN BROUGHT ME A FAKE INVITATION! AIN'T NO WAY THAT SHE— Oh... Wait, really? The wedding is happening right now? ... Oh."

Ace thought you were just messing him again for that one time he said that no one would ever be interested in you. He simply said that to discourage you from trying to pursue a relationship with anyone else, but he didn't mean for you to prove him wrong like that! He never believes Grim until Deuce, Riddle, and the rest of Heartslabyul receive invitations to a wedding that was meant to start in 3 hours.

This is the absolute worst time to be in denial about his feelings. The Prefect wearing a wedding gown is one thing, but another is the fact that the groom is some pompous prince from Royal Sword Academy. Does that guy seriously think he was your type? No way! Ace knows you better than anyone on this campus, so this guy can buzz off!

A part of him did think that you were serious about marrying this stranger. In all fairness, Crowley's allowance pales in comparison to whatever Mr. Money-Bags had over there. He wouldn't blame you if you were marrying the guy for money.

Still, the last thing he wants is for you to be whisked away to who knows where. Ace would never see you again, and as embarrassing as it sounds, he did get very attached to you. Yes, a part of him wants to keep you to himself, but he also values your autonomy here. And if he knew you that well, he knows that you wouldn't want to be married off like this.

"Prefect, I'm here to pick you up."

You are actually surprised by how princely Ace looked in that moment. Dressed in a suit befitting a groom, you could help but feel your breath stolen away once his scarlet eyes were pinned onto yours. You could have been fooled then, and perhaps, Ace did turn into a prince as he marched down the aisle with his arm outstretched for you to take.

Ace never realizes the way a victorious smile creeps onto his face when you break out into a grin, taking the skirt of your dress as you make run for it. The crowd gasps as you crashed into Ace's chest, and he does not hesitate to take a protective stance in front of you. With a haughty laugh, he smirks at the baffled prince. "Who are you?!"

The redhead's arm wraps around your waist, pressing your body closer to his own. "Sorry about that, but I'll be taking your bride indefinitely! Trust me, you'll be severely disappointed after spending one good day with her!" He snickered, much to your horrified expression. You lightly smack at his chest, glaring at him with that pout that he adores so much.

"Hey!" You whine, and Ace simply beams at the prince who hesitantly steps forward. The redhead snorts, rolling his eyes at the crowd that are offended at his immature display. "I'm doing you a great favor here! If you kissed those lips, she'll turn into an ugly green ogre by sunset!"

"HEY!"

Pierce's eyebrows are furrowed as he looks at you, as if pleading for you to return to his arms. "You'd best return her, boy. We can settle this maturely." Ace does not like the way that these bodyguards are eyeing him, shifting closer and closer as he backed you both towards the venue entrance. He never falters, and neither does that shit-eating grin on his face.

"Sorry, buddy. The clock's struck midnight and all your magic tricks are fading!" He barks. Now, he knows that an escape must be made. The last thing he wants is to have another Eliza-episode. He looks down at you with a wide grin, clasping you arm with a firm squeeze.

Ace sneaks into his pocket, still looking at you. "You know something, Charmant? Maybe not all the magic has gone yet." His hand reveals the Ace of Cards, and it is immediately thrown up into the air.

As the card reached its peak in height, a burst of smoke filled the air, obscuring the magician and yourself from view.

You don't exactly need a signal to start running when your feet began moving on their own, dashing towards the door followed by the Ace's laugh and the prince's demand for guards.

Ace has no white horse, but he has Deuce with his blastcycle! Who knows how the three of you managed to fit on that bike, but you made it work! The guards couldn't exactly catch up in their cars, not when Deuce was dodging vehicles left and right to make this escape. Ace did take one final look back, sticking his tongue out at the defeated prince before you all disappeared around the corner.

Ace gives you his shoes, despite how oversized they may be. You complained about those glass shoes on you, and to 'shut you up', he's given you his runners.

When you make it back to Night Raven College and all the adrenaline has died down, Ace stays by your side the entire time when you explain the entire situation to Crewel and Crowley. He acts so nonchalant about things, even as you both walk all over the campus like groom and bride.

It's a rather odd sight; you in your wedding gown, and Ace right next to you as you both sit on the bench by the Great Seven's statues. Students wandering about at night had given both of you puzzled stares, but no one is ever surprised when they realize it's you and Ace, however.

"Wow, Prefect. Not even a thank you?" He glances at your slightly annoyed expression, throwing his hands up defensively in response. "I was kidding about the ogre stuff! Really!"

You could only roll your eyes at his words, huffing as you crossed your arms across your chest. When you refuse to speak, Ace sticks out his lower lip into a pout as he leans his head onto your shoulder. "Come on, don't be like that. Are you actually that upset about it?"

There is no response from you, not even a glance as your nose is turned away from him. Then Ace sighs, practically clambering over your lap just so that you are forced to look at him. "Prefeeeect, I said I was sorry! What? Do I have to kiss you to make me apology authentic?"

Only then do you look back at him with a raised brow, almost expectant. Ace blinks with surprise, a slight blush creeping to his ears. "For real? You're serious?" He exclaimed, much to your agitation. You sigh even louder as you shove him off your lap, hastily getting up to your feet to leave him behind.

"Wait! Prefect, I said wait!" You feel a hand on your wrist, twirling you back to face the redhead. Ace bites onto his lower lip, unable to keep the red from flooding his cheeks. "I really just said all that mean stuff to get the prince off your back, you know? I didn't think you'd take it so seriously."

And when he sees that smirk creeping up onto your features, he groans as he leans in closely into your space.

"Now look at what you've done! You had me all panicked over what?" You feel his breath tickling your lips, followed by the way his hands crawl up your neck to cradle your jaw.

"If you just wanted a kiss, you could've asked..."

#twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #twst #viaviavie writes #ace trappola #ace trappola x reader #riddle rosehearts #riddle rosehearts x reader #trey clover #trey clover x reader #cater diamond #cater diamond x reader #deuce spade #deuce spade x reader

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mysticalblizzardcolor · 11 months ago

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“The path of a creator is never a straight line. The path is not the act of doing anything. The path of a creator is the realization of being. Through creativity, our inward reflection unfolds its truth into physical form. Moving each day toward knowing who I am, all that I create are the petals of that awareness.”

Mushroom Cafe Muralist Burgandy Viscosi

#Visionary Art #Psychedelic Art #Burgundy Viscosi #CoSM #Chapel of sacred mirrors #Mushroom cafe #murals

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winxanity-ii · 8 months ago

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SACRILEGIOUS DEVOTION [1/3]

ship: father charlie x fem!nun!reader warnings: nsfw 🔞 (oral sex/f. receiving; overstimulation; coercion/dub-con?; sacrilege, heavy religious imagery) word count: 3.6k a/n: So, Father Charlie is out here losing all his morals and sanity on Grotesquerie and my mind couldn't help but match it, so what's a better idea other than channeling all the religious trauma/journey into a spicy one-shot? i for one feel like it's a mini-therapy, but enough rambling, enjoy 😩🫶🏾 i'm in love with a holy man, mother 😔…. second part: 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 and final part: 𝐃𝐀𝐌𝐍𝐄�� 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

★·.·´ɢʀᴏᴛᴇsǫᴜᴇʀɪᴇ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

Father Charlie Mayhew was a sick man.

Not in the manner of flesh, but of spirit. He could feel the sickness festering in the quiet corners of his heart, a sinful yearning that had taken root there, twisting itself around his thoughts like creeping ivy.

It was a sickness that, he believed, made him a grotesque parody of the holy man he was meant to be. For how could he call himself righteous, devoted, when every whisper of prayer felt stained by the way his eyes followed you, Sister ____?

You were a vision of purity, an embodiment of the kind of gentle devotion that Father Charlie envied and craved all at once.

He watched you from a distance, always careful not to draw your gaze, afraid of what you might see if you looked too deeply. How dutiful you were, sweeping the church aisle with a focus that made him forget the dust and see only the graceful motion of your hands.

The sun, filtered through stained glass, seemed to seek you out, casting colors on your habit as if to mark you as someone far beyond his grasp, almost holy in your mundane tasks.

It was in the mornings, when he heard the soft chime of your laughter in the courtyard as you fed the pigeons, that he felt the deepest sting of his wretchedness.

The world seemed simpler in those moments, your laughter echoing off the stone walls, the warmth of early sun painting the sky in soft pinks and oranges. He wondered if you knew how your kindness drew even the animals to you, their heads dipping into your palms as if receiving communion.

There was a stillness to you, a gentleness in every gesture.

The worst of it was during your services. Father Charlie had seen you on your knees before, hands folded in earnest prayer, your lips moving softly as you whispered your devotion to God.

He would stand at the back of the chapel, watching with a mixture of awe and something far darker. He told himself it was admiration, but the truth festered beneath that facade.

It was longing, a hunger that ached at the edges of his soul.

A storm raged outside the convent one evening, winds battering the church walls with a fury that mirrored the tempest building in his chest. The clouds were bloated, dark as his thoughts, and thunder rolled across the sky with a violence that shook even the faith he held so dear.

You had come to his chambers in the dead of night, your knock barely audible over the howling wind. He had been preparing for bed, freshly out of the shower, wearing only his boxers when he heard you at the door.

The creak of the old wood seemed to echo forever as he opened it, and there you stood, eyes wide, looking so impossibly fragile in the dim candlelight of the corridor. Your modest night slip clung to your form, the thin fabric shifting in the draft that sneaked in from the hallway.

Charlie's breath had caught in his throat at the sight of you, innocence incarnate, seeking refuge with him.

He hesitated for only a moment before allowing you in, quickly wrapping himself in a silk robe that hung loosely on his shoulders, barely tied. He knew he should not let you enter, but there was something in the way you looked at him—so trusting, so devoted—that made him abandon every rational thought.

You had come asking to pray with him, your soft voice trembling as you spoke. The storm outside seemed like a reflection of the turmoil within him as he let you step past the threshold, closing the door behind you.

Now, you were here, kneeling before him, your eyes upturned and wide, waiting for his command, for his instruction like the obedient servant of God that you were.

Your soft voice brought him out of his thoughts, a gentle, "Father...?"

Charlie could only lament to himself how sinfully pure you looked. He hummed softly, his eyes dark as they trailed over you, lingering on the curve of your shoulders, the delicate line of your neck.

The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows across your skin, highlighting the innocence that made his hunger all the more unbearable.

"Yes, forgive me, Sister. Let us now pray," he finally said, his voice low and rough, the words nearly swallowed by the sound of the wind outside. He reached out, his fingers brushing against your forehead, and you leaned into the touch without hesitation, your eyes closing as if his hand was a blessing.

He swallowed hard, his thoughts spiraling deeper into the forbidden desires he had tried so desperately to keep buried.

He began to pray, his voice low, raspy, each word a struggle against the chaos inside him. "Heavenly Father, we come before you tonight..." But the words felt hollow, their meaning slipping away as he watched you, kneeling so obediently at his feet.

His eyes darkened, wandering further down, tracing the lines of your form. The way your lashes fluttered against your cheeks, the soft rise and fall of your chest with each breath—it all seemed to pull him further from the sanctity of the moment.

He should have been thinking of God, of salvation, of the purity of the prayer—but instead, he was thinking of you, of the way the thin fabric clung to your skin, the soft curve of your breasts visible through the modest slip.

He licked his lips, his gaze fixed on the delicate line of your collarbone, the way it rose and fell with each breath you took.

The more he spoke, the less the words mattered. He could feel the heat rising in his chest, spreading through his body, his thoughts growing more erratic, each word of the prayer slipping further from its sacred meaning, twisting into something profane, something filthy. "Protect us from all evil..." he whispered as he traced the line of your jaw with his thumb, the words a bitter irony as he felt himself drawn further into the darkness of his desires.

His hand moved lower, fingers trailing down your neck, lingering at the hollow of your throat. His touch was gentle, but there was a weight behind it, a hunger that he could no longer deny.

He could almost see the curve of your bare skin beneath the thin fabric, the outline of your body that he should not be imagining. He tried to focus on the prayer, but every word felt like a lie. He let out a shaky breath, the prayer faltering on his lips. "Guide us... guide us in your light," he managed, his voice thick with the weight of his longing.

The storm outside raged on, the wind howling as if to warn him, but Father Charlie could no longer hear it. All he could hear was the pounding of his own heart, the rush of blood in his ears as he looked down at you, so trusting, so willing.

As the final words of the prayer fell from his lips—"Amen"—you echoed him, your voice soft and unwavering. You blinked open your eyes, looking up at him with such innocence and Charlie felt himself slip past the point of no return.

He knew that no amount of prayer could ever cleanse him of what he wanted, that he could no longer pretend, no longer fight against the pull that drew him to you—the sweet, precious nun who had unknowingly captured his very soul.

Father Charlie stood, his robe slipping slightly from his shoulders, exposing the toned muscle beneath. The wind howled outside, and thunder bellowed again, followed by a flash of lightning that lit the room in a brief, startling blaze of white.

You were still kneeling before him, your wide eyes following his every movement, the flickering light casting you in both shadow and radiance.

Charlie bent at the waist, his fingers reaching out to cup your jaw, thumb caressing your bottom lip as his half-lidded eyes trailed over your face. "Sister ____," he murmured, his voice dripping with a twisted kind of affection, his name for you almost reverent, as though you were something sacred, something he could worship in his own unholy way.

You blinked, shifting slightly beneath his touch, a soft stutter escaping your lips. "F-Father...?"

He grasped one of your hands, his fingers wrapping around yours, and as he stood, he gently urged you to rise with him. His gaze never left your face, his eyes dark and full of something raw. He began to speak, his voice barely more than a murmur, the words heavy with confession. "As a man of God, there are expectations placed upon me," he started, his tone wavering between remorse and something darker, something that made his grip on your hand tighten. "I am meant to guide, to protect, to remain steadfast in my faith."

His other hand moved, slowly pulling your trembling hand against his bare stomach, pressing your palm against the hard planes of his abdomen.

You gasped, your eyes wide as you looked up at him, your hand trembling beneath his. The heat of his skin burned into your palm, the muscles flexing beneath your touch.

Charlie continued, his voice lowering, growing more intense as he spoke. "But these days... these days, Sister, I find myself at war. At war with desires that threaten to consume me..." His words trailed off, and he let out a low hum as he rubbed your hand across his stomach, the movement slow, deliberate.

Your hand hesitated for a moment, the warmth of his skin making you tremble as you instinctively pulled back. But his grip was firm, guiding you back, and slowly, tentatively, your fingers splayed across his stomach, your touch feather-light.

You swallowed hard, your eyes flickering down before you took a timid step closer, as if drawn by some invisible force. Your gaze shifted to the side, your cheeks warming with embarrassment at the proximity, at the way you could feel his heart beating beneath your palm.

Father Charlie's eyes never left you, and he could see every ounce of hesitation, every flicker of uncertainty that danced across your face. He leaned in slightly, his breath brushing against your forehead as he spoke, his voice a low murmur, "There's no need to be afraid, Sister. You are safe here... with me."

You blinked, your lashes fluttering as you dared to look up at him, your eyes meeting his through the veil of uncertainty.

There was something in his gaze, something dark and magnetic that pulled at you, made your pulse race. His thumb brushed the edge of your jaw; the touch almost comforting, but there was an intensity behind it that made you shiver.

"Do you trust me?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes searching yours.

You nodded slowly, not trusting your voice to speak, your fingers trembling slightly against his skin. He smiled, a slow, almost predatory curve of his lips, and he hummed again, satisfied with your silent answer.

His other hand moved to rest against the small of your back, pulling you just a little bit closer, his robe parting further, exposing more of his chest.

Your breath hitched as you felt the distance between you closing, the way his body seemed to envelop yours. You could barely think, your mind clouded with the storm of emotions and the strange, electric pull you felt toward him.

His thumb traced along your bottom lip, his eyes darkening as he watched you. You felt your pulse quicken, your knees weakening under the intensity of his gaze.

"Good girl," he murmured, his voice a mix of praise and something darker, something that made your heart pound even harder. His words sent a shiver down your spine, and you felt your body react, leaning in just slightly, as if craving more of his warmth, his touch.

His fingers trailed lower, coaxing your hand along his body, and you felt the tension, the desire in every muscle. He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice a husky whisper, "Let me show you, Sister ____... let me show you what devotion truly means."

He kissed you then, his lips crashing against yours like a man starved. His mouth moved hungrily, tasting, devouring, and you felt his tongue lick into your mouth, coaxing a soft, surprised whimper from your throat. His groan vibrated against your lips, the sound raw and desperate.

Your head spun, your senses overwhelmed by the taste of him, the sheer need in his kiss.

You pulled back, gasping for air, your lips tingling from the force of his kiss. He didn't give you a moment to recover; his lips moved to your neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin.

He nipped at your neck, his teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp, to make your knees weaken beneath you. The heat of his mouth trailed down, his tongue flicking out to soothe each small bite, and you felt your body trembling, a warmth pooling low in your belly.

Charlie's hands were relentless, holding you steady as your body threatened to give out, your knees buckling as his mouth worked against your skin. He pulled back only long enough to whisper your name, his voice thick with something between reverence and hunger.

Before you knew it, he had scooped you up, his arms strong and sure as he carried you towards his bed. Your breath hitched, your fingers clinging to his robe as he moved, each step filled with purpose.

He set you down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath your weight. His eyes roamed over you, dark and filled with desire, his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath.

Father Charlie moved quickly, his hands deft as he pushed your slip off your shoulders, the fabric sliding down your skin and pooling around your waist. His lips followed the path of the falling slip, pressing soft, lingering kisses along your shoulders, his warm breath fanning across your skin.

You shivered beneath his touch, the cool air of the room prickling at your exposed skin, your nipples pebbling in response.

His eyes darkened at the sight of you, and he let out a low groan, his hands running along your bare arms, feeling the way you trembled beneath him. "You're like a goddess," he murmured, his voice thick with reverence and lust. "Perfect. Untouched. A temptation I can't resist." His lips found your collarbone, kissing, nipping, his words vibrating against your skin.

You felt heat rise in your cheeks, your heart pounding as his lips moved lower, trailing down the center of your chest, his hands spreading across your back, urging you to arch into him. His kisses were relentless, each one making your breath catch, making your body react in ways that felt both unfamiliar and thrilling.

You couldn't stop the soft whimper that escaped your lips, your hands clutching at the sheets beneath you, unsure of what to do, where to touch.

Charlie pulled back for a moment, his eyes locking onto yours, his gaze filled with hunger. He pushed you back against the bed, guiding you to lie down, his hands never leaving your body, his touch possessive, as if he couldn't bear to be without contact. He looked down at you, splayed out before him, your slip barely covering you, and he licked his lips, his eyes raking over every inch of your exposed skin.

"Look at you," he whispered, his voice dripping with a mix of adoration and hunger. "So innocent, so pure... and all mine." He leaned down, his lips capturing yours in a heated kiss, his hands working the slip further down your body, baring you completely to him.

The cool air made you shiver, your body exposed, vulnerable, and you couldn't help the way your legs shifted, instinctively trying to close.

Charlie's hands moved to your knees, gently but firmly pushing them apart, his eyes never leaving your face as he watched your reaction. His lips moved from your mouth, trailing down your jaw to your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin as he groaned against you.

He pulled the slip away entirely, tossing it aside, his hands roaming over your bare skin, mapping every inch as though he were committing you to memory. "You are... perfection," he muttered, his voice strained, filled with a hunger that made your breath hitch.

His lips moved lower, trailing down your body, leaving a heated path across your chest, your stomach, and further down. His hands were strong, keeping your legs pinned open to the bed, his fingers pressing into your thighs with a possessive hold. He kissed along your inner thighs, his warm breath fanning over your skin, making you shiver, anticipation coiling in your belly.

You instinctively tried to scoot back, to move away as you felt his breath getting closer to your core, but Charlie's grip tightened, his hands holding you firmly in place. He looked up at you, his eyes dark, almost predatory, as he whispered, "Stay still, Sister... let me worship you."

He breathed you in, a deep, satisfied groan rumbling from his chest. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, as if savoring the scent of you, and then he leaned in, his tongue licking a slow, deliberate stripe from your entrance to your clit.

A squeal, half surprise and half pleasure, escaped your lips, your back arching slightly off the bed.

Father Charlie's tongue moved with a purpose, his lips wrapping around your clit, sucking gently before flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud. His hands kept your legs spread, his grip firm and unyielding as he worked his mouth against you, his groans vibrating against your core.

He was relentless, his mouth moving with a hunger that made your head spin, your fingers gripping the sheets beneath you, trying to ground yourself as waves of pleasure washed over you.

You could feel his smooth skin against your inner thighs, the sensation only adding to the overwhelming pleasure that built inside you. His tongue moved in slow, teasing circles, his lips pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses against you, his eyes flicking up to watch your every reaction.

The sight of you—your flushed cheeks, your parted lips, the way your chest heaved with every ragged breath—only seemed to spur him on, his groans growing louder as he tasted you.

Your body reacted before your mind could catch up, your hips bucking against his mouth, a whimper slipping from your lips. Charlie's hands moved to hold your hips down, pinning you to the bed as he continued, his tongue delving into you, his nose brushing against your clit as he worked, utterly consumed by the taste of you.

He was lost in it, in you, his tongue moving faster, his mouth desperate as he devoured you.

You gasped, your fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer, your body trembling beneath him. The heat built inside you, coiling tighter and tighter, until you felt like you might break apart. His name fell from your lips, a breathless plea, and he groaned in response, the vibrations sending a shockwave of pleasure through you.

Your back arched off the bed, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps as you felt yourself teetering on the edge, your body ready to fall apart under his touch.

Your first orgasm washed over you without warning, a blinding wave of pleasure that left you feeling weightless, your entire body trembling as you came undone beneath him. You melted into the bed like butter, your limbs going limp as the intensity of it left you breathless.

Charlie's mouth moved against you with a fervent hunger, drinking in every bit of your release as if it were the most sacred offering.

A small whimper escaped your lips as the sensation grew overwhelming, your body growing sensitive to his touch. He didn't stop, his tongue moving lazily, drawing out every last bit of pleasure from you, his mouth still savoring you.

Your grip on his head shifted, your fingers now pushing at him, trying to get him to stop, but his hands only gripped your thighs tighter, keeping you in place. "W-Wait..." The heat in your stomach was already starting to build again, the slow, deliberate movements of his tongue igniting another fire deep within you.

Charlie groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your core, his face buried even further between your legs, his tongue relentless.

Your breath came in quick, shallow gasps, your body trembling once more as the pleasure built. You could feel another orgasm approaching, your mind spinning as you tried to form words, but all that left your throat were broken, incoherent sounds—static that filled the room as you babbled.

You tried to scoot back, to move away from the overwhelming sensation, but Charlie's strong arms wrapped around your hips, yanking you back down, his grip unyielding. His own hips pressed into the bedding below, his desperation evident as he devoured you.

You teetered on the edge once more, the pleasure too much, too intense, until it finally broke over you again, your body arching, your mind going completely blank as you came undone a second time.

The world around you seemed to fade away, leaving only the sensation of his mouth on you, the heat, the pressure, the overwhelming ecstasy that left you gasping for air.

As you came down from your high, your body trembling, Father Charlie finally pulled back, his lips and chin glistening. He stared up at you with dark, lidded eyes, his expression filled with hunger, with desire that seemed insatiable.

There was no hesitation, no regret—only a raw need that made it clear he no longer cared about going against his vows, no longer cared about the priesthood or what was right.

All that mattered to him was you.

A/N: i'm sorry, i just watched Grotesquerie last night and i've become obssessed.... ugh, the tension between father charlie and sister megan is just *chefs kiss* it's clear that megan is obviously meant to be y/n and the screenplay was written in the intent of it being catered to the female gaze because wheeeeww 😩...

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anissakmorris · 1 year ago

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swordgrace · 16 days ago

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❝ 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞 𝐈 𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: forced into attending a gala event, you go to john for help with your dress. things turn incredibly heated.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: john walker x fem!reader (requested).

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.4K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), established relationship, talk of insecurities, insane levels of yearning, rougher john, bathroom sex (on the counter), groping, heavy kissing, brief handjob, dirty talk, john walker’s praise kink, brief fingering, mutual orgasm. cute ending.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: he’s my favorite part of the thunderbolts — yep, I said it !! my yearning levels are off the charts for him. thank you guys so much for your continued support! 🫶 I love writing for him sm !!

The last time John Walker wore a suit was at his wedding — five years ago, in a Georgian chapel where he’d grown up, nothing lavish. It was traditional, smaller, friends from high school, his family, Lemar’s family.

Part of him had detached himself from those memories, as if it were a different him that’d lived through it all.

Shame still festered, an ever-looming shadow, haunting his steps. There were some past mistakes that he would never be able to make amends for, but he was trying, making a valiant effort to forge something new.

John was a flawed man, an imperfect soldier trying to pick up the pieces, make something of himself again. Being an Avenger was his step forward in the right direction, wanting to help people again, a hero.

Publicity and being in the spotlight wasn’t a new concept for John, whose brief stint as Captain America was packed with shaking hands, playing the part, smiling for the camera.

When Valentina had pitched a charity gala to draw attention to the new Avengers, it was mandatory for everyone on the team to be in-attendance, with Bob as the singular exception. There were still reservations about him being exposed to any media attention.

Admittedly, the entire team still had reservations about Valentina altogether, a reluctance to work for her. He couldn’t blame anyone — she’d tried to kill them, created a superhuman, participated in an endless string of illicit activities.

Though, they’d found ways to exploit her generosity when it came to the Avengers ordeal. He’d gotten the well-equipped training room he’d asked for, a new suit, and a new shield, currently being constructed behind the scenes.

He told himself to enjoy tonight — allow himself to feel a sense of normalcy, fraternize with wide-eyed senators, repair what threadbare reputation he already had.

In the mirror, John was posturing, adjusting his cufflinks, pushing strands of blonde away from his temples. He was still uncertain about whether or not this was a good idea — losing the role of Captain America still stung.

He wanted to use this new opportunity to be himself, no Captain America, no U.S. Agent — just John Walker, former Army captain, now an Avenger.

Crisp, light linen of a pressed dress shirt clung to his musculature, dark blazer strung over the bathroom door. A line of pearlescent buttons were strung through the center, formal attire perfectly tailored to his physique.

It felt strange, standing in a suit jacket instead of kevlar and body armor; uncomfortable, even. Smoothing a hand over the ivory material, his brows pinched together, jaw twitching in mild annoyance.

Tugging at his collar, John sighed, an indignant huff escaping him as he heard a knock at his door. “Just a minute.” He called, still attempting to fidget with certain elements of his suit.

“It’s me.”

Timid, the softer cadence of your voice carried, ripping him from his thoughts, as if he’d been shoved off-balance. He was softer for you, towards you — the team noticed, everyone noticed.

Cocksure arrogance had bled away to something sweeter, vulnerable; John was sluggish to trust, but you’d shattered that barrier with ease. He had you to thank for growing, for beginning to heal from everything else.

With a soft stirring in his throat, John stopped over-analyzing his outfit, dress shoes polished, slacks ironed and without a single wrinkle. It was required of him to steam his dress uniform before special events back in the Army.

Stepping toward the door, John hits the panel, tinted windowpane sliding open with a soft hiss. Cerulean hues search until they find you, abashed and hunched in on yourself as if you’re attempting to conceal something.

Fashion is a foe, it isn’t your forte; Yelena had attempted to assist to the best of her ability, but even then, you felt fumbling and awkward.

The dress you’re wearing is formal, pressed silk the shade of a graying sky, nothing exorbitantly vibrant. It’s pretty, you think you feel pretty, but the stilettos do nothing except make you feel as if you’re walking on nails.

Though, you’re having too many issues with the zipper, which seems stuck toward the small of your back, no budging in sight. A light layer of cosmetics compliments your features, tresses modestly styled — you clean up nicely.

Too nicely; John’s jaw is unhinged, agape with a thinly-veiled awe as he swallows, words turning to ash within his throat. Unable to tear his gaze away, his appraisal is soft, burning with affection as he steps forward.

“You look …” John begins, cadence disarmingly gentle, as if he’s speaking to a startled doe. You drive him crazy, and that’s not something anyone can do; you’re drop-dead gorgeous.

“Awful?” Interjecting, your voice teems with underlying insecurities, brimming with a veiled frustration that laces into your physicality. You seem somewhat upset, as if something else is bothering you.

With a scoff, John’s lip curls in disdain, preparing to shoot your self-deprecation down in one clean swipe. “Stop it,” He warns, stern and sharp as he moves aside, letting you come in. “We’re not arguing about this.”

Admittedly, you’re thankful that John is quick to destroy your nervousness, shoving it aside as if it was an insignificant thing. “I just … This doesn’t feel right at all. This party, the publicity, this dress won’t zip up, either —”

John stops you, large palm splaying over the small of your back, dragging you against the warmth of his musculature. “You’re nervous,” He deadpans, as if he’s solved the puzzle. “Relax, honey.”

That damned nickname; it sometimes slips out in sweeter, vulnerable moments, often in the comfort of your own rooms. It’s only spilled from his mouth in front of the team on one occasion, in the heat of a mission, but it’d been brushed off as condescension.

“You’re calm about this.” It’s an observation — a blatant one, but he doesn’t seem nearly as perturbed about this as you are. For as mouthy and smug as John could be, he wasn’t outwardly ruffled by new situations.

“It’s a charity event,” John shrugged, thumbs stroking comforting circles over your spine, attempting to quell your tangle of nerves. He can taste your anxiety, see it in your pupils. “We’re there to shake hands and get funding.”

“You’ve done this before,” Mellowing, a flicker of realization crosses your features, a sense of understanding. “I know that I shouldn’t be nervous, but I’m still getting used to the spotlight.”

John knows plenty, having done news interviews as Captain America, public speaking, countless events where he was the center of attention. Back then, he thrived as best as he could — now, the notion seemed incredibly dull.

Shaking hands and throwing on a facade wasn’t who he wanted to be anymore, but if it meant funding and upgrades, he was willing to play nice. If it weren’t for the Avengers, he might’ve been on the run, or sitting in a cold cell somewhere.

“Yeah,” He gruffs, unwilling to cage himself into a reminder of his past. John’s tongue darts to wet his lower lip, palm still flush to your back as he wordlessly guides you towards his bathroom. “We’ll stay together.”

His assurances are gentler than you expected, and you know John’s never been the most tactful with words. Through action alone, through touch, he conveys a sense of understanding, of your anxiousness.

Standing before the mirror, John appraises you again, thinly-veiled affection oozing through his gaze, incendiary. You’re so beautiful that he feels entirely unworthy, and he knows just how lucky he is to have you.

There’s still an hour before you’re set to leave, limousine service ordered by Valentina herself. Alexei had offered to drive the team, but there was strong pushback from her end.

Hands find the zipper seated at the base of your spine, tugged up only an inch or two. “Need some help?” John inquires, even though he already knows the answer. Sometimes, he likes hearing you say it; that you need him.

“If you don’t mind,” Flustered, you feel inept, an Avenger who can’t zip up her own dress. Though, part of you had deliberately ensured that John assisted you in some capacity, just to be close to him. “Thank you.”

With a brief nod, he steps forward, towering behind you, chest briefly ghosting over your back, tantalizing. Doggedly, John’s calloused digits snare around the zipper, giving it a tug to set it straight.

It’s eerily quiet, save for his heavier exhales and your excitable tremor, catching him staring at you through the mirror. Warmth slithers over the nape of your neck, creeping over your spine like ivy upon a column of stone.

A brief chuckle jostles his chest, as if he’s thought of something humorous without letting you in on it. Perplexed, your gaze flutters, meeting his own through the mirror. “What’s wrong? Is it still stuck?” You sigh, defeated.

“No,” Through a low hum, John plants a slow, careful kiss to the nape of your neck. “I’m lucky, that’s all.” It’s all he really needs to say, and you preen beneath his words. Despite the simplicity, there’s a depth conveyed to you, a mutual understanding.

Fire stirs within your belly, mere embers brought to life by soft-spoken murmurs. His hands still over the zipper of your dress, calloused thumb circling over the bare flesh of your spine, left exposed by the gap in your gown.

Warm breath plumes over your shoulders, licking across the back of your neck. A hush falls between, a comfortable one, crackling with splinters of tension that threaten to expand, grow.

John’s stare is exceedingly soft, something reserved for you, blonde lashes kissing the faint freckles beneath his eyes. There’s something starving within him, a hunger revealing.

Pale-blue fabric curls around your form, accentuating your curves, as if you’re part of the sky. A hitch forms within your throat, feeling his hands steady over the swell of your hips, fingers clamping down.

Rough lips pepper themselves to the hollow between your throat and shoulder, placing a careful string of kisses along your flesh. A sharp, poignant exhale comes rushing from your lungs, spine shivering with exhilaration.

“Stop looking at me like that, John.” Through a sheepish murmur, you shrink beneath his ogling, as if it might burn a hole right through you.

Feigning innocence, he laughs; dry, but it’s genuine. Pressing another kiss to your shoulder, your pulse quickens, climbing as he shrugs. “Like what?” He inquires, body exuding ripples of heat.

“Like you’re starting something,” It’s a threadbare warning, but he responds by squeezing your hips, chest shaking with a light scoff. “Something that you won’t finish before …”

“I’ll finish it, if that’s what you want.” Placating, John smooths a kiss over your jaw, thick shadow of a beard prickling your flesh. It sends shivers down your spine, exhilaration mounting into a knot of excitement.

He’d made your heart lurch, bones already molten with warmth, thighs shifting together beneath your dress. There’s time to spare before the gala, and your concern for your garments diminishes entirely.

His mouth tempts you, his eyes — John stares at you as if you’re the center of his universe, blonde brows creased together, lip curled in concentration. Maneuvering within the sliver of space, you turn, chest flush to his own.

“You’re so handsome,” Swooning, there’s stars in your eyes as you tilt forward, palms flattening over his chest, fingertips tracing idle patterns into his shirt. “So perfect like this.”

Bristling beneath your praise, John huffs, attempting to cling to some fraction of restraint. It’s thin, threatening to snap into two as he pulls you in, mouth locking with yours.

From the first scrape of lips, the fire festers, raging into something uncontrollable as he cages you in against the countertop, hungry. Fingers begin to curl into his chest, a moan bubbling from your mouth as he surges forward.

“Jesus,” He whispers into your mouth, reverent, hands molded to your curves as he picks you up with ease, placing you on the solid granite. Bullying between your legs, he’s eager, cock twitching to life within his pants. “You’re so beautiful.”

Behind closed doors, the bravado and swagger dissipate, leaving only the rawness of John at his core; in his essence, he’s good. There’s a disarming gentleness to each ministration, every look one of a veiled affection.

Silk rides up along your thighs, your dress beginning to bunch and pool around your hips. A sigh feathers from your lips, hands climbing toward the nape of his neck, toying with the blonde hair there.

Lips clamor for one another, ceaseless, dragging into another kiss and then again, again; your heart threatens to burst from your chest. He holds you steady, hips rutting into yours until you feel something firm.

His scruffy countenance melds with yours, bleeding heat, kissing you with enough vigor that it prompts you to hold onto him. Your heart gallops, races — it’s quick and erratic, beating in your ears.

It doesn’t take much for him, kiss stuttering as a low grunt rips through his diaphragm. Arousal sits heavy in the pit of his abdomen, a taut coil charged with heat, preparing to loose as he rocks into you.

Rough, careworn hands begin to caress beneath your dress, digits snaring into the soft cotton of your panties. There’s a brief exchange of glances, his jaw twitching, lips agape as he looks to you for consent. “Yeah?” He gruffs, waiting.

With an enthusiastic nod, you’re squirming with an unbridled want, feeling his hands drag your underwear down, lower, until they’re dangling from your ankles. Kicking them to the floor, your hands go clawing at his belt.

One hand grips the granite countertop, and with enough flexing, leaves behind a faultline fracture that snakes through stone. Muscles pull taut in his forearms, knuckles bruised, his flesh rougher, akin to leather.

Urging him in for another kiss, you’re lost within the heated labyrinth of his lips, savoring that rugged scratch of his beard. A low moan rouses within your chest, caught between your mouths.

He’s wedged between your legs, other palm holding steadfastly to your haunch, fingertips pressing into pliant flesh. As his belt clatters and loosens, John feels your hand, cold as it wraps around his cock.

A pleading groan splits his diaphragm, hot and disheveled beside your ear as his hips absently jolt forward. Your hand is like silk, tense against his length as you begin to stroke in easy, rhythmic flicks of your wrist.

“Christ,” John pants, brows pinched together, countenance contorted into an expression of sheer bliss. A thrilled gasp leaves you when he urges into you again, oozing heat against your palm. “S’good, good.” He grunts, groping at your thigh.

“I want you,” You exhale, your saccharine sigh wafting over his features, dragging him in with your magnetizing pull. Even then, you’re still touching him, his cock aching within your grasp. “God, John — I need you.”

Through the strained pitch of your voice, he’s more than eager to comply, mouth dropping to your throat, kisses wanton and thirsty. He plants a string of greedy kisses there, like hot brands to your skin.

If it weren’t for the gala, he would’ve marked you a time or two, but it was best to avoid any sharp questioning from the team.

However, it doesn’t stop him from scraping his teeth over the sensitive flesh of your neck, feeling you shiver against him. Arousal coalesces between your thighs, slick and warm, making you squirm atop the slab of granite.

Bodies close any sliver of space, friction taking root, an explosion of heat festering between. John’s mouth climbs over your throat, nipping at your jugular, catching the moan that floats from your lips.

Tension unfurls from his muscles, now released into this, into being intimate. He withdraws, lips ghosting over yours, feeling you collide into the kiss with a searing passion.

One hand snakes from your thigh to the heat between, cerulean hues flickering to gauge your reaction. A soft gasp tumbles from your mouth, and you have the audacity to give him that doe-eyed stare, his heart stuttering.

Finding your slit, John drags two digits over your core, biting back a haughty smirk, forehead dipping to flush against yours. “Figured as much,” He teases, voice a low husk beside your ear. “Is that for me?” He murmurs.

Flustered, you want to rip the cheeky remark right from his mouth, growing unbearably warm beneath his gaze. “Yeah,” You huff, smothering a whine when his fingers graze over your cunt, pushing past your folds. “John, please.”

He’s often one to tease you a little if he can, but time is running short and he’s just as eager, if not more, than you are.

John nods knowingly, rucking your dress up around your hips, slotting you closer, until his hips brush yours. Slipping your hand from his pants, there’s a shuffle of fabric, intermingled with sharp inhales, tremulous sighs.

Loosely hitching one leg around his hips, you’re bracing for the pressure, watching as he guides his cock to your cunt. “Still with me?” He mumbles, planting a kiss to your jaw.

“Mm-hm,” Through a gentle hum, he’s parting your legs, arms flexing as he maneuvers you as he sees fit. The flushed tip of his cock splits your folds, dragging through a time or two. “Please, I need you.”

Unable to suppress a groan, he’s fighting against baser instincts, against the primal urge clawing inside of him. “Say it again.” He grunts, cock prodding against the warmth of your cunt, preparing to push past.

“Need you,” With urgency this time, you reached for his biceps, thick and firm beneath your palms, nails scratching over his dress shirt. Hot, labored sighs drift between one another, wanton; you’re desperate for him. “John, please.” You plead, not above begging.

Christ, he needs you, too — craves you more than anything else, cerulean hues glistening with a thinly-veiled ardor. Locking you in against him, he groans, mouth melding with yours, pulling another grunt from his sternum.

“You’re my girl,” John murmurs, subdued and husky, scratching an itch in your brain. Slowly, you plant a kiss against the scruff of his jaw, listening to his excitable sighs. “Good?”

Attentive, he ensures that you’re prepared before taking him, writhing as his cock pushes incessantly against your cunt. “Good.” Conceding, your hips lurch forward, creating a spark of tension.

His hips slowly urge forward, flushed head of his cock pushing into you with mild resistance. Disarmingly gentle, John doesn’t move quickly or rough, burying his way into you with sluggish rolls of his body.

An entangled cry escapes you, followed by a choked sob that catches in your throat. His own sounds are gruff, rugged; his face is flush to yours, brows furrowed in concentration.

He knows he’s going to be thinking about this for the rest of the night — your body against his, your dress ruffled around your hips, the gleam in your eyes. John continues, hand strangling the granite countertop.

“You feel so perfect,” Feeding into his deep-seated desire for praise, you notice the tick in his jaw, the way he manhandles your leg. “So handsome like this, John.” You know exactly what you’re doing, and it induces some frenzy within him.

John’s resolve is crumbling, foundation swept away in the wake of your affections, and your wanton moan doesn’t make anything easier. “Jesus,” He grits, jaw clenched, body coiled around you. “You’re tight.”

A string of hoarse expletives flutter from his mouth, barely above a whisper, setting your bones ablaze as he pulls back and pushes forward.

A soft whimper escaped you, feeling yourself clench around him out of sheer want. His groan vexed you, your fingertips cupping the nape of his neck. Carding through blonde tresses, you tug, coaxing him in for a messy kiss.

It’s all teeth, tongue, affection — he briefly bites at your bottom lip, savoring the sharp inhale you give him, leg snug around his hips.

His pace was agonizingly sluggish at first, drawing out each thrust in an effort to let you grow accustomed. Hot sighs of passion fluttered between the both of you, lips brushing over one another as he rolled his hips forward.

Your heart pounded within your ribcage, so powerful that you thought it might burst through. “God, you’re mine.” He gruffed, cadence hoarse, permeated with possessiveness.

John’s movements had started slow before turning into calculated thrusts, sharp and precise, cock buried deep into your cunt. There’s a pattern to it, an erratic rhythm, born of a mutual desperation that you feed from.

He began to thrust into you, hunching in and over, stabilizing himself with one palm flat atop the counter. Stone splintered and groaned beneath, malleable in the wake of John’s inhuman strength.

Your head spun, clouded by desire as your paramour ravished you in the way that you deserved. “M’yours, John.” With a keening moan, your hips rolled forward, pulling a grunt from his throat.

His countenance echoed your sentiments, shadowed with the haze of want, a carnality that clawed at your being. You let your forehead press to his, brows screwed together in a state of bliss, grasping at his tresses.

“Drivin’ me crazy.” He drawls, visage contorting into a look of pleasure, head dropping toward the hollow between your throat and shoulder. His beard scratches ragged over your flesh, sending a shudder through your spine.

As he moves forward, his cock beginning to sheathe itself fully within your cunt, your nails dig crescents into the nape of his neck, back arching forward.

It’s a push-and-pull, euphoric as you cling to him like a drowning woman, unbridled noises escaping you in droves.

With each sluggish rut of his hips, you feel everything, his cock rocking into you with a rhythm that only seems to climb higher, higher still. He’s a little rougher, passionate; it makes you want him even more.

Rooted within you, John’s hips withdraw, enough to rut forward with a sense of urgency, filling you to the brim with his cock. Lewd, crass noises reverberated in the haze of heat that enveloped you, his thrusts gathering in intensity.

“Fu— John, please,” Through a strangled whine, you roll your hips again, friction blossoming between bodies, eliciting a groan from him. Arousal mounts, wanton, and you’re eager for a release. “Please.”

A low whimper left you as he snapped forward, letting passion and want pour into each ministration, cock sheathing itself inside of your aching cunt. John does it again, again, again — a pattern of rhythmic thrusts that jostle your body.

He’s getting close, perspiration building along his brow, hands moving to hold you close, cage you in against his musculature. “Jesus, you’re perfect.” John growls, the noise making you shiver, cunt pulsing around his length.

“Touch me,” You plead, noticing the look he gives you, cerulean hues boring into you. John doesn’t grouse nor protest, head jostling in a brief nod as one hand snakes to the heat between your legs. “Th—There, shit.”

Seeking your clit like a missile, his thumb presses over the clutch of nerves, circling over it, watching as you writhe from the contact. He huffs a breathy scoff, lips smoothing over your jaw, hips rutting into you with a fervor.

Each snap of his hips are drawn-out, deliberate; it is a lascivious torture that torments the both of you, cunt tightening pathetically around his length.

“That’s it,” John grunts, the husky cadence of his voice sending you into some frenzy. Molten heat pools between your thighs, legs rattling like leaves as you hold onto him. “That’s my girl.”

Between the careful caresses over your clit and his cock, still pounding away at you, the amalgamation of sensations is nearly overwhelming. You’re pushed into your release, falling over the precipice, body a furnace of bliss.

It’s white-hot and feverish, as if you’ve been washed in fire, all-consuming. He’s touching you still, grinding over your clit, panting beside your ear as if he’s running a marathon.

Grunts continued to spill beside your ear as he reached his peak, but you were already there. It was a perfect storm of sensations, ones that made you delirious with desire, sobbing with ecstasy.

A coil of heat began to unfurl within the both of you, bodies constantly shifting against the other, an amalgamation of friction.

John fucked you through your release, cock steadily rutting into your cunt, pressing a messy kiss against your mouth. He’s breathing fire, lungs burning, stinging in the wake of your shared orgasm.

He cums inside of you, holding steadfastly to you like a vice, fingers groping at the swell of your hips, the other recoiling from between your thighs. Everything is warm, the room blanketed in a haze of heat that settles in the afterglow.

Each sigh feels ragged, blistering through your chest, foreheads flush together as he peppers a string of kisses over your temples. “How am I supposed to get through the gala now?” You mumble, breathless.

John laughs; a genuine chuckle, something rarely heard, lacking the typical sardonicism. “Should’ve thought this through,” He remarks, though it applies to him, too. He’s visibly disheveled, blonde tresses mussed. “Jesus.”

He doesn’t withdraw immediately, getting a good look at you, beautiful beyond compare. You’re quick to press a kiss over his scruffy jaw, stringing along until you reach the corner of his mouth.

“Sorry about your hair,” Licking your fingertips, you attempt to smooth his tresses back into place, but it’s noticeably shoddy. “You still look really handsome.” You smile, and he’s grinning, catching a flash of pearlescent teeth.

There’s a knock at his door — sharp, hurried.

“We have to leave in ten minutes! Please make yourselves presentable, at the very least.” It’s Ava, whose tone is already thick with amusement, and you swear you can hear Yelena’s laughter somewhere beyond the door.

Caught, John groans, visage contorting slightly as he pulls out of you, but he’s just as quick to get a wet towel and help clean you up. “Next time, we’ll do this a couple hours before.” He murmurs, gracing your shoulder with a kiss.

Smitten, the both of you are quick to clean yourselves up, look presentable again. He finally zipped up your dress, suit jacket tugged on over his broad shoulders, crimson dissipating from his features.

As you’re making for the door, his hand smoothing over the small of your back, you stop, peering up at him with an affectionate smile. “Was it worth it?”

John kisses your brow without a lick of hesitation, a glimmer within his eyes before he smirks. He answers you, no stammer or reluctance to his response.

“Yes.”

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